He laughed. “I’ll do well to remember it, and stay well close, I think.”
“Just keep your wits about you and flirt with the Queen, not her maids, Master James.”
He gave a labored sigh. “As you wish,” he grumbled. “We’ll have everyone in place when you arrive.”
As in all things, Master James was true to his word, a master at preparing a production. By the time I arrived at the Presence Chamber, I was astonished at how perfectly everything had been arranged.
Rather than erecting a simple rectangular stage upon which the troupe would perform their play, Troupe Master James had chosen to build an octagonal platform, upon which actors were positioning themselves as if to play to the crowd from all sides—while still never turning their backs upon the Queen. Best of fortune in achieving that miracle, James. I smiled despite myself. Somehow I knew he would pull it off.
The Queen had not yet processed in, but there were several ladies-in-waiting now arranged on either side of her throne. I looked into the crowd and immediately saw my own group—Beatrice and Jane (dressed passably as me) conferring in one corner, Sophia and Anna nearer to where the Queen would be seated. Other young ladies of patent nobility, all round-eyed and excited, were milling through the crowd, looking every inch like the young maids of honor to the Queen.
I recognized them all, even in their wigs. I had not been gone from the Golden Rose so long as all that, I was pleased to see. Martha and Gwendolyn, not-so-little Tommy Farrow (aghast at his girl’s costume, I was sure) and Lettice, even little Sarah, who was but twelve years old. Each of them were outfitted in gowns that looked like they had come from the royal holdings, and perhaps had. I wondered how many of those gowns would be “mistakenly” secreted out of the castle should any amount of melee ensue this evening.
Not that there would be any melee, of course. It was my task to ensure we would capture the murderous Spaniard and give him over to the guards without anyone being the wiser. I’d promised the Queen no less.
According to our plan, the castle servants had set up grand tapestry hangings to surround the stage and crowd, creating a room within a room inside the Presence Chamber. If the Queen noticed the similarity to her own cloth chamber she’d constructed in Saint George’s Hall, I prayed she would not mention it.
Behind the right edge of tapestry walls at the edge of the Queen’s throne, a dozen guardsmen were already assembled. That side would be where Jane would stand, and I suspected Master James would be drawn to that side of the crowd as well.
After all, Jane was disguised as me, a fact that Master James did not yet realize.
I was standing on the left edge of the tapestry walls, facing the throne, near the servants’ entrance to the Presence Chamber. From this vantage point, I could see the entire room, while noting who came in and out through the servants’ entrance. Servants would be milling through the crowd with food and wine, and it would not have been reasonable to shut the entrance closed. In addition, guards at the servants’ door would raise suspicion. Accordingly, I was to provide early warning to Cecil and Walsingham, who would be directly in my line of vision, should anyone suspicious enter the room that way.
Which assumed I’d know “suspicious” when I saw it.
I thought back to the shadowy man above me in the dungeon. He had not moved much, but he’d not held himself completely still, either. There was, in truth, a strong possibility that I would recognize him should he move among the crowd. I tried to comfort myself with that.
The Queen arrived in such shocking splendor that I found myself staring. Again. No matter how many times I saw Her Grace, she never failed to astound me.
First, a small group of ladies-in-waiting advanced in front of her, their gowns of pure white sparkling in the candlelight, and their hair hooded in pristine white as well, like priestesses to a goddess. Then the goddess herself arrived.
“Goddess” was not far from the truth. The Queen’s gown this night was of an indigo blue so deep, it might almost have been black. The coloring made her fair skin shine, as it caused her glorious red hair, piled high upon her head and beset with glittering jewels, to look like a coronet of stars. She held herself with such backbreaking pride that all who watched her were nearly agape, though most of them had seen this woman every day for the past several months.
She was our Elizabeth.
She was our Queen.
Let anyone forget it at his peril.
The Queen reached her place and turned, settling in her throne and leaning forward, eager for the play to begin. She surveyed the room with her cool, clear gaze, and I felt that gaze linger upon me. A wealth of satisfaction, power, and excitement poured into that glance.
And in that flash, I knew that once again she had not been fooled, by either Beatrice’s gambit or mine.
She knew that the sudden arrival of the Golden Rose acting troupe had been no mere coincidence, just as she knew that I had been closeted away by Cecil and Walsingham for some fell reason that they would never share and that, for her own pride, she could never press them to reveal. She would not endure their censure, but she still needed their service. It was a delicate balance to strike.
Had she known I had learned so much about the Spaniard’s attacks upon her court? Did she know that something deeper lay beyond the simple disturbances—a Catholic plot? Perhaps, and perhaps not. But at this moment, I would put nothing past her.
I found myself straightening under her watchful eyes, my chin tilting up in Jane’s clothing, my head unusually still under the weight of Jane’s wig. She was my Queen as well, and I would serve her this night. I owed her nothing less. I owed my friends in her service nothing less.
We would do this.
I would do this.
If God won’t save the Queen . . . we will.
The Golden Rose acting troupe performed their special rendition of The Queen’s Promise flawlessly, brilliantly, and with such aplomb that even I almost believed they had been playing to courts and kings the whole of their lives. The crowd was a pleasing, roiling mix of courtiers and their ladies, packed closely enough for comfort but not so tight that a phalanx of guards couldn’t swoop in as needed. And by the end of the first act, the wine and ale and entertainment were beginning to fan the energy of the crowd.
Both of the Spanish ambassadors were in attendance—the outgoing Ambassador de Feria, all scowls and sour eyes; and the laughing, genial de Quadra, who seemed to be enjoying himself. Even Nicolas Ortiz made an appearance, and he was drawing the attention of many ladies despite the glowering disapproval of de Feria. I shook my head. The Spanish were such a motley mix of souls, at once romantic and oppressive, open and closed, rigid in their faith and loose in their bearing. Rafe was very much a product of his people, to be sure, but the entire lot could wear a body out.
The shadowy Spaniard would come to me soon, I thought, if he would come at all. I glanced at little Sophia and stalwart Anna, their heads together. No more than twenty paces from them stood Lord Brighton, his hawk eyes hooded but his manner intent. They would be safe, I thought, with him as their guardian. And for once Sophia seemed at ease with him nearby.
I glanced at Beatrice, ensconced four men deep in admirers—four Scotsmen deep, actually, more the worse for her—in the center of the crowd. Apparently, the Queen had not seen fit to invite Lord Cavanaugh, Beatrice’s betrothed. Interesting. I watched as the bearded, burly Alasdair MacLeod tucked her arm into his, claiming her despite the obvious bridal ring. Beatrice looked ready to kill the man. He looked ready to let her try.
I looked again at Jane, who was in turn being watched by Master James with an intensity that almost bordered on the inappropriate. Surely he knew it was not me standing there, I thought. Yet still he stared, transfixed. Then again, if he was simply trying to be protective, I should be glad of it.
But still . . . had I imagined his interest in me?
A whisper of sound at my side was all the warning I received before Rafe began speakin
g. “Nice wig. Who is that man you’re staring at? He looks familiar.”
Was that jealousy in his voice? Could that be possible? “A friend, someone I’ve known far longer than I’ve known you, who’s given me more reason to trust him than you have, I should say.”
“I don’t like him,” Rafe huffed.
“You don’t have to like him.” I stared at Rafe, noting his fine garb and dangerous smile. Then I saw the familiar flash of jade stone on his right hand. I sighed, disgusted. “Again with that ring. You dare much, Rafe, wearing it in public.”
He laughed, lifting the hand with the heavy ring and waggling it at me. “People see only what they expect to see, sweet Meg. There is no harm in wearing something no one will notice.”
“Then why not let Beatrice keep it?”
“Because I didn’t give it to Beatrice; I gave it to you.”
I shook my head, glancing away from him in confusion, trying to calm the turmoil of emotions he set off in me. “It will be over soon enough, if we are lucky. But look sharp; you’re about to be collared.” I shifted myself to the side, stepping back to not allow the two men bearing down on Rafe to have an easy look at me. My disguise as Jane was good, but not that good.
“My son, my son—we’ve been looking everywhere for you. Please say you are done dancing attendance on the English ladies, as lovely as they are, and can spare a few moments for your own countrymen?”
Rafe turned as de Feria and de Quadra stared him down, de Quadra with his usual open demeanor, and de Feria with his customary glare. “My lord ambassadors, what do you require? I am ever at your service.”
“Just your time, Conte de Martine. You’ll excuse us, Miss Morgan?”
I curtsied, keeping my head well low. As I came up, Rafe bowed to me, his eyes tight with frustration but his manner polished perfection. “Miss Morgan,” he said with excruciating formality. Then the Spanish ambassadors drew him into their sphere like a spider draws a fly, and he went, unresisting.
I smiled at Rafe’s stiff back, pitying him slightly. We all have our orders to follow.
I should have considered those words more carefully, in retrospect.
The play continued, and I expected I would see Rafe again within the half hour. I was wrong in that, and forgot all about Rafe as the minutes ticked away. Instead I idled my time watching Tommy buzzing through the crowd as an impish maid, mightily trying to keep himself from picking anyone’s pocket.
Then time seemed to suddenly compress. The royal production was building toward its climax, and there had been no sign of any Spaniard making his way toward me as I stood there in my Jane costume. I drifted back toward the wall of tapestries, scanning the room, but to no avail. Cecil and Walsingham now looked like they were arguing with each other. Jane was watching the play with rapt attention, as was the Queen. James was still watching Jane. Beatrice was trying to carry on three conversations at once with her Scottish admirers. The false maids were milling about with buzzing contentment, all without a care in the world. And the sands of time continued to spill through the glass at an ever more rapid pace.
He wasn’t going to come, I realized with a shock. I had failed.
My thoughts crashed and tumbled. How had I miscalculated? The Spaniard had said his time here was short. He had sounded urgent, almost desperate. This was a scene given to him upon a silver platter, an opportunity for him to find the information he needed right under the Queen’s very nose, or cause another terrible “distraction” to feed his lust for glory.
Where had I gone wrong?
Just then I felt the shift of bodies around me, and a presence came up behind me, to my right. A male presence, unknown to me. This was not Rafe. This was not Master James.
Everything settled into place, and a curious calmness stole over me. Here it was, then. At last.
And I hadn’t failed.
I began to turn toward the man, then felt his left hand close over my fingers, crushing the bones. His voice whispered into my ear: “Make a sound, make a murmur, Miss Morgan, and I will kill your friend as well as you.”
I nodded hastily, and allowed the man to draw me back toward the servants’ entrance. Surely Walsingham and Cecil were noticing this. Surely Beatrice would—she’d been facing me directly, after all, and had begun to look desperate in the shadow of the burly MacLeod. Surely she could see around the heads of all the earnest men dancing attendance upon her.
But what if she couldn’t? What if they hadn’t?
What if I was in this all alone?
As soon as we were clear of the Presence Chamber, I expected the Spaniard to flip me around. If he got a good look at my face in the bright torchlight, it would be the end of my disguise.
Instead he shoved me, hard, into an access passageway off the chamber, where the middle courses were stored for the royal feasts. There was no royal feast tonight, of course. Tonight, the passageway was empty.
The door closed behind us with a thump. Wrenching away from the Spaniard, I stumbled forward into the pitch black room, and turned around to try to get my bearings. Rich, mocking laughter rolled over me like a physical weight.
“I’ve watched you, Miss Morgan,” the Spaniard said. “Seen you practice your knife throwing as if it were some novel game. Seen you running in the park.”
I frowned. Jane ran in the park? When did she have time to run in the park? And how had she gotten the boys’ clothes to do so? I felt some sort of expression of Jane-like bravado was necessary, so I whispered harshly, “I’ll kill you.”
It . . . it felt rather good to say words like that, actually. But the Spaniard just laughed.
“No, no, Miss Morgan. I’ll kill you. With pleasure. And before your body is even cool, I’ll gather my information from your brave little friend, who will have no idea of your untimely death, and then your English whore will be off the throne for good.” He was circling now, and I struggled to follow his movements in the darkness. I knew how men moved, how they should move. But I did not know this man. I pitched my voice low, keeping it a whisper. “What do you want?”
“To finish my task, for God and country, meu doce,” he said. Something jolted in me, with those words. Meu doce. I’d seen those words before, in the letter to Lady Amelia, and I knew the trap had been sprung accurately. That wasn’t Spanish. It was Portuguese. This man was Marie’s killer, Lady Amelia’s attacker. I almost felt both women in the room, watching us, and it was all I could do not to cross myself in superstition. Think!
“You cannot believe you can continue your game,” I said. “Your pope’s letters were passed to the wrong set of hands.”
He laughed harshly. “The cause of God will always prevail, and there are many willing hands to come to its aid. Those hands that no longer serve, we simply cut off.” He moved, and I moved with him, the two of us circling each other in the inky darkness.
“But yours are cut off as well,” I pressed. “Even now, Lady Amelia recovers. She will betray you as soon as she has the strength to write. And Lady Knollys—”
His snort cut me off. “Lady Amelia will betray no one, lest she betray herself. And Lady Knollys—if that old crow were devoted to anything but assuaging her own private grudges, she would be a threat. But she hides behind her curtain of respect and leaves others to do the work. You will never catch her in the act of treason.” I could hear the harsh smile in his voice. “Of course, you, my little fighter, will never catch anyone again at all.”
He lunged at me.
I felt him coming through the darkness, and I turned to flee—though where I would go, I had no idea. Then the Spaniard—Portuguese—whoever he was—attacked, all strength and sinew and a scent of spiced oranges. Recognition sprang in my mind, unbidden, even as we tumbled to the floor. Spiced oranges? Where had I captured that scent before?
I lurched forward, but he hauled me back, his hands at my throat, his left hand pressing down. “No garrote for you, my dear Miss Morgan,” he breathed into my ear. “I have grown accustomed t
o doing my work with my hands, not tools. Surely you can appreciate the difference.”
And he began to choke me. Left hand harder than the right.
Left hand harder than the right.
My hands flew down to reach Jane’s hidden knife in my bodice, but he kicked at my knees, and I crunched down, swimming in my heavy skirts. Unconsciously my hands reached up, grasping his thick forearms. I would never pry him off my back; I could sense that in a flash.
Even worse, my days of privation in the dungeon were taking their toll. I could not—I just could not breathe. Bright lights were flashing behind my eyelids. I saw spinning visions in my head. Beatrice, Jane, Anna, and Sophia. The Queen’s garden. The chapel. Rafe. The Lower Ward. The schoolroom. The cloisters . . .
The cloisters.
Nicolas Ortiz, raising his left hand in salute in the shadow of the church spires. The oddly back-slanted letters that Anna had noticed, written in Portuguese. The scent of oranges and spices.
Ortiz!
Sudden panic consumed me as my lungs began to heave, even as my mind chanted Ortiz’s name over and over again. I twisted my hands side to side, trying to improve my position—
And felt the nick of a blade against my forearm.
Jane’s wrist blade. It was right there. I fought back horror as the breath was choked out of me, my chest beginning to burn, and focused only on the blade. The squat, fat, obnoxious blade that Jane herself had not yet mastered but had refused to have me leave behind. What had she said? What had she said?
And her words came back to me as clearly as the scent of oranges and spices. You just flick your hand out, and it will slide into position, as easy as that. As easy as that. I flailed my arm out in a panicked flutter, feeling the blade slide home into my palm even as Ortiz laughed.
“That’s it, meu doce. Let me chase you down to death. Don’t give up too easily. Let me take you in a battle worthy of the name.” He breathed in guttural excitement, knowing my end was drawing near.
Maid of Secrets Page 31
