Maid of Secrets (10 page)

I nodded. Garroting was silent and quick, and did not require as much strength as ordinary strangulation. In truth, Marie’s attacker could have been a woman, with a weapon like that. But no woman, surely, would disfigure another woman’s face so horribly. I shuddered.
Would she?

“But we’re not here to discuss Marie.” Cecil sat back in his seat, his attention shifting back to my report. “These letters the young count is carrying could be of import. Rafe Luis Medina is the son of Marquess Juan Carlos and the Marchioness Isabelle. We know that Isabelle spent two
years in King Henry’s court as an attendant to Catherine of Aragon. She would have made friends here, Spanish sympathizers. Some of the letters could be from King Philip to Isabelle’s friends. And they could contain information that would harm the Queen.”

But once again, Rafe had said the letters had been from the pope—not the king. Still, I couldn’t betray that I knew that. “Surely Isabelle would not have any friends still in the court,” I protested.

He tapped the pages. “Not directly, perhaps, but where there is money, there are always friends. And we know nothing of this Count de Martine, other than his parentage and his schooling.”

“He is a nobleman.”

Cecil snorted. “He is perhaps more than that. Think on it. The Queen has been in power since late fall. Yet suddenly this young man arrives, highly placed in the Spanish delegation. Where did he come from, and why is he suddenly here?”

Unbidden, the image of a maid slumped against the wall flashed across my mind, her face bloody, her gown torn. But Count de Martine had only just arrived from Spain. He could not have had anything to do with Marie Claire’s murder.

Could he?

“All courtiers, whether Englishman or foreigner, have the potential to be enemies to the Crown,” Cecil said, as if he’d read my thoughts. He hesitated a beat, then faced me square, his eyes now fully on my face.

“You have done well, Miss Fellowes. So well that you will now have another assignment, of utmost secrecy, to be
carried out within the fortnight,” he said. “You may not share this information with anyone.”

I nodded, fully expecting him to reiterate the Queen’s command from this morning, to ferret out whoever was behind the disturbances within Windsor Castle, and I was impatient to be gone. I didn’t care that the Queen had decided to include Cecil in her plotting after all. That made perfect sense. Instead I thought of the maid Marie, and how her journeys for Cecil and the Queen had been secretive too. And how she was now dead.

“Yes?” I asked. The silence was somehow worse than being bored by the repetition.

Cecil still did not speak, and for a moment I thought that he might have decided against this additional request, that perhaps I had not impressed him with my first assignment after all, and this further charge would be, in his mind, too much.

Well, he could go sip his sorrow with a long spoon. The Queen had already given me the task. I didn’t need his approval to serve her. Nevertheless, just for practice, I held myself perfectly still for a moment more, waiting him out. He finally spoke.

“As I said, all courtiers, no matter their country, could be of risk to the Queen,” Cecil began again with his customary care. “And not only to the Queen, but to England. We, as the Queen’s protection, must serve her even when she might think our service is unnecessary. We cannot fail her, in any hour—especially when she might rather that we did fail. Do you understand?”

I gaped at him. This was
not
what I’d expected him to say.
“When would the Queen ever consider our protection of her to be unnecessary—or want us to fail to defend her?”

The question seemed to pain Cecil, and deep furrows appeared between his brows. His face sank into a scowl. “The Queen is new to her role, and after all the strife and struggle of her early years, she has embraced her royal station with enthusiasm—and all the luxuries and perceived freedoms it affords her.”

“As well she should,” I protested. I did not like where this was going, not at all. The Queen had made allusions to those who might not consider her fit to rule, but surely Cecil was not one of those ingrates. “She was held prisoner in the Tower, Sir William, when she was only a girl! She was kept under house arrest for months, not knowing her fate. Her life was filled with one prison or another since she was but a babe of three years old. She is entitled to all the luxury and freedoms the Crown brings her. She is our
Queen
.”

“And if those freedoms put England herself at risk?” Cecil asked.

He had taken the stance of an instructor now, and I pulled my emotions back, wary. “The Queen would never put England at risk.”

“Not intentionally, no—”

“Pray, Sir William, not ever,” I said. “It is her entire
life
; her people are her only concern.” I found it unnerving to say these words to one who should already know them better than I did.

Cecil’s eyes narrowed in the semidarkness. “Then you are in luck. The assignment I am giving you will prove your point masterfully.”

There was danger here, and I waited, not wanting to commit myself. Cecil had no idea that the Queen had given me a private commission, of that I was certain. What possible assignment could he have in mind—and would it counter the Queen’s own commands? Surely not.

After a moment he went on. “I am concerned that the Queen may be . . . endangering herself with the personal company she keeps,” Cecil said heavily. “I would like to be proven wrong in this concern. Accordingly, you will uncover the Queen’s most intimate secrets and report—”

“Sir William!” I jerked back, aghast. “You cannot be serious.”

My shock seemed to irritate him further. “You will be given access to the Queen’s most private conversations to learn what may be learned. I want to know exactly who is with her and when, and what they say—to the word, to the exact word, and not as a general recollection.”

“But I could never—”

Cecil’s voice was merciless. “You will furthermore complete this assignment once within the next fortnight by being placed in the Queen’s bedchamber, and then again as often as I have the need for you to do so—”

“But she will know me, Sir William,” I argued, grasping for reason. “She will know I am in her chambers.”

“Of course she will know you are there!” Cecil snapped. “You are an
actress
, not a ghost. And as an actress your role is to make sure the Queen trusts you implicitly—that she doesn’t suspect for a moment that you are watching her, or that you would ever betray her, no matter what she says or does.”

Betray her! How could I ever betray the Queen? She was the one who saved me, when Cecil wanted me locked away without a key!

Again, as if he read my thoughts, Cecil provided the answer. “And if you dare speak a word of this to her, to anyone, I will not waste my time with a public humiliation for your precious Golden Rose.” He spoke the name of the troupe with deliberate disdain, as if my friends were beetles beneath his feet. “They will be hung on the gibbets to die as common traitors. All of them.” He scowled at me. “Starting with the boy.”

“You would not do that!” I gasped, too shocked to couch my words in careful phrasing. Cecil was not a madman. He would not do such a thing—he
could
not do such a thing. He wouldn’t!

Cecil leaned forward in his chair, his body tight with purpose. “I would do
anything
for England,” he said, his bland words a frightening counterpoint to his intense glare. “The Queen brought you here to serve her, Meg, and serve her you will. But you will serve England, too. Otherwise, you are useless.”

I stared at Cecil blindly, but he said nothing further, busying himself instead with the papers on his desk. Silence stretched out before me, a pit of darkness that threatened to swallow me whole. Somehow I managed to nod, to mumble something, and I dropped to a curtsy as my only means to tear my eyes away from Cecil’s hard, implacable face.

As I came up again, he was still there, his dark eyes boring into mine as if he could see all the way down to my heart.

“You dare not fail in this, Meg,” he said, and there was real menace in his voice. The menace of a man who would care
nothing for an actress and a thief, were she to lie crumpled against a low stone wall, her eyes sightless, her dress torn, and her face and neck streaming with blood. The menace of a man who, if I did not follow his orders precisely and do exactly as he said, would simply find another thief to do his bidding. He had been willing to let me rot in the Queen’s dungeon when he’d first caught me out as a thief. He was willing to put me back there now if I fell short in this new charge. Or even . . . do something far, far worse.

I turned from him and fled.

I know I started by walking, with careful measured steps as befitted a maid of honor. But as I turned the corner and realized that Cecil was not giving chase, I allowed my pace to quicken until I was in a full-out run through the castle, desperate to escape the Queen’s advisor and his harrowing words.

Spy on the Queen! In her own bedchamber! The thought roiled through me like a sickness, leaving me at turns hot and cold. I needed to get out—needed to think. How could I do this, commit this crime against the Queen? And yet, how could I not? Cecil’s orders had been plain. I was here to serve the Crown, and if the Queen was . . . somehow being led astray? By a man she trusted? Then surely . . . I should help her? And did she realize she was in danger? Is that what she had meant by every man being a threat?

My face flamed at the very thought, and I came to a halt quickly in the shadows of the corridor, slapping my hands to my cheeks to cool them. My palms gave little comfort, as wet and clammy as they were. I forced myself to step farther into the murky darkness, pressing up against the paneled wall.
Nervously I passed my hands over my hair, which was fairly standing on end, and tried to loosen the stranglehold of my neck ruff.
Accursed scrap of material!

With a yank I wrenched the tiny ruff away and balled it up—then just as quickly I smoothed the ruff out again, my fingers trembling at my indiscretion. I would never be able to reattach it, not by myself. But I couldn’t lose it either. My clothes were not my own here. Nothing here was my own. I clenched the thin ruff in my fingers. There would be time to reset the fool thing in the morning, if I managed to survive tonight.

I needed to find Jane. She’d been here longer. She would know what to do. Then again, Cecil had forbidden me to speak of my assignment, so I couldn’t tell Jane. Or anyone, not if he’d find out. Not even the Queen.
Especially not the Queen.
But Jane—Jane wouldn’t say anything, would she? Not about this. Not about—

My thoughts were cut off as a gust of conversation tumbled into the hallway ahead of me.

I froze.

I knew that voice. Knew the rise and fall of the words, the laughing, musical cadence, at once indolent and on edge. And instantly I grasped at a new thread of hope.

Perhaps . . . perhaps if I learned more of what Count de Martine was doing at Windsor Castle, maybe that would distract Cecil from his task of madness. I could not
spy on the Queen
, but I was not
useless
. My ears could still be bent to her service. I could still gather secrets.

I crept forward slowly, along the wall, and the talk grew more distinct but still curiously muffled, as if the young count
and his partner were speaking behind their hands. I came to the small, pretty antechamber we called the Blue Room, a sitting area for lords and ladies to refresh themselves, with its newly cut doors opening onto the crumbling North Terrace. I slipped inside and scanned the room . . . only, it was empty. Frowning, I reached out to the tapestry-hung wall to steady myself—

And felt my ruff-clutching fingers connect with a broad, firm, and decidedly
male
chest.

“What’s this?” Count de Martine’s words were amused as his hand swiftly closed around mine, capturing my hand against him.

I could feel the searing heat of his chest through his thick doublet, and I struggled to free myself. “My apologies! I am so sorry—” I blurted, but my frantic movements pulled him out of his shadowed hiding place. Behind him, a young woman in long rustling skirts followed.

And my misery was complete.

Beatrice.

I flushed crimson in the semidarkness, grateful I could not be fully seen. “I am so sorry to have disturbed you,” I said hurriedly, holding myself upright even though Rafe still imprisoned my hand. “I thought this room was empty; I needed time away from the crowd.”

“What has troubled you so, fair maid?” Rafe asked, still amused, as if I were some grand joke presented for his entertainment. His hold on my hand was light but firm, and his fingers kept
moving
upon mine. I pulled again, and still he held. I decided a little honesty was necessary to fire my lies.

“Forgive me. I’ve had a terrible shock,” I said, staring desperately at Beatrice. She stepped forward, and as she
moved, Rafe turned to her. I took the opportunity to wrench my hand free from his grasp. To my dismay, Rafe still held on to my small ruff. He tucked it into his sleeve with a dexterity that would’ve marked any other man as a thief.