Maid of Secrets (25 page)

Arrested by the possibility, I found myself surreptitiously glancing at Sophia as if she were a statue fixed in place there in the Presence Chamber, taking in every detail of her expression as she pursed her lips together in concentration. I noted her wide, watchful eyes, almost purple in their intensity, and the delicate color of her cheeks, blushed as pink as Beatrice’s dress. I watched her so closely, I could practically count her breaths.

Which is why I noticed when Sophia jerked her head around, hard, and focused all her attention on whoever had just walked into the room.

Forcing myself to act naturally, I let my gaze drift back along the gallery of yawning nobles, until it reached the guards flanking the entryway. The guards were looking less bored. Foreigners must have just entered, I decided. Sophia was focused on foreigners. Unable to wait any longer, I triumphantly cut my gaze to the small group of men bowing before the Queen.

The Spaniards!

Wait . . . the Spaniards?

Why would the Spaniards cause Sophia to be distressed?
They’d been here for months. And if anything, her training would have demanded that she remain calm and unruffled in their presence, since they were the ones we suspected of giving illicit letters to Lady Amelia.

I barely kept from frowning, but it made no sense. Count de Feria, Rafe, and a half dozen of the slender Spanish nobles were there, putting on their grand show. None more so than Ortiz, whose laughing splendor was sending half the ladies into a swoon. The Queen beside me watched them with approval, for once not even bothering to scowl at de Feria. With the delegation now stood the rotund, smiling Alvarez de Quadra, bishop of Aquila, Spain’s newest ambassador and the grim de Feria’s replacement. I slanted another look at Sophia. Still rigid. Was de Quadra the cause? It was rumored that King Philip had sent the bishop to replace de Feria as ambassador, given the Queen’s obvious disdain for the hapless courtier and de Feria’s own desire to collect his heavily pregnant wife and depart for the Continent before she had the baby. I knew very little about de Quadra, other than that he was, if anything, even more ardent in his religion than the Queen was in opposing it. But he didn’t seem a bad sort. The Queen, of course, would have no use for him, since he was a man of God—and a Catholic God at that. But she might tolerate him better than she had de Feria, so that was a boon.

I was watching the tableau the Spaniards made, bowing to the Queen, when I felt a hot gaze upon me. I shifted my attention to the right, and met Rafe’s stare. We had not spoken since parting ways the night before, but my cheeks burned with that memory. And speaking of . . . where was the bulky Spanish guard whom Rafe had struck in the chapel? Was
that who had captured Sophia’s attention so completely? I scanned the small knot of men, but they were all slender and somewhat effete. No one looked like Turnip Nose. De Quadra was stocky, but not the slightest bit hard, and I’d already heard him speak. It was in soft, measured tones, not the guttural anger of the man I’d overheard in the chapel.

There was another shift, and a new nobleman stepped forward.

And then I understood.

I looked back at Sophia and sighed. She still hadn’t moved. I was fairly certain she had stopped breathing.

“Lord Theoditus Brighton, Earl of Dawbury,” the steward announced in sepulchral tones. Lord Brighton walked forward with the slightest limp. He paused in front of the Queen and executed a reserved and measured bow, the move so full of dignity and respect that it seemed almost, well—out of place in the hall, with its collection of fawning noblemen and poseurs.

“Your Grace, it is as ever a wondrous boon to be able to look upon your fair countenance, covered in the raiment of the sun. You are the Gloriana of England, and we bring you all the gifts of our devotion.”

The words were deep and mildly accented. I looked at Lord Brighton more curiously. He was from Wales, wasn’t he? But his accent seemed . . . different, somehow.

With a wave of his hand, Brighton signaled a footman. The young man came up smartly, bearing a silver and black chest, and knelt before the Queen. She leaned forward. Sophia leaned forward. I still studied Brighton.

He had the dark look of an aging gypsy, yet his clothing
was richly embroidered with silver, his trunk hose perfectly slashed with alternating stripes of silver and deep onyx. He was slender, and his hair was shot with grey. There were lines at the corners of his eyes. He was
old
.

But I couldn’t bring myself to quite place him in Grandfather’s sphere. This was not a grandfather, but a man still in his prime.

The box had been opened, and a magnificent necklace presented to the Queen, of onyx and hematite and pearls. “To protect you,” Brighton said. The Queen beamed. She loved getting gifts, particularly from men, though I couldn’t see how a chunk of twisted metal and stones was going to help her achieve new heights of security. Still, she nodded to Brighton, and sat back in her throne, well-pleased.

Brighton, for his part, straightened. Then he looked at Sophia, pure gentleness in his eyes, and I felt more than heard the girl’s raspy intake of breath.

Irritation coursed through me. That wasn’t the look of a threatening man; it was the look of a caring protector. But the man’s very presence turned Sophia into a quivering mute. What was going on?

I risked another glance at Sophia. The intensity in her expression was gone. There was fear only, and her body had, in fact, begun to tremble.

The Queen made her pronouncement of thanks for Lord Brighton’s gift of generosity, and he bowed again, backing away.

As soon as Lord Brighton returned to his station at the side of the door, the steward announced the next delegations. First came the courtiers of the Flemish court, then the vividly
dressed delegates from Morocco. Beatrice outdid herself, making eyes at men of wildly different nationalities and styles, somehow managing to flirt with all of them just within the boundaries of each country’s traditions of how women should behave. It was nothing short of masterful. There was some time for the whole of the Italian delegation to process through, including a gaggle of priests sent by the pope. I worried my fingers once more against my sleeve at their arrival. There were plenty of Catholic sympathizers still in the court, and having a faction of priests to help fuel their fire could not be safe.

Then the simpering fools from France took their position, and the Queen’s demeanor grew frosty. She accepted their bows with cool repugnance, and I knew hatred stirred within her. She had been but a new Queen when the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis with France had been signed, and in gaining the peace she’d needed so desperately, she had lost Calais, England’s only foothold on the Continent. She would never forgive them for that, just as she never would forgive Philip for marrying the child Elisabeth de Valois. I’d been shocked at Sophia’s betrothal, but Elisabeth was only fourteen—three full years my junior. I could not even imagine how unsettling that would be.

Then came the Scots.

I stood up a little straighter when they entered the room, descending on the court with the air of brigands and thieves, despite their fancy clothes. Even though they marched along quite silently, they seemed a rabble. They were less refined than the other nobles, the material of their clothes thicker and more roughly sewn, although it was clear that they had
dressed in their best for an audience with the Queen. The Queen had no interest in the Scots, I knew, other than the fact that she would use anything in her power against the French. And many of the Scots were at war with the French to boot, so they would be here seeking money, not giving it. Still, there was something so . . . authentic about this lot. They were proud that they were not as polished as the rest of the crowd, rough and tumble men with the kind of easygoing grins I hadn’t seen since I’d parted ways with the Golden Rose. I rather liked the Scots, I decided.

I could tell Beatrice did not. As rigid as Sophia had been before, now it was Beatrice’s turn to be caught in a thrall. She leaned forward slightly, clearly memorizing the features of the men young and old, as we had been carefully taught. But unlike her reaction to every other delegation, Beatrice did not slip easily into a flirtatious manner with the Scots. In fact, for one long moment she couldn’t seem to do anything but stare. Then, at last she smiled—with coy and perfect grace, her eyes bright, her manner lively and feminine. And in that moment I realized that Beatrice’s assignment from Cecil involved this crass, unlikely bunch. No wonder she’d been so quiet on the subject. The Scottish nobles were an entirely different breed of man from the English—barely civilized, and proud of that fact. If Beatrice’s job was to beguile and bedevil this lot, she would have her hands full.

Even now the game was beginning, I could see. The light that arced in from the high windows caught the fairness of Beatrice’s skin, and the Scots at once noticed the pretty young woman eyeing them so keenly. One of their number, a tall, powerfully built young man of perhaps twenty years, flashed
a large, knowing grin in her direction. He was handsome in the way of a warrior, with sharp eyes and broad shoulders, but it was difficult to see what he truly looked like under his unruly hair and thick, braided beard. While I watched, he elbowed his mate. Both of them leered back at Beatrice and waggled their eyebrows. Beatrice stiffened, but kept her smile winsome and pretty. All of this happened while the Scots made barely deferential bows to the Queen, then proceeded to sneer at the Frenchmen who had come before them.

It was, in all, a hopeless mob, and a sudden thought struck me.

If ever England’s enemies wanted to strike a blow to disrupt the Queen’s court, it would be seven days hence, when the dignitaries from several foreign lands and the far reaches of the English court all gathered under one roof for the Crown’s rollicking late summer masque.

Sworn enemies.

Desperate conspirators.

Fawning opportunists.

Cunning traitors.

And every one of them in disguise.

God save the Queen.

Finally released from the Presence Chamber, all I craved was the open air of the Lower Ward. I fled toward the outer doors, not even bothering to return to the maids’ chambers to doff my gown. Beatrice wouldn’t miss it. She’d been collared by Walsingham the moment the audience had ended and had been carted off to be introduced to a dozen dignitaries. I’m sure the Scotsmen would be in that group.

How she’d ever keep one overstuffed nobleman straight from another, I would never know. Still, that was part of her talents—her capacity to remember everyone, and everyone’s position, and use them to her own advantage. That was a gift I would not want.

“A moment, dear?” The words jolted me out of my reverie, and I half-turned, sinking into a curtsy before I could stop myself. Then I realized it wasn’t a member of the court addressing me but a small, wizened woman in a faded but well-made gown, her eyes rheumy with age. She might have been a gentlewoman or a highly placed servant, but I had no way of telling. I completed my curtsy anyway. There was never any harm in being polite.

“Ma’am?” I asked as she stared at me. “Is aught amiss?”

“No—no.” The old woman clasped her trembling hands together. “I came up for the presentation to the Queen and saw you standing again with the Crown—I couldn’t believe it.”

I frowned at her. “Do I know you?”

She cackled at some joke only she could recall. “You don’t, my dear, you don’t. I have not been here since King Henry died. I make my home in Bath now, near the old abbey. I did want to see his daughter, though. She makes a glorious Queen, a glorious Queen.”

I smiled and reached for the crone’s fluttering hands, cradling their frailness in my own. “She is blessed to have loyal subjects such as you to welcome her to the throne,” I said.

“Me!” harrumphed the woman, shaking her head. “Far more blessed she is to have you, my dear. As was her father before.” I frowned at that. Clearly the old woman was confused. She squeezed my hands then, her gaze now wandering as much as her mind, and I looked around for help. It came in the form of what must have been the woman’s granddaughter, bustling up with rapid apologies to claim her errant elder.

I watched the two move off, feeling suddenly, oddly alone; then I turned back toward the Lower Ward. As I walked, my mind turned over the events of the morning like a churning waterwheel.

Who had the old woman thought I was? And how many in the crowd today were proud of their new Queen, like she had been, while others angled for the Queen’s downfall? How many were heaping their treasures upon Elizabeth with one hand and aiming a knife at her heart with the other? Who could she really trust?

And what of Robert Dudley? The look he’d given Elizabeth had been mild, even banal, but his spirit had imparted something different entirely. He was both the figure of propriety and the soul of desire, like a man acting a play without words. To an untrained eye Dudley was just another flatterer. But to anyone who knew the Queen and could read her reaction truly . . . he was a threat. Why would the Queen choose Robert Dudley, though? Why did any woman choose any man? I thought of the men I knew, all so very different—Grandfather. Troupe Master James. Walsingham and Cecil. Rafe. Especially Rafe.