Maid of Secrets (36 page)

Dawn finally stretched over the horizon. A servant slipped into the room, and I made as if I’d woken at once, leaping from my mat to serve and protect.

At my movement, the Queen swept back the curtains of her bed. “Yes, Meg?” she asked, a faint smile on her face.

“I, oh— I . . . My apologies, Your Grace,” I said, stuttering. Behind me the other ladies of the bedchamber were stirring. “I heard a sound and—” I shook my head, hard, feigning that I was muzzy-headed. “I feel a bit . . . queer,” I said softly.

She was watching me with keen eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes—yes, of course, Your Grace. I just . . . I feel . . . odd.”

She nodded briskly. “It was a busy night for you. Go forth. You’re relieved of morning duties, since you’d be no use at all in preparing me for the hunt. If Mathilde is not recovered, I will expect you here when I return at the tenth hour.”

I murmured thanks far more sincere than she could have known, pulled on my skirts and kirtle, and fled.

But I did not go to Cecil’s chambers. And I did not go back to my own room either. It was early still, the morning
after a grand revel. The only focus of the guards would be on the hunters and their horses—not the guests who’d danced long into the night. There would be no one to track my movements. It would take only a moment to fetch my picklocks back . . . .

The doors to Saint George’s Hall remained open, the only light to brighten the abandoned hall coming from the windows as before, this time a trickle of the sun’s earliest rays over the walls of the castle. By this meager light I could easily see the panel set into the wall, now that I knew what I was looking for. I had only to pry the panel off once more, slip inside, and then retrace my steps back to the Queen’s chambers and move several yards beyond. The picklocks would still be there, on the floor of the corridor. Waiting for me.

I’d almost reached the panel, when a flash of metal whisked in front of my eyes. “Looking for this?”

Rafe.

I stopped short, yanking the picklocks out of Rafe’s fingers. “What are you doing here!” I hissed, turning sharply around. “Where did you find these? And where have you been?”

His grin was irrepressible. “I suspect I found them where you dropped them, in the corridor behind the Queen’s chambers,” he said, answering only the second of my questions. “And you should keep a closer eye. Royal picklocks are not tinkers’ tools. These are among the finest I’ve ever seen.”

“What?” I looked at him, then down at the gleaming metal in my hand. “These aren’t royal picklocks.” They were simply a gift from my grandfather.

“I assure you that they are.” He plucked the picklocks from my hand and pointed to a tiny crest near the tip of the delicate keys. “Looks like old King Henry’s seal, in fact, but it’s too dark to tell. Either way, they’re worth a royal ransom.” He handed them back to me, and I stared at them in confusion, pulling myself back to the issues at hand only with extraordinary discipline.

“But how did you know where to find them—and how did you get into the passage in the first place?” I stamped my foot in utter frustration. It seemed to work for Beatrice. “And what
are
you doing here?”

My voice rose nearly out of a whisper with my last question, and he put a finger to his lips to quiet me. He nodded toward the chapel. “If you must know, I’m looking for someone.”

At that moment a small, muffled cry came from the chapel, whether from pleasure or pain, it was impossible to tell. Rafe grimaced. “And I believe I just found him.”

I froze, horror rushing through me. Surely the Queen could not be so bold as to meet Robert Dudley twice in one night—I’d left her with her attendants all awake! I looked at Rafe. “You cannot go in there,” I said earnestly.

“I must.” A brutal crack echoed on the heels of a muffled cry, both sounds emanating from the chapel. “And I believe that’s my cue.”

With that he turned and ran toward the chapel, with me hard on his heels. We rushed forward even as a tall, slender man burst free from the chapel and barreled through us, and another man’s voice, low and guttural, shouted out
in triumph from beyond the chapel doors. Caught between chasing the first fleeing man and saving the Queen, Rafe hesitated just a moment, but I did not. I sprinted by him and flew through the doorway.

The scene in front of me was clear. And it wasn’t the Queen.

Lady Amelia lay collapsed on the chapel floor in a huddled ball, her face cut, her beautiful ball gown soaked with a tight arc of crimson. Standing above her was the moon-faced Spaniard I’d seen just hours before with de Quadra and de Feria, but now with a knife in his hand.

I barely heard a distant rousing cry well behind us. The fleeing Spaniard had doubtless alerted the castle to cover his own escape. We would be awash in royal guardsmen in minutes.

Moon Face looked up, apparently not having heard the cry of his comrade . . . but he seemed to recognize Rafe. He grunted in greeting, then looked at me, his face cracking into an unholy grin.
“¿Quieres que matar a ella también?”

“No!” Rafe spit back, even as I realized that the Spanish sentence the man had just spoken had included the phrase “kill her too.” “Kill
her
,” as in kill
me
. Rafe reached out and shoved me behind him, and the two men began speaking in rapid Spanish, but I twisted out of Rafe’s grasp. That was
Lady Amelia
lying there, half-dead, it appeared, her throat already purpling with bruises. I barely paid attention to them yelling at each other. I could not focus on their conversation, not with Lady Amelia harmed.

I moved to dash to her aid, but suddenly the man was right in front of me, his blade flashing out. I blocked his blow with a
sharp upward thrust of my arm. The feint did little more than allow me to stagger to the side, but it startled Moon Face so much that he stumbled forward, missing me completely. Rafe hissed another command, but the man came at me again. I dodged once more, my training taking hold, and I rolled out of harm’s way even as Rafe jumped into the fight.

Whirling around, the black-clad man threw his knife at Rafe, who ducked the blade and charged the Spaniard, his own rapier pulled.

“Run!” Rafe shouted, though I would do no such thing. I could not leave Lady Amelia behind!

The two blocked my path in a whirling sword fight. Rafe pressed forward against his attacker like a man possessed, his hands a rush of steel. In addition to his sword, he somehow held a second blade in his left hand, a short, thick dagger that he was able to wield with jabbing spikes whenever their battle brought the two men within a few feet of each other. Rafe connected once, then again, but Moon Face fought back with a fury borne more of desperation than skill. It was just a matter of time before Rafe finished him, I thought, but Rafe pulled back from the killing blow, speaking in rushed Spanish, as if he sought to get answers rather than blood from the man.

Moon Face responded with a feral bellow, and they came at each other again, finally opening a space for me to rush past them to Lady Amelia. I bent over her hastily, trying to determine if she still breathed.

Lady Amelia’s eyes were open, but her mouth was slack. Only the faintest of heartbeats thrummed beneath my hand. Though she’d been sliced across the neck, the wound was not
deep. Her throat was wreathed in dark angry welts, however, as if she’d been strangled by a man’s bare hands. The killer had moved beyond garrotes, it appeared, to a more personal approach to killing.

I knelt, cradling Lady Amelia’s head in my arms, still searching for injuries. Her right temple was already a knot of bruises, and I realized that the crack I had heard had likely been intended as her killing blow. The facial cuts were just for show, to shock whoever found the body. They certainly did the job.

“Don’t die, Lady Amelia,” I whispered as I lay her down again. “Don’t you dare die.” I did not know what had brought the woman to this dark, abandoned chapel, but she didn’t deserve this.

Nobody deserved this.

A snarl from Moon Face ripped through the room, and I turned to see Rafe’s attacker barrel forward with his sword held low and tight, preparing for a killing blow. Rafe whirled at the last minute, flipping around in a graceful arc, then plunged his short blade high into the man’s left shoulder, angling down.

The man convulsed, then fell silent, slumping to the ground.

The sound of pounding feet rang through the castle, barely reaching our ears but coming fast. The guards!

“What did you do? Why did you kill him?” I nearly shrieked at him. “He could have explained what was happening—”

“He was a fool. He knew nothing!” Rafe shouted back, but his eyes were wild. What had he heard?
Why did I not know more Spanish!

“You must go!” I said urgently. “They will never believe you are innocent in this, and I will not see you hang.”

Rafe shook his head. “I cannot leave you here.”

“Do you not understand? If you are found here hale and hearty with your own countryman dead and possibly an Englishwoman as well, you will be hung outside the Curfew Tower until you are nothing but skin and bones! It will not matter what is right, or true, or fair. Only that the death of an Englishwoman is avenged. And if we are both held accountable for Lady Amelia’s death, no one will be left to save the other.”

Rafe stared at me, then shook his head like an angry bear. “I cannot—”

A cry went up from the door of Saint George’s Hall. They were so close! “You must!” I hissed.

Rafe set his jaw, the look in his eyes like ice. “Then, look sharp. It’s time for you to play your part.” He tossed his knife to me, and I caught it from long practice, stumbling forward as I strove to balance the bloody blade. As the guards pounded closer to the doorway to the chapel, Rafe yanked up a heavy canvas carpet from the floor, and disappeared beneath it. I stared, fully shocked.

He was going to
hide under a rug
? This was his grand escape plan?
Was he mad!?

I lurched forward, aghast that he would try to hide under something so paltry, his name a cry upon my lips.
No!

Then the heavy mat settled down on the floor . . . flat.

Flat!

I barely heard the telltale click as Rafe moved the floor panel back into place. Another accursed pathway—and this
one through the floor!—that Rafe knew about and I did not! Was there no end to the damn things that the Spaniard knew?

“What, ho!” roared the guardsmen behind me, holding torches high.

I turned, holding the brutal dagger down and away. At my feet lay two dead—or nearly dead—conspirators, enemies of England.

Blinking into the torchlight, I was somehow not even surprised that it was none other than Cecil and Walsingham who rushed into the small chapel next, their mouths dropping in unison as they saw me standing there, a cruel knife in my hand.

I did the only thing I could think of, given the circumstances.

I curtsied.

Five hours later I was so exhausted, I could barely stay upright, but I was still in the midst of yet another round of interrogation. I’d recounted my false tale so many times, I was beginning to believe it myself, but when I launched into it this time, Cecil finally raised his hand.

His expression had ceased being one of patient support. Now he was angry.

He stood and went to the door. Opening it wide, he allowed the two guards to enter the chamber, their bulk and armor dwarfing him.

“Take Miss Fellowes to the dungeon—to the water cells,” Cecil said. To me he said, “I will come to you before the water rises.” He shrugged. “Or after, if you prefer.”

“The dungeon?” I protested. My words were flat and dull.
Before the water rises?
my mind responded in return. “But why? I’m telling you the truth.”

Vaguely I remembered the dank smell of the corridors Jane and I had explored, and the far-off rush of water. But I couldn’t remember where those corridors were, precisely.

And I couldn’t imagine why I would be taken there.

Cecil’s tired words interrupted my thoughts. “What is truth and what people would believe are two separate things, Miss Fellowes. We need someone to blame for Lady Amelia’s attack, and you were there. The Spaniard may have attacked you both in the height of your innocent exploration of the chapel . . . or he may have not. You may have wrested free his knife as he was attacking Amelia and killed him in a blind panic, as you so prettily convinced the guards . . . or you may have not. There are other possibilities. You are not so well known here that anyone would question your stumbling upon Lady Amelia and her paramour in a romantic tangle, and being overcome with jealousy. And the Spaniard died without telling his tale.”

I blinked at him. “But I was not—”

Cecil cut me off. “Are you ready to tell me what truly transpired last night with the Queen?”

And this, really, was the rub of it. Cecil didn’t care about another dead Spaniard—or even about Lady Amelia. He cared about the Queen. He suspected that I knew something.

And of course, he was right.