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Authors: Jennifer McGowan

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BOOK: A Thief Before Christmas
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For my own part, however, I played aloof. “I should like that very much, Master James. Should you have a mind to make me the leader of the street troupe, I shall not let you down.”

“Hmm,” he said. “In truth I value your insights more and more with this business. Again, I cannot imagine how I missed Theodore's lack of backbone.”

I shrugged. “Theodore is not so different from us, but he doesn't have a family to call his own. When trouble strikes, he must act selfishly, or find himself at the wrong end of a pike.”

“And still you didn't turn him over to the magistrate, but let him go.” James eyed me sternly. “With food and clothing, no less. I saw you.”

I glanced away to hide my embarrassment. “It wasn't a new costume, and he needed to get away. Theodore will not starve, but we could not afford to earn his ill will. Perhaps the next time we run afoul of him, he will treat us with more care.”

“Perhaps,” James said, but he didn't look convinced. “Or perhaps your softheartedness will do you no kindness one day, and you will find treachery when all you expect is honor.”

“Pray, never that,” I said, seeking to lighten his dark mood. “But we have more important topics to discuss than my soft heart. Where shall we be off to next? Sheffield is a distance, but there are people there, and we've much to barter for inns and food.”

“Sheffield is a start,” James agreed. “But with the coming of spring, I think our attentions should be drawn yet farther south. Perhaps all the way to Londontown?”

“London!” I stared at him. “You cannot mean it!”

“London,” he said emphatically. He could see the protest warring within me, and his next words were gentle. “Your grandfather is dead, Meg. You know yourself that we cannot make the money we did when he was alive. There just isn't enough of a market for traveling actors in the countryside. We have to go where the action is, and right now, the action is in London. We have a new Queen, and she is the talk of the country. If she'll be in London—”

“Then we should be as well,” I finished his sentence for him. I looked off to the South and tried not to betray the rush of excitement that was building within me. First Master James was thinking of promoting me to captain the street troupe . . . and now we were going to London! I felt my entire world unspooling before me, like a skein of golden thread.

“To London,” he said, raising his glass again.

I lifted mine to meet his. “To London,” I said. “Who knows what adventures await us there?”

Who knew, indeed.

Meg Fellowes's adventures continue in
Maid of Secrets
,
a Maids of Honor novel.

APRIL 1559

LONDON, ENGLAND

Mule-brained Tommy Farrow would ruin everything.

To my credit I didn't even flinch as I caught sight of the boy's white-blond hair bouncing through the crowd. I'd been trained better than that. But the fat purse I'd just lifted from an unsuspecting lord now felt too heavy in my hand. I shoved it deep into the folds of my overskirt with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

Stepping away from my mark, I smiled easily and strolled forward a few lazy paces along the crowd's edge; just another young English lady, out enjoying the day's spectacle.

No one so much as glanced at me.

I ducked under a faded coronation banner that still whipped proudly above a milliner's storefront, and paused to scan the knot of Londoners clumped together in the inn's courtyard. Tommy wasn't hard to spot.

Where is the silly little bit going?

The youngest—and by far the most hopeless—thief in the Golden Rose acting troupe could barely pick the pocket of the simplest of villagers, but this was
Londontown
. With his mutton hands and clumsy feet and a mouth that galloped well ahead of his brain, Tommy would be branded a thief before he'd bobbed his first lord. And then he'd be branded in fire, a white-hot poker pressed into the soft skin of his hand, forever announcing him a criminal.

My mouth tightened into a grim line. No child deserved that. No matter how straw-headed.

I threaded my way through the gawkers, steadying my nerves by snipping off another loose bauble from a velvet sleeve as I passed. Then the tuft of blond hair abruptly changed course in the crowd, and panic squeezed my heart.

For Tommy, who couldn't tie his own breeches without getting his fingers trapped, crowds were a disaster. The boy somehow always went after the one mark in the mob who'd never be taken in by his sweet-faced charm and big blue eyes.

Show Tommy a hundred people to fleece, and he'd always choose the worst. It was almost a gift.

Truly. I'd seen the boy target magistrates and nuns.

Now, judging from the purposeful stride of his small, pumping body, Tommy had already picked out his next unlikely victim. I followed the child's line of sight. And then I
did
flinch.

Tommy was heading straight for the Queen's court.

More specifically, toward a hawk-faced scowler dressed all in black, bundled in a thick wool cape and in heavy trunk hose despite the balmy spring afternoon. I'd heard the man called Sir William, even as I'd brushed by him naught but an hour earlier. He looked like he was perpetually in a bad mood, as pale and sour as spoiled milk. The type of man who expected bad things to happen.

So I'd stolen his purse.

Sir William had been making a fine art out of flashing a temptingly round money pouch, loosely attached to his belt. He'd displayed the heavy bag no fewer than a dozen times with a toss of his cape. It was a folly, of course, meant to draw the eye and the errant hands of a thief, whom Sir William could then catch in the act and punish publicly. Our new Queen, as it turned out,
hated
thieves.

Sir William's smaller purse, discreetly tucked against his side, was the real prize. Or it had been, until I'd nicked that pouch without the good lord realizing it . . . which meant that Tommy still had a gift for picking the wrong mark.

Figure it out, Tommy. . . .

A sudden spill of people jostled in front of me, blocking my view. For the first time ever I wished a teeming crowd had
not
turned out to watch our company's afternoon performance.

The Golden Rose acting troupe had become London's newest sensation—and not a moment too soon. Grand-father, God rest his soul, had always forbidden us to perform in any of the larger cities. But the young and dashing James McDonald was our troupe master now, and he'd seen the truth of things quickly enough: With the crowning of a new, triumphant Queen, no one much cared for traveling actors anymore. The village folk were giving all their time—and their money—to bards with stories of London and its new royal court. All eyes had turned to the capital city. To survive, that's where we had to be as well.

And without question, we'd never had larger crowds for our shows than here in Londontown, or riper pickings. Surely, Grandfather would understand.

Just today, in truth, as we performed in the sprawling courtyard of the White Lion Inn, we'd won the ultimate boon. The dazzling Queen Elizabeth and her court of fools had taken it into their heads to walk the city's streets and mingle with the common folk. Even now they tarried to watch our company shout our way through the second act of our most popular play,
The Beggared Lord
.

We'd felt the court's royal presence before we'd even been able to see it, like the quickening breeze of a seaborne storm. Gap-toothed urchins, worn-faced merchant's wives, even sharp-eyed hucksters, had all tensed with expectation, eager to see the new young Queen. I confess I stared as well. She was nothing short of awe-inspiring, our Elizabeth. Young and powerful. Radiant. Gloriously free to do whatever she wanted.

With her arrival the crowd had swelled to bursting. I'd caught Master James's knowing nod, and had set to work among the smug-lipped lords. In no time at all, I'd secreted away a fortnight's worth of their coin beneath my skirt's heavy cloth.

Master James would be proud. I smiled just thinking on that.

But if Tommy picked the wrong pocket, the blessing of the Queen's presence would become our curse. Even if the boy didn't come away with Sir William's purse successfully, he would be detained for trying. Searched.

And though Tommy wouldn't have Sir William's money on him, he'd probably managed to lift
someone's
silver this day. Which would be aught that was needed to doom us all. Unless I moved quickly, there would be twenty branded thumbs before the day's end—the Crown's punishment of choice for first-time offenders.

And that was if we were lucky. If the Queen
wasn't
feeling indulgent, our plights could be far, far worse. Gibbets. The stocks. The whistle of whip leather cutting into flesh.

My stomach clenched and I plunged forward into the crowd, locating Tommy anew when he stepped deliberately into the outermost ranks of royal courtiers. With a nonchalance I'd perfected over long years, I moved ever closer to him, my steps meandering and my manner harmless. This was an act I knew all too well.

Because I was female, I was forbidden to play a true role as a Golden Rose actor before the crowd. Instead, I'd honed my theatre craft
in
the crowd.

I was a fine and laughing lady, a guileless merchant's daughter, a scornful fishmonger's wife. I mimicked those around me easily, be they farmers, freemen, or fools. To a one I smiled, nodded . . . then picked their pockets.

By all accounts, you could say I stole the show.

I reached Tommy just as I saw his tiny hand flash out toward Sir William's false purse, brushing the man's coat but missing the purse entirely. Then I heard the turning harrumph of Tommy's target. The boy had committed no crime, yet that still might not save him.

Moving quickly, I yanked a heavy brooch out of my bodice and swirled forth in a fluster, praying that my carefully painted face still gave the impression of sophistication far beyond my seventeen years.

“What, ho, young man. You found it!” I cried, even as Sir William's head jerked up at the interruption, his cold gaze flashing over me as I reached out, clasping my hands over Tommy's and pressing the brooch into his dirty palm. “My sweet and heavenly days, this is some great luck. What a wonderful lad you are, for finding my lost treasure!”

Even Tommy realized something had gone terribly wrong. “'T-tis nothing, m'lady. I saw it shining in the dirt?” he said hopefully, his wide eyes desperate as he proffered the brooch back to me.

“And shine it would!” I beamed, taking the bit of jewelry with great show. “You've done very,
very
well. You should be proud of yourself.”

Tommy nearly fainted with relief, his grin huge and heartfelt. God love the boy, he did try.

As I cooed and fluttered, however, I could feel the chilly grey censure of Sir William, hovering like a soft-gloved hand over my throat, ready to squeeze. Panic clawed through me, but I kept my voice steady, my eyes bright.

“There now. Off you go,” I said, plucking a coin from the largest purse in my carefully sewn pockets, and forcing myself not to smirk. I was paying Tommy with Sir William's own coin, of all the grand irony. Swiftly I pressed the shilling into Tommy's hand. “Run along and get yourself a pasty, sweetling, and tell your mum 'twas a gift for being the smartest of boys.”

“I will! I will, then! Thank you!”

As Tommy dashed away, shouting with his good fortune, I turned smartly in the other direction and clutched the brooch to my chest, a fine lady with her riches restored. I went five long paces, then stepped into a deep and shadowed doorway, holding my breath as I glanced back.

I needn't have worried. With
The Beggared Lord
to draw the people's attention, no one paid any heed to a little boy running through the crowd, or to the woman who'd rewarded him so generously.

Even Sir William watched the play now, a curiously soft, secret smile on the man's thin lips. I offered him my own mocking smile from the shadows.
Look your fill, you old goat.

I had no way of knowing his smile would be my undoing.

After allowing another few minutes to pass, I rolled out of the doorway, taking pains not to clink as I drifted through the crowd. Master James and I exchanged another nod as I passed, even as the crowd burst into rowdy applause. Had he seen me save Tommy's thumbs? Had I impressed him?

The sudden heat that swept through me at that thought made me wince, and I looked away hastily. Not for the first time, I decided that I cared too much what our new young troupe master thought.

I lifted my chin, once more immersing myself in my role as a worldly merchant's wife—whose husband was conveniently away on the Continent, and ergo not complaining night and day like all the husbands I'd ever seen.

Pish on Master James.
There was no harm in being glad he'd noticed my accomplishments, but that was as far as it could go. Master James was smart and handsome, to be sure—particularly this day in his deep black velvet doublet and slashed trunks, with his roguish grin and curling chestnut hair and bright green eyes. And, yes, he was doing a fine job as Grandfather's replacement, safeguarding our traveling license and ensuring that our troupe of twenty-odd actors and their families did their jobs and ate their fill. There was much to recommend him, but he was still
male
. In the eyes of Queen and country, that meant he was my better. Should I ever be so stupid as to marry, my husband would own me like I was some prize goat . . . or, worse, a sturdy cow.

I'd lived my life more or less as I'd wanted these past seventeen years. I could not imagine suddenly shackling myself to any man, for any reason. So, to me, Master James could only be a troupe master, nothing more and nothing less.

BOOK: A Thief Before Christmas
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