Maid of Deception (11 page)

We sat back and pondered that. The letter begged prettily for the Queen’s intercession into the Scottish rebellion, with arms and men and money. But the Queen and Knox were avowed enemies, and she would never openly support him. Cecil no doubt knew this. Was Cecil trying to secure the Queen’s aid without fully apprising her of who specifically she would be helping? Was he aware of Knox’s duplicity? Or had he even seen this letter yet? The seal had been broken, after all. . . .

“She won’t be happy,” Meg mused. “She puts too much store in how she is perceived. This is an attempt to dupe her, no matter how benign.”

“But it’s for the good of England too,” Anna pointed out. “Let’s say we tell her, ‘Och, you’re being played the fool here, but go along with it.’ Will she believe us, or will her outrage color her perceptions and lead her to a different conclusion from the one that’s wise for England?”

I gave a labored sigh. More than any of the other girls, I knew the right answer here, much as it pained me to admit it. “We should do it this way—”

“The Queen.” Jane’s words were a mere murmur from the door, but we were up and turning sharply, sinking at once into our line of curtsies that the Queen favored so well.

“Up, up. I have little time. Cecil is at my heels like a baying hound.” The Queen waved to us impatiently. “What is your report?”

I felt the girls’ eyes upon me, and I stepped forward. “Your Grace, Meg was in fact successful in her role as you. Though, only because the darkness cloaked her so well could she carry the day.” In truth Meg had played a better Elizabeth than Elizabeth herself, but this was not the time to belabor that point. “She lifted a letter from a young Scottish earl, a letter penned to you from a man who named himself Sinclair.”

“Sinclair?” The Queen frowned. “I know no lord named Sinclair in the Scottish ranks.”

I bowed to her. “It was a subterfuge, my Queen, from a man desperate for your aid, and knowing that he needed you more than he needed his own pride. He disguised his hand,
and changed his name, but Anna recognized him for who he really is.”

That caught her attention, as I knew it would. The Queen’s brows lifted. “He lied to me?”

“Only that you might read his words without judging the source, and decide on the merit of his cause and not his person,” I said quickly. “He does not know your mind rests ever on the good of the state and not on your personal opinions about its servants.”

The Queen was nodding along with me, as if she agreed in my noble assessment of her dispassionate rule. There was no getting around this next part, though, so I plunged directly in. “The letter was written in fact by John Knox.”

“Knox!” That drew her up short. “He is an
abomination
.”

“And he is groveling at your feet, for he cannot do anything without you.” I nodded firmly, trying to ensure that I kept the Queen’s head bobbing along. “Knox needs your support to oust the French Regent Mary de Guise and all her men at arms. He knows it plainly. He also knows you detest him, so he is adding his voice to the Protestant cause in the only way he feels you would find palatable. It was a gamble on his part—he must know for certain you would figure out his game. But his need is great enough that he could only try to appeal to your desire for an allied isle, despite your opinions of him.”

“Hmmm,” Elizabeth mused, tilting her head to the side. “You agree with this assessment, Anna? I assume you were the one to read the letter?”

“Indeed I was, Your Grace,” Anna said, her voice uncharacteristically
serious, making her seem older than her seventeen years. “The letter is now safely returned to the earl’s pocket, but Beatrice is quite right. When you receive the letter in hand, it is up to you whether you will unmask its author to your advisors—but you will know the man straight out, and why he put forth his words in such a way.”

“Whether I would have known it or not is not a sure thing,” the Queen said, showing a remarkable candor. “But in either event, I know it now. And you say you returned this letter?” This question was put to Meg, who curtsied, as I knew she would.

“Yes, Your Grace. The earl was none the wiser for its temporary misplacement.”

“Very well.” She nodded. “Tomorrow is the minstrel performance. Nothing much will happen before that happy event, with all of the court sleeping off my wine and good nature. But the final event of my birthday celebrations is the Harvest Festival, two evenings hence. For that you must—”

But her words were cut off as Cecil rounded into the room, the irritation on his face wiped clean away as Elizabeth turned to him and he bowed deeply. “Your Grace,” Cecil said after he straightened. “Though the hour is late, I would speak with you. I have summarized correspondence for your review.”

She nodded benignly at him, but there was no missing the challenge in her gaze. “Of course,” she said. “But the hour is late, as you say. I shall look forward to reading it myself, rather than taxing you with a summary.” She strode past him through the open doorway, head high and shoulders straight.
So imperious was her gait that Cecil blinked at her, then glanced back at us.

We all smiled as innocently as possible. He looked pained again, then left the room.

*    *    *    

We received no new assignments for the next day’s performance, nor for the Harvest Festival, but that was just as well. The court seemed at last to be tiring of the endless roll of entertainment. Instead we were set upon once more by tutors who seemed intent on teaching us a world’s worth of knowledge in a few short days—art history and church history in particular. We all remarked upon it. What had Elizabeth learned that had convinced her we should know who the Church’s favorite goldworkers had been in the twelfth century? Who could possibly care?

As for me, my own discoveries weighed heavily on my mind. How should I manage the indiscretions of Lord Cavanaugh? And should I—could I—tell the Queen?

The other maids were kind enough not to air the distasteful subject to me, though they had to have discussed it among themselves. In truth a titled lord enjoying the services of a mistress was commonplace in the court. I knew that. Of course I knew that. And for all of my seeming sophistication, I also knew that I was an untutored girl—not trained in the relations between a man and a woman. Who would train me, after all? My mother was all but mad, I refused to speak of it with my father, and my fellow maids were far less facile with men than I was. It’s possible that Walsingham could help—I rather thought he would appreciate having a sultry seductress
in the group who could put actions behind her words—but the very thought of approaching him made me ill.

So it was perhaps not surprising that Cavanaugh had found solace in the arms of a more experienced woman. But really . . .
a serving wench
?

And what did it say about me that I was mostly offended not by the woman’s existence but by her station?

I didn’t want to think on that too long. But I also couldn’t bring myself to tell the Queen about the situation. The words just wouldn’t come.

Further, I had no idea how she would react. Use Cavanaugh’s indiscretion to advance her own aims? Laugh in my face and tell me to grow up and accept the fact that my husband would not be solely my own? Unless the Queen was forced into action, she would likely never do anything about Cavanaugh’s mistress, I realized. She would merely use it as yet another reason to mock me.

After that, my mind was set. I could not tell the Queen straight out. Instead, for two days, I roamed Windsor Castle as always, smiling, laughing, flirting . . . and dying a little more each moment.

And now we had finally reached the Harvest Festival—the last of Elizabeth’s birthday festivities, thank heavens. It was styled as a more traditional festival, not unlike ones held in villages throughout all of England at the close of a successful season. The Presence Hall was lit up like full day, and there were savory pies and sweetmeats of every description for the guests to gorge themselves upon.

I hovered near the tables, too distracted to eat, but I
could not deny that Alasdair’s words from two nights before did bait me. I was hardly “skinny.” The fact that I was not as round and buxom as a tavern wench notwithstanding, I hardly looked like a sickly waif. Perhaps a little hollow, but who could blame me? My betrothed had found another, and my future was ruined.

And speaking of my betrothed . . . I searched the corners again, the tiny alcoves, as I made my way around the hall, laughing and dancing with this courtier and that, as the Queen had decreed. It was not so difficult to find Lord Cavanaugh, now that I knew he’d be skulking in the shadows.

And the woman he was eyeing so lasciviously mere days past his own postponed wedding, in front of God, the world, and the entire assembled court? Yes, it had to be said. Not only was she pretty, sweet, and apparently biddable, to accept my lord’s attentions in such a public place, but she was far more shapely than I.

It all hit me at once then, there in the Queen’s Presence Chamber, surrounded by people I’d spent my entire life deceiving. Here, at the very end of my campaign for an inviolate position in the court, for the safe haven of marriage and respectability, when triumph had seemed assured and all that had been left was to bring one benign and apparently respectable man to heel . . . I had failed. I had been tricked, made to look the fool. I had been thrown over like so much linen on washing day, so inconsequential that Cavanaugh had not even thought to keep his dalliance with another woman secret bare days after our own sacred union had nearly been consummated. I could feel the prying eyes of the court upon
me now. They knew—not all of them, perhaps. And perhaps not everything. But enough of them nevertheless were chuckling behind their elegant fans and upraised fingers, laughing at poor, stupid Beatrice who thought she knew so much and yet could not even guess at her own betrothed’s indiscretion.

I had been cheated.

Betrayed.

Humiliated.

So I perhaps could be forgiven for what happened next.

Cavanaugh and his mistress had drawn themselves neatly behind a temporarily hung curtain of flame orange, a testament to the colors of a very English autumn. The bolt of cloth was close enough to the dance floor to warrant concern for any man with his blood still in his brain, but apparently that requirement did not currently fit Lord Cavanaugh. When I saw him sink into an embrace with the woman, I whirled back to the floor, accepting the first gentleman’s arm that was proffered to me. The Queen herself had taken to the floor during this country dance, and we soon were swirling and whirling in the rush of music and laughter.

I was not laughing, however. I was far from laughter, as every wilder turn made the orange curtain flutter just enough for me to see my betrothed in a clinch with his ladylove.

I couldn’t bear it anymore. I wouldn’t be made the fool.

He needed to pay for this.

And then the Queen moved from the center of the floor to dance along the edges, twisting and turning through the arms of her courtiers. It took a bit of maneuvering, but I finally worked myself into position a few couples ahead of
the Queen, madly whipping around courtiers and ladies alike, ducking under arms and smiling broadly, as if I had not a care in the world. Always watching, always judging. If Cavanaugh had chosen any of a dozen moments to step away from the floor, to break off his kiss with the woman in his arms, then I would have abandoned my campaign to unmask him before the Queen. I would instead have sought him out—talked to him—perhaps made him see reason . . .

But no. With every turn as the music built and crashed around us, with every wider arc, he seemed to draw closer to the woman, not farther away, gathering her in his arms as if she truly were the love of his life, the light of his night and day.

And so, in the final twisting, snaking rush of the dance, when I spun out to the farthest outreach of our expanding circle, I caught up the edge of the fluttering curtain and gave it a hard, twisting snap, causing it to flare up. Then I dropped the cloth just as quickly, as I whirled and twirled away. I was fully twenty feet past the curtain when the music abruptly stopped, but my work was done. The curtain had been yanked hopelessly askew, revealing all. The two young lovers looked up, aghast, as all eyes of the court turned to the sudden revelation.

None more so than the Queen’s, whose position in the dance had been timed perfectly, as I had known it would be.

She now stood directly in front of them.

The moment stretched out, long and taut. I turned, as if I could not understand the reason for the sudden hush that had come over the room, and saw Lord Cavanaugh set aside
his lady fair with a thrusting shove. Dutifully I put my hands up to my cheeks, as if I were shocked—
shocked
—at what my eyes did plainly see. Cavanaugh’s mistress, for her part, looked more startled than embarrassed, but she sank down into a curtsy, then slipped nimbly away, disappearing into a side door with the quickness of a cat. She was not to blame, after all. She was not a noble.

Lord Cavanaugh was.

“My good Lord Cavanaugh,” the Queen said coolly, her tone brooking no question but that everyone in the room would hear and know her wrath. “While it does our heart good to see you quite recovered from the disappointment of your postponed nuptials, it is perhaps a step too far you have taken? Do you not respect the virtue of this court?”

Cavanaugh died a thousand deaths in that moment. There was really no explaining his actions, and he was a shrewd enough courtier to know it. “Forgive me, Your Grace and one and all,” he said instead. How thin his voice sounded, I realized suddenly, even at its loudest pitch. How reedy and slight, like the man’s own character. “I was caught up in the joyous celebration, and did not mean to offend.”

“Well. Offend you have. You may retire for this evening, as the celebration has quite undone you.” The Queen’s eyes swept the room, finding me with my hands now clasped tightly at my waist. “ ’Tis not the only apology that must be made this night, and reparations given.”