Maid of Deception (25 page)

He fitted his head to the wall again, and I did the same. I had to admit, this vantage point was better than Meg’s for viewing, but I had no doubt that she would hear and retain more than either my father or myself. Accordingly I focused on what I was seeing.

It wasn’t much. Other than Cecil and Walsingham, most of the other men gathered round were almost shapeless beneath their heavy woolen coverings. A few more heads had been bared, and I thought I recognized the Duke of Châtellerault, who was the father of the Earl of Arran. That young earl was now looking almost feral with intensity. I’d heard his temperament was somewhat unstable, and I wondered at his inclusion here in this close group. Still, if he was not to be counted upon, at least this way he could be watched. Also in the group were a baggy-eyed man in a full red beard, and a heavy-jowled frowner with eyes so small, they were almost lost in his face. Everyone still seemed focused on men at arms and ships from the English fleet, and how quickly they could be dispatched to Leith, the port town where the Scottish rebellion against the French was coming to a head.

Walsingham and Cecil, to their credit, gave no solid assurances, though they were open and encouraging and gave
every indication that yes, of course, they could bring the Queen around; no, she would not put any undue strictures on the Protestant Scots in return for her aid; and yes, her faith was utterly important to her, and they would ensure she lived up to the sanctity of her position.

This last assertion brought me up short. There was no indication in my father that he thought this statement was odd, but I knew if any of my fellow maids had been standing next to me, we would have been eyeing each other in quizzical concern.

Did Cecil and Walsingham presume that they could guide the actions of the Queen beyond simple advisement? Did they think they could direct her, like puppeteers with a prized doll, to merely do what they thought was right? Up to and including how she worshipped God?

I wasn’t a child; I knew the kind of guidance that advisors had given to Edward VI, King Henry’s son. They’d bullied and coddled and outright lied to the boy, when needed, to get him to sign required documents or give approval on directives of state. But Edward had been a mere nine years old when he’d taken the throne, and he’d died when he was barely fifteen. He’d needed that type of guidance.

Queen Mary, Elizabeth’s older half sister, certainly had not. She had been crowned in her midthirties after successfully deposing the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey, who’d stupidly tried to take the throne, instead of seeing the folly of standing in Mary’s way. Jane had seemed savvy enough, from what I had seen at court. More learned than even Elizabeth, or so I had thought. But she had been manipulated by the Duke of Northumberland and been led into the madness of her reign
like a sheep to slaughter. And slaughtered she had been.

Of course, Queen Mary had not been ruled by advisors, but then again, there had been her husband to contend with. So the ruling had still been there, just in finer robes.

I realized that the Lords’ conversation was drawing to an end, and I leaned back from the wall to see my father doing the same. He stood, dusting himself off, and grinned at me in the weak light streaming from the chamber. “Nice trick that, eh?” he whispered. “I always thought that wine cellar might be put to good use. Never expected it to have such high company, though.”

“Why are you spying at all?” I asked, and was rewarded with a cavalier wink.

“Why not?” he said. “If there’s information to be had, I might as well have it.” He waggled a finger at me. “I find it more interesting, though, that you are here, sweet Beatrice. Why isn’t the Queen in this underground hall with her advisors gathered round, instead of sleeping prettily in her own bed—whether alone or with her dashing neighbor?”

“Father!” I hissed, knowing the damning accusation in his words. He just shrugged.

“That’s of no account to me, in truth. Being a monarch is a lonely business. But surely she has more of a care for England than to rely upon the accounts of her men, when she might hear with her own ears, eh?”

I had no answer to that, and his expression turned a bit grim. “It is never an easy thing to be a woman, Beatrice,” he said. “And a woman in power is more at risk than any other. She invites attention. She is strong when the whole world
thinks she should be weak, and there are those who don’t like that fact. Remember that.”

“And you should remember that we are not talking about some milkmaid but of your Queen,” I said, surprising even myself at my defense of the woman I despised. “She deserves better than what her advisors are giving her, if she doesn’t know of this conversation.” My gaze hardened as I saw his quick smirk. “And if you’re thinking of betraying her, Father, by selling the information you’ve gathered here to the highest bidder, then you should take great care. She would not hesitate to kill you, for even the smallest slight.” That was only the truth, and it didn’t pain me much to say it. My father was a charlatan and a fool, but he at a minimum valued his own skin. Or at least I’d thought so up until now.

Father put a finger to his lips as the men exited the secret chamber beyond, to enter the short corridor that would lead them through the hidden doorway to the gardens of Marion Hall. When the last of the men had gone, he leaned forward to me once again, his glance uncharacteristically somber.

“You may not realize this, Beatrice, but I’ve worked your whole life to help ensure your safety and position in a court that grows more dangerous with each new monarch at its head. Though it does my sense of pride good to see you here this night, it pains my heart.”

I stiffened, drawing away from him. “I have no need of your
help
, Father.”

He nodded, his mask of affability slipping back over his face. “Then just be sure that when heads begin to roll, my sweet, you have the sense to duck.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

We gathered back in our suite of rooms and divided our knowledge like victors sharing spoils. Sophia was still sleeping off the effects of both the day and night, and Anna watched her with an odd intensity, even as she gave her attention to us as well. Jane stood at the window as if she might jump out of it, and I wondered at how hard it must be to have freedom all around her, without the ability to flee.

But Meg was the principal player in this drama, and she handled the role with her customary mastery. She shared everything she’d heard within the room, but breathed not a word about my father’s presence, although she must have guessed that he also had been spying on the “secret” conference. I thanked the heavens above that Alasdair had remained quiet in the room. I still did not know how to manage my knowledge of his presence, let alone share it with the other maids. Because surely I would have to tell the Queen about it. . . .

Surely.

Anna finally roused from the other side of the room.
“Knox was not among the group, was he?” she asked as Meg finished her tale.

Meg glanced at me, but I shook my head. “No. Even he would not be so bold as to tarry in the same location as a Queen who thoroughly hates him.”

Anna frowned and shook her head. “Then at last he is thinking sensibly. I confess that the more I hear about the desecration going on in the Catholic churches and abbeys, the less charitable I feel toward the Scottish rebellion. They are killing innocent clergymen, destroying priceless works of art, and shattering treasures, burning manuscripts, and ruining sacred buildings. Destruction like this makes no sense to me—not when King Henry ordered it, not when Mary ordered it, and not when Elizabeth now sits by and allows it to happen.”

“It’s war,” Jane said from the window, though she did not turn to look at us. “It is the great equalizer among all men.” We didn’t answer for a moment, hoping she would speak on. Jane didn’t talk much about how she viewed the world of courts and kings. But her insights were uncanny, and cleaner perhaps because she wielded a blade more easily than words. “We crave order, but order is tedious. Nobles who call themselves honorable cannot pillage and burn, cannot rape and kill, cannot loot and destroy; at least not openly. But give them a cause that hides their true nature, give them a reason to restoke those fires that are never fully banked—well. It is worse than setting wolves upon a flock of innocent sheep. Wolves at least kill for a purpose. Men destroy because it pleases them to do so.”

It was quite possibly the longest speech we’d ever heard out of Jane, and I saw Meg’s lips moving ever so slightly, committing it to memory.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s not efficient,” said Anna when we were quite sure that Jane wasn’t going to say anything more. “It is a waste of priceless materials if nothing else, materials the Queen could use to shore up her own coffers, if she knew what was happening.”

I gazed off into the middle distance, something in Anna’s words striking a chord. “Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t,” I said, and I felt rather than saw the others turn toward me. “Think on it. There has to be a reason why Cecil and Walsingham are keeping her closeted away from the discussion. Whyever would they bother, when it’s a cause she would support?”

“Because they are obnoxious old goats?” Meg offered cheerfully. Jane snorted, and I smiled despite the weight that was growing in my chest.

Anna pursed her lips. “That is part of it, I have no doubt,” she said, tilting her head. “But I think I see where you are going with this, Beatrice.”

“The Queen, for all of her bluster,” I continued, “does not care one whit for religious beliefs except as they affect her political position. She is her father’s daughter in that. She will turn a blind eye to any faith or creed, natural or—otherwise.” I glanced quickly over to Sophia, glad she was still asleep. “At least if it shores up her position to do so.”

“Well, I wouldn’t paint her with so black a brush as that, Beatrice.” Meg’s tone was earnest, but I waved her off.
I couldn’t fathom what the Queen had done to merit the girl’s undying loyalty, but I knew Elizabeth far better than a scrap-rattle thief who’d come to Windsor bare months before.

“It’s no disservice,” I said. “Would that Queen Mary Tudor had had the stability of character and the foresight to have taken a more moderate course in the treatment of her people. Her Catholic fervor has served more to show Elizabeth in the gilded light of moderation than anything our Queen has done on her own. If you’re being compared to a monster, you cannot help but seem a saint.” I tapped a finger against my lip, then continued as the words formed in my mind.

“But Elizabeth’s religious leniency isn’t just to ease the fears of an abused populace,” I said. “It’s also financially wise. Destruction and desecration, as Anna rightly points out, are expensive. And even if the Lords are pocketing at least some of the bounty they are destroying, more ends up melting in the fire or skewered on the end of a blade, ruined for all time. Do you really think Elizabeth would suffer so much beauty to be consigned to the rubbish heap if she had aught to say about it? She could make double the value of the items just by secretly selling them to the French abbeys—and be claimed a hero for adding to England’s wealth.”

Jane had finally turned to regard us with interest. “She would turn a profit if she could, and use the money to line her own palaces with gold.”

“Yes, she would,” I said.

“But a measured approach to a rebellion isn’t as effective,” Anna mused. “Far better to incite the people to become
a riotous mob than to carefully and studiously enter abbeys and churches to strip them of their artifacts in a steady and righteous manner. Not when calling for everything to burn sounds so much more exciting.”

Jane snorted a laugh, then turned back to the window and gazed out over the broad forest. “So keep the Queen out of the equation, do not trouble her mind with the details of the rebellion, and everyone is happy. She learns the key points, the Scots get her support, and the rebellion can move on however the men in charge believe is most expedient.”

Meg folded her arms over her chest. “It still doesn’t sit right, though. She’s the Queen. She should be involved to the fullest extent that she prefers—not limited in her information. What right do Cecil and Walsingham have to crib their accounts to her as they see fit?”

“The right she gave them, I suppose,” I said, but as much as I disliked the woman, something didn’t sit right with me, either. Cecil and Walsingham were her chosen advisors, it was true enough. But they clearly had their own agenda when it came to the Queen—currently regarding how she ran her monarchy, but also, all too recently, regarding whom she favored among the men of the court.

Elizabeth had been making cow eyes at Robert Dudley since the moment she’d ascended to the throne. It didn’t matter that the two of them had once been cell-mates in the Tower. It didn’t matter that he was a well-turned man with courtly grace and refined manners. And it certainly didn’t matter that the Queen appeared to genuinely like the man. He was married. And that made their courtship impossible.

All the more curious, then, that Cecil and Walsingham had not objected when Dudley had accompanied the Queen on this progress. Did they want the young Elizabeth distracted?