Maid of Secrets (15 page)

Until I found Marie Claire’s killer, I would never be safe at Windsor Castle.

“Oh, now then, you are doing so well! In truth I am surprised, Meg, even with you trimming the candle late every eve. You’ve quite mastered this piece, to be sure!”

I smiled weakly at Anna, my eyes bleary from lack of sleep. It had been a full week since the reception ball, and I’d been studying nonstop. “I read it correctly?”

“Oh, aye, you did. A few troubles with the conjugation, but true enough, what expectation can you have of reading Spanish better than English? And your English reading is coming along even faster. You’ve much to be proud of, Meg. Sir William will be pleased. A pity he did not come to lessons himself today but left us to read on our own.”

“Don’t let him know you’ve been teaching me,” I said quickly, and Anna puckered her brow at me. Unconsciously, her hand drifted to the puzzle box on its chain, and I smiled to ease her nerves.

“I just want him to be surprised.” I forced the words to sound as bright as I could manage. I’d been thrilled beyond measure that Cecil had stayed away from the day’s classes. Mondays were bad enough without his scowling countenance.

He’d also absented himself from Friday’s lesson, another session with the herb mistress on the fine art of poisoning. After learning about how many revelers had come down with a terrible ague after the Queen’s ball, I had a new respect for these lessons. I couldn’t say for certain that Jane was behind the courtiers’ sudden illness, but it seemed a safe wager.

“Ah! Well, then, anything to surprise Sir William will be a treat.” Anna grinned back at me. “But you need to be getting some sleep then, Meg. Your eyes are as red as poppies.”

“My thanks, Anna. How fetching I must look.”

She shook her head. “Naught but what a good nap will fix. There comes a time when learning too much can be detrimental to the health. Believe me, well I know! When first I sought to translate Homer, I came down with a cough so deep . . . ”

I let her prattle on, grateful for the distraction. I was exhausted, but conquering the struggle of reading was only the half of it. In the past week I’d mapped out the castle like a battleground, memorizing its every twist and turn. I could not afford to be surprised again by unseen eyes tracking me in the dark, like Walsingham had done. And I could not afford to be attacked unawares, as Marie’s killer had done.

But now there was another problem. Rafe had undoubtedly handed off his letters from the pope to Ambassador de Feria. If so, de Feria would have passed them along to his English contacts by now. Did that mean another “disruption” was in the offing? Walsingham had said the letters contained no instructions regarding disruptions, but could I believe him? The Queen had strictly enjoined me to root out the cause of any disturbance to the court and eliminate
it. That meant I needed to find those letters—and be able to read them once I did.

My rumination was cut short as Beatrice stormed into our sleeping chamber.

“He is impossible!” she wailed.

I stared at her. “What happened? Who is impossible?”

“Oh, Beatrice, if it is what I think, he is simply being a man,” Anna chirped, and I shifted my gaze to her, goggle-eyed. What had I missed? “You cannot expect Lord Cavanaugh to take advantage of one of the Queen’s favorites.”

“He should be so enamored of me that he can’t help but take advantage!” Beatrice flung herself down onto her bed, her skirts billowing out like a whey-colored cloud. In keeping with both the current Sumptuary Laws as well as the unspoken order of the Queen, none of Elizabeth’s maids or ladies should ever outshine her, particularly in dress. As maids we were expected to make do with greys and whites and pale colors—including Beatrice. Yet somehow, Beatrice always managed a way around the strictures. How she found cloth that shimmered with just a hint of color—not so much to be inappropriate, but enough to make her stand out like a nightingale among crows—I could not fathom. Of late, I’d taken to wearing even drabber colors than usual, just to avoid notice. It had been working admirably.

Beatrice continued her lament. “I wore my best gown, my family’s own treasures.” She shoved herself up onto her elbows, and I noted the white-green jade stones that hung from around her neck, strung together in a nest of fine golden wiring, and offset by flashing blue sapphires. A matching bracelet adorned her wrist, and a hairpin besides. I’d never
seen anything like them. “He may be rich, but so am I. We are a perfect match.”

“Of course you are,” soothed Anna. “He is just being careful. And I’ve not seen the hairpin before. ’Tis glorious!”

“Of course you haven’t,” grumbled Beatrice. “It took me half a year to track that down.”

My ears pricked at that, but Beatrice’s moan distracted me. “I fail to see how the Spanish count can fall for me in an instant, and the perfectly English Lord Cavanaugh doesn’t weep at the knowledge that I want to be his bride. It’s simply not to be borne.” Then she rolled over, eyeing Anna. “But say, Anna, did I see you speaking with the new ambassador’s assistant? What news has he to share?”

“Oh!” Anna exclaimed, her eyes brightening at the gossip she’d learned. “You will not believe what they are wearing in the court of King Philip—especially with his new French bride! Her style of hood alone will not take long to reach our shores, he is certain, and the cut of a gown’s very sleeves has now become a question of status and wealth . . . ”

Mercifully, I made my escape.

I found Sophia not far from our chambers, hunched over her needlepoint. Her gown was of the finest wool, which ordinarily should have been too warm in high summer, but Sophia seemed perpetually cold. It was dyed a soft rose, the perfect color for her porcelain-fair skin and dark hair. I wondered, idly, where she’d gotten it. Was Lord Brighton supplying her trousseau? The thought made me ill.

“Sophia!” I called out, glad to see her. At least I knew for certain she would not drown me in talk of marriage. “You will
go blind trying to sew in the shadows like that. Come walk with me.”

“Really?” She looked up hopefully, her violet eyes wide. “Could we walk the cloisters?”

I smiled at her; I couldn’t help it. After my conversation with Walsingham on the Hundred Steps, Sophia had gone from being a worrisome little sprite to someone I needed to protect. I’d been making it a habit to pay greater attention at mealtimes and in my rounds about the castle for any mention of Lord Brighton. The man truly did keep much to himself. Which was just as well, given Sophia’s attacks of fainting spells whenever he showed his face.

And she had every right to faint to avoid him, I’d decided. I’d learned a great deal about the lord, and not just that his coffers were full of gold. Lord Brighton was forty years old if he was a day. He had a massive library of books on all manner of subjects, including, it was whispered, the arcane. Is that why he wanted to marry Sophia, I wondered? When Lord Brighton wasn’t at the Queen’s court, he locked himself up in his grand ancestral home in southern Wales for months at a time, with nary a visitor welcome. He scared me, and I wasn’t even betrothed to him. No wonder Sophia was cold all the time.

“Yes, we’ll walk all three cloisters today, the Horseshoe, Canon’s, and Dean’s, and you’ll tell me which house you would pick out for yourself.”

Sophia clapped her hands together and laughed, the sound of a happy child. I tucked her hand into my arm, and we set off.

The day was bright and sunny, and the sharp, fresh air chased away my sleepiness, at least for the moment. We passed the Round Tower with its thickly painted English roses, and I frowned at them as we walked. Although originally she’d been incensed by the unsanctioned decorations, the Queen must have decided the flowers were intended to honor her after all, or she’d have washed the cheap paint off long since. And they were rather festive, I decided, all bright red petals and dark green stems. We trooped down to the Lower Ward, passing under the archway into the Horseshoe Cloister to make our rounds.

“Well, none of these appeal,” Sophia said solemnly as we passed the first set of houses, her gentle voice managing the finest thread of disdain. I glanced up to the timber-and-daub-frame homes that lined the semicircular yard. These homes were reserved for the priests of Saint George’s Chapel, and had been restored by Queen Mary. But Mary Tudor hadn’t exactly been known for her architectural daring. The homes marched in lockstep around the grassy space, and there were barely a few benches to break up the yard itself.

One of those benches was occupied, a welcome surprise. The Spanish courtier Nicolas Ortiz was bowed over a small leather-bound book, making careful notations in the margins with a finely feathered quill. He looked up, distracted for a moment as we approached, seeming confused as to why we might be there to interrupt his reading. Immediately, however, his dancing golden eyes cleared, and he stood up and greeted us with a courtly bow. “You honor the morning with your presence, fair ladies,” he said in pretty, accented English, and I laughed. Sophia ducked her head, suddenly
shy, as she was with most of the men in the court.

“Good morrow to you, my lord,” I said, to cover Sophia’s distress. “You are finding the day to your liking?”

“Any day that allows me to read in the shadow of a chapel so fine as this is a grand day indeed,” Ortiz said, gesturing to the magnificent Saint George’s Chapel that soared behind us. I glanced at his book and realized it was a Catholic prayer book. A tiny pot of ink rested beside him on the bench.

I found myself warming to the man. I might not have agreed with all of the teachings of his faith—and I might have been in service to a fiercely Protestant Queen—but I admired anyone’s tenacity to serve God in his own fashion . . . especially if he did it quietly and with reverence, as Ortiz clearly did, despite his dandified airs. “Then I wish you all the peace the day can bring you,” I said sincerely.

He smiled, dazzling us with the sudden beauty of his face, and raised his left hand in a gracious salute, his quill still in his fingers. By rote I noted the movement with Cecil’s words ringing in my ears.
Always observe, always remember.
There were few left-handed men in the court, and I suspected Ortiz hid the condition as best he could, lest he be called out for having bad luck. The fact that he did not think we would judge him made me like him even more. There needed to be more grace such as this in the Queen’s court, I thought.

“And to you as well, fair maids,” he said, bowing to us. “The most gentle of days.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, then continued on our way after he bowed over our hands once more. As we smiled our good-byes, I caught the scent of oranges and cloves about Ortiz, a fitting mixture for such a warm spirit.
The Spaniards most assuredly were not all bad.

The next clutch of homes on our tour was the Dean’s Cloister, small cramped buildings fitted out for scholars around a square courtyard, and then the Canon’s Cloister. We gazed around the pretty buildings lining this area, and I reminded Sophia of our game. “Which house, then, Sophia, would you choose to live in if you could?”

“That one, I should think!” she said, pointing to the largest home in the square. Number six of the Canon’s Cloister was built against the castle’s curtain wall, and likely had views out toward the Thames. The house had an extension that allowed it to reach farther out into the courtyard than its neighboring homes, and flowers spilled from well-tended boxes. It was pretty, without question, but it was something more than that.

I looked at Sophia, unsure if I should tease her, given what I knew of the home’s current occupant. While typically the house was reserved for men of the cloth, Elizabeth wasn’t much one to stand on ceremony, and she quartered whom she wished in the priests’ homes. “And why do you like it so? Because it is the largest—or the finest?”

“Because it is the safest,” Sophia said resolutely. “It has the best sense around it, a place in which I know I would always feel protected.”

I immediately decided against teasing her. Had Sophia known that Lord Brighton currently made number six his residence, I suspected she would no longer take such enjoyment from the neatly kept home. Instead I squeezed her arm, and we continued on in happy companionship, emerging back into the Lower Ward a few minutes later.

As much as the walk invigorated me, I could already sense the fatigue of the past few days returning as we made our way back up toward the Middle Ward. I resolved to stop in at the herb mistress. Surely she had some remedy for drowsiness. I could not afford to be anything less than sharp, if I was to learn to read . . . and solve the riddle of Marie’s untimely death.

I sighed in thought, and Sophia looked up at me, her enjoyment dimming.

“You’re thinking of her again, aren’t you,” she said. “Marie Claire?”

I nodded. Sophia’s Sight might not have been fully in flower, but her intuition was clear and sharp. She would be of use to the Crown no matter what. I remembered Walsingham’s quiet words about the possibility that Sophia’s abilities might not be strong enough to merit her place beside the Queen. That could not be. So our first step was to make sure the girl did not marry a codger. We could explore her abilities more thoroughly after that.