Maid of Secrets (21 page)

She glanced over at me, then stopped. “Is something wrong?” she asked into my staring face.

Jane was right. Saint George’s Hall
was
the perfect place to misdirect someone—or the perfect place for a secret meeting. “All is well,” I managed. “Just getting a feel for the place.”

“I can help you there.” She grinned. “The place is a wreck. And probably as haunted as they say.”

We turned and scanned the piles of broken furniture and discarded or damaged tapestries, hanging down from enormously tall racks. From what I could see, this would not be a comfortable space in which anyone would linger, especially not a Queen. Far down the length of the room, I knew the hall
opened onto a chapel, which would likely be in even worse repair. Surely there would be no sign of disruption there, would there? Even if the Mass was no longer celebrated in it—would that not be sacrilegious?

I almost thought I heard something creak, far in the depths of the hall, and I stilled. Was someone in the chapel even now? Even worse, was it the Queen?

I
had
to find out. And in this, I couldn’t take Jane with me.

“We should go back to the rooms,” I said, and Jane nodded, finally pulling her gaze away from the wall and the configuration of the secret doorway. She handed me the candle, and I pulled a bit of linen out of my waistband to wrap it, before tucking it safely away.

“We should,” Jane said, her eyes straying back to the panel. “I want to get all of this down on paper. Start mapping it. Now that we know where to begin, imagine what other passageways exist in this old hulk of a castle.” She was as excited as a child, I realized, and I smiled. She’d seen the maps I’d been drawing up of the castle; it now seemed I had a partner in the effort. Still, we couldn’t tarry here.

“Do you think we should go separately, to be safe?” I asked.

“Mmm-hmmm,” she said, still distracted. She lifted the fingers of her right hand to tap her mouth. “I wonder if this would be considered a main exit point,” she mused. “Given how large the panel opening is?”

I gave her a little push toward the southwest doors of the hall. “You go that way. I’ll exit through the chapel.”

She wrinkled her nose, finally coming back. “There’s an exit through the chapel?”

I had no idea. I just needed to see what was in that room. “There’s an exit down through the kitchens,” I lied convincingly. “I’ll probably beat you back to our chambers.”

“No chance, Rat,” Jane scoffed. “But you can try. I’ll see you in our chambers in a quarter hour.”

“Done,” I said. I watched her move swiftly down the long hall, disappearing in the gloom of the doorway. Then I turned toward the chapel.

And just like that, I saw it.

I blinked, squinted. And there it was again.

Ahead of me, in the reedy light, something shifted in the shadows.

I moved forward through the room as silently as I could manage, my eyes adjusting to the murky light. Saint George’s Hall had some fine bits of furniture still, but generally it housed the furniture and paintings not considered valuable enough to hang in the main castle chambers. The floor was covered in old rushes that were probably changed only once a season, and the air had the fetid smell of moldering hay and chimney smoke, doubtless from the enormous stoves that lined the undercroft below, where the kitchens were. This grand hall had fallen into disrepair in King Henry’s time, and neither Edward nor Mary nor Elizabeth had seen fit to spend the extensive monies needed to refurbish it.

And as Jane had helpfully pointed out, it was rumored to be haunted.

Still, I rather doubted that whoever was moving around in the chapel this night was a ghost.

I passed a large painting propped up against a large, ornately carved chair, then paused, considering. The painting was covered in a dust cloth of plain linen. It was a little large for an apron, but it would do if I were seen at a distance. I slid
the shroud off the painting in one light pull, and fastened it roughly around my waist. It covered a good part of my skirts, furthering my disguise. I almost looked like a chambermaid now. Almost.

“This had better be worth it,” I muttered, suddenly feeling foolish. But I’d come so far. I couldn’t turn back now. I schooled my features into bleary-eyed stupor, in case I needed to play part of sleep-addled maid, and moved forward on cat’s feet.

I’d just reached the doorway of the chapel when I heard them: soft, lilting tones of Spanish, floating across the dusty air. My heart sank. I really needed to learn that language, and quickly. Memorizing was all well and good, but it was far easier to remember words that actually made sense, versus the hypnotic lifts and falls of a foreign tongue, as elusive as fading music. Two men were speaking, and I edged farther into the shadows, peeking around a tall screen as the conversation seemed to scale up a notch in anger.

I recognized one of them immediately, of course. Tall, slender, and sumptuously dressed, looking every bit as splendid as he had the night of the ball.

Rafe
. My heart sank. Why couldn’t he be fast abed this dark night, instead of engaged in conversation with another skulking Spaniard?

And why were they speaking here?

His partner was unknown to me, thick and bulky, his tiny pig-eyes squinting over an enormous nose that was roughly the size and shape of a turnip. Clearly the man had been on the losing end of several fights, though his clothes were certainly well made. If they didn’t fit as well as Rafe’s doublet
and trunks, his silken hose and fine boots . . . well, what could one expect? No one could look as dashing as Rafe this night, certainly not a boorish Spaniard guard who seemed to vibrate with increasing anger even as Rafe’s tones took on a placating sensibility.

I let the cadence of their words wash over me as I scanned the room. The chapel was almost devoid of furniture other than the pews and the glowering cross of Christ. It did not have the feeling of a Catholic chapel; there was no ornamentation other than the rather austere crucifix, and no tapestries lining the walls, which gave the room even more of a chill. As I’d suspected, the only other exit from the chapel was an archway built into the wall that led down a curved staircase to the undercroft. If I went that way, I would have to thread my way through the kitchens and storage rooms, then back up another staircase, which would take too much time. I could not afford to be caught by one of the castle guards—I was in no mood to explain to Cecil why I was roaming the corridors at this hour! Still, I was determined to stay and learn what I could from Rafe and the turnip-nosed Spaniard’s conversation. Then I’d return to my chambers through Saint George’s Hall.

The men’s words grew quieter, but they were still clearly displeased with each other. Rafe trying to be diplomatic, the bulky Spanish guard having none of it. From time to time a word made sense: “castle,” I recognized, and “lady.” Even “Queen,” although only Rafe used that term to describe Elizabeth. The other man’s word for her was decidedly less flattering, and I recognized it from de Feria’s speech of the other week.

I was getting a little tired of poorly bred louts calling my Queen a whore.

To stem my annoyance with Turnip Nose, I turned my attention more fully on him, trying to keep up with the flow of his words. Surely I’d remember him the next time I saw him, though other than his distinctive nose, he looked like many of the other Spanish guards—thick and unwieldy, almost laughable in their fine silks. The courtiers, at least the younger ones, were built generally like Rafe, strong and lean.

Why would Rafe be talking to a Spanish guard in the middle of the night? And in the middle of an abandoned chapel?

What
was
Rafe’s role with the Spanish delegation, in truth? Had he just come across the English channel to seed a delegation of dandies paying court to a capricious Queen with another handsome face? Was he here to serve the Bishop de Quadra? Or was Rafe something more than a courtier after all?

Suddenly Turnip Nose thrust a small object toward Rafe, his words rising on a tide of disgust. Rafe reached out for it, and the object caught the light of the meager moonshine as the beams filtered through the dirt-clogged windows.

A letter!

I almost gasped out my surprise but managed to keep my peace.

Rafe tucked the letter into his doublet and patted Turnip Nose on the back, all forgiven between them, apparently. The guard grinned sheepishly in return, and they continued their conversation for a few minutes more, too quietly for me to hear. I seriously began to suspect I should be going, when Rafe turned away from the man.

Then Rafe whirled back in a blur of motion, so fast I could barely track him. Suddenly, his hands were on either side of the other man’s head, which slewed sideways with a sickening wet crunch, shocking in the silence.

Turnip Nose slumped to the ground.

Rafe crouched over him, and I was gone.

Blind and deaf to anything but the sudden knowledge of my own danger, I started running like the armies of Satan were chasing me out of that chapel, headlong toward safety. A few moments later I heard rapid feet behind me, but the chase was abandoned quickly, and I didn’t stop in any event until I’d gone almost the full length of Saint George’s Hall. I ripped off my makeshift apron and threw it down, lungs heaving. I ducked out the door to the hall, then rushed through rooms large and small toward my own chambers as quickly as I could, my hands working furiously to reset my hair to at least some semblance of propriety, in case I ran afoul of a guard or servant. Heaven forfend! I had no desire to explain why I was out so late.

As I neared the maids’ quarters I picked up my pace, and in my haste I wasn’t looking as far ahead as I should have. If I had been more focused on what was ahead of me instead of what was behind me, I am certain I would have taken note of the faint prickling at my neck, the decided hitch in my stride as my heart began galloping faster than even my panicked run should have caused.

As it was, I was jerked off my feet by a powerful set of arms and hauled summarily into an antechamber before I even had breath to cry out.

“I thought I’d find you along this corridor.” Rafe gave me
a shake. “Scream, and I’ll knock you senseless, like you so richly deserve.”

“What are you doing here?” I gasped. I jerked my head back, indignant at his hold, but he did not let go.

“I could ask you well the same thing.”

“I
live
here,” I snapped, and a cold chill bloomed in my chest. God’s hounds, had the castle become home to me? “You’re just an unwanted guest.”

Rafe grinned at me, too close. “An unwanted guest that you can’t seem to stay away from,” he said. “Why are you following me?”

I drew myself up. While I was still panting with the exertion of my run, Rafe looked as if barely a hair had been turned on his sleekly styled head. How had he made it to this part of the castle so quickly? If there was a second door in the chapel that I’d missed, how did he know about it? And more to the point: “What did you do to that man?” I demanded.

“You were eavesdropping on our conversation,” he said coldly. “I want to know why.”

I scowled. “I was just out walking. I do that. I heard voices.”

“You were just out walking. In the dead of night, in the middle of a deserted chapel at the far end of a ruined hall? I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that.”

“I don’t even understand Spanish,” I pointed out with exasperation. It was a convincing argument, and I shouldn’t care what he thought about my level of education. Really. I shouldn’t care.

That stopped him. “You don’t?”

Before I could shake my head, he spoke a torrent of
words, all of them rich and vaguely . . . intimate-sounding, but in truth I could neither follow them nor adequately memorize them, even though my name was sprinkled liberally throughout. All the while, he watched me closely. Whatever he saw on my face must have pleased him, because he finally stopped.

“What did you say?” I asked, making no secret of my annoyance. I was getting better at Spanish, true enough, but not Spanish that was spoken so quickly.

He tilted his head, considering. “You truly can’t understand my words? And yet you continue to follow me?”

“I told you, I wasn’t following you,” I retorted. “I was out walking.” I tried a different tack. “You killed that man, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Not even to me.

Rafe rolled his eyes. “I knocked him out. He will recover.”

I narrowed my gaze at him. He most certainly had done more than knock the guard out. It had sounded like he’d snapped the man’s neck. “Why did you strike him at all?”

“Why are you asking such questions?” Rafe frowned, and without warning his manner shifted into something almost . . . protective. “What is this about, Meg? Skulking around corridors pretending you’re a spy is not a child’s game. You could be taken for one in truth, and then where would you be?”

I stiffened at his tone. “I do not need your lecture, sir.”

“No, you need a leash.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless . . . ” He shook his head. “Surely not. You cannot have been sent to follow me. That would not make any sense.”