Maid of Secrets (24 page)

“She can borrow a dress of mine, Your Grace,” Beatrice spoke up quickly. I didn’t dare glance at her, but something unfurled inside me. Beatrice’s clothes were her most prized possession! “We are of a height and nearly of a build.”

“Good.” The Queen nodded at Beatrice with approval. “Go now. I will be hearing petitions this morning and want you with me. You,” she said to Anna, “need to start dressing at your station. I would like you at my side. For now, though, I have translation work for you.” She gestured imperiously, and Cecil opened up the bag he was carrying and brought out a sheaf of pages. Beside me Anna nearly leaped with excitement. “You will await me in my Privy Chamber. And you,” she said, pointing to Jane. “Go with Walsingham. He will give you instruction.”

I glanced again hurriedly to Cecil, and the man looked positively morose. What had happened?

The Queen clapped her hands in imperious command. “Sophia, attend me now. Beatrice and Meg, present yourselves at my Privy Chamber in a quarter hour, then you will stand behind me in attendance in the Presence Chamber for the day. Yes,” she said, nodding thoughtfully as she glanced between us. “This will do well.”

And then she swept out of the room, a royal storm, with Sophia bobbing in her wake. The march of guardsmen’s feet attended the Queen down the hall.

“Miss Burgher, please await me outside,” Cecil said curtly, and Anna scurried out the door.

Walsingham gazed at Cecil a moment with hooded eyes, then gave Jane a courtly bow. “Miss Morgan?” he said, the perfect gentleman. He gestured ahead of him, and without a word, Jane moved forward. The two of them disappeared silently through the doorway.

“I need to speak with you both a moment,” Cecil said.

Beatrice exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Is the Queen not waiting for us?” she asked petulantly, but I was too amazed by her gracious offer of a gown to begrudge her. In truth, I was as ready to hasten off to primp as Beatrice seemed to be. I had never expected her to share so much as a hairpin with me, much less a gown, which in Beatrice’s world was tantamount to being bosom friends.

“First, Miss Knowles, I would give you your charge.” Cecil strode forward to Beatrice, took her by the arm, and turned her to the side. He thrust a small slip of paper into her hands, then stonily eyed her as she read it. I noticed, even in the dim light of the study room, that she turned pale, and he nodded once. “So you understand. Burn it.” He directed her to the fire.

Beatrice curtsied, her composure not one whit dimmed by Sir William’s tone. Then she turned and moved with grace to the fireplace. Without hesitation she cast the document into the flames, picked up a poker, and proceeded to beat the offending scrap to death. She looked positively ill. What had her assignment been?

Cecil turned impatiently and eyed me with some distaste. I could see the Queen had overridden his better judgment. Again. I did my best to look capable and eminently reliable. He had no other slips of paper; he merely approached me and turned me so my back was to Beatrice. “Lest you wonder why your orders are not contained in writing, rest assured, I would have done so, had I any trust in your reading skills.”

Mortification rushed through me. Cecil’s words had been low, but not so low that Beatrice could not hear, if she had any mind to be distracted from her desecration of Cecil’s assignment paper. Cecil seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I curtsied. Of course.

“I appreciate your kindness, Sir William.” I said the words levelly and with neither rancor nor embarrassment, as if he had just told me that he had not written out my assignment because I was blue-eyed.

“You will see today the full contingent of the Queen’s admirers, both within England and across the Continent,” he said. “Watch them all, memorize them all. That is your role for her. For me—” Here he leaned down toward me, and I could smell the scent of parchment and leather-bound books around him, all wood smoke and gloom. “For me, I expect you to pay particular attention to the Queen’s own attendants. Specifically, the ladies of the bedchamber who traveled with her to London and back again.”

My tongue suddenly felt too heavy in my mouth, blocking both breath and speech. I stared at him, and he stared back, his eyes as flat and lifeless as river stones. I should have asked why he’d ask me to do such a thing, but I was afraid
of the answer. It had been a gloved hand that I’d seen give Lady Amelia the letter. The letter hadn’t been exchanged until the Queen had returned from London. And there were letters in Amelia’s packet that had been addressed to Lady Knollys. Did Cecil know there was a traitor in the Queen’s very midst?

Or was he still more concerned with the Queen’s heart, not her head?

Suddenly, Cecil lifted his hand and snapped his fingers in front of my face. With my mind racing as it was, I didn’t even flinch. He raised his brows in mock admiration. “Are you still attending me, Miss Fellowes?”

“Yes, of course, Sir William,” I murmured. “I shall be honored to serve the Queen however she most needs.”

“And England thanks you for your service,” he said stiffly. He gestured to both Beatrice and me. “Now go find something to wear that doesn’t make you look like a poor relation.” And with that he was gone.

I turned to Beatrice at once, nearly overcome with gratitude at the loan of her fine clothing. The look on her face stopped me.

“Don’t get too carried away, Rat, until you see the gown I will give you,” she said with grim satisfaction. “I have a point to make as well. I apologize that I’ll be making it on your back, but as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, we all need to take advantage of our opportunities.”

I stared at her, nonplussed. “You’re not going to give me a dress?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll have a dress,” Beatrice sighed. “You just won’t like it.”

We assembled behind the Queen not a quarter hour later, and I had to admit . . . Beatrice was right.

I was now clad in a charcoal-colored monstrosity of a gown with large slashed sleeves, a choke-hold of a ruff, a harshly pointed V-bottomed bodice that would have been tight on a sickly girl of ten, and skirts heavy enough to fatigue an ox. I think it was embroidered with lead. Just putting it on had required both of our greatest efforts, and all thoughts of secret orders and new missions had been crushed under its sheer weight.

“Who bought you this gown?” I’d gasped, once it was finally on my body.

“An aunt on my father’s side,” she’d said with disgust. “I got the distinct impression she did not care for me very much.”

“Or wanted you dead before you were twenty.”

“I never planned to wear it, because it is—as you see—horrendous,” Beatrice had continued. “But to show the dress in public is to honor her, even if I’m not the one in it. And this keeps me from ever having to don the thing myself.”

I’d sighed, refusing to respond, so I could focus on breathing. In truth, I didn’t care so much, except for the discomfort of the gown. If it served Beatrice’s purpose to see me in it, it was all the same to me. I rather thought she hoped I’d spill something horrible on myself.

Now we marched in silence to take up our positions on either side of the Queen, as part of a long, overly stuffed line of attendants. Beatrice, in her dawn-pink gown of gossamer satin, looked like the beginning of a radiant spring morning. I looked like the end of a long, hard winter.

But there was nothing for it. I straightened, raising my chin, and serenely considered the next supplicant for the Queen’s favor. I was in for a trying day.

For the first hour, the petitioners were the villagers of Windsor. I watched them with a curious sense of detachment, which was only somewhat the result of my inability to breathe. These people were me—or who I had been, I thought, but my mind instantly rejected the idea. I would never have come to the Queen to resolve a dispute over grain or the local vicar. In the Golden Rose troupe, we had solved our problems ourselves, or had turned them over to Grandfather, and then to Troupe Master James after Grandfather had passed. It was all very civilized, and it had to be. We either worked together, or we starved.

Once the villager disputes were settled, though, an entirely different sort of crowd came to the fore, and Beatrice stirred to life with curiosity on the other side of the Queen. The Queen herself, of course, remained languid, but it was for these nobles that we had been brought here, I knew immediately.

She was approving the guest list for the masque. And giving us the opportunity to see the players before they were in costume.

Giving
me
the opportunity, anyway. Why were Beatrice and Sophia here? Merely for show? Or did she have some fell purpose for their involvement as well?

While I waited for the nobles to assemble, I turned to the assignment I knew would be most paramount in Cecil’s eyes for me to complete. The study of the Queen’s ladies of the bedchamber. This rotating favor was bestowed on the
Queen’s closest intimates, all of them married ladies of the court. She had yet to choose any of the unmarried maids for the role, but it was rumored that that honor would be forthcoming. For now, however, there were six ladies, and I watched them under the guise of surveying the whole of the gallery. Two of them were so old as to be crones, their sharp features saved only by their bright eyes and laughing countenances. A third was equally old but looked like she hadn’t laughed since King Henry had died. Her gaze darted around the room, taking it all in.

The remaining three women, including Lady Knollys, were not ancient, precisely, but they were not in the first blush of youth either, and one seemed slightly off in manner, as if she were somewhat slow. In addition, none of the women surrounding Elizabeth even approached true beauty. In their midst, Elizabeth shined like the sun. I watched the ladies interact with one another, picking out the alliances and rifts. These women had been with Elizabeth since she had become Queen. Who could be the traitor, if any of them?

I glanced back at Beatrice, who still looked peeved by whatever Cecil had asked her to do. I suspected she was being fobbed off on one set of nobles or another. There was no one as brilliant as Beatrice for holding the attention of a courtier.

The steward cleared his throat. The next stage of the assembly was to begin.

The first group of nobles seemed almost shockingly out of place, puffed up with earnest enthusiasm. Reading the roll, the Steward of the Chamber announced that they hailed from the farthest reaches of the kingdom: Wales. The lake country
bordering the Scottish lowlands. Dover. The Queen had brought them to Windsor to symbolize the joining together of her great country, and they looked completely bowled over at the prospect.

Which was not to say that they were poverty stricken. If anything, as bolt after bolt of fine cloth was proffered and veritable chests of jewels were opened at the Queen’s feet, this felt more like an ancient tithing to an overlord than a civilized tribute to a very modern Queen. I tilted my head, considering. After long years of financing wars on the Continent, the Crown’s coffers were bare, so Elizabeth needed their coin and jewels. But how much would tithes like this cost Gloriana in the favors she would eventually grant in exchange? When would she choose to repay those debts . . . and how?

The next group—far smaller—contained nobles I had not seen since my time in the Queen’s primary residence at Whitehall. And once again, riches flowed. I watched the Queen’s cool survey of the piles at her feet. She seemed on the surface to not be impressed, but I could sense the calculations churning in her head.

What was the Queen’s purpose here? Was she seeking anything more than funding for her broken-down army and falling-down castles? Even her maids and ladies-in-waiting were dressed up to levels far beyond our typical state. Was it all a grand deception?

The doors opened again, and the Queen’s own court processed in. I opened my eyes wide, grateful again for this rarified position to see them walk, talk, and interact together when all I was supposed to be doing was, well, staring at them. It was an unparalleled opportunity to match names
with faces, and faces with intentions both secret and plain. There was even the slender and aristocratic Lord Cavanaugh, who despite Beatrice’s belief that he cared naught for her, eyed her with an intensity that made her stand up straighter and even preen. I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. Love made simpletons of even the most sophisticated of women, I decided.

Then another English courtier walked in, and the entire hall held its breath.

Robert Dudley, Master of the Horse, carried himself with the same sort of easy charm as the Count de Martine. He was older than Rafe by several years, and he was married, but I’d not seen the man’s wife when she’d visited in the spring. It was said Amy Robsart was quite pretty, but truly, how could one compete with the Queen of England?

In any case, Amy was not here now, a reality made painfully clear by Robert Dudley’s bold eye contact with the Queen as soon as he walked into the room. The fact that she stared back was worrisome, too. I’d heard of this man, but hadn’t had the occasion to see him in my work as yet. Now all of the court, from page to prince, watched them, and I began to worry my fingers at the edges of my sleeves. This was a man to give Cecil nightmares, if ever there was one. This was a man to fear.

No, no, no,
I thought, earnestly wishing Robert Dudley gone.

Instead, however, he bowed to the Queen like a perfect gentleman, then backed away with a flourish. He eyed her with a burning gaze, but his manner was no less fervent than those of the families who had come begging for her charity.
The energy that leaped between them was undeniable, and yet eminently deniable.

Perhaps I was overreacting? I stole a look at Sophia, who was placidly watching the byplay as if it were not fraught with anticipation and danger. Her features were serene, her gaze almost blank. She looked perfectly normal. Then again, she’d been
sewing
when she’d had her vision of “Golden Splendor” in the schoolroom. Who knew when her next vision would strike?