Maid of Secrets (4 page)

Beatrice clapped her hands in mock applause, and Cecil raised his brow, a sour-eyed owl.

“Exactly so,” he murmured. “You are next, Miss Burgher. Turn the page and begin.”

Anna Burgher recounted the new passage in her precise, learned voice—first in Latin, then in Spanish, then Russian, German, and what I suspected was Greek, of all things. All the while, Cecil continued to stare at me. No doubt calculating the likelihood that I had somehow achieved spectacular literacy since the preceding Monday.

I graced him with my most serene smile. Grandfather may have failed me on the art of reading, but he had more than made up for it with his lessons on voice, listening, acting,
and persuasion. Let Cecil wonder just how deep that training went.
Old goat.

After a long moment, Cecil gave a sniff of dismissal, then turned his full attention to Anna.

Left alone again while Cecil and Anna sparred in five different languages, I shifted in my ill-fitting gown of dull grey silk, and strained to pick up any sound beyond the walls of this makeshift study, tucked away just off the Queen’s Privy Chambers. It was impossible, of course. These walls were as thick as a yew tree, and lined with heavy tapestries over panels of carved wood, rendering the room virtually soundless. As a result, the classroom always struck me as a half-open tomb.

Fitting, really, for what was to befall the five girls who took our instruction there.

While the other young women and ladies who served Her Grace—a swirling mixture of “ordinary” maids of honor and the older and usually married ladies-in-waiting—sewed and gossiped, knelt and processed, and learned the finer points of dancing and court etiquette, our little company was daily summoned away for “advanced” studies; a separate, secret sect. And here, in this tiny, overstuffed chamber that had become my own personal circle of hell, amid rustling skirts and thick, musty texts and the high, strident voice of our peevish instructor—here the true Maids of Honor were being taught how to spy for the Queen.

Perhaps that sounds exciting—even fun. A grand adventure to serve the most extraordinary Queen of any country, as bold and dashing protectors of the Crown.

It hadn’t been exciting so far.

I’d been in the Crown’s employ for three months now. It’d taken the first week for my jailers to simply get me clean, it seemed, though I never felt that way after I’d been perfumed and pomaded, powdered and pinched. They’d outfitted me in dresses of high—but not too high—quality, and assigned me the royal identity of an orphaned ward from a distant duchy. I’d apparently come to court through one of the many generous acts of Her Majesty, and should act at all times both grateful and painfully shy. This bit of business was designed to cover up my abysmal lack of social graces, as Beatrice was always quick to point out, but it suited me well enough. Being ignored was one of a thief’s greatest assets.

Weeks two and three had been spent on manners and food, especially manners
with
food. It seemed the nobler I became, the longer it took before I could actually eat my evening meal. The sewing wasn’t so bad, as I’d had plenty of experience mending the clothes of the Golden Rose players. The dancing, however, nearly killed me; as did the endless rounds of prayers, catechisms, and sermons I had to endure.

To assist me with my reading, I had
Lily’s Latin Grammar
textbook, as well as hornbooks and spellers to keep me company. And, of course, the Bible. Needless to say, they didn’t help much. Anna extolled the virtues of the philosophers she favored. In addition to Ovid, there was Plautus and Horace; Virgil, Cicero, and Seneca . . . but those texts were well beyond me even after three months of intense instruction. And none of them helped me understand my grandfather’s tiny leather-bound book. Which was the only book I truly wanted to read out of all of them.

Finally, starting at the end of the first month, we got to the business of spying. At first I’d embraced the change. We learned how to move quietly, to observe keenly, and to kill or maim without creasing our skirts. The other maids were forced to repeat lessons they already knew as I caught up, which earned me no friends among them. But eventually, even for me, the study of deadly weapons became, well . . . deadly. And then there was endless instruction on elocution, languages, and court behavior. This included whole days spent on the proper timing and depth of curtsies, complete with accompanying drills that ran so far into the night that I couldn’t pass a field mouse without instinctively dropping to the floor.

Yet even with the exhaustive training, I still felt so behind. The other girls had all been in service to the Queen four more months than I had. Elizabeth had selected her troupe of spies the moment she’d ascended to the Crown the previous fall . . . but no one would talk about why she’d suddenly decided to add me.

“Meg Fellowes!” Cecil snapped, startling me. His voice was always too loud for whatever space he occupied. “Repeat the passage Miss Burgher just shared.”

He did not even allow me the pretense of reading it this time. It was a direct test of my secret skills, but I dared not pass it. “My apologies,” I gasped. In truth, I could have recounted anything that had been said within the past hour, even though I’d been only half-listening. Anna had just said,
“Parve—nec invideo, sine me, liber, ibis in urbem.”
I had no idea what it meant, but could have repeated it verbatim (a Latin word I actually knew!) just the same.

“I was not paying attention,” I said instead.

“You were not . . . paying attention?” Sir William’s icy gaze spoke volumes when his words would not. He likely knew I was lying. But that was a chance I was willing to take. I could not betray the full extent of my mimicry skills, not to him—not to anyone. I’d reveal enough to keep them happy, but nothing more. Certainly not the whole truth: that a word, once spoken, was forever in my mind, repeatable to anyone, at any time, with the same vocal inflections and tone. I liked having a skill that was not fully understood by the Crown; perhaps I could use it one day to get myself out of trouble. Besides, I could only imagine what the Queen’s advisors would do if they knew my secret. Probably force me to listen to one of the archbishop’s interminable sermons and recite it to condemned prisoners until they begged for death. It wouldn’t take very long, trust me.

Cecil smiled thinly into my continued silence, and a whisper of warning snaked through me, recalling me to my present danger. “Then,” he said, “I’m afraid Miss Burgher will have to repeat the passage for your benefit—”

“Oh, no, Sir William. Truly?” The ordinarily stoic Anna had now clutched up one of the small, ornate wooden puzzle boxes she always carried with her, her voice heavy with strain. I glanced at her in alarm, sensing disaster.

“I can repeat it,” I said hurriedly, but Anna paid me no heed.

“I pray you reconsider, Sir William,” she said, nervously twisting the small cube on its silver chain. The puzzle box was painted in gold, silver, red, and yellow, and featured a delicately illustrated cover of a Japanese princess, with its sides
made to look like woven wood. Anna had told me that the box required more than four hundred steps, executed in the right sequence, to reveal its inner contents. She’d been given the box as a gift from the Queen’s astrologer—as another test for our resident puzzle-solver, I suspected. Anna hadn’t yet been able to open it, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Now she twisted and turned the little box’s moving parts so hard, I feared that it would break in her worrying fingers. “The Spaniards are at our doorstep, and they will not be speaking the language of Ovid, but Spanish, or possibly Dutch!”

I bit my lip in consternation. It was always reckless to object to Cecil’s training, even politely—even (or especially) if he’d just ordered us to eat our fifth tureen of soup. But Anna, in her distress, was not noting Cecil’s swift, cold smile, or did not recognize its danger. Her green eyes were large and pleading, her cheeks rosy with determination, and the loose strands of her braided burned-spice hair nearly stood up in agitation as she bobbed her head for emphasis. “Dutch is something on which we have spent far too little time. In fact, I—”

“I can repeat the passage!” I tried again. “I can!”

“Yes, surely, Sir William, you
must
see the folly in this.” Beatrice’s well-bred voice layered silkily over Anna’s and mine with the imperious sneer of the soft-palmed rich. “Teaching Meg to translate is like teaching a fish to walk. It cannot be done, and ’tis a waste of all our time.” Beatrice gazed at Cecil with her dewy eyes, now as wide and innocent as a wolf’s. “Especially
your
time, Sir Wil—”

“No, no, you misunderstand! I take no issue with the
translating
.” Anna’s voice had a new note of earnestness in it,
as if she sensed the shifting current of the conversation. “But while I have no end of interest in the classics, I fear our time for study is growing short. I urge you, please, Sir William: Have us decipher a report—a dockmaster’s bill of lading from a Spanish galleon. A
contemporary
court conversation. Surely that would be more relevant, given our present needs?”

Beatrice pursed delicate lips. “It seems to me our most pressing need is to find a way to ensure Meg does not embarrass us all.”

Anna turned to Beatrice, dropping her puzzle box to let it dangle from its chain at her waist. Her eyes now flashed with protective fervor, still more wisps of her hair slipping loose from her braids. “Beatrice, that is unfair,” she said. “Surely you know that Meg would never
shame
us.”

“I’m afraid that when it comes to
Meg
, I don’t know anything at—”

“Enough.”

Cecil’s soft rebuke may have sounded calm to the untrained ear, but it masked a pit of outrage, like branches over a trap. I glanced over at him, biting my lip. The muscles in his jaw were tight, his eyes jaded and expectant, as if he’d seen this play unfold before.
Everyone be quiet,
I implored silently, the words of one of the Golden Rose’s plays sparking in my mind.
Be mindful, still, and wary, for there is danger here.

It did no good. Beatrice could never tell when she was baiting a bear beyond its patience. “But, Sir William,” she whined, rounding on him. “You can
hardly
expect me to not wish to forestall the kind of social scandal Meg will undoubtedly bring upon me—upon us all. I have certain standards to uphold. My aunt, shall I remind you, is second cousin to—”

“I said,
enough
.”

Cecil didn’t shout the word, or even raise his voice. In fact, he spoke not quite above a whisper. Still, I felt like I’d been punched in the chest, suddenly unable to breathe. Beside me, Beatrice and Anna froze, but it was too late. Because Cecil wasn’t finished.

“You’ve not been brought here to
uphold standards
,” he said, slicing the air with his words, quiet and deadly. “You have not been brought here—any of you”—and he eyed each of us for a single moment that lasted half a day—“to
think
. I don’t care if your aunt was Cleopatra. I don’t care if you do aught but recite ancient poetry as the castle burns to the ground, if that’s what you’ve been told to do. You have been brought here as tools for the Queen, utensils she can bend and shape as she wishes or throw into the trash heap without a backward glance. That is the
sum total
of your purpose, and you forget it at your peril. As long as you are a part of this group, you have no individual identity. You have no role beyond that which I assign to you. You are not free to speak or dance or prattle, or ‘respond’ or ‘take issue’ as you choose,” Cecil spat. “You are the Queen’s property. And, by her proxy and command,
my
property. Do you understand?”

Beatrice’s mouth was still hanging open, but no more words came out. She somehow clamped her lips closed, too flummoxed even to nod. She’d be angry later—but not at Cecil, I knew. Somehow this would all be my fault.

“I said, do you under
stand
?” Cecil thundered.

“Yes!” Beatrice squeaked, and beside her Anna nodded hurriedly.

Cecil paused a moment, his scowl so deep, I feared it might be fixed upon his face forever. He shifted his gaze to me. “And you, Miss Fellowes. You will do what you are told, everything that you are told, and no
less
than what you are told.” He paused for emphasis. “Tonight you will be called on to make your first official report. You will make that report specifically, in detail, and without missing a syllable of what you hear. Always observe. Always remember.” His eyes narrowed. “And if you so much as pocket a thimble without my express instruction, you will be returned to the embrace of the cellar room you love so well. Do I make myself clear?”

He clearly expected an answer, and for once I gave him what he wanted to hear.

“I will not fail the Queen, Sir William,” I said, and I meant the words with all my heart. “You can tell her that, for me.”

His face did not change, but his gaze seemed to intensify. Somehow he was no longer looking merely at me—but into me. And in that damning silence we heard the only sound that ever dared penetrate the walls of our schoolroom. The castle clock struck, chiming the tenth hour with a steady, rhythmic cadence, as fell as the march of doom.

Cecil’s mouth curved into a hard, mocking smile.

“You may tell her yourself,” he said. “She awaits you in the Privy Garden. With your first assignment.”