Maid of Deception (27 page)

But he was perhaps something else too.

That evening I finally had my chance to speak with the Queen. Cecil and Walsingham had taken to enjoying long evening walks after the last meal, as if they didn’t spend most of each day glued to each other’s sides. More often than not they traversed the interior quadrangles of the castle on their
nocturnal journeys—first the Upper Ward, then the Middle, then the Lower, where the commoners congregated. By the end of her long days, the Queen was usually well sick of them at eventide and preferred to listen to music or watch her ladies dance, or even be entertained by any of the usual round of courtiers and flatterers who gathered in her Privy Chamber by royal invitation.

I had no interest in watching a flock of fools flutter about the Queen, but it was customary for at least one of her spies to be there. So, for the first time ever, we sent Sophia.

We did this for several reasons. First, especially since her visions were now arriving more frequently, Sophia needed to be accepted by the court. Being in the Queen’s company would help assure that. Second, by virtue of the fact that she did not circulate much, Sophia was a curiosity, and as such she flattered the Queen by being novel in her presence. Third, if Sophia was with the Queen, she couldn’t be isolated by Cecil or Walsingham. Not that the Queen’s advisors could interrogate the girl—but even being in their company was dangerous for Sophia, given her penchant for spouting off visions of pending mayhem. We didn’t need them to know how advanced her skills had become.

So, off Sophia went to the Queen with her new obsidian bauble tucked carefully into her dress by Meg, who definitely had a knack for hiding valuables in clothes.

While Sophia laughed and applauded whatever entertainment was being enacted before the Queen, I strode into the Lower Ward, surprised to see it still teeming with people. The early October air was as crisp as a ripe apple this fine
evening, and an unplanned celebration of the Queen’s return served as good an excuse as any to let the ale flow.

“And if it isn’t the perfect spring rose to come and grace us on a lovely autumn’s eve.”

I startled to the side, reacting too quickly for an ordinary lady, my hands up and ready to defend. I quickly corrected my positioning when I saw that it was none other than Meg Fellowes’s former troupe master, James McDonald. “Master James,” I said cheerfully, trying not to betray my irritation at this delay. “What brings you all the way to Windsor Castle? Meg said you had returned to Londontown after your presentation to the Queen.”

“And yet I found that I could not tarry there, where Gloriana was not present.” James grinned in return, then sketched a short bow. “I had to return. Imagine my dismay to learn she was not here at all but on a progress.” He glanced toward the Upper Ward, as if he could see the Queen behind her high walls. “I trust she is safely back, none the worse for her travels?”

“She is indeed.” I nodded. “Perhaps you should put on another play for her, before this month is out. She craves the distraction of fine acting.”
And fine
men, I thought, not uncharitably. James McDonald was exactly the kind of man Elizabeth preferred—dashing and roguish, with smooth good looks and piercing eyes. He looked just as the troupe master of the Golden Rose acting company should—almost aristocratic, for all that he was a commoner, and his countenance was always so poised, so perfect. It made you want to know what he was thinking.

The faintest niggle at the back of my mind struck me again, as it had when I’d first met the troupe master. James McDonald had come to our aid to save Meg, who’d lived with the Golden Rose for all of her young life before finding herself in service to the Queen. Meg’s first few months as a spy had not always been easy, and when Cecil and Walsingham had decided to throw her into the dungeon in order to loosen her tongue about certain secrets she’d learned about our Elizabeth, we’d had to be . . . resourceful. James McDonald was definitely resourceful.

In fact, there was always something so—familiar about James McDonald. Then the young troupe master laughed again, and the thought was chased away.

“I should like above all things to distract the Queen,” he said. A movement caught my eye, and he turned to follow my gaze. Cecil and Walsingham stood at an odd angle to the crowd, clearly arguing. “But I see you have more pressing conversations to pursue,” James continued gallantly, and he gave me another bow. “Still, might you carry a gift for me?”

I looked at him, startled. “But of course, James,” I said. “For Meg?”

His slight smile was as filled with guile as any I’d seen in the great rounds of court. “For Jane Morgan, actually. I know she seeks to appear more the lady, and I would help her in the role.” And with that, he pressed a small cluster of gold into my hand, and was gone.

I stood there for a moment, marveling at the fine chain and tiny gold locket—a simple oval with a delicate clasp. The locket was empty (of
course
I checked), but still. Master James
was giving a gift of gold to Jane? Even though I was certain the piece was stolen, it was a telling act. How delightful it would be to taunt Jane with this! The possibilities were endless!

Then, suddenly, I recalled what I was about. I dropped the necklace into a pouch at my waist and turned toward Cecil and Walsingham. By now they had noticed me, and they waited with ill-disguised curiosity as I made my way across the Lower Ward to them.

“Sir William, Sir Francis,” I said, sinking into a curtsy, as their roles and my position dictated. They made their bows in kind but had barely straightened before they were turning me away from the crowd.

“You have news of interest to us?” Walsingham began conversationally, though Cecil’s aspect remained frosty.

“Oh, I have news,” I said. “But you already know it.” I waited just a beat, until I felt the weight of their combined gazes upon me. “In fact, with such news as this, I am honor bound to inform Elizabeth. I just wanted you to know before I did so, in case it—well . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to insinuate that the advisors would openly lie to the Queen. “In case you need to amend any of your accounts of your own activities while at Marion Hall to fit more seamlessly with what I must report.”

Cecil looked at me with equal parts annoyance and confusion. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Leave off your subtlety, Beatrice, and speak plainly.”

Walsingham, I could tell, already suspected what I was about to say. I shrugged, and folded my hands over my skirts. “My family’s servants, Sir William, know every crease
and crevice of Marion Hall. Not even my father could have warned them all away, not when lords insist upon lighting candles to brighten their midnight meetings, candles that could be seen by those who’d notice even the tiniest of lights in the tiniest of windows.”

The realization of what I was saying caught Cecil up short. “Explain yourself.”

“You met with a group of Scotsmen in my very cellar, Sir William, and discussed the terms of war. Your conversation was relayed to me in fragments, but I understood its import far better than a house guard could.” This was, of course, patently untrue. Meg had forced me to learn the speech almost word for word. It had taken half the ride to Windsor to do it.

“And you think the Queen does not already know of this conversation?”

I turned fully to them, beaming with joy. “Ah, so you’ve told her! Well, that is great news. When I implied there was a conversation a servant had overheard among the Scotsmen at Marion Hall, the Queen seemed so surprised. I confess I stalled for time to ensure that I could speak with you first. But how reassuring to know you’ve already shared it with her. My words, then, will simply serve to validate your own.”

“Or perplex her needlessly,” Walsingham observed. “You cannot think your
servant
could understand the nuances of a discussion among lords, Beatrice. Your half revelations will but disturb the Queen.”

“That is a possibility.” I pursed my lips, as if weighing a great question. “And yet I do feel so obligated. Perhaps I
should tell you what was heard, and you can tell me if it is in keeping with your recollection of the evening. Would that serve as a beginning?”

Walsingham and Cecil seemed to heave a collective sigh. They no doubt believed I’d garnered my information from an illiterate dunce, and not a spy with the greatest recall in all of Christendom. “Yes,” Cecil said heavily. “That will serve—”

And I was off. I nuanced Meg’s recollections with slight variations—not so large as to disrupt the pattern of the weave, but enough to keep the advisors from knowing she was my source. I added visual cues as well, from the vantage point I’d had at my spy holes, though I mentioned Alasdair not at all. Did they realize he’d been with them in the cellar room? Or had they been tricked as well? I spoke rapidly, being careful not to betray my immense satisfaction as both of them gradually lost their color.

They could deny the words, most assuredly. They could say my servant had made them up. But the mere fact that the accounting was so precise, the words so measured, the language so very much unlike something a peasant could imagine, Cecil and Walsingham knew they were caught out.

And if my story did not tail with what they had told the Queen, her first thought would be that she’d been misinformed. By her closest and most trusted advisors.

Cecil was scowling at me. “Your accounting is quite . . . thorough, Lady Beatrice. You are certain you came by this information from a servant?”

“Yes, Sir William,” I demurred. “I know it may not be an
entirely factual accounting, but it is all that I have to offer, and I think valuable even if it is flawed.”

“And you go to speak with the Queen now?”

I nodded. “Yes, Sir William. She is expecting me.”

It was Walsingham who spoke next. His words caught me up short; the man was as quick and feral as a weasel. “Then you must go, Beatrice,” he said, his tone attempting beneficence but striking me as more of a challenge. “Do not tarry another moment. You will see that the Queen already knows all she needs to know, but I’m sure she will not fault you for trying to undermine her advisors.”

“Say you do not think so!” I protested. I met his gaze, and refused to let mine falter. “In fact I wish very much for you both to be present for my accounting, to correct any . . . inconsistencies in her mind.”

Walsingham’s smile showed that he appreciated that I was trying to ensure my trap was tightly sprung. He knew that the presence of her conniving advisors while I gave my accounting would actually do more to prove to the Queen their duplicity, not soothe her fears. But his smile also told me that it would not matter, in the end. He had not become the Queen’s spymaster to be undone by a mere girl.

“Pray, it is never the Queen’s
mind
that we must worry about,” said Walsingham easily. “But rest assured, we will be right along.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I curtsied my thanks and all but ran back to the Queen’s chambers. I did not trust Cecil and Walsingham to not try to block my way, but I was gratified to see no evidence of them, and to hear only the Queen’s delighted laughter carrying loudly over her crowd of gathered fools. I paused a moment in the doorway, smoothing out my gown, then stepped into the Privy Chamber.

The Queen glanced up at the noise, then dismissed me with a roll of her eyes. She wasn’t about to be brought down from her current enjoyment, and I was an unwanted distraction. Sophia, watching, slid her gaze to me and offered a small, apologetic shrug, but I didn’t mind so terribly much. I was here, after all. The Queen would eventually have to speak with me.

I moved over to the edge of the crowd and seated myself on one of the open benches as another quartet of volunteer musicians was handed the precious instruments of the court orchestra. I gritted my teeth as I watched the horrified expressions of the rightful owners of the pieces. Ostensibly, if their
instruments were destroyed, the Crown would repay them. But Elizabeth had a habit of forgetting small details like that, so I could well understand the musicians’ dismay.

Laughing and rambling about, Lord Oxley tried to push an exquisite violin under his fat chin. I held my breath and winced as he noisily raked the bow across the instrument. The delicate piece had made its debut at the Queen’s birthday, having only just been brought to England from Italy. Its owner was now as white as a sheet.

The crowd shifted as the musicians changed places, and I took my chance to ease closer to the Queen. This happened three more times in the space of ten minutes, and I was close enough for her to hear me, if Her Haughtiness would ever deign to look my way.

Finally I saw my chance. The music at an end, a few of the courtiers were at last bidding her a good evening, and I edged myself closer to her side. “Your Majesty,” I said, with just the appropriate level of deference laced with urgency. “I have the news you requested.”

“Later, later.” The Queen waved airily. “You can await my pleasure like a proper maid of honor. As you can see, I am quite busy.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I murmured, lowering my head as I curtsied so she would not see my eyes. It was good that I did. When I lifted them again, it was to see her staring at me with sudden, sparking anger.
Oh, wonderful
. Would I never learn to temper my tone to three shades humbler to avoid her censure?