Maid of Secrets (26 page)

Rafe was a Spaniard, and I suspected he was a spy. In truth, more than suspected. And he was quite possibly a killer. He had bartered with Turnip Nose for the letter at the very least, and then he’d incapacitated him. According to Anna’s translation of their conversation, the contents of the letter pointed to a disruption, but I didn’t
have
the letter, so I knew no details. What was going on?

I looked to either side as I entered the boisterous Lower Ward. I’d been here dozens of times in the last few months, in full day and at night. Tonight it seemed more crowded than usual, the air richer with spices, the laughter louder. A large group of onlookers had gathered south of the King’s Gate, out in the open space of the ward. The energy of the crowd was up, and I felt a tingle of recognition. I smiled to myself, a faint thread of excitement curling within me. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the Golden Rose was playing here this day. The crowd had that kind of feel, an undercurrent of anticipation. A smell of money.

A familiar heat pulsed through my hands, and I suddenly
yearned to be among the crowd, back in my old role—with my patchwork gown and my hair caught up with broken pins, my “jewelry” of glass beads, and my careful makeup. The role I played now was so much deeper than anything I had attempted with the Golden Rose, however. Could I ever go back?

I smoothed my hands down my ugly borrowed gown. The silks and linens I wore now were far finer than anything I had pieced together as an actress. The jewels around my neck were simple—almost austere—yet they were of the highest quality, given to me out of the royal coffers that I might carry off the illusion of being a daughter of noble parentage.

An odd tug caught at my heart. My parents had not been noble, but that was all I knew of them. Grandfather had never spoken of them, no matter how I’d pestered him. He’d said they had been struck down when they were young, losing their lives in their prime, and leaving him with the “joy,” as he put it, of raising me. He had never once complained, I remembered now. But he had never once explained, either.

Who had my parents been?

Again I thought of the old woman and her odd comments. Had she mistaken me for my mother? Had my parents ever performed before King Henry, just as I now performed for his daughter?

The Queen’s accusation surfaced again.
You do not know who you are.

Who am I, truly?

The thought made me unaccountably sad, and I turned away from the crowd. I was seeking passage along the outskirts of the throng to Knight’s Gate, when I saw him.

Little Tommy Farrow.

Unbidden hot tears sprang to my eyes, and I lifted my hand to my mouth, stifling a cry. I stood stone still as I watched the small tow-headed figure march resolutely through the crowd, his breeches seeming a little shorter now on his pumping legs, his cheeks just the slightest bit leaner. Surely the boy could not have aged so much in just four months. I must have remembered him being younger.

I watched him another thirty seconds before the reality of his presence was brought home to me.

Tommy Farrow was
here
, in the
Lower Ward of Windsor Castle
.

And where he roamed, so roamed the Golden Rose players.

I whirled, scanning the crowd. Could it be? Were they here? Despite my height, I could not see through the crowd that thronged in the bustling ward, but the men gave obligingly when I pushed through them, willing enough to let a young woman enter their midst. By the time I’d pressed through the horde and into the small empty space of the makeshift courtyard, the play was just beginning. And I had the best view in the yard of act 1, scene 1 of
The Queen’s Promise
.

I couldn’t believe it. There was Marcus, and Thom Barrister, too. And George, Henry, and Leo, all dressed like high lords of the land. They were shouting through words I’d learned at my grandfather’s knee, back when there had been no Queen of England but only a king—Henry VIII’s son, Edward.

The pageant looked like it had been revised to reflect a Queen in command, and to the troupe’s credit, I could see
that the changes to the play had been thorough. So many of the lines were the same (which would please the actors, I knew) but there were new words around them, bracketing the phrases with additional story, now that all of London had become fascinated with the details of every move the Queen made. The cadence and flow of their dialogue were still richly detailed, redolent of the northern England brogue, but the words now spoke of a Queen who ruled king and country with her own fierce hand, and who loved England more than she even loved herself.

I thought of the Queen I’d seen today in the Presence Chamber. The Golden Rose had gotten that much right. This Queen loved England to the core. More than she could ever love any man.
The Queen will never marry,
Sophia had said. Could that be possible?

Then I saw Troupe Master James, his back to me, and my heart surged. How easy it would be for me to cross the line and fade back into the crush of players. They would hide me, smuggle me out of this place. And if we fled this night, we could retreat to the far reaches of England for a few months, until the Queen’s advisors had tired of looking for me.

Another thought kindled inside my mind. Perhaps the troupe had come to Windsor with the express idea of freeing me? I’d gotten no word, but even that was not surprising. If the Golden Rose had levied this adventure into the castle grounds to get an initial feel of the Lower Ward and all her entries and exits, then they wouldn’t even have tried to get a message to me. It would have been too soon. Hope suddenly bloomed within me, but it felt strange. More like
a stomach upset than the elation I would have expected. What was wrong with me?

I felt the swish of skirts beside me, the lightest touch against my girdled pouch. Without hesitation I reacted, snaking my hand out and catching a small wrist in my iron clutch.

“What ’o, now!” Tommy Farrow staggered back, going up on his toes as I pulled him high. “Begging yer pardon, ma’am. I didna mean to run inta—Meg!”

His eyes goggled, and I laughed outright as I set him gently down. Clearly Tommy still had his talent for picking the wrong mark.

“Hello, Tommy,” I said, crouching down to his level that he might not have to look up so high. “What brings you to Windsor today? Did you not expect to see me?”

“Not ’ere, no!” Tommy said. “Master James said ye’d been taken to Whitehall to serve the Queen. We assumed ye’d be inside
that
castle, not this one.” He eyed me then, his gaze somewhat dubious. “Ye don’t look like a maid, though. Ye look like a proper lady. Sort of.”

My heart deflated. So the Golden Rose had not come to save me, had not even known I was here. Had they any idea how much I’d given up to save them?

I shook off the feeling of sudden despair that stole through me.
Poor, sweet Meg, all alone in the world,
Rafe had said. Once more, I felt like crying.

“Well, then,” I said briskly. “You’re playing here just to bring a show to the poor deprived townspeople of Windsor?”

“We tried to attract the crowds in the city proper, but everyone was up ’ere,” Tommy said. His eyes brightened. “Ye want to talk to Master James? ’E’ll have missed you! The day
you were taken was a grim day for us all, I tell you that plain. ’E wanted to storm the castle for weeks after!”

I rather doubted that, but I grinned at Tommy’s defense, and some of my dismay lightened. Still, Cecil and Walsingham had been quite clear. If my advisors so much as suspected my defection back to the Golden Rose, the punishment would be the troupe’s imprisonment.

I straightened, ruefully rustling the boy’s hair. “I don’t think that is a wise decision, but I thank you for thinking of me, Tommy. Give Master James my love, will you? And tell him that I miss you all terribly.”

“Why not tell him yourself?”

At the achingly familiar voice, it took every ounce of my spy training not to leap aside like a startled goat. Instead, I let my grin widen, and I turned to my right. “Master James!”

“At your service, madame.” He executed a bow as courtly as any I’d seen inside the castle. “Or is it ‘my lady’ now?” He straightened and eyed me with a keen intensity. “You are well?”

Too many words rushed to be spoken, and I nearly choked on them. “Yes—yes, I am well,” I said, tasting the faint lie on my lips, and realizing it was not such an untruth as it should have been.

“They are not harming you, or keeping you against your will?”

I blinked at him. How much did he know? “N-no,” I said too hastily, and his eyes narrowed. I had the uncomfortable sensation that he was looking through me, not at me. “I am well, I tell you. They treat me like one of their own.”

“They dress you like one, too. You cannot tell me
that
is a comfortable gown, but you do look like quite the lady.”

My cheeks burned and I dropped my eyes, surveying my wreck of a dress. Could Beatrice not have found a more attractive gown for me? I felt deeply ashamed of the costume, though why, I couldn’t say. “It—it was a gift from a friend,” I managed.

“I’d consider cultivating more enemies, if these are the gifts your friends choose,” he teased.

I twisted my hands in my accursed skirts. “It is not as though I came to the castle with a dowry, Master James,” I snapped. “I’m grateful for what they give me.”

“And what is the price for the castle’s generosity, I wonder?”

“That is none of your concern!”

“Then perhaps it should be.” He shrugged. “You were in my care until a few short months ago, Meg. Don’t think I have forgotten it.”

“I’d been in your care only six months prior to that,” I countered. “I should not have been so difficult to forget.”

“If that’s what you think, then you’ve changed far more than in your appearance, and believe me, that’s changed a great deal.”

The words hung between us, awkward, and James paused another minute more, regarding me with his piercing eyes. I stared back at him, matching him scowl for scowl, and felt a curious shift in my chest.

There’d been only one other young man who had ever glared at me with such annoyance, and that had been Rafe. Who’d
kissed
me as well. Could Master James also . . . Did he actually . . .
Was that possible?

“What is it, Meg?” Tommy interrupted my spinning
thoughts with real alarm in his voice. “Ye’ve gone white as snow.”

I shook myself hard. Master James looked equally ill at ease. “I’m well, Tommy,” I said, and lifted my chin, addressing James again.
Master
James, that is. “How goes the troupe? You seem to be drawing a crowd.”

He smiled noncommittally. “When we go to where the crowds are, aye.” He nodded into the throng. “We don’t have your hands to help, but we draw the people to our cause well enough in more ways than one.”

“Is Mary stepping up?” I asked, referring to a girl not even past fifteen who’d begun to show some aptitude at thieving.

Master James shrugged. “She’ll do. I have to split my time between the actors and the street troupe. She’s not quite good enough to take your place, I’m afraid, but she tries. So far, it hasn’t cost us.”

Tommy swiveled his head between us. “When are you coming back, Meg?” he piped up. “The harvest will come on soon, and with it farmers flush with coin and ale. We’ll have all the money we can carry!”

“I don’t know, Tommy,” I said, looking down at him, if only to avoid James’s—Master James’s—eyes. “I have work here to do as yet.”

“What sort of work?” Master James asked quietly. “What sort of work would the Crown need with a thief as good as any I’ve seen, and an actress better than half the men in our troupe? Work like that cannot help but be dangerous.” He dropped his voice to an even lower tone. “Are you in danger, Meg?”

I lifted my head quickly, and met his gaze. Something
jumped between us like arcing fire. Then a cheer went up in the crowd, signaling the end of the first act of the play.

“Master James!” Tommy said, tugging his arm. “We must go! The second act is barely ten minutes hence, and I haven’t changed!”

I blinked at Tommy, confused. “You haven’t changed?”

“I’ve become an
actor
!” Tommy said in a rush of excitement. “Master James said I should focus on my lines, and ’e won’t even let me lift the purses of anyone but women now. I’m an actor, Meg! Since right after you left!”

“Tommy is showing a talent for the stage,” Master James said hastily, too sincere for believability. “I think he may serve us better on the stage than in the street.”

Realization struck me, and with it a flood of warmth for James’s adroit handling of the situation. Tommy was a hopeless thief, and I suspected he was an equally horrible actor. But as an actor, at least the boy would be safe from the branding irons of the Crown.
Since right after you left,
Tommy had said. The timing could not have been by accident.

“I’m sure you’re a very fine actor,” I said to Tommy, and he beamed. I glanced up to Master James, not bothering to hide the warmth of my words. “And you are—very wise, Master James, to see where his skills may best serve.”

He shrugged and glanced away, and I saw the faintest flare of red climb up his jawline. Was he blushing?

Before I had time to think on it, Tommy started tugging on Master James’s sleeve again. “We truly must go, Master James. I am already late!”

James resisted being pulled along for just one second more, and his gaze met mine. “As ever, Meg Fellowes, the
Golden Rose is at your service,” he said, and he reached out his hand. “Should you need us for aught, you have but to send word.”

Startled, I lifted my hand to his, curtsying. Because, after all, that’s what I did when I was flustered. Master James took my hand into his and brushed his lips over it, his mouth warm even through my thin gloves. A skittering sensation zipped through me at the contact. It was nothing, the height of propriety, and yet . . . somehow, it wasn’t. Master James was four years my senior, but the huge chasm that should have been between us suddenly seemed . . . less so.