Maid of Secrets (28 page)

Whoops
. No amount of flattery that I could spin would outrank the direct comments of the Queen. I improvised quickly. “That is merely the truth, Beatrice,” I said. “Cecil said that the Queen herself intimated she would trust no one so much as you, to both step into the position and to step out of it again, knowing that your favor with her was constant.” More lies, manufactured by Cecil to, he said, ease Beatrice’s dismay about her “other” assignments.
Whatever those were
. I hated myself even as I said the words. But I wasn’t done yet.
This part was the worst. “At first, Cecil wanted to put me in your place, but I said no—you are the best of any of us for this job.”

“Oh!” Beatrice clasped her hands to her breast, positively radiant.

I felt like a worm. Suddenly, being a rat seemed . . . too clean for what I was right now.

Beatrice sighed happily as she turned away, absently putting the returned (and still quite ugly) dress back into its chest. I’d worn it less than a full day, and over my shift. It was a costume, nothing more. And despite my theatrics with Rafe, I’d not soiled it. I think Beatrice had been secretly disappointed about that. As I saw the gown disappearing back into the cupboard, I rather suspected I’d never see it again.

I let my gaze drift over to Beatrice’s bed. Gowns still lay strewn there from when she’d pulled them out this morning. Her peacock-blue purse lay on top of the pile, its clasp of jade stone and sapphires winking brilliantly even in the indifferent light. Something about the purse nagged at me.

Beatrice cleared her throat, her back still to me. “I owe you an apology,” she said.

I blinked.
What did she just say?
“You do?” I asked.

“I do.” She stepped away from the cupboard, picked up another gown, and stowed it, still not looking at me. “I know Cecil favors you; he’s never made any secret of that. So for you to position me before your own self speaks volumes of your character.” She sighed as she lifted another dress, smoothing the fine silk beneath her fingers. “I do not know that I would be so generous, were the situation reversed.”

“Beatrice, I—”

“No,” Beatrice said. She straightened and turned her lovely face toward me, sincerity flowing from her in waves. “I do not deserve your grace, when I have given you none in return. I will resolve to trust you more, Meg. It means a great deal to know you have my back. There are so many in this place who are not true, who do things just because they may gain from them politically. Friends like you are very rare.”

She honestly could not have twisted the knife any deeper if she’d tried.

I had hated Cecil violently over the course of my nearly four months in the Crown’s service, but perhaps never quite so much as I did in that moment. I cleared my throat. “I thank you, Beatrice, but really—”

“No,” she cut me off again. “You need say no more.” She clasped the gown she was holding tightly to her, her eyes shining with emotion. “Thank you, Meg. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I swear to you, I will not forget your kindness.”

I felt sick. I wanted to tell her everything in that moment. Tell her of Cecil’s orders, of his lies. Tell her that this entire announcement was being staged for Cecil to gain insight into the Queen’s most private activities, so that I would know what to expect when I was set in place to spy. I wanted to tell her that I had had no intention of recommending her to Cecil, that he’d merely told me to act as if I had, to gain her gratitude and ensure that she would not plot against me. I wanted to tell her that I did not deserve her friendship, or her trust, that I had lied.

“You’re welcome, Beatrice,” I said instead.

The door to our chambers was flung open before I drew
my next breath, and we both turned, goggle-eyed, to watch Anna tear into the room practically shrieking with excitement.

“He’s coming to the masque, he’s coming to the Masque! Christopher Riley, he’s coming to the masque!” Anna chanted, nearly bowling Beatrice over in her exuberance. “And it’s all because of you, Beatrice!”

I hadn’t thought I could suffer more guilt this day over what I’d just done to Beatrice, but I’d been wrong. I’d never seen such joy upon Anna’s face, not even when she was translating myths back to the original Greek. I guessed what had happened, but I was forced to watch it play out, like a carriage toppling over a cliff.

“I told you he was going to attend, you silly goose!” Beatrice laughed, looking more like twelve than her eighteen years. She rocked with Anna back and forth, encircled by Anna’s stout arms. “Whyever did you doubt me?”

“Because he is only a vicar’s son! And I would have thought him too serious for such a trifle as this.” Anna pulled back from Beatrice, turned to me. “Do you know? Did she tell you?”

“No!” I barely got out, before Anna began speaking again, her words a torrent of excitement and emotion.

“Well, it’s like this—and I canna believe it, I tell you plainly,” Anna began. “The masque that is coming up, half the world will be there, what, but surely not a vicar’s son, with all the nobility from far and wide coming into town, you see?”

“I see,” I laughed, enjoying Anna’s happiness despite myself. “What happened then?”

“Well, Beatrice here,” Anna said, casting adoring eyes at Beatrice. “Beatrice had her aunt put a word in with Lord Farley, whom you know is the patron of the vicar of Cleves, asking him to extend an invitation to Christopher. Lord Farley then proceeded to tell the vicar that his son could do worse than to consider marrying one of the young ladies of the court, especially a woman of gentle breeding and a scholarly mind. A scholarly mind! There would be nothing better to attract the interest of the vicar!” Anna fairly crowed. “Oh, Beatrice, it was masterful.”

Beatrice smiled indulgently, and Anna rushed on.

“So there I am in the Middle Ward, translating correspondence for Sir William, and who should step up to speak with me but Christopher Riley! He asked with a smile should I know any maid with a scholarly mind, and told me the tale altogether.”

Alarm flashed in Beatrice’s eyes, and I also blinked. Why would Christopher be telling Anna all of this? Surely he wouldn’t tip his hand so quickly regarding his intentions to woo her.

“We both got a fair laugh out of it,” continued Anna, blissfully unaware of Beatrice’s and my mounting concern. “An’ because he does not want to disappoint his da, he will be at the ball. Dressed as a vicar, he told me! Can you imagine?”

I fought the temptation to roll my eyes, but Beatrice did not. Fortunately, Anna wasn’t looking at her. Instead she had fallen silent, waiting for our response.

“That is a fine tale, indeed,” I said, springing into the
sudden lull. “And do you think Mr. Riley realizes that
you
are the young maiden Lord Farley was recommending, the young woman of breeding and a scholarly mind?”

Anna stared at me in stupefaction. “Whatever are you talking about?” she asked. “I am hardly a young woman of—”

“Anna!” Beatrice blurted in astonishment. “You cannot be serious. Do you mean to tell me that you thought Lord Farley—at my direct request—would recommend someone
other
than you?”

Anna turned her gaze to Beatrice. “Whatever can you mean?” she asked again. “I—I just thought it was a ploy to get Chris to come to the masque.”

“It was a ploy to get him to come to the masque to see
you
,” Beatrice said, and moaned. “And now he must be thoroughly confused, because you played it off as if you had no idea what he was talking about.”

“But I didn’t know what he was talking about—I mean, I don’t think he was talking about anything—certainly not about me!” She looked from one of us to the other. “Did I do something wrong?” Anna’s soft face crumpled, and her large eyes began to fill with tears. I stepped forward quickly.

“This is the
best
thing that could have happened,” I said firmly, with only the slightest sense of desperation.

That arrested them both. They stared at me.

“It is?” Anna asked in a tiny voice.

“Absolutely,” I said. “If you’d simpered or blushed, Mr. Riley would have known his suit was already assured. By acting as if his attendance at the ball mattered not a whit to you—and in fact, laughing along with him at the notion of this mystery girl—”

“Well, not a mystery girl, precisely,” Anna said. “I suggested two or three girls that might suit—”

I smoothly cut off both Anna’s words and Beatrice’s groaned response. “Then he has no reason to suspect you had anyone put in a word for
you
. And why is that? Because you are so confident of his attraction to you that you do not need to play such games. You will now both be at the ball, and in perfect accord with each other, easy in your shared confidences. Even better, there will be no question of your finding each other. You’ll know your target when you see him the night of the masque. I cannot think there will be many other young men dressed like a vicar.”

Beatrice stifled a giggle, but Anna twirled around, her skirts flying. “Oh, Meg, you have to be right. And better than any of that, Christopher Riley is coming to the masque!” She turned faster and faster. “It couldn’t be more perfect!”

She collapsed in a heap on the bed and burst out laughing from the sheer joy of it. “It is almost as good as having deciphered your letters, Meg, verily I swear!”

Beatrice and I both froze, even as Anna continued chortling.

“Anna,” I managed as soon as I could draw breath. “You mean that you’ve found the key to the letters?” This was a stroke of luck if so—though we’d had the letters less than a day, I needed to return them!

“Oh, yes. It wasn’t so difficult as all that.” Anna sat up on her bed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Once I’d steamed open the wax seals of the rest of them—don’t worry, they’re back in place now pristinely perfect—it was easy to find the pattern. Deciphering a code comes much easier when you
know that the code is there to decipher. I canna tell you the number of letters I’ve read that had no more code to them than cow’s milk—”

“Anna!” Beatrice interrupted, sharply enough to stop even Anna’s stream of chatter. “What did you find in the letters?”

She blinked at us. “Well, the ones I had were quite specific, to members of Lady Amelia’s family. They spoke of ‘waiting for the signal’ to indicate that a major request was being made, but in the meantime to carry out some minor tasks.” She grinned. “You remember the milk crate incident? That fell to Lady Agnes, Amelia’s great-aunt. And the sour milk being stirred into the courtier’s ale? That was Amelia’s cousin Bailey.”

Beatrice frowned. “Lord Bailey hasn’t been at the court since midspring,” she said. “He nearly died in that fall at the hunt in Shropshire.”

Anna bit her lip. “Well . . . the letter was from about that time. Wait.” She dove into our side cupboard, and pulled out the packet. “Yes, March. So it’s possible that the writer didn’t know of his fall. But still . . . ” She regarded Beatrice thoughtfully. “The sour milk incident did happen. It caused quite a fuss.”

“And I don’t recall Lady Agnes remaining in the court either, given her son’s injury.” Beatrice tapped her chin. “So who could have carried out the requests?”

“Lady Amelia?” I asked, but Beatrice shook her head.

“Lady Amelia wouldn’t have harmed Marie, though. Not so violently. And she wouldn’t have set the vestments on fire.”

“Oh, no,” Anna agreed. “There was something in the letter about stealing vestments—but not burning them. And it was not even posed as a question, more of a ‘if only we could . . . but it would be too dangerous.’ That, too, was in the letter for Bailey. And that one was one of the letters I don’t believe was truly penned by Dona Victoria.”

“What about the love letter? Were there any codes in those?”

“Only the code of true love—and written in the same hand as Bailey’s letter, I will say that.” Anna sighed. “It’s all so very tragic, in its way.”

I grimaced. “Yes, tragic. Remember, that lovestruck swain knew information about Marie’s death that only the killer would know. Why would he warn Lady Amelia about what happened to Marie?”

While we were considering that, a chambermaid appeared at the door. “Miss Knowles?” the young girl squeaked. “A Lord Cavanaugh is asking after you.”

That arrested us all. Beatrice recovered first. “He must have heard of the Queen’s intention for me to replace the ailing Mathilde,” she said, and smiled. “La, how word travels fast.”

“La,” I agreed flatly. And then she was gone, leaving Anna and me to ponder. Me perhaps more than Anna.

I gathered up the letters from her and reattached the lavender ribbon. “Anna,” I said. “The letters you think were not written by Dona Victoria, can you tell me anything else about them?”

“Well—I don’t know much,” she said. “He tried very hard to match Dona Victoria’s writing, and he was quiet good. Still, the inconsistencies were consistent, if that makes sense?”

“It does.” I nodded. “And it is definitely a ‘he’?”

“Oh, yes. Men’s handwriting has a distinctive feel even when it’s trying to be otherwise. It’s more . . . chaotic than a female’s writing. Also, he was not a native Englishman speaking Spanish, nor even a native Spaniard, unless I miss my guess. Based primarily on the love letter, I believe he is Portuguese.”

I nodded. “You’d mentioned that, I think before—”

“It only happened a few times, but he chose a word from that tongue in place of its Spanish cousin.” She shrugged. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am. And he wrote with . . . ”

Her words tapered off as she gazed out the high window, over the quadrangle, and toward the Round Tower. “Oh, no,” she breathed.

“What?” I looked over to where she was staring, but could see only the crenellated top of the Tower, striking in the afternoon sun.

“The Tower!” Anna gasped. “The symbols!” She pulled apart the letters again, rifling through them, folding two open that had the fancy girlish scribbling she’d remarked on before, when I’d first given her the letters. “Look here—and here!” She pointed, and there in the swirling, looping scrollwork I could see it too, buried in the design: the image of a cross, surmounted by an inverted triangle. Except here, surrounded by all of the twirling lines and swirling leaves, it looked almost like—“A thistle,” Anna said. “It’s a Scottish thistle.” She stared at me, wide-eyed. “If this means what I think, then an alliance between Scotland and Spain is under way. And they are bold indeed if they sought to mark Elizabeth’s own castle with their symbol.”