Read Online Maid of Secrets by Jennifer McGowan - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer McGowan
Tags: General, Historical, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Europe, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Royalty
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pushed me forward then, seeming suddenly angry. “They’re waiting for you.”
I could only lift my own skirts and hasten forward, my mind churning, as the maids wound their way into the Queen’sPresence Chamber. Ears, tongue, and eyes. Everything a spy used in the course of any assignment.
Everything that had been taken from maid Marie.
What was going on here? What secrets were hiding from me in these castle walls?
I was scarcely in place before Cecil glanced back to make sure we’d arrived. We’d all been given assignments by then. I was supposed to watch the ambassador and Count de Martine, but each of the girls in our band had similar tasks for the ball—to witness conversations and report. Not to do anything about the information we learned, of course. Not to draw conclusions and act upon those conclusions. Just to watch, memorize, and report. What had Marie seen that had ended her life so abruptly?
“Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, le Conte de Feria,” the Queen’s steward proclaimed. And the procession of courtiers began.
Even though the Queen made no secret of her disdain for the Spanish ambassador, as the highest-ranking foreigner in the procession, the much-maligned de Feria mounted the steps first and swooped a deep bow to her. The ambassador’s doublet, trunk hose, and cloak were black, his ruff simple, his belt an understated silver chain. I’d seen the Count de Feria before, of course, though never this close. He seemed practical and prudent, and looked far older than the twenty-five years I knew him to be. As much as Anna and Beatrice gossiped about his dreary temperament, he did not appear to me a bad sort, if a bit disapproving. He did strike me as shrewd. I’d always tried to stay well away from him.
But I could no longer stay away from de Feria or his fellow Spaniards, I thought grimly. I was, for good or ill, officially now the Queen’s eyes and ears. The keeper of her secrets.
After de Feria another Spanish courtier was announced, a laughing rogue dressed in peacock blue, with rich caramel-colored hair, golden eyes, an easy smile, and a smooth unshaven face. I noted more than a few sighs among the ladies-in-waiting as Nicolas Ortiz made his bows, and I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. Whenever there was a new man in the court, half the women fell in love. My lips twisted into a small smile. How Master James would have laughed to see them swoon.
I felt a strange tightness in my chest as I realized I hadn’t thought of Master James—or the troupe—at all that day. Not with the excitement of my first assignment and the horror of Marie Claire’s killing. Was I forgetting them?
Never! I thought, hastily calling up image after image. Fat, jolly Meredith, our finest cook; glowering Matthias, her husband. Geoffrey, the best bard in all of England; wool-headed Tommy Farrow, still a little boy. But three months was a long time in a little boy’s life. How much had he changed?
Have they forgotten me?
After what seemed like hours, Ortiz finally moved to the side, and the steward spoke once more. I attended him half-heartedly, then realized I recognized the name. “Rafe Luis Medina,” he’d proclaimed. “Le Conte de Martine.” I stood on tiptoes to get a better look at my mark.
Then I blinked. Hard. Sweet mother of angels. They have to be jesting .
Rafe Luis Medina was . . . astonishing.
My heart seemed to stop working quite right as the young count approached the dais with the poise of a monarch himself, then spoke in a rich, flowing dialect while bowing elegantly to the Queen. The Count de Martine was tall, more than six feet, and his thick dark hair fell over his forehead in a graceful swale. His eyes were a vivid blue, the color of sunshine on water. His smile was quick and broad, his skin as golden bronze as a sailor’s. He carried himself with strength and poise, nearly but not quite overwhelming the dark seniority of de Feria—and completely eclipsing Ortiz.
Once his
I could only lift my own skirts and hasten forward, my mind churning, as the maids wound their way into the Queen’sPresence Chamber. Ears, tongue, and eyes. Everything a spy used in the course of any assignment.
Everything that had been taken from maid Marie.
What was going on here? What secrets were hiding from me in these castle walls?
I was scarcely in place before Cecil glanced back to make sure we’d arrived. We’d all been given assignments by then. I was supposed to watch the ambassador and Count de Martine, but each of the girls in our band had similar tasks for the ball—to witness conversations and report. Not to do anything about the information we learned, of course. Not to draw conclusions and act upon those conclusions. Just to watch, memorize, and report. What had Marie seen that had ended her life so abruptly?
“Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, le Conte de Feria,” the Queen’s steward proclaimed. And the procession of courtiers began.
Even though the Queen made no secret of her disdain for the Spanish ambassador, as the highest-ranking foreigner in the procession, the much-maligned de Feria mounted the steps first and swooped a deep bow to her. The ambassador’s doublet, trunk hose, and cloak were black, his ruff simple, his belt an understated silver chain. I’d seen the Count de Feria before, of course, though never this close. He seemed practical and prudent, and looked far older than the twenty-five years I knew him to be. As much as Anna and Beatrice gossiped about his dreary temperament, he did not appear to me a bad sort, if a bit disapproving. He did strike me as shrewd. I’d always tried to stay well away from him.
But I could no longer stay away from de Feria or his fellow Spaniards, I thought grimly. I was, for good or ill, officially now the Queen’s eyes and ears. The keeper of her secrets.
After de Feria another Spanish courtier was announced, a laughing rogue dressed in peacock blue, with rich caramel-colored hair, golden eyes, an easy smile, and a smooth unshaven face. I noted more than a few sighs among the ladies-in-waiting as Nicolas Ortiz made his bows, and I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. Whenever there was a new man in the court, half the women fell in love. My lips twisted into a small smile. How Master James would have laughed to see them swoon.
I felt a strange tightness in my chest as I realized I hadn’t thought of Master James—or the troupe—at all that day. Not with the excitement of my first assignment and the horror of Marie Claire’s killing. Was I forgetting them?
Never! I thought, hastily calling up image after image. Fat, jolly Meredith, our finest cook; glowering Matthias, her husband. Geoffrey, the best bard in all of England; wool-headed Tommy Farrow, still a little boy. But three months was a long time in a little boy’s life. How much had he changed?
Have they forgotten me?
After what seemed like hours, Ortiz finally moved to the side, and the steward spoke once more. I attended him half-heartedly, then realized I recognized the name. “Rafe Luis Medina,” he’d proclaimed. “Le Conte de Martine.” I stood on tiptoes to get a better look at my mark.
Then I blinked. Hard. Sweet mother of angels. They have to be jesting .
Rafe Luis Medina was . . . astonishing.
My heart seemed to stop working quite right as the young count approached the dais with the poise of a monarch himself, then spoke in a rich, flowing dialect while bowing elegantly to the Queen. The Count de Martine was tall, more than six feet, and his thick dark hair fell over his forehead in a graceful swale. His eyes were a vivid blue, the color of sunshine on water. His smile was quick and broad, his skin as golden bronze as a sailor’s. He carried himself with strength and poise, nearly but not quite overwhelming the dark seniority of de Feria—and completely eclipsing Ortiz.
Once his
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