Her Last Assassin (10 page)

‘Ah, your honour …’

He was laughing, mocking her. But she did not chide him for it. Her hand felt snug in his. Will pulled her gently forward, and they began to dance, rising on to tiptoe as they swung about, circling each other like wary animals, their eyes locked, breath catching. In a crowded room, this was an entertaining and complicated dance. Alone together in a narrow space, it was breathtakingly intimate. Dangerous, even.

There was not room for a full turn, except where they stood, and Will miscalculated the time, lifting her slightly too early for the leap.

There was a pause as they waited for the distant musicians to catch up. His hands gripped her waist tightly, a few inches below her glittering bodice. His gaze was sombre, intent on her face. For a few seconds, Lucy hung above him there in her golden gown, looking down with laughter in her face. She wondered why it was she always doubted his intentions when he was not there, yet forgot her doubts as soon as they were together again.

Could this be a trick her heart played on her mind?

Or was William Shakespeare a magician, conjuring her to fall in love with him anew whenever they met? Certainly he knew how to woo her with words.

‘My heavenly star,’ he whispered, lowering her towards him. Their mouths brushed, then he was kissing her compulsively, still holding her by the waist, her feet not quite touching the stone floor.

Her body hummed with a sensation she recognized. Heat flooded her face, and she clutched at his shoulders, kissing him back, uncaring what he would think of such a response. Will groaned, then abruptly lurched forward, still holding her against him, and she felt the cold stone wall press into her back.

‘Lucy,’ he muttered, tugging at her bodice to release her breasts. They spilled into his hands, and she moaned, eager for love. ‘God, I want you.’

She kissed his throat, touching him wildly, her hands shaking on his body, deaf to everything but the rush of blood in her ears. Her womb ached with need, her desire for him much sharper than it had ever been before. Sharper and less easily put aside by the voice of caution. It was as though the needs of her body now overrode the warnings in her head. The danger was quite forgotten until a sudden noise behind them reminded her where they were.

‘Forgive my intrusion,’ a man said in a cold, amused voice. ‘I did not know this was a bedchamber.’

Will drew back, hurriedly dragging her bodice back up. He swore under his breath as his fingers faltered over his own clothing, his cheeks flushed. ‘No,’ he told her urgently when Lucy tried to see over his shoulder. ‘Say nothing. Lower your head. Do not look at him.’

But it was too late. The man had recognized her.

‘Mistress Morgan?’

It was Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton. She did not know him well, for he was still young and fresh-come to court from university. But it was clear that he knew her.

Her heart thundered violently as she considered how she had been discovered with a man, kissing him so lewdly, letting him touch her, make love to her. What might Wriothesley do with this dangerous information? It was not unknown for ladies of the court to be imprisoned in the Tower of London for lack of chastity. And their admirers with them, sometimes for many years.

She was no longer the Queen’s favourite. The Earl of Southampton could ruin her with a few well-placed words in Her Majesty’s hearing.

‘Ah, it is indeed Lucy Morgan.’ The earl inclined his head so slightly, it was clearly intended as an insult. Then he looked Will over, his eyes narrowed. ‘But who is this gentleman? I know him not.’

The music had long since finished in the Great Hall, and they could hear the buzz of conversation instead, the courtiers beginning to disperse for the night. At any moment, some of those within the hall might come pouring out into this narrow corridor and find her in the forbidden company of men.

There was a breathless silence as Lucy stared from Wriothesley to Shakespeare, still unsure what to do. His lordship had not called for the guards, at least. Nor did he seem angry, though she sensed a certain distaste in his tone.

Perhaps they might yet escape censure.

Lucy gathered her wits. ‘My l-lord Southampton,’ she stammered, dropping to the floor in a respectful curtsey, her head bowed. ‘Pray forgive my ill manners. This is Master William Shakespeare.’

Wriothesley’s brows rose steeply. ‘The player?’

Straightening from his bow, his velvet cap in hand, Will stared at the young nobleman. The flush in his cheeks had begun to recede. ‘You have heard of me, my lord?’

The Earl of Southampton nodded, still examining him closely. ‘I was at the Rose with some friends but a few days ago—’

He was interrupted. A group of laughing young men in rich attire had tumbled through the doorway, coming to a noisy halt behind him. Wriothesley turned to remonstrate with them, and several hooted loudly, slapping him on the back, mocking him for having left the dancing early. She knew a few of them by sight, others from their flirtations with the Queen’s other ladies. Then she saw the nobleman in their midst, the handsome Earl of Essex with a pearl in his ear, and her blood froze in horror.

‘I must go,’ she muttered to Will, and turned swiftly away, picking up her skirts so she could hurry.

Lord Southampton would be offended by her rude departure. But he was a youth, barely eighteen years of age. Essex had the ear of the Queen, and if he were to report having caught her alone with a player, she would almost certainly lose her place at court.

She was almost at the end of the corridor before Will caught up with her. ‘Stop,’ he insisted, his hand on her arm. ‘For the love of God, Lucy, don’t run from me. Not after that. My heart is still in my mouth from kissing you. Where are you going?’

‘Back to the Queen’s chambers,’ she muttered, trying to hide her panic as other courtiers began to fill the corridor. The dancing was at an end, and the court was dispersing, just as she had feared. ‘Before I am missed.’

‘You kill me with your coldness.’

‘Please, Will …’

But he would not be budged. His voice grew hoarse. ‘I love you, and I came here to tell you that I cannot live without you any longer. Do not dismiss me like a hound to kennel.’

Lucy threw the thick veil over her face, though it did little to disguise who she was. Her head wild with misgivings, she led Will to a darkened alcove, letting the crowd pass them by. At least in this jostling throng they would be less easily noticed.

‘You must stop coming to court in pursuit of me. If the young Earl of Southampton tells his friend Essex what he saw tonight, and Lord Essex tells the Queen, our lives might as well be over. I am not a free woman, and you are most certainly not a free man. This is impossible, Will, and you know it.’

‘Then leave court tonight and come home with me,’ he urged her in a low voice, his hand still tight on her arm. ‘You may never be my wife, but you could be my mistress. No, not like before. That was a mistake. I was too young, I did not know how much I was hurting you. I have a little money set aside now, I could look after you properly.’

‘Make me your whore, you mean?’

‘No!’ He was abruptly angry, his gaze flaring, releasing her at once. ‘I love you. Don’t cheapen this.’

Her heart stuttered under his intense stare, suddenly pounding. The offer was tempting. To be Shakespeare’s wife in all but name, to watch him in the playhouse every afternoon, then lie with him every night and not fear discovery …

But Lucy was only tempted for a second. She would be giving up everything she had struggled to regain after her disgrace. If she followed him tonight, she would throw away her position at court, and very likely be condemned for disobedience and lewd behaviour. And for what? To become a player’s mistress for so long as he wanted her, and after that to become a whore for whichever man would promise to feed and clothe her and keep her off the streets?

No, a thousand times no.

She sought for an answer he would understand. ‘The Queen would never permit me to leave court.’

‘Then do not ask her permission, simply run away with me.’ His anger had dropped away, like a summer rainstorm that passed as swiftly as it came. Now he was pleading with her instead. Her nerves jangled before the look in his eyes. ‘I need you, Lucy. You understand me. You satisfy me more than any other woman has ever done. Come with me, I will hide you so they cannot find you. I will keep you safe.’

‘Hide a Moorish woman in London?’

Will opened his mouth as though to explain his plan, then shut it again. She felt disappointment as well as relief. He had not thought it out clearly, had he?

‘Let us keep things the way they are, Will. I will see you whenever I can, I promise you that. But please do not ask me to leave court. This is where I belong, where my duty lies. If I cannot be your legal wife, then to be the Queen’s lady-in-waiting is what I most crave from this life.’ She hesitated, studying him through the thick veil. ‘I would never ask you to leave the playhouse for my sake, or to seek another trade.’

‘That is different,’ Will said wretchedly, but she could see that he had understood.

Breathing was suddenly difficult. Her vision blurred. She swayed, one hand supporting herself against the wall of the alcove.

Was this how a broken heart felt?

‘I love you,’ she managed, ‘but I cannot be with you.’

His gaze lingered on hers, his body so close it was hard not to reach for him again. She recalled how it felt to lie naked beneath him, to rock against him in the night, for their hands and lips to touch while he made love to her.

‘This is not the end,’ he told her steadily, as though it must be the truth if he had felt it, if he had spoken it aloud. ‘It cannot be the end. We will see each other again, will we not? At least do not leave without allowing me hope of that.’

‘I will come to you next time,’ she promised him. ‘To the playhouse. Or your lodgings. As soon as I can leave court without my absence being noticed.’

‘You swear it?’

She could not help smiling at his insistence. Will Shakespeare might be married, but there was no doubt in her heart that he loved her. ‘I swear it.’

Six

‘T
AKE THEIR THRUSTS
and jibes as a compliment, man. Your fellows attack you because they fear your skill.’ With an absent air, James Burbage helped him off with his dented breastplate, the old theatrical manager still half listening to the cries on stage behind them. Takings were up again: the Rose had enjoyed a full house that afternoon. But Burbage still liked to keep a finger in every playhouse pie, from ensuring the tiring-room ran smoothly to bowing out their most honoured patrons after each performance. ‘Talking of which, is the
Shrew
finished yet? Summer will be upon us soon and we need fresh plays.’

That was the question Will had been dreading. He hesitated, easing off his helmet while he considered how to answer. His hair had stuck to his forehead in the hot April sunshine. The cramped tiring-room, where the players disrobed backstage and changed between scenes, was stifling. The tiremen were talking quietly together in the corner, sorting out the costumes for the next piece to be played, some of which would need to be altered to fit the new cast.

‘It has not been easy,’ he told Burbage carefully, ‘playing a history by day but writing a comic piece by night. Now I am called “upstart” by my fellow theatricals, as though I keep my quill busy to spite them rather than to feed my family.’

‘Your fame grows daily. Let the likes of Robert Green rag at you. He is a lesser star.’

Will grinned, pouring himself a cup of ale. ‘Hardly!’

‘You do not believe me? Why, we even had his lordship the Earl of Southampton sniffing around backstage yesterday, in the hope of meeting Master William Shakespeare, if you please.’

‘The Earl of Southampton?’ Will was stunned. He struggled to recall the lavishly dressed, soft-faced youth who had come across him with Lucy at court. The nobleman had mentioned the Rose, yes. But they had barely exchanged more than a few words. ‘What in God’s name could he want with me?’

‘The earl is still half a boy, newly released from the cloistered halls of Cambridge University. You are a man of great moment in the city. What do you think he wants? The same thing the merchants’ wives and daughters want when they hang about the theatre door after each performance.’ Burbage laughed, seeing his expression. ‘No, never fear, I do not mean
that
. He wants your fame to rub off on him, that is all. He will ask to be your patron, Will, to make himself look good before his noble friends. For he will be supporting the most popular writer of the day.’

‘Kit is that, surely?’

‘You surpass Kit with your poetry. He writes a stirring scene for the groundlings, but cannot turn a line as powerfully as you.’ Burbage took Will’s cup away and drank from it, wiping his mouth on his sleeve afterwards. His hair was almost white these days, it had grown so silvered with age. Yet age had given him an authority he had lacked before, with many of the younger players now looking to Burbage for cues on how to speak and gesture, and how to own a stage just by standing on it. Even Will himself was not immune to his eloquence. ‘Depend upon it, this noble youth will wish to fête you and carry you about the court on his shoulders. And if you let him, you will be made.’