Her Last Assassin (14 page)

Yet soon it seemed that Essex was once more in the Queen’s good graces. She gave him leave to sail to Brittany with a small number of ships, to battle the invading Spanish who had landed there.

‘You think me misguided to have forgiven Essex so readily?’ the Queen asked Lucy one evening, as they sat watching two of the courtiers play chess in the Privy Chamber. The evening was warm. Elizabeth closed her eyes as Lucy fanned cool air across her face and throat. ‘You consider him dangerous, perhaps?’

‘Not at all, Your Majesty,’ Lucy replied. ‘The Earl of Essex loves and reveres you as his queen.’

‘And as a woman?’

Lucy hesitated, unwilling to lie, yet equally aware that the truth could see her punished for impertinence. ‘That you must ask his lordship yourself. He does not confide such thoughts to me.’

‘You know, sometimes when we are alone together, I forget that he is not Robert. I mean, the Earl of Leicester. His dark eyes …’ The Queen’s voice dropped away into silence. She sat a moment, musing and humming a popular tune under her breath while she watched the chess match. ‘He is a charming boy.’

‘A boy, Your Majesty?’ Lucy remarked innocently.

Then she saw the Queen’s expression and wished she had not dared make such a comment.

‘A man, then,’ the Queen agreed sharply. ‘I had not thought you took such interest in his lordship.’

‘Indeed, I have barely spoken with Lord Essex, Your Majesty,’ Lucy hurried to assure her, seeing the flush of jealousy in the Queen’s cheeks. ‘His lordship thinks only of you and how best to serve you.’

That seemed to mollify the Queen, though she watched her closely from then on, and Lucy more than once felt the intent gaze of one of the Queen’s spies.

Lucy would go to bed early those nights and cover her face with her arm, desperate to be alone even among the bustle of the other women readying themselves for bed with whispers and prayers. Her old friend Cathy attended to her disrobing some nights, and would often look on her with concern after these bitter exchanges with the Queen. There was little that went on in the Queen’s chambers that was not swiftly known throughout the palace, even in the servants’ quarters.

‘You can always leave court if you are unhappy,’ Cathy whispered in her ear as she was unlacing Lucy’s gown, ‘and set up home with me in the country. I would be glad to return to Norfolk and see my son again. He will be grown tall as a weed by now!’

‘The Queen would never let me go,’ Lucy replied despondently. ‘Not while my voice is still good enough for her to parade me before visiting ambassadors. I am her dark treasure, her noble singing Ethiop!’

‘You must watch yourself most carefully, and remember that others will be watching too,’ her friend warned her. ‘Never allow yourself to be caught alone with a man, nor smile too much. Give the Queen no cause to have you punished. The court is a dangerous place if you will not play her games, Lucy.’

‘I am sick of her games!’

‘For goodness’ sake, hush, before you get us both whipped!’ Cathy kissed her goodnight, then hurried away to attend to other ladies. ‘Do not forget what I said. Step carefully, Lucy.’

One night after she had sung for the Queen at a masque, then slipped away with the excuse of a headache, Lucy found her path blocked by a masked courtier. The corridor was narrow and windowless, only one torch set in a wall sconce at the far end, flickering violently in the gusting wind. She curtseyed and flattened herself against the wall to allow the man to pass, guessing by his rich finery that he must be one of the Queen’s noblemen. But the courtier did not move.

The man was wearing a black-feathered bird mask, inset with seed pearls. He turned it to one side to survey her through its eye-slits, and she saw his eyes glittering as though he had been drinking.

‘Mistress Morgan, what a surprise to find you unattended here, so far from the revelry. Are you in search of someone, perhaps? Or have you lost your way? The court is behind you.’

Aware that it might appear like a secret assignation if she were discovered alone with this man, Lucy said nothing but took a hurried step backwards, meaning to return to the masque.

‘Not so fast,’ he muttered, swearing under his breath, and caught at her arm. ‘I have not finished with you yet.’

She heard a menace in his slurred voice and frowned, trying to recognize the man behind the mask. Did he mean to do her harm? There was none here to stop him if he did.

‘Sir, do I know you?’

Silently, he pulled down his mask, which hung from his neck on a length of black lace. It was Henry Wriothesley, the young Earl of Southampton.

Almost sagging against the wall in relief, Lucy managed a thin smile. ‘My lord Southampton. How may I help you?’

‘I want your promise.’

‘My lord?’

‘You have taken a lover,’ he stated bluntly, shocking her with his directness. ‘One Master William Shakespeare by name, a common player of the city. No, do not waste your breath in denying your guilt. After I saw you together at Greenwich, I set men to follow you both. I know that you have gone into the city in disguise since then, without seeking the Queen’s permission to leave court, and that you have lain with Master Shakespeare on several occasions.’

The young earl held up a sheet of paper, on which she could see a list of dates and places. ‘What I know of this affair would be enough to see you whipped to prison like the whore you are, and your lover with you.’

She stared at the list in horror. Slowly, she remembered what he had said before. ‘What is this promise I must make?’

‘That you will never meet with Master Shakespeare again, or this list will reach the Queen. I do not need to tell you at what risk of disgrace you stand, mistress, for you have lived at court too long not to know it. But perhaps you have not considered how your lover will suffer if this tale is wider known. Her Majesty’s mercy is rarely shown when it is a question of adultery.’

Her eyes widened on his face.

He smiled icily, seeing her expression. ‘I have his guilt confirmed in writing. There is a Mistress Anne Shakespeare at home in his native Warwickshire, and three young children born of their legal union. You know the Queen’s views on such matters.’

He tucked the list away inside his cloak, which hung loose over a fine red-velvet doublet.

‘Now, mistress, do I have your word on this? Or must I force the question further?’

She shrank against the wall as the young Earl of Southampton trod closer.

‘What, nothing to say, my dark mistress?’ he asked softly, his smile unpleasant. ‘You are not so silent with Master Shakespeare, I’ll be bound. But perhaps you need a more physical persuasion.’

Southampton grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her still, then his mouth came down on hers, hard and punishing.

She had been kissed by courtiers before, often in jest or in hope of more, but this was not the kiss of a man who held her in any affection. His hands hurt and insulted her body while she struggled in vain, his strength greater than hers, his kiss a scourge on her lips.

His tongue invaded her mouth and she bit down on it.

‘God’s blood!’ the young man exclaimed, springing back with a furious expression.

He lifted a jewelled hand and swept it across her cheek, knocking her to the stone floor. Lucy hit her head and lay winded and in pain, trying to gather the strength to crawl away. The young man stood above her, breathing hard, a dark silhouette against the flickering torchlight, and for one terrible moment she feared he was not finished with her, that he planned to rape or murder her.

‘Take that as a warning, Lucy Morgan,’ Henry Wriothesley told her, breathing hard. ‘Never forget you are only one step from an African slave, however fine the gowns and jewels you have been permitted to wear in Her Majesty’s presence. Such favours are easily stripped from a whore. Next time perhaps you will be more welcoming when one of your betters lowers himself to your body.’

He turned contemptuously on his heel. ‘Speak of this,’ he threw over his shoulder, ‘and news of your misdemeanours will reach the Queen.’

After Southampton had gone, Lucy dragged herself into a sitting position and felt gingerly for her swollen lip and cheek. Her mouth was bleeding where he had struck her.

She forced herself to stand, then made her way slowly back to the large chamber she shared with the other ladies-in-waiting at Richmond. Cathy was not there, so she lit a candle, then dabbed the blood from her face as delicately as she could.

Struggling out of her gown on her own, she lay down on her mattress and hid her face from the other women when they came in later, chattering and laughing after the masque. Her mouth throbbed painfully, feeling twice its usual size, and she feared that her face would be badly bruised in the morning.

She would have to lie to the Queen, pretending that she had slipped on the stairs in the darkness and cut her lip open on the stone.

Why was Henry Wriothesley so furious that she had been sleeping with a common player? The Earl of Southampton felt no love for her himself, that much had been clear from the way he struck her so violently to the ground. Perhaps his nature was warped, so that he took delight in causing women cruelty and pain. She had heard of such men, and knew there to be other courtiers whose tastes ran that way.

One thing was clear; she must not go into London again to see Will. The consequences did not bear thinking about. Nonetheless, she should get secret word to Will about the threat she had received tonight, or he would assume she no longer loved him. Yet if Will came to court himself and confronted the earl, he would risk the disclosure of their adulterous affair.

Perhaps it would be better to let Will assume the worst. He might hate her for it, but at least he would not have to face the Queen’s fury.

Three

I
T WAS A
warm spring day in rural Oxfordshire. Goodluck spurred his horse out of the knee-high sweet meadowgrass and on to a narrow track bordered by old beech trees in full spread. His brother’s farmhouse stood at the northern end of the hamlet, set back from the Oxford road at the edge of an old forest. The house had belonged to Agnes’s father, a ramshackle affair when last he had visited it under cover of darkness. He had been a young man then, his heart smarting with shame and rage at how their Protestant family had been treated under Queen Mary’s violently Catholic reign.

But it seemed the farm had grown more prosperous since Elizabeth had come to the throne. There was a stout wall protecting the vegetable plot and orchard, the farmhouse had a fresh coat of whitewash and, by the look of it, new thatch on the roof.

Hens scattered indignantly before him as he rode through the dusty yard. A slender, fair-haired girl straightened from feeding them corn, her eyes curious as she shielded them against the setting sun.

He swung off the hired horse, nodding courteously to the girl. ‘Good evening to you. Is Mistress Goodluck within?’

Slowly, the girl looked him up and down before answering, from his dust-covered boots to his plain cap. She was cautious, he thought, and unwilling to give out information unnecessarily. He liked that, it was an excellent quality in these days of trouble.

‘Who’s asking?’

He told her drily, ‘My name is Goodluck.’

The girl’s face drained of colour, and he suddenly realized that she must be his niece, his brother’s daughter. If her father lay on the brink of death within, she would hardly find that name amusing.

‘Forgive me,’ he said more warmly, dragging off his gloves and offering her his hand. She took it, still staring at him wildly. ‘I am Master Julius’s younger brother. Mistress Goodluck wrote to me in London, asking me to come at once. I am sorry if I startled you.’

‘You are Faithful,’ she whispered.

He hesitated, then nodded. ‘Are you a Goodluck too?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. My name is Eloise.’

‘Then I must be your uncle.’ He drew breath, asking the question whose answer he had been dreading all the way from London. ‘And is your father still living?’

To his relief, Eloise nodded. ‘Will you come inside and see him, sir? My mother will not leave his bedside, just in case …’ Her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘The physician says …’

‘Hush now,’ Goodluck murmured. He took off his cap and gave her an ironic bow. ‘We Goodlucks are tough, Eloise. It is hard to shake us from this world. If your father has survived this long after his fall, let us hope for the best and not give him up just yet. Now let me tie my horse to this post before he thinks to wander off into the forest, then show me the way to my brother.’

A servant stopped clearing the old rushes in the hall as he entered and stared instead, just as Eloise had done. His young niece, whom he guessed to be about thirteen years of age, led him upstairs to a bedchamber on the first floor. She scratched at the door, then entered, beckoning him after her.

A woman with neatly bound hair sat by the bedside, her back to the door. Although her hair was fair, it showed some streaks of silver, and when her head turned, he recognized the woman his brother had married many years before, and at whose wedding he had danced.