His Dark Lady (2 page)

One of the castle guards was staring at Lucy, his eyes bloodshot from the smoking torches. He glanced away when their eyes met. No doubt the foolish man thought her a heathen with her black skin, come here like one of the devil’s own to cast a curse on the company. If only she had some bones to rattle at him, she thought, and suppressed the urge to stick her tongue out.

Nobody in the castle was supposed to know why this room had been prepared. But of course there could be no such thing as a secret wedding when so many servants and villagers had been involved in fetching up armfuls of white spring blossom to decorate the mantels, clearing out the state apartments to make way for the company, and preparing a rich array of dishes for the feast that would follow.

The procession paused outside the open door to the magnificent state apartments. One of Lettice’s women fumbled with the countess’s gown, shaking out the heavily jewelled skirts so they would catch the candlelight to better advantage.

The groom stood by the vast marbled fireplace with his back to them, talking earnestly with the lean-faced Anglican priest who had ridden over from Coventry to marry them.

Lord Leicester looked almost regal tonight, Lucy thought. She sensed the countess’s pleasure as she too paused on the threshold to stare at her husband-to-be. Lucy could hardly believe what she had heard about him, that once he had merely been Robert Dudley, Master of the Queen’s Horse; that night he was every inch the wealthy, landowning Earl of Leicester. For his wedding suit, he had chosen a fashionable red doublet and hose of French design, a fine woollen cloak hanging from one shoulder, a gold-hilted sword by his side, his velvet cap feathered and set at an angle on silvering hair.

From within the apartments came the sound of music: a single tabor holding a rhythmic beat against the sweet notes of hautboys and horns. Lucy listened to the slow dignified music of the pavane and let it fill her, suddenly overjoyed for the couple, so very much in love that they would dare the Queen’s fury like this.

‘I’ve won,’ Lettice muttered, feeding on her bridegroom with her eyes. Her knuckles turned white as she clutched a spray of fresh spring flowers. ‘It’s happening at last, Lucy. There’s nothing the Queen can do to stop us now.’

Lettice swept in and Lord Leicester turned eagerly, only to fall silent at the sight of his bride-to-be in her wedding gown.

Holding up the countess’s train, Lucy followed at the same pace, dressed soberly in a gown of russet taffeta. She curtsied to Lord Leicester and the robed cleric from Coventry, then stepped back into place behind Lettice as the couple spoke quietly together for a moment.

The room had been splendidly dressed for the ceremony, the white and yellow blossoms set about with candles, and hanging silks to soften the castle walls. On the sideboard under the window stood the bride cup, dwarfed by two large silver branches of candles. It would be Lucy’s duty after the ceremony to fill the heavily ornate gold chalice with spiced wine, handing it to the newly married couple to drink each other’s health. A dozen tiny bridal cakes had been stacked up delicately beside the cup, sweetly fragrant and oozing honey. A young pageboy had been set to wave away any flies or moths attracted by the candle flames. The boy looked quite awed by the splendour of the occasion, staring back wide-eyed when Lucy winked at him.

Abruptly, the laughter and talk in the crowded chamber became subdued. The music swelled to a finish. A space was cleared before the stone-flanked hearth, where a low fire burned steadily. The countess turned her head and Lucy gathered up the silver train of her gown. She followed the countess slowly forward to where two velvet cushions had been set for the couple to kneel on, then knelt behind them on the wooden floor.

On either side of their small party stood the bridesmen and women in the countess’s colours of scarlet and gold, some smiling with approval, others solemn. Liveried yeomen stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the door as though to guard them from interruption, and against the walls she could see the servants staring, hands clasped in prayer as the priest turned from blessing the wine and took up his book.

Lucy was smiling too, though inwardly she felt uneasy. She tried not to dwell on what might happen if the earl’s niece spilled this news to the Queen and court. Lady Mary would never betray her own blood, she told herself. Besides, it was too late to do anything about it now. More was the pity. The Queen’s temper, always violent
and
uncertain, had grown ever more unpredictable as she had entered her middle years. Surely she would never harm Robert Dudley, her favourite? But what of the rest of us who dared to witness this wedding and not prevent it?

The priest was looking nervous, too. His hands shook as he began to read, ‘Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation.’

Greenwich Palace, London, late April 1578

Fresh buds on the trees, the love-dance of the peacock shaking the ‘eyes’ on his splendid blue-green tail, a weak April sunshine on the grassy lawns. These were some of her favourite sights in spring. Yet Elizabeth could hardly bear to stop and admire them as she paced the neatly kept paths and gardens at Greenwich Palace. She bit her lip, rubbed and clapped her gloved hands together, now walking briskly, now standing in a daze like a moonstruck calf. Where had Robert gone? What was he doing that was so important it must keep him from court? She had thought they were growing closer again, this past year. Why would he cause her this new grief?

The Earl of Leicester had come back to court from the country on her summons, then kept mysteriously to his own suite of rooms, claiming to be ill. Now he had vanished entirely, and without asking her permission to leave court. It seemed the earl had been ferried back across the river with his servants to sit out a fever at Leicester House, her spies had told her apologetically. But Elizabeth could tell they were unsure of their information. Shuffling feet, downcast eyes. Hurriedly penned notes that spoke of indecision.
Might be there, Your Majesty. May lately have been seen in the vicinity
.

Idiots! And they dared to call themselves her spies. She should have them all strung up as fools and knaves. Except, as her spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham, was fond of reminding her, she would then get no information out of them at all, let alone this embarrassed throat-clearing over Robert’s whereabouts. What were they trying to hide from her?

It had once again become her custom to walk out with her ladies in the early mornings. It had been another bitter winter, ice remaining on the ground long after it should have thawed, and the stiff
green
tips of spring flowers frozen where they grew. But now it was late April, and at last Elizabeth was able to enjoy the sweet breeze and the birds calling to each other in the spring sunshine. Such a relief, she thought, to leave behind the choking air of chambers where night pots had not yet been emptied nor soiled rushes swept away. They had been in residence several months now, and it was becoming impossible to mask the stench of the privies with burned herbs or sweeten the odour of unwashed flesh with pomanders.

She turned back towards the palace. ‘Speak, what is it?’ she asked brusquely, seeing one of her stewards hurrying towards her.

‘The Spanish ambassador awaits you in the Presence Chamber, Your Majesty.’

Signor Mendoza! She had forgotten their meeting this morning. She thought of his watchful eyes and the dark oily sheen of his hair, but could not quite find it in herself to dislike the man. He might be reporting every movement she made back to Spain, but at least he understood how to entertain a bored queen with gossip.

‘What’s that?’ she demanded. Something had fluttered slowly down from an open window above their heads. Elizabeth stared upwards, but it was impossible to make anything out against the sunlight. ‘Pick it up, man, and give it to me. Is it a letter? From whose window did it fall?’

‘Window?’ the steward repeated blankly, but craned his neck upwards at her command. ‘I cannot tell, Your Majesty. I see no one.’

The letter was not addressed to anyone; it merely held a few lines in a bold hand. Her blood chilled as she read them.

‘I do not believe it,’ she choked, then crumpled the letter up tight in her gloved hand.

God’s blood, could it be true?

Remain calm, she told herself, aware of her women staring. Remember that you are a queen. Reveal nothing.

‘Send for Lord Leicester. I would speak with him at once.’

‘But, Your Majesty, he … his lordship is not at court at present.’

‘Then send to Leicester House and tell him I will brook no delay, but must see him this very day.’ Elizabeth stared at the trees swaying gently in the spring breeze. How dared he? How dared he? The blood thrummed in her temples. ‘No, wait! I shall go myself. Have my barge readied.’

The steward stared at his queen as though she had turned mad as old King Canute. Perhaps she was mad. Yes, that would explain her look: as if she would snap his neck like a twig if he did not at once carry out her command.

‘Your b … barge, Your Majesty?’

‘Out of my way, fool,’ she snapped, sweeping past him in such a rage that she was barely able to make herself understood to her women as she fumed at them to change her walking gown.

She stood impatiently while women fussed about her, stepping out of her petticoats and holding up her arms for the sleeves to be unlaced. She did not stop to wonder who would have thrown down such a letter for her to find. Walsingham could discover that later. For now she must simply determine whether or not it held the truth. Though in her heart she knew it was no lie.

Damn him, damn him!

Elizabeth rode towards the river in the breezy spring sunshine, surrounded by guards and her flustered-looking women, a light wind whipping up sand on the pathway. Was that genuine confusion on the faces of her ladies-in-waiting or had she been the last to know again? Bad enough his flagrant affair with Lettice three years ago, that Elizabeth knew had slowly rekindled after Lettice’s husband had died, but this …

In the royal barge, she straightened out the crumpled note and read it once more, her heart lacerated by its contents.

R. has been secretly married these past three weeks to Essex’s widow, who now holds court with him in queenly estate at Leicester House. A Friend
.

Holds court
? That was a cunning phrase, right enough, but what did it signify? Did Lettice now presume to become queen in her place? Elizabeth ground her teeth in rage and frustration. She would have this out with Robert today, even if it meant outright war between them. At least surprise would be on her side.

But on arriving at Leicester House, Robert’s extensive London residence that opened its gates on to the Strand, Elizabeth found to her great annoyance that a messenger must have ridden hard ahead of their company. The doors to the great house stood open, all the servants down on their knees outside as the cavalcade approached, a litter bearing her from the river.

‘His lordship is unwell,’ his steward babbled as Elizabeth was helped from her litter, ‘and begs for a little more time to prepare himself for your honoured visit, Your Majesty.’

Ignoring the man, Elizabeth strode into the house, past staring servants, and up the grand staircase. Her women began to follow her in whispering disorder, but she barked, ‘Wait for me below!’, sending them back outside in disarray. Let them stare and make baleful predictions there, she thought. This was one interview they would not be allowed to overhear.

Elizabeth found Robert in the doorway to his bedchamber, wrapped in a house coat, looking very pale – and in truth unwell.

‘Your Majesty,’ he croaked, then knelt, head bowed, as she met his gaze with utter fury and contempt. ‘Forgive me.’

His servant bolted when she turned to glare at him.

‘Is it true?’ she managed after a threadbare silence, looking down at Robert’s bent head. ‘Are you and my cousin Lettice wed?’

He looked up then, and she knew the letter had not lied. His dark eyes watched her, eyes that made it impossible for her to order his death. ‘Yes, it is true.’

The blood beat in her ears so loud she thought she would faint. Married, married, married. She would kill him. No, she would kill her. Rip her throat out. Toss her liver to the dogs. Stick her bloodied head on a pike for all to see.

Elizabeth counted silently to ten. Better that than launch herself at him with a scream, all claws like a shrew.

‘And where is this she-wolf?’

Why did her voice have to sound so shrill? It angered her that she cared what Robert did after all these years. They were not promised to each other, had never been in any way the Council would recognize. This jealous rage demeaned her, lowered her to the status of a fishwife. He was her subject. Nothing more. What did it matter with whom he coupled, so long as he served her? Except this union could weaken her hold on the English crown. Lettice was of royal blood, had some claim to the throne, and Robert might no longer be young, but he was a nobleman now, an earl with vast resources at his command. Resources she had put in his path. Elizabeth cursed herself again for a trusting fool.

‘Not here,’ he told her. ‘I sent her home.’

‘Home?’

‘To her children.’

She waited. ‘You did not seek my permission to wed.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Would it have been given, Your Majesty?’

‘That is not the point.’

Her voice nagged at him. Yet she was somewhat mollified by his penitent tone. She liked that Robert was still on his knees, looking up at her like a supplicant. That was his place, that was where he belonged. On his knees to her, his queen.

‘My cousin Lettice is the widow of an earl, not a washerwoman. Her remarriage required my signature, as well you know. I should have you both arrested.’

‘Arrest me, Your Majesty, not your cousin. The fault is mine. I insisted that we wed without waiting for your permission.’ He was sweating and shivering, his discomfort obvious. Hard to counterfeit a fever. ‘Lettice is guiltless in this.’