The Queen's Secret (15 page)

She was going to die. Those men could murder her out here in the Brays, and no one would ever know what had happened.

Panic lent an unexpected speed and power to her legs. Running with her full stride, as she had not run since she was a child, Lucy plunged down the alley with her skirts held high, lurched out of the opening at the far end into another dark lane and began to double back towards the castle. Indeed, she was within sight of the gate when she realized they had almost caught up with her again.

Rounding a corner, she pulled up short, faced with two lanes, both smokily dark and empty of people.

To her right a broad lane led towards the Gallery Tower, but they would catch her before she could reach the safety of the guarded gate. To her left, what looked and smelt like a pigsty stood open, inviting her into its comfortable stench-filled blackness. Outside, a few mud-streaked pigs lay asleep in the gathering dusk.

On impulse, she chose the left-hand lane, ducked inside the low-roofed pigsty and yanked the door shut behind her. Hands flat on the rough wood of the pigsty door, she leaned forward silently and put her eye to a knothole.

At first, she could hear only the last birdsong of dusk as the sky began to darken into night. Then the boots of the two men came thudding across the dried mud, slowing to a halt as they drew level with her hiding place.

So they had not bothered with the right-hand lane either.

What had she done, trapping herself in this disgusting pit? The mud at her feet stank. Glancing down in dismay, she could see it was more than just mud. Pigs’ slurry, black and pottage-thick, stuck her to the spot in her high wooden clogs like a scarecrow. She tried to ignore the stench, focusing instead on the bright, uneven disc of light to which her eye was pressed.

The taller man, with a dagger at his belt, had his back to her, and was looking up the lane towards the gatehouse, from where Lucy heard a scrape of iron and shouted commands. The night watch were coming on duty, she realized, and wished there was some way she could attract their attention without revealing her hiding place.

The man with the dagger said something. She could not understand his words, but knew he was angry. His fellow spat into the dirt before replying in the same alien tongue. It sounded as though he was trying to persuade his companion to give up the search and go back to their tent. But the man with the dagger was not so easily deterred. Instead he turned, his dark gaze fixed on the pigsty as though he could see her through the old, gnarled wood of the closed door.

Lucy stood very still, controlling her breathing. She thought of the deer in the forest, its red-freckled body caught into stillness at the crack of a twig, and ignored the truculent rooting of young pigs at her feet. Why were these men so intent on catching her?

She looked again through the knothole. The man with the dagger had disappeared. Then she realized with horror why she could not see him – he was only a few feet away on the other side of the door. She could hear his breathing, the soft creak of his boots as he felt his way slowly across the churned-up earth towards her hiding place. She stood there unmoving, not even daring to blink in case he saw the tiny movement of her eye against the knothole, but her heart was clenched in fear.

What would happen if he caught her? How could she defend herself against his evil-looking dagger?

Lucy considered the terrifying possibility of rape, and it seemed to her worse even than death. To endure such an ordeal—

At that moment, a shout went up beyond the tiltyard and from somewhere in the outer court came the repeated blowing of a horn, a double-noted warning that the castle gates were about to close.

There was a muttered exchange as the man with the dagger left the pigsty, then both men hurried away up the lane towards the castle. Lucy stayed where she was until the sound of their boots
had
faded away. She looked down. Her skirts were badly muddied and one of the pigs had made a determined attempt to eat the hem, its wet black snout snuffling at her ankle now.

She pushed at the door and blinked at the rush of smoky twilight, her eyes having accustomed themselves to complete darkness. Only then did she allow herself to breathe properly.

Several of the young pigs ran out too, the thin-skinned runt squealing in protest as it was buffeted sideways into the rough frame. Lucy stepped over and around the excited beasts, lifting her ruined skirts as high as she dared, afraid to draw any more male attention to herself that night.

I could have been murdered tonight, raped first, and my throat cut before I could tell of it, she thought, as she stumbled back down the lane in her stinking, mud-coated clogs.

She thought longingly of Master Goodluck. But it was getting dark. Would the guards let her through the gate this late in the evening? She wanted to rest her head against the comfort of his broad chest and tell him what had happened. Goodluck would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

The guards on the gate refused her entrance, but she persuaded one to seek out Master Goodluck and bring him to see her. When he finally arrived, and frowned at her bedraggled appearance, she burst into tears. It was only after he took her in his arms that she began to feel calm enough to tell her tale.

‘Where exactly did this happen?’ he demanded when she finished. His intense gaze searched the smoky camp at the Brays. She could tell he was very angry. ‘Describe these men and their tent. Leave nothing out.’

Lucy did her best, giving him every detail she could remember, then asked if Goodluck would escort her back to her lodgings.

‘I do not want to walk through the Brays on my own,’ she admitted.

Goodluck nodded, and tucked her hand into his. It was a comfortable feeling. ‘Come, Lucy,’ he murmured, and his smile reassured her. ‘I’ll see you safely to your bed tonight, and tomorrow I shall find you new lodgings, away from this den of thieves.’

Seventeen

‘THE DISHES ARE
ready to be brought in, your majesty.’

Elizabeth nodded, but did not turn away from the window. She had spent the previous evening in the company of her ladies-in-waiting, listening as they took turns to read aloud from a translation of the long French poem
The Romance of the Rose
. It had been a relief not to preside over the feast again, for Walsingham’s tales of spies and assassins had left her nervous and on edge when surrounded by the full court. It was not quite noon but already the heat in the Presence Chamber was stifling. She could just see, out on the lake, the blue-green water dazzling, a family of swans making their slow way towards the bank, ducking under the bright surface every few yards in search of food.

The swans’ immaculate feathers shone white in the sunlight – as pure and chaste as her own ladies-in-waiting, she thought drily.

Beyond the dusty stretch of the walled tiltyard, she could see the tower they called the Watergate – an unlikely attribution, since the Lesser Pool below it seemed too shallow to reach its base – and beyond it, the ancient earthwork Brays, through which she had passed to enter the castle’s outer defences. Smoke rose lazily from the commoners’ quarters there, and she heard the distant echo of dogs barking even through the leaded glass in Robert’s new windows. She sighed. Sometimes it felt as though she travelled with an army, a warrior queen at the head of her troops, marching into battle each summer against an invisible foe. But
then
she would remember their poor and ragged state – the soldiers, seamstresses, cooks and artisans who had accompanied her from London – and know the battle for England was only half won if she could not improve the lot of these common people who trailed so loyally about the countryside after her.

There were a dozen lords and gentlemen in attendance today, not to mention their fawning wives and personal servants, all heavily decked out in glittering finery and crammed against the wall of the Presence Chamber to witness her main meal of the day. Yet her own Robin had sent his apologies, and now a deputy with a paunch stood in his place – a red-faced local official whose stammering, countrified explanation of his master’s absence she had been unable to follow.

The chamberlain entered, smartly dressed in the blue livery of Robert’s household. He presented the first dish, on bended knee, to Lettice Knollys, the most senior of her ladies in attendance that morning.

Lettice took the covered dish and bore it to Elizabeth. She lifted the lid and waited for the Queen’s approval before proceeding, with a deep curtsey, through into the Privy Chamber where they would all eat afterwards, out of sight of these lords and ladies, well-dressed burghers and hangers-on. Then Lettice returned for the next dish, an uncovered platter with a beautiful arrangement of summer fruits gathered from Robert’s own gardens, unless Elizabeth was mistaken. The apricots in particular were luscious and large, a soft golden yellow that begged for the mouth.

Elizabeth stayed where she was, remaining upright on her feet despite the heat from the sunlit windows. She received every dish with a slight nod of her head. After about the fifteenth dish had been brought forward for her inspection, she signalled one of her ladies to prop open the door to the Presence Chamber. A cool breeze found its way in through the open door, perhaps blowing in from the lake, or wafting across the enclosed inner court and up the warren of stone staircases that punctuated the new building.

The sweetmeats arrived last, borne on large silver platters, with flagons of sweet wine and sugared goblets carried by two almost identical page boys in blue livery. The sunlight beat upon the
wooden
floorboards, heating the strewn rushes until Elizabeth could feel their warmth through her thin-soled shoes. Someone handed her a goblet of wine and she sipped at it for show, oddly light-headed.

‘Your Majesty,’ a quiet voice spoke at her elbow.

She turned with some relief to Walsingham, whose absence she had also noted that morning.

Walsingham rose from his bow and stepped aside to introduce a young man of exceptionally handsome appearance. Clad in a stylish red doublet and feathered cap, the young man had olive skin and charming dark eyes that spoke of warmer climes than England. ‘May I introduce a young friend of mine, Signor Petruccio Massetti, late of Florence and Paris? He has been an admirer of yours for many years and has come to Kenilworth to meet Your Majesty face to face.’

‘Forgive me for staring so rudely, Your Majesty.’ The young man knelt humbly before her, his cap in his hand, his dark head bowed. His English was impeccable, almost too good for a foreigner. ‘I would be well served now if I were blinded for my impudence. Your beauty, Most High Queen, is far beyond anything I ever saw in Italy. To look directly into your divine face is like a mortal trying to stare at the sun without being dazzled. It cannot be done. It should not even be attempted.’

An Italian, and a practised courtier at that. Elizabeth smiled her pleasure and replied to the young man at length in his own tongue, knowing her grasp of the Italian language to be exemplary. She raised him to his feet and allowed him to stand at her right side while the last of the dishes were served, his flattering exclamations at the elegance of her dining arrangements a secret amusement for both her and her women.

Over the young man’s shoulder, she caught Walsingham’s dry expression and suspected that her secretary had presented the young man to her as some kind of consolation for Robert’s absence.

The thought irked her but she did not dwell on it. Between this extravagantly courteous Italian youth and Philip Sidney’s continuing presence at court, she should be assured of Robert’s jealousy this summer.

Finally, the ceremony was over, and she and her ladies retired to the Privy Chamber, the nobles bowing and muttering their good wishes for her repast with exaggerated flourishes. Even Walsingham led his young friend away, promising faithfully to bring him to talk to her again soon. Her ladies sighed in the heat, arranging themselves on cushions on the floor of the Privy Chamber while she settled herself alone at the heavily ornate dark wood table, hoping that her appetite might return at the sight of so many dishes.

Just as she was lifting the glazed wing of a duck to her lips, there was a peremptory knock at the door. Elizabeth was annoyed, for it was a rule that no one should interrupt her meal once it had begun. Nonetheless, when the Earl of Leicester was announced, she wiped her fingers on her white damask cloth and nodded grudgingly to the door keeper to allow him entrance.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’ Leicester removed his cap and knelt respectfully a few feet from her dining table, no doubt sensing her seething mood. ‘There was a matter that required my urgent attention. I was under the impression that Sir Thomas Smith would be in attendance here today, but clearly I was mistaken. It grieves me to think you have been without a host this morning. I only hope Your Majesty can forgive my error.’

‘What matter was this that required such urgent attention?’

‘Once you have taken your repast, Your Majesty, I would be glad to share this business with you. But I see your food is cooling on the table—’