The Queen's Secret (8 page)

‘Are you jealous?’

‘I wish I had time to be jealous. My head’s too full of other matters to worry about the comings and goings of pretty young things like yourself.’

She twisted around and looked up into his bearded, weather-beaten face, curious and more than a little concerned. She had known for years that Master Goodluck had a reputation in certain circles as a spy, and it worried her to think of her comfortable old guardian engaged in such a dangerous business, especially when she could not be entirely certain whether he was spying for or against the Queen. She had seen the bloody remains of too many spiked and staring heads on London Bridge to shrug off the possibility that Goodluck might get himself arrested.

‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked. ‘Do you carry news from abroad to the Queen’s advisers?’

‘Oh, so those dark eyes of yours see more than just goodly young men.’ Goodluck shook his head at her questioning look, and took another swig from his flask. ‘My work is no great matter for discussion, trust me. My only advice would be to beware of Italians. And that must suffice for now.’

There was a grim look to his eyes that Lucy had never seen
before,
a heaviness that made her wish to smooth those lines away. But she knew he would resent such a sisterly gesture, so she pretended not to have noticed. Instead she allowed him to pull her back into his arms.

‘For tonight,’ Goodluck said, kissing her cheek with a fierce scratch of his beard, ‘the Queen is safely tucked up here in Kenilworth, and I am very thankful to see my not so little Lucy again.’

Eight

LETTICE CARRIED THE
Queen’s heavy, thickly jewelled foreskirt to one of the open travelling chests. With aching arms, she laid it gently alongside the matching sleeves and stiff ivory busk that had kept Elizabeth’s torso fashionably flat during the long hot day. She examined the fabric critically, but all the jewels were still attached; there would be no need to note down any lost gems in the wardrobe book. The fragile material of the foreskirt, however, had snagged in several places and would need to be mended before the gown could be worn again, a painstaking task requiring several hours of close, eye-burning needlework. With any luck though, one of Elizabeth’s seamstresses would have arrived by now, and she herself would not need to give up an entire evening to the job.

Lady Mary Sidney and Lady Helena Snakenborg were wrestling with the knotted laces of Elizabeth’s bum-roll while Elizabeth herself stood in her underwear, tapping her foot, leaning one hand on the wall.

‘Damn these hellish contraptions. I can scarce breathe. Where is my wine? One of you, fetch me a glass of wine!’

Lettice saw a wine flagon and glasses laid out on the table – two fluted glasses of rich Venetian ware – and poured Elizabeth a glass of wine.
Two glasses
. She kept her face carefully expressionless, though a savage bitterness filled her heart. So my lord Leicester intended to welcome Elizabeth to his Warwickshire home later
that
night, no doubt as he had welcomed her previously, with a loving cup and his warm skin against hers in the dark.

Her hand trembled as she handed the wine to Elizabeth, curtseying deep. ‘Your Majesty.’

Piercing eyes surveyed her without smiling and Lettice dropped her gaze. Was it possible she knew their secret? Could some spying servant have carried the tale to Elizabeth’s ears?

An unexpected flash of rebellion strengthened her. ‘Should I fetch you something sweet to eat, Your Majesty?’

Elizabeth looked at her a long moment, her thin lips pursed. ‘The Bible. Fetch me the Holy Bible.’

‘At once, Your Majesty.’

She searched the assembled luggage in vain, but Elizabeth’s small book chest was nowhere in evidence. No doubt it would appear in daylight with the rest of her luggage.

‘What’s the matter?’ Elizabeth demanded irritably as Lettice hunted about the room and the other women continued to ready her for bed. Mary was rubbing a rose-scented lotion into her hands to preserve Elizabeth’s skin, as Helena stretched up on tiptoe to remove each slender pin that held her day wig in place. ‘Is my order too difficult for you to follow?’

Lettice gave up the search. ‘I beg pardon, Your Majesty, but your book chest has not yet arrived.’

‘What’s that beside the bed?’

Lettice followed the line of Elizabeth’s imperious finger and saw, beside the vast gold-canopied bed, a small engraved table in the shape of an octagon on which stood a large leather-bound book with gold clasps and deep gilt lettering to the spine. She took it up and brought it over with an obedient curtsey.

‘Open it to the Book of Psalms and read some verses aloud to me,’ Elizabeth instructed her, having finally shed her bum-roll. She stood there innocent enough in her simple white shift. By now Helena had placed a wig of straight, well-brushed, flame-red hair on her head and was starting to pin it in place. ‘With a clear voice. I am in need of the scriptures tonight.’

Sensing herself to be on trial, Lettice unfastened the gold clasps and turned the gossamer-thin, delicate, gold-tipped leaves to the
Book
of Psalms. The bold black lettering in a Gothic font stared up mockingly at her.

She wet her lips nervously. ‘It is in Latin, Your Majesty.’

‘In Latin?’ Elizabeth paused a moment, frowning across at her. ‘Then you must translate.’

‘I … Yes, Your Majesty. Forgive me, Your Majesty.’

Lettice began to translate, her voice faltering, and had not finished three lines before Elizabeth reached across and knocked the Bible from her hands. The holy book fell to the floor with a crash, its gilt-tipped pages flying open. Lady Mary gave a cry of alarm, perhaps fearing such an action was sacrilegious. Nobody else in the room moved.

‘Where were you as a girl when your teachers should have sat you down to learn your Latin grammar? With your skirts round your ears in some filthy shrubbery, no doubt.’

Elizabeth strode to the bed in nothing but her shift and knitted silk stockings, Lady Helena running behind with an embroidered silk nightgown draped over her arm. Lady Mary stooped to retrieve the Bible from its ignoble position and replaced it on the bedside table.

‘You will have words with the castle steward, Lady Essex, and find my good English Bible in the stores. I will not have this Papist monstrosity in my chambers. You will do this before you sleep tonight. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

Fleeing the room before anything sharper than a Bible was thrown at her, Lettice ran from the bedchamber with her head down and her heart pounding.

She stood a moment in the broad torchlit doorway to the Privy Chamber, allowing her breathing to slow and settle. Her abrupt exit had excited a few curious stares from guardsmen and servants still moving Elizabeth’s own furniture into her apartments. She straightened her gown, which was soiled and crumpled from travelling, and smoothed the line of her French hood. They might not be in London, but while travelling with the Queen’s entourage she was still ‘at court’ and must behave accordingly.

Calmer now, she made for the stairs. Her legs were trembling though and she had tears in her eyes, like a recalcitrant child scolded by its mother. Except these were tears of rage.

Where were you as a girl? With your skirts round your ears in some filthy shrubbery
?

Such an ugly accusation to have made. Her Latin schooling had been fair, but she had only engaged with it a few years before being removed from such unnecessary lessons and taught instead to speak French prettily, to dance in the latest courtly fashion, to embroider and make her curtsey. She had not been raised in such royal privilege as Elizabeth, who had needed to know the language of international diplomacy before the lessons of sampler and song. Like Lady Mary Sidney, like most daughters of noblemen, Lettice had been taught to read and write, to know a little history and geography, and had applied herself well to her lessons. But she had been bred to be a courtier’s wife, not a great scholar like Elizabeth with a book constantly in her hand – and indeed a wife and mother were all she had ever been.

Elizabeth must know of her renewed affair with Leicester. What else could this violent, unjust temper mean?

Lettice thought of Walter, her husband, the Earl of Essex, of his cold and proudly handsome face. She closed her eyes, sick to her stomach with fear. He had been so angry last time, so aggressive and hard to pacify. If her renewed affair with Robert were to become an open secret, what might Walter do on his return from Ireland?

‘Hey, whoa there!’

A strong pair of hands grasped and steadied her, and Lettice realized that she had been running too fast down the staircase, almost tripping in her haste.

‘In a hurry, my lady Essex?’

She looked up into Robert’s handsome face and knew what she must do, the terrible risk she must take. He alone would know how best to soothe Elizabeth’s anger, he who had survived longest at her court.

They were alone on the narrow, dim-lit staircase.

‘She knows,’ she hissed.

Frowning, Robert laid a warning hand against her mouth. For
a
terrifying instant she thought he meant to stifle her. Hurriedly, she kissed his hand instead, savouring the salt tang of his skin, the hint of leather and horses.

He shook his head in silent warning, then removed his hand from her mouth and drew her down a few more steps into the shadows of an unlit landing.

‘Not here.’

‘Where, then?’ she demanded in a whisper.

‘In the aviary at the far end of the Queen’s Privy Garden. Tomorrow, an hour after we return from church.’

‘That will be too late. I tell you, she knows.’

Robert glanced up and down the narrow staircase, then leaned forward to press a swift kiss on her mouth. Unable to help herself, she rubbed her body eagerly against his and felt his instant response, the stiffening at his groin and the possessive curve of his arm about her waist.

Let her spies catch us
, Lettice thought.
She cannot prevent this. Even the greatest of queens can have no jurisdiction over a man’s desire
.

He groaned under his breath. ‘Lettice, we must not—’

‘Why not? There is no one here to see us.’

Hesitant at first, his hand stroked her throat, then slid down to the deep, pale curve between her breasts. So his desire for her had not been lessened by the fear of discovery, Lettice thought. He tugged at the restraining material of her bodice as though he intended to free her breasts.

‘Essex is a fool.’ He groaned. ‘He should be whipped for neglecting such a wife.’

Hungry as a cat for physical affection, Lettice sank her face into his red and gold jacket with its glorious scent of his body, sweetly spiced, his breath warm on her throat. If only Walter could possess Robert’s easy charm, or if he could at least spend more time at home or at court, perhaps she might not feel so starved of love. It was not entirely her fault that she had looked elsewhere.

Arching backwards for more of his kisses, she scratched her cheek on one of his embossed gold buttons and gave a sharp cry.

He caught her shoulders as she jerked away. ‘What now?’

‘Your finery attacked me,’ she complained, rubbing her cheek,
then
laughed at the expression on his face. ‘Wasn’t it you who told me love hurts?’

‘Yes, I did say that.’ He traced her scratched cheek with one finger, his eyes intent. ‘But in bed, not on the stairs.’

‘Yet one must climb the stairs to reach one’s bed.’

He sighed. ‘Have a care then, not to fall in the attempt.’

She laid a restraining hand on his arm as he made to turn away. ‘You too must be careful, Robert. The Queen suspects us, I’m sure of it. I have not seen her this agitated for months. There was an old Latin Bible at her bedside. She cursed and threw it to the floor when I read to her from it.’

He frowned. ‘I thought the Latin would please her.’

‘Tonight everything offends her. She called for a plain English Bible, and all but accused you of being a Papist.’

Their eyes met at that, and both laughed. But it was an uncomfortable laughter, and she caught a hint of anger in his face. He had always been so vehemently against the Roman faith, such a groundless accusation must sting hard.

Robert tugged at his jacket as if to straighten it, then paused. Slowly and carefully, he unwound one of her long red hairs from around a gilt button.

His eyes danced as he held up the single hair. ‘This could have made for an awkward moment later.’

‘I don’t see why,’ she replied tartly. ‘The lady in question might have mistaken it for one of her own.’

He held the hair up to the light from the nearest window slit, examining it mock-critically. ‘Hers has not the same rich lustre—’

‘For pity’s sake, keep your voice down!’

He smiled at her shocked expression, and tucked the reddish hair into some hidden pocket in his jacket. ‘There,’ he whispered. ‘Close to my heart. Now don’t look so worried. The Queen will not hurt you, even if she does suspect our affair. You are her cousin and more like Elizabeth than any other woman at court. To harm you would be like cutting off her own right hand.’