The Queen's Secret

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘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.’r />
  ‘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.’

  ‘Or her nose to spite her face,’ Lettice muttered.

  Silently, he moved to step round her, and she caught at his arm. ‘Don’t bother with her tonight, Robert. She won’t let you past the door.’

  ‘I have a prior arrangement. The Queen will honour it.’

  ‘I do not believe she will. Stay with me instead,’ she insisted. The sound of carousing drifted up the stairs from the open courtyard below. ‘You are master here. We are in your own castle of Kenilworth, not at court where we are constantly watched.’

  ‘Court is where the Queen is.’

  She shook her head at his blind submission. ‘Find us a place where we can bolt the door and be private together. The Queen won’t expect my return tonight. We will not be discovered.’

  ‘Lettice, sweetest, I can’t do that.’ He kissed her again, once on each cheek and once on her parted lips, then put her gently aside, as no doubt he had once put aside his wife. ‘The Queen will be expecting me, and I can’t fail to be there. To serve the Queen is what I most desire, even beyond my love for you. It is what keeps a courtier safe and in her good graces. I advise you to cultivate the same desire yourself, unless you wish to find yourself far from court – and me.’

  In silence, Lettice watched him step up towards the brightly lit chambers of the royal apartments, leaving her bereft against the cold stone. Was no man ever to show her true love and affection?

  She turned and guided herself down into darkness, blinking back angry tears once again. To serve the Queen is what I most desire, even beyond my love for you. What further sign did she need of Robert’s intentions?

  It was July now. If Elizabeth changed her mind and chose to accept him, Robert could be on the throne before the first leaves began to turn.

  Nine

  THE TINY SCRATCHING at her door sounded more like a mouse behind the wainscot than someone requesting entry to the Royal Bedchamber. Nonetheless, Elizabeth recognized the sound and halted her restless pacing, turning to the leaded windows of the state apartments. Her ladies stirred but she held them back with a gesture, and they sat back on the floor, attending once more to their embroidery.

  Slowly, she tidied her nightgown and robe, then waited another good minute before giving him permission to enter.

  ‘Veni!’

  The castle grounds had fallen into inky darkness now, all trace of fireworks gone, their burning lights submerged beneath the lake like the village which had once stood there, its people driven out of their homes to make way for the castle’s watery defences. High walls, deep water, watchtowers, inner and outer courts, the iron clang of the portcullis being lowered behind her soldiers. She was living in a fortress. Yet such precautions were necessary, it would appear. At their last meeting Walsingham had mentioned another plot against her life, though for once his intelligence was scanty.

  Yet she felt safe here at Kenilworth. Her personal bodyguards stood at arms only a few feet away in the Presence Chamber, with orders to admit none but her ladies-in-waiting and her most trusted courtiers, and Robert had posted men at all possible points of entry to the royal apartments.

  The door had opened quietly in response to her command. It was her own Robin, of course. She did not need to turn her head to assure herself of that as she followed his reflection across the room in the leaded diamonds of the window. With all the candles in the great chamber, flecks of light swimming in the thick glass, it was like a vision in a cathedral with Elizabeth at the altar, waiting for her prayers to be answered.

  Several of her ladies rose in a rustling flurry of skirts and curtseyed low at his entrance. Demurely, they offered him wine and sweetmeats, both of which Robert declined in a smiling voice.

  Too impatient to concern herself with the need for discretion, Elizabeth waved the women away.

  ‘Leave us, all of you.’

  Nevertheless, she waited until the door had closed behind the last of her attendants before turning to him. He was kneeling with uncharacteristic humility, head bowed. She suspected that someone must have informed him of her mood on his way upstairs. Who else but the faithless Countess of Essex?

  Straight-backed in her white nightgown and ermine-trimmed robe, she raised him with an impatient gesture.
‘You cannot stay, Robin. Not tonight.’

  ‘As you wish, Your Majesty.’

  Elizabeth noticed that Robert’s gaze was on the heavy gilt Bible at her bedside, and knew that she was right. Lettice must have spoken to him before he reached her presence.

  ‘I have sent Lady Essex to fetch my own English Bible. That one was not to my taste.’

  ‘Pardon my presumption in providing it, Your Majesty.’ He seemed to hesitate, and she knew a moment of curiosity as she wondered how he would deal with his fear of antagonizing her. ‘With your love of languages, I thought the Latin would please you.’

  She remembered the dancing shadows outside the tent at Long Itchington, and her nails dug into her palms, cutting tiny half-moons in her skin. The memory poisoned her thoughts, left her struggling against the strong desire to scream at him like a common fishwife, to demand the truth about him and Lettice.

  ‘My people are permitted to hear the scriptures in English now. Why should my own Bible be in Latin?’

  Robert bowed deep from the waist, seemingly obedient, though his gaze returned rather too swiftly to her face.

  ‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’

  Was she a fool to keep refusing his offers of marriage? She had never met a foreign prince she liked better than Robert, however handsome and assiduous in their courtship her various suitors had been, and God knew she had tried hard enough to like some of them. Even gone so far as to allow them to kiss and touch her more privately than she cared to remember. Yet Robert would not be ideal as a husband, a royal consort. He was an ambitious man, and ambitious men made dangerous bedpartners for a queen. Had not her cousin Mary proved that beyond any legitimate doubt?

  Even a homely marriage to an English nobleman might silence the doubters though, and perhaps even put a new scion of the house of Tudor into the royal nursery.

  The possibility of a child made Elizabeth draw breath. To be married at last, to be a mother!

  But to allow a man so close to her throne, and a Dudley no less, that could never be safe.