The Queen's Secret

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Take that Papist book with you when you go,’ she instructed him coldly, once more facing the window and the dark countryside beyond.

  He came up behind her, a shadow on the glass. His hands were on her shoulders before she realized what he was planning, and she spun, a quick oath on her lips that died at the look in his face. She shook her head, put her hands on his chest. But he would not be stopped, his strength easily superior to her own.

  ‘No,’ she insisted.

  His arms clasped her tight, pulled her against the rich stuff of his doublet, and Elizabeth felt the old familiar weakening of her limbs, the odd delirious tingling that always seemed to presage a fainting fit yet meant nothing but desire, as she knew now.

  ‘Don’t you recall what the common people are saying of me?’ she demanded, trying to make him see sense. ‘That I am no longer a virgin. That you and I are lovers.’

  ‘And are these things not true?’

  ‘Robin, for God’s sake!’

  His hands stroked her shoulders through the white ermine-trimmed silk of her night robe. ‘The people adore you, Elizabeth, whatever we may do in the privacy of your chamber. Did you not see the men and women kneeling in the road as you left London, begging for your blessing on their heads as you passed? And here tonight, entering Kenilworth … Didn’t you hear the people cheering, or see the flowers they threw in your path?’

  ‘Such things will mean nothing once my reputation is lost.’ She shook her head. ‘This is not Richmond or Whitehall. We are too public here. If you stay tonight, they will call me a whore.’

  His hands seized hers, pressing them urgently against the swell of his body. ‘Then marry me, Elizabeth. Make the bastards swallow their words.’

  ‘I cannot.’ Her stomach tightened with apprehension. ‘England is not yet secure, and many in the Council still wait to see me married off to some stout Protestant prince. No, the times are too dangerous for such a marriage. The country would descend into civil war and tear itself apart, just as it did before my grandfather took the throne.’

  ‘I do not believe it. The people would be happy to see me by your side.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘Those who still believe in stability for England.’

  ‘They must be few indeed,’ she said drily. ‘Besides, if we were wed, you would try to master me. I shall not be mastered by any man, Robert. I have sworn it.’

  ‘And to whom have you sworn this fierce oath?’

  ‘To myself.’

  He smiled. ‘Bess, my beautiful Bess.’

  ‘Don’t call me that. I’m no longer that girl.’ Yet the affection behind his childish address pleased her. She found herself turning in to the warmth of his body, her earlier anger almost forgotten. How good it was between them when they were not arguing. ‘Robert …’

  His mouth was at her throat. ‘My queen, my lovely beauty.’

  Exulting in the heat that sprang between them, the desire still as fervent as when they had been young and nobody had been watching, she let him kiss her, tilting her head back until their mouths met. He spoke against her lips, and she almost pulled back to ask, teasingly, ‘What did you say?’ Then memory tugged at her again, conjuring two whispering shadows, half glimpsed in sleep, seen through the pale billowing sails of the royal tent, their heads close together. The vision slid back under her ribs with a shock, sharp and demanding.

  She wanted to shout the hated name at him, throw it at him in a furious riot of accusation.

  Lettice. What is she to you? How dare you come to me tonight when your eyes would prefer her face to mine?

  But such an outburst could only weaken her position. Besides, to admit jealousy would be to mark her out as her father’s daughter, driven beyond reason and diplomacy by the urges of her body.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said instead, quickly extricating herself with a smile. ‘Tomorrow we will celebrate Mass in the village church. Is that the plan?’

  Robert straightened. As his arms dropped away from her, he seemed to understand that the moment for embracing was over, that she would not go any further tonight. That was something she had always admired about him. With his innate intelligence and quick grasp of any political situation, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was the man she turned to first in a crisis. Or when she needed a little wit and light relief. Life at court could be so dull and restrictive that she was constantly in need of distraction. Robert had always made her laugh when no one else could. Surely that must be worth something?

  ‘Tomorrow, everything will be just as you requested.’

  Elizabeth managed another smile, but took the precaution of moving swiftly away before he could distract her again with his gaze and his clever hands.

  Her ladies already whispered enough behind their idle hands whenever she and Robert danced or walked together or rode out hunting. The court was a stifling prison, its corridors full of watchful shadows. There could be little hope of privacy even at Kenilworth, though knowing that Robert’s sleeping quarters were so close at hand was both a comfort and a temptation she could do without.

  ‘Then you may leave me.’ She nodded towards the closed door. ‘I have other business yet tonight.’

  Robert was curious, and not a little irritated; this was clear from the way his dark eyes narrowed on her face. But he swept another extravagant bow, his smile following swiftly. Rather too swiftly, she thought, and held herself aloof, at her most distant, barely acknowledging his departure.

  ‘I bid you goodnight, Your Majesty, and I humbly pray you enjoy better sleep than I expect to.’

  As soon as the door had closed behind him, Elizabeth staggered to the bed, no longer able to hold herself erect. The old pain had returned, gripping her belly, her womb. The desire to call him back, to shut her door to the world as she welcomed him into her bed, was powerful. Yet the overriding need to remain silent was like an armoured glove clamped about her heart, its vast metal fingers squeezing her half to death.

  Must she never conceive a son to honour and preserve the royal house of Tudor?

  She did not have to wait long for her last visitor of the night. The secret knock came a few moments later, as though the old spymaster had been waiting his turn in the shadows while Robert was in her bedchamber.

  Elizabeth opened the door herself. ‘It’s late.’

  Francis Walsingham bowed stiffly at her tone, austere as ever in his stern black doublet and hose. His neat white ruff was as high as those of any of the young bucks at court, yet his ornaments were sparing – just one golden link-chain about his neck to proclaim his wealth.

  ‘I would have come earlier but you were otherwise engaged,’ he commented without emphasis, his glance searching every corner of her bedchamber with his usual caution. Apparently satisfied, he turned back, observing her ermine-trimmed robe, the silk folds of her nightwear. ‘Perhaps I should return tomorrow, Your Majesty, when you are rested?’

  But Elizabeth had seen the rolled-up papers in his hand. Walsingham would not come to her so late at night if it was not a matter of great importance. She sighed, then threw the door wide for him and turned away to her chair, too fatigued to stand any longer. Her eyes stung as though she had been staring too long into the heart of a fire.

  ‘Say what you’ve come to say, old friend. I’m tired but not yet ready for my bed. As my father would have said, there’ll be time enough for sleep when I’m dead.’

  Walsingham’s smile was dry as he closed the door and limped towards her. ‘Your death, Majesty, is the very matter about which I have come.’

  Ten

  IT WAS THE unaccustomed sound of birdsong that woke Lucy early, not the bells. Bells she heard constantly in London. Her own modest dwelling stood next to old St Mary’s, and the black-barred gate down to its crypt terrified her whenever she passed it after nightfall. The church itself had a low crumbling tower with a bell which rang out solemn and rich on the hour. On Sundays and holy feast days, it might be heard to peal all morning, from
dawn to afternoon, and sometimes even beyond, with the consequence that she could sleep right through the bells when not summoned to court. There were birds in London too, of course, especially in the grand gardens of the palaces. But birdsong this loud and relentless was alien to her.

  Lucy groaned and hid her face in the hard, narrow bolster that passed for her pillow. Had every bird in Warwickshire come to perch on her window ledge?

  Rising about an hour later, when the sun was higher, she dressed hurriedly and smoothed her hair back with pins, fastening a white pleated hood over it as she had been shown. At home, she would not have bothered with a hood or cap, for being unmarried she was permitted to wear her hair loose unless at church. She had missed the service this morning, but she knew from experience that it would not do to admit that. The court servants and performers were expected to attend Mass at dawn, long before the court itself was awake. For someone like her, dark-skinned and ‘heathen’ in her looks, as old Mistress Hibbert loved to point out, the last thing she needed was an accusation of godlessness. So if any should ask why she had not come to church that morning, with her demure white hood in place she could at least pretend to have been there, hidden in the crush at the back.

  Lucy emptied her privy bucket out of the narrow window at the back. One of the girls with whom she was sharing the room – long gone, presumably breakfasted and churched by now – had shown her where to empty it, and then told her how to reach the inner court in case she got lost again. The path was easy enough to find by daylight, she had assured Lucy, though she warned her not to attempt it alone after dusk.

  She made her way through the smoky, crowded alleyways of the Brays to the tiltyard gate. The guard on duty remembered her from the night before, and as she passed along the dusty tiltyard, skirts raised out of the dirt, Lucy found the place humming with activity. Just as they had done the night before, acrobats practised their tumbles on the rough ground, dogs ran barking between the tents within the outer walls, and she could see her own people returning from the village church.

  Worried that she might be seen and her absence at church remarked upon, Lucy made her way hurriedly across the outer court, head down. She was walking so swiftly that she collided with someone and staggered backwards, strong hands catching her before she fell.

  ‘Pardon, mistress!’

  It was Tom, her rescuer from the night before. Lucy looked up into his face, shocked to find him so close. His hands were still supporting her, one arm about her waist. She pulled away at once, righting her gown.

  Had the others spotted her?

  Tom took up the fallen reins of the white horse he had been leading, settling the animal with a muttered word, stroking his hand down its milky neck.

  Lucy’s hood was askew, her face hot. Quickly she turned her back on the entertainers coming from the gatehouse and tidied her hair, trying not to look at him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You never told me your name last night.’

  ‘Lucy,’ she managed. ‘Lucy Morgan.’

  ‘Lucy Morgan,’ he repeated slowly and bowed, as though he was a lord and she a lady of the court.

  Behind him, the horse stamped impatiently and nudged his shoulder, as though wondering what the hold-up was.

  ‘I ought to go,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I woke too late for church and missed Mass. The others will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘I didn’t think they had any Moors at court,’ Tom continued. ‘You must be a novelty with your beautiful black skin and eyes. The Queen keeps you to amuse herself, perhaps. I see you wear their court gowns too, and they suit you.’ His gaze travelled down over her throat and chest, exposed by the low-cut bodice. She did not find the touch of his gaze unpleasant. ‘Do they treat you well, these English lords and ladies?’

  Lucy hesitated, unwilling to say anything disloyal about the Queen and her court.

  Then the reply died on her lips as a violent roar erupted behind them.

  Lucy turned, and saw the bear from last night reared up on its hind legs. Taller than any man there, it clawed at the air with vast hairy paws, its mouth open wide.

  Something must have upset the creature – possibly the sound of its owner arguing with the guards on the gate.

  The bear-tamer jerked impatiently on the bear’s chain, trying to bring the beast back down to the ground. But the bear lunged forward, taking him by surprise. The man’s grip on the chain must have loosened, for suddenly the animal was free.

  Too terrified to scream, Lucy stood rooted to the spot as the huge creature lumbered across the outer court towards her, its heavy chain trailing uselessly behind it.

  While the guards stood gaping, the crowd scattered before its path, women and children screaming in fear, men shouting for a pike or a loaded musket as they ran. Even the horses tied up outside the stable whinnied and reared up in terror at the bear’s approach.

  ‘Get behind me!’

  Dropping the horse’s reins, Tom pulled Lucy into the shelter of his body and shouted into the face of the oncoming bear.

  He planted his legs broadly, arms spread out wide to each side, as though trying to make himself the same size as the bear. Now he stood his ground.

  Sure that Tom must be killed or maimed, and herself soon after, Lucy hid her face in her hands and prayed.

  She burned with shame that she had not gone to hear Mass that morning, not walked to church with the others as she ought to have done and purified her soul of sin. If she died now, in this unconfessed state, the gates of heaven would be closed to her for ever.

  Yet the worst did not happen. Nothing happened.

  When the bear’s hideous grunting stopped and silence followed, Lucy peeped out from between her fingers, shaking, barely able to understand that she was still alive.

  The black bear had come to a halt only a few feet from Tom and herself. As she watched in disbelief, it sank back on to its haunches. The animal’s mouth yawned wide again and it gave a deep moan.

  Within seconds, its long-robed owner came panting up and snatched at the bear’s chain, winding it several times about his wrist before berating the animal loudly in his own tongue, whacking its haunches with his stick until Lucy felt almost sorry for the poor beast. Only once he had finished beating the creature did he pay anyone else any attention. He waved away the men armed with muskets, pikes and hard-twigged besoms who had come running up on all sides, eager to destroy the brute.

  ‘No, no!’ The bear-tamer stared angrily round at the men surrounding them, his eyes wild. ‘No kill bear. No kill.’

  There was some commotion at the arched entrance to the stables behind them. Lucy turned with the others, catching her breath as she saw the Earl of Leicester striding towards them, splendid in his rich red doublet and hose, cloak thrown back over his shoulder.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  The crowd of men fell back at his voice, lowering their weapons. Some threw them down and pulled off their Sunday caps, bowing before their lord. Others muttered beneath their breath as they turned away, clearly disappointed to have lost the opportunity to bait and kill the bear. The long-robed foreigner stayed where he was, looking neither at Leicester nor at Tom but keeping his bear still with a stick held across its huge front legs.

  ‘Tom?’

  Tom turned and bowed. ‘My lord, it’s nothing. I’m sorry you were disturbed. This man’s bear got loose.’

  ‘Was anybody hurt?’

  ‘No one, my lord.’

  Leicester nodded, surprisingly casual with his servant, and his glance flicked to Lucy. His dark eyes narrowed on her face for a moment. ‘Who are you?’

  Tom had retrieved the fallen reins of the horse and was comforting the unsettled animal. He did not look up from his task. ‘This is Lucy Morgan, my lord,’ he said, his voice a little muffled.

  Leicester looked from one to the other of them, then gave a lazy grin, clapping Tom on the shoulder. She wondered if he remembered winking at her on the road as the Queen’
s procession left London. It was unlikely, Lucy told herself, keeping her expression carefully neutral, her eyes lowered. Over a month had passed since that day. Why should a great lord like Leicester remember her?

  ‘Is that the way the wind blows? Well, like attracts like. As no doubt this bear would prefer to have a mate and not be kept on a chain like a disobedient cur. What say you, man?’

  Leicester turned his head to regard the man with the bear, his tone less friendly. ‘Will your animal be kept chained or must we take this matter before the captain of the guards? He’ll know of some place where it can be placed under lock and key. And you with it.’

  The bear-tamer’s head was bowed, not looking Leicester in the face. ‘No, lord. She will be good now. You see.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Sì lord. Female. Females easier to control.’

  Leicester threw back his head and laughed freely. ‘By all that’s holy, that has never been my experience. Perhaps a female bear may be more docile than a woman. They could not be more fierce, for sure.’ He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. ‘Go, take your naughty bear away and keep her chained up from now on. If the beast is allowed to escape again, she will be served to the Queen and her court at high table. Is that clear?’

  ‘Sì, lord.’

  ‘Hold a moment there,’ Leicester commanded him as the man made his bow. ‘You are Italian?’

  The man smiled. ‘Sì, lord.’

  ‘And you have the necessary papers to be travelling in England?’

  The Italian looked confused, then hurt. ‘Sì, sì, great lord. My bear, she is famous. Best bear in all Italy!’

  ‘Very well.’

  When the bear-tamer had shuffled away, bowing and dragging his bear after him on her clanking chain, Leicester turned to Lucy again. This time he was smiling, one gloved fist resting lightly on his hip.

  ‘Now, Lucy Morgan, I recall how sweetly you sang at court this Easter, and how the Queen delighted to hear your voice. Will you sing for her again today?’

  Her heart hammered and she stared at him like a fool, unsure at first how to reply. ‘I … I sing with the other ladies. Never alone, my lord.’