The Queen's Secret

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘I married too young and unwisely.’ He watched her deliberations with apparent fascination. ‘Amy was the wrong wife for a man like me, God rest her soul. She had no fire, no spark. She was nothing like you, Elizabeth. Nor could she give me the joy of a son or daughter.’

  A sharp physical pain pierced her belly, like a red-hot skewer suddenly forced into her innards by some relentless enemy. She knew what it meant. Elizabeth bit her lip, not wishing to cry out, though she felt her cheeks go pale and cold. ‘I too …’ She hesitated, the intricately carved piece still in her hand. ‘To be able to have children …’

  ‘Then marry me.’

  She shook her head, her hand trembling over the board. ‘I would no longer be queen. You would be king in my place. My father—’

  ‘You are nothing like your father. You must not allow that fear to haunt you. You are a great prince, Elizabeth, and you know the constitution of this country sideways and backwards. No marriage could ever take away your right to hold the throne and govern England.’

  ‘But when my cousin Mary married—’

  He interrupted her again. ‘Mary is a fool and a Stuart. You are a Tudor and the most intelligent woman I have ever known. Marriage to an English nobleman would strengthen your position on the throne, not weaken it. It would prevent all possibility of good Tudor blood being tainted by that of foreigners. The English have had their fill of Spanish and French overlords.’

  He leaned forward, laying his warm hand across hers. Again she became aware of how alone they were in the tower chamber, not even one of her ladies-in-waiting in attendance. ‘Marry me, Elizabeth. I’m not only the ideal candidate but your preferred man. We both know how it lies between us, this heat. Why settle for a stranger when you could have a love match? Marry me before it is too late to bear a son and grant the people their wish for a true English succession.’

  ‘It’s already too late!’

  He shook his head, denying her bitter outburst. ‘That is not what the physicians’ reports have told us. You know as well as I that some English women have been able to bear children even up to their fiftieth year.’

  ‘I could not hope to. My health will not permit it.’

  ‘This is nonsense, Elizabeth. Look at yourself. You are as fit and able to have children as any woman I know.’

  Her lip trembled. Either Robert was an excellent liar or he genuinely did not know how difficult she had always found her monthly flow of blood, how rarely it came these days, and the pain when it did come, which sometimes left her weak and barely able to stand.

  She pulled her hand away from his, consumed with jealousy and helpless fury. ‘What, even Lettice Knollys?’

  His smile froze. ‘Lettice? Have I not sworn—?’

  ‘You lied.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come, you have been sleeping with Lettice behind my back. Yes, even here in this very castle. Or do you think my spies earn their keep for nothing?’

  It was a lie, but a bold one.

  He looked at her directly then, his eyes very dark. ‘Very well, I lied. But I have needs, Elizabeth, as any man has. Being so close to you every day, granted so much intimacy, yet unable to touch you …’ His voice became strained. ‘And Lettice is so very like you in looks. If you will not marry me, you cannot blame me for turning to her for my relief.’

  His face was deeply flushed. She recognized it as shame, and found it hard to breathe. Suddenly she did not want to hear of his infidelities.

  Elizabeth reached for her gloves, knocking over the flagon of wine in her haste. It spilled across the table, the chessboard bloodied with its rich stain.

  ‘I am ready to return to my rooms now,’ she said coldly, making for the narrow door he had used before. ‘Unlock the door.’

  ‘It was never locked.’

  Her hand trembled on the heavy iron handle, her vision blurred. She wrenched open the door and stumbled out into a deserted, torchlit corridor.

  Lettice is so very like you in looks.

  ‘Wait.’

  Robert was behind her in the corridor, buckling on his gold-encrusted sword-belt, his face unreadable.

  ‘It’s not safe for you to go about the place unaccompanied.’ His voice was neutral, his anger laid to one side. ‘I’ll instruct my guards to double their watch. And I must speak to Walsingham tonight, even if I have to rouse him from his bed. If they can get to you out in the Chase, they may be able to get to you within the castle too.’

  Twenty-three

  LUCY HESITATED IN the doorway, holding up her candle. She peered into the warm, dark chamber at rows of sleeping bodies on mattresses. One woman snorted in her sleep and turned over, breathing heavily.

  ‘You may store your things here,’ Mistress Darnley said. Her pale blue gaze flickered over the straw bag Lucy clutched against her chest. ‘Hurry, I have other duties to attend to. No one will touch your pack, girl. We are not common thieves.’

  Uncomfortably aware of several pairs of female eyes studying her balefully, Lucy dropped her bag behind the screen and straightened up.

  ‘Where should I …?’

  ‘There is space for another mattress under the window,’ Mistress Darnley conceded, indicating a narrow strip beneath the leaded panes. The rushes were thin there, and even by candlelight the wall showed signs of rain damage. Damp and draughty then, Lucy thought, but she managed a polite smile and a curtsey. A draught would be welcome in the heat, at least, and she would not have to worry about the other women envying her place.

  She would almost rather have slept outside under the stars, or begged a place in one of the communal tents, than share this cramped room that stank of bodies and perfume. She knew herself to be an object of hatred here. Being allowed to share this space would elevate her status, but lower theirs.

  ‘Get yourself ready for bed then, and quick about it. I do not allow any of the women under my care to wander about in the night, so keep to your corner until dawn. As last in tonight, you will be in charge of emptying the privy pot, behind the screen there, first thing in the morning. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress Darnley,’ Lucy muttered, her eyes discreetly lowered. The woman bustled away, the keys on her belt-ring jangling.

  Lucy found an ancient mattress cover in the cupboard, and a handful of straw and discarded rags, and hurriedly made herself some kind of bed for the night. The mattress was damp to the touch and smelt of urine, but if she wrapped herself in her cloak it might be possible to get some sleep.

  She unlaced her shoes and fumbled out of her gown, wishing her shift was not so threadbare. Lucy accidentally knocked against a sleeping woman and blushed at the vicious curse thrown in her direction. She had not realized court women knew such back-alley words, they looked so respectable from a distance, with their fashionable gowns and starched white aprons and bibs.

  Bending to scatter the rushes more evenly, she caught the shiny gleam of eyes watching her from across the chamber and recognized one of the plump, heavy-jowled seamstresses from Richmond Palace. Lucy smiled hesitantly. The woman sighed and heaved herself about, turning her face to the wall, and Lucy knew that she had been snubbed.

  That one tiny gesture pricked her more than any of their muttered insults could have done. Her lower lip began to tremble and quick tears sprang to her eyes.

  Don’t let them see you cry.

  Raising the candle before it guttered into extinction, Lucy stepped barefoot between the sleeping women, the tattered hem of her shift held clear of their bodies. She had to get out of that place, even if it meant wandering about the corridor shoeless and in an embarrassingly thin shift. Ignoring a few hissed protests at the draught, she jerked the door open and escaped into the corridor.

  It was so dark outside the women’s chamber, and the candle gave little useful light. Which way should she go, east or west? Anywhere would be better than that airless, barb-filled prison. She took a few steps to her right, then retraced them to her left, trying to remember the d
irection Mistress Darnley had taken from the inner courtyard.

  The candle stump spilt hot tallow on her fingers. She dropped it with a cry, and was plunged at once into darkness.

  Sucking her burned fingers, and no longer sure where to find the doorway to her room, Lucy crept further along the corridor until she had located the only source of light and air, an open slit in the stone where the wind blew in sweet and cool from the mere. She could see the orange glow of firelight in the distance and caught the sounds of continuing revelry from the camps, an hautboy being blown to the steady beat of a drum and people clapping.

  Lucy leaned her forehead against the stone, enjoying the feel of the breeze on her hot skin. She grew calm, almost happy again, able to see that while it was not exactly a comfortable position to be in, she had improved her situation by moving from the smoky encampment at the Brays to a stately room off the inner courtyard.

  Suddenly, she heard the echo of booted feet coming along the corridor towards her. It had to be the castle guards making a regular patrol of the stairways.

  She could already guess the response of the other women in the bedchamber if she were dragged back in disgrace, caught out of bed by the leering castle guards. What further evidence would they need that the Moorish singer was a whore, unfit for their company?

  Lucy scrambled backwards in the darkness, feeling for a door through which she could escape. She fumbled her way along the rough stone wall, while the sound of the boots grew louder and more insistent. She fled round a shadowy corner and suddenly the floor disappeared beneath her feet. With both hands out to save herself, she fell sideways, cracking her head against the stone.

  Stairs.

  Not seeing them in the dark, she had fallen down a steep stairway. Painfully, Lucy dragged herself to a sitting position and hugged one hurt knee to her chest, forcing herself to be silent as she listened for sounds of pursuit.

  None came, and after a few moments she began to breathe more easily. The guards in their noisy boots must not have heard her fall.

  She stood up and limped slowly towards the torch flickering at the far end of the corridor. There was nobody about. If she could find an empty storeroom, she could sleep there until dawn and then creep back to the upper level.

  Suddenly, a door was flung open and she found herself face to face with a middle-aged man dressed in black, with a stiff white ruff. A gold chain hung about his neck, and he wore the largest gold ring she had ever seen.

  She stared at him in consternation and the man stared back, showing very little surprise at discovering a scantily clad girl outside his door in the dead of night.

  Nonetheless, his eyebrows arched slightly upwards. There was the hint of a smile on his lips as he took in her unbound hair, the thin fabric of her shift, and her bare feet.

  ‘I thought I heard something.’ He stepped aside, gesturing her to enter the room. ‘You must be cold.’

  ‘I thank you, sir, but—’

  ‘Come inside and don’t be a fool,’ he said shortly, though not without another smile to temper his words. ‘You can’t wander about the castle at night. Unless you were looking for someone? Some young man, perhaps?’

  ‘No, sir. I was trying to find my way back to the women’s rooms above when I heard something and panicked. I fell down the stairs.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Obediently, she held out her hands.

  The man took them in a cool grasp and turned them over, examining the grazes on her palms. His own hands were immaculately clean, each fingernail filed to a neat half-moon curve, his pale skin showing no signs of hard toil, the only mark a slight ink stain to his right thumb and index finger, as though he had recently been writing.

  ‘You’ll survive,’ he said drily, pointing her to a water bowl and folded cloth on a washstand in the corner. As she bent to clean her grazes, marvelling at the softness of the cloth, the man returned to his desk and began shuffling papers as though he had forgotten about her. Outside his window, which stood slightly ajar, she could hear boots again, and the scraping of arms, and guessed that the guard was changing in the courtyard. ‘I’ve heard about you, Lucy Morgan. Who would have thought the orphaned daughter of a Moorish slave could find such favour at the English court?’

  She had dropped the cloth at the sound of her own name, turning to gape at the man in astonishment. He met her stare without smiling.

  ‘Do you know who I am, Lucy?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘My name is Walsingham. I am the Queen’s servant, and my entire life is spent attempting to protect her, to stay one step ahead of those who would harm her and this country.’

  He sat down in his scroll-armed chair, watching with apparent interest as she folded the soiled cloth and laid it gingerly to one side. Lucy turned to face him and tried not to stare, but it was difficult to keep her eyes off his face.

  She had heard of Walsingham. He was the Queen’s spymaster and one of the most dangerous men at court. Some said he had strangled men with his bare hands and could sniff out a lie at a thousand paces. She could well believe his reputation. He had thin, papery eyelids that barely seemed to move, his dark gaze steady and unblinking, like that of a watchful snake. She lowered her own eyes, focusing instead on his immaculate hands resting on the parchment-strewn desk, the vast gold ring glinting on his finger. She could imagine those hands about her neck, squeezing the life out of her.

  ‘And what of you, Lucy Morgan? Are you a good servant to the Queen? Or are you her enemy? You are not wearing shoes, I see. Was that to muffle the sound of your footsteps?’

  ‘No indeed, my lord,’ she stammered, suddenly terrified that he thought her a traitor. ‘I am the Queen’s servant too, my lord.’

  By the Lord, it must seem suspicious though, her wandering the castle at night with no light and no shoes, especially after the rumours about a fresh plot against the Queen’s life. The gates had been closed early, leaving the unwary outside for the night, and the guards had been doubled on the entrance to the inner courtyard and the state apartments. Small wonder that this man – who spent his life, as he had just confirmed, rooting out traitors to the throne – should be questioning her loyalty, having discovered her sneaking around near the royal apartments. She stood before his desk with her eyes wide, not knowing how to convince him of her innocence.

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Master Goodluck will vouch for me,’ she added, then blushed as she realized what he had said. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  His cold stare seemed to turn elsewhere, abruptly losing interest in her. Walsingham picked up a knife and began sharpening his quill with quick, expert strokes.

  ‘Master Goodluck is your guardian, is that not so? He knew your mother. Did she die in childbirth with you?’ When she nodded, surprised at how much he knew about her, he looked down at his pen again, his tone quiet, contemplative. ‘I’m glad to have come across you like this, Lucy Morgan. I had been intending to engineer a meeting between us. But this is rather better – a chance encounter late at night, no one to overhear or witness our conversation. One might almost see the hand of God at work here. Tell me, what have you to say about those men who followed you?’

  Once more, she was astonished, both at the abruptness of his question and at his knowledge of things she had thought secret.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

  ‘The men who pursued you through the Brays. Though one can hardly blame them, considering they caught you spying.’

  The flush in her cheeks deepened. ‘I was not spying, I swear it. There was something odd about one of the men. He …’ She tailed off lamely. ‘I was curious about the language they were speaking. I just wanted to listen for a moment, that was all.’

  ‘Listen at a foreigner’s tent in the dusk?’ Walsingham smiled. He tested the sharpened quill against his finger. ‘That sounds like spying to me, Lucy Morgan.’

  Lucy stared at him, speechless.

  He gestured her to sit in the
carved wooden chair opposite him. She was appalled, clutching at her shift with anxious hands – a nobody, a mere court entertainer, sitting down in the middle of the night to talk to one of the greatest men in the land; no, it was not right, and no good could come of it. Walsingham sighed, and snapped his fingers at her to obey.

  ‘Sit down, child. You are far too tall, did no one ever tell you? I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you. And barefoot too.’ Walsingham gave a hoarse bark of a laugh, settling back in his chair, rearranging the thick, dark folds of his cloak about himself. ‘I imagine you may be taller even than Her Majesty within a twelvemonth. That will not please her. You were best advised to stoop in the Queen’s presence from now on. She does not easily forgive height in a woman.’

  Wishing herself anywhere but here, even back in that stifling room with the women who thought her little better than a whore, Lucy perched like a bird on the very edge of the seat. She was so tired that her legs trembled, and after a moment it was hard even to think of standing again.

  He had tricked her, she thought. Gripping the arms of her chair, Lucy stared at Walsingham.

  ‘You said there was something odd about one of them,’ he went on calmly, leaning forward to pour himself a glass of wine. She watched his careful, precise movements, just as she had watched him sharpen his pen earlier. She had the feeling Walsingham did these things to distract her, to make her forget she was being interrogated. ‘What exactly did you mean by odd? Can you remember? Was it the man’s face? The way he walked? Or something about his behaviour? Would you say his behaviour was furtive, for instance, like a man with something to hide? Or did he seem confident, sure that he was safe and unobserved?’

  For the next hour, she answered the spymaster’s questions as best she could, struggling at times to remember or understand what she had seen. She was nudged back into the past by his voice, that haunting intonation, and her responses grew more certain as he guided her through the various possibilities. She became numb with it though, answering in a daze towards the end, struggling and failing to explain something that was, after all, merely a woman’s instinct.