The Queen's Secret

by Victoria Lamb

  Tom caught her by the arm, his dark eyes concerned. ‘Careful, you’ll hurt yourself.’

  He was only trying to protect her, her instincts told her that. Nonetheless Lucy pulled free, forcing herself to look as cold and disdainful as Lady Essex had done when Tom had told her to climb the ladder. It felt strange, stiffening her face into such a mask. But she could not allow him to get close again, knowing now what he intended.

  Maybe she would never make a good marriage. Maybe this was the best she could hope for, whatever Master Goodluck might say. A stable worker, yes, but one of her own people, a man who would never judge her for the colour of her skin. There would be some honour in such a union. But she was not married yet, nor likely to be if she allowed Tom his way tonight.

  Besides, she had promised the Queen she would remain a virgin, and a stable was hardly the place to lose her much-prized innocence, lying on her back in some filthy stall, listening to the sighing of horses in the darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, and she believed him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, brushing the apology aside, though in truth she was glad he was not as crude as she had feared, wanting only one thing from her. ‘But perhaps I should wait here alone for my lady to come back.’

  ‘His lordship instructed me to wait with you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ Tom insisted, a stubborn note in his voice. ‘And don’t you bother arguing with me, Lucy Morgan, because it will make little difference. You’ve already had your life threatened once. I’d lose my hide if I were to leave you here alone at night – and I’ll not risk a whipping on account of a girl.’

  ‘A girl? You thought me enough of a woman a moment ago,’ she snapped back. Then she saw the confusion on his face and was sorry for her sharp tongue. She was uneasy herself, waiting in the dark for the countess to return from a forbidden meeting.

  Tom held back whatever it was he had been intending to say, and laid a hand on her arm. ‘Lucy,’ he said, her name echoing about the stalls. He frowned, lowering his voice. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken so harshly just now. We won’t have to wait too long. Come back under the light.’

  She acquiesced, mollified by his apology, and allowed him to draw her close against the wall. Tom meant her no harm, after all. And he was handsome. She dared to look up into his face, every feature sharpened, lit up by the lantern on the wall.

  ‘Forgive me, I still want to kiss you,’ he said simply, stroking her cheek with his forefinger.

  It was an intimate gesture, and one she ought not to have allowed. Yet she did not move away.

  ‘Is that so wrong?’ Tom asked, interrupting her thoughts. His eyes searched hers, almost hungrily. ‘Lucy?’

  She thought again of the Queen, her stern white countenance hovering spectre-like over his shoulder, like an owl in the night, and realized with a guilty start that she did not wish to end up like Her Majesty – chill and alone in her bed, hanging like the last leaf on a barren tree, waiting only for the fall.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ he repeated, and the word seemed to fall oddly, testing the rustling silence of the stable.

  Lucy shivered and closed her eyes against the misty halo of the lantern. He kissed her then, and instead of pushing him away as she ought to have done, she slid her arms about his neck.

  They stood together like that for a few moments, lost in a thick, suffocating silence, while she imagined herself drowning without any fear, the warm, seductive water creeping into her lungs. His hands circled her waist, slipped lower, cupping the swell of her buttocks, pulling her close against his groin, and she moaned at his daring, vaguely aware that she should resist yet finding no immediate reason to do so.

  From above their heads, a woman’s sharp cry split the silence. Lucy dragged a hand over her face, abruptly remembering who was in the room above them. The danger she was in struck her like a cold slap across the face, and her desire fell away in that instant. She had brought the Countess of Essex here tonight to commit adultery with the Queen’s favourite. If they were discovered, there was no doubt that her life would be forfeit. The countess might only be imprisoned, but she …

  Lucy felt her throat constrict, as though the hangman’s noose was already around it. It was hard to think her way clear, she was suddenly so afraid. The countess had tricked her. Or told her less than the truth about why she wanted this meeting, and Lucy had behaved like a wanton fool, allowing herself to be manipulated into accompanying Lady Essex here tonight. And now she had almost risked losing her virginity, the only thing she possessed of any value – except for her voice.

  Tom did not seem aware of the danger, though. He was already reaching for her again, still openly aroused, a half-smile on his lips. ‘You hear that? It seems we’re not the only ones enjoying ourselves.’

  ‘Tom, we mustn’t. The Queen said—’

  He looked startled, even a little impatient. ‘The Queen? What are you talking about?’ He tugged her towards the nearest stall. ‘Hush, Lucy sweetest, we don’t have time for a discussion. Her ladyship will come down soon and we’ll have lost our chance.’

  She shook her head, dragging her feet, and faced his irritation with a growing sense of sadness. He did not understand. Queen Elizabeth had no more significance for Tom than the midday sun in the sky – too huge and far above him to be of any consequence. Above them, she corrected herself, slowly realizing that Tom saw her as no more nor less than himself, a mere servant of the court.

  But what was she telling herself? That she was, in some way, more important than Tom, more than just another servant?

  The breathtaking arrogance of such a belief shook her, and she jerked her hands free of his. She had been so glad to come to court last year, so happy to watch the fine lords and ladies from the back of the chorus, only occasionally aching to push herself forward, to be allowed to sing before the Queen on her own because she had sensed, had known deep in her heart, that her voice was good enough for such an honour.

  But to put herself above Tom, to see herself as somehow better than another servant, that was an abuse of the intimacy in which the Queen held her.

  ‘I need some air,’ she whispered, turning away from him. Tight-chested, she fled into the outer court.

  As soon as Lucy was outside, she realized her mistake. It was dark and still, and there was no moon that night to light the path back to the gatehouse, only a few lights flickering in the high windows of the state apartments.

  The memory of those hooded men following her in the Brays came back to haunt her, and she stood a moment, unsure whether to turn back inside or make a run for the gatehouse and the inner court. At least there she would be safe from those who sought to harm her, if not from her own conscience.

  Turning, Lucy frowned and peered through the darkness. What was that?

  No, she had not imagined it. There was a man on the far side of the outer court, standing in the shadows near the base of the Watergate Tower. He was a big man and stood unmoving against the wall, his face hidden in the shadows, though even at this distance she could see the pale glimmer of his eyes.

  Then she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and froze, staring through the darkness. Closer at hand, someone was walking along the base of the castle wall, towards the Watergate Tower. One of Leicester’s guards? Or someone on their way to meet the man waiting there?

  A horrible feeling of dread came over her and she shrank back against the stable, not caring if the rough wall ruined her cloak. Surely that odd way of walking, the hooded cloak he was wearing …

  The man glanced over his shoulder, perhaps sensing somebody’s gaze on his back, and in a flash she recognized the face under the hood. Swarthy, bearded, with a cruel unsmiling mouth. It was the Italian bear-tamer, and he was staring straight at her.

  Next thing she knew, she was lying on the dew-damp ground with Tom kneeling over her and the countess behind him, her white face a mask of disdain.

  ‘Is she awake yet?
I can’t stay any longer.’

  Seeing Lucy staring back at him, Tom straightened and stood up, a look of relief on his face. He gave a grim little smile as he helped her to her feet. ‘You fainted.’

  He supported her, one arm about her waist, as she stumbled, her legs still unsteady.

  ‘Careful now. Are you able to walk?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ Lady Essex hissed, pulling the hood of her cloak further forward to conceal her face. ‘We must get back to the women’s quarters. Hurry, before we are seen.’

  Lucy stared at the hood in a daze, then gasped, suddenly remembering what she had seen.

  ‘The bear-tamer!’

  Tom frowned. ‘The what?’

  But it was no use trying to explain. Both the bear-tamer and the other man were gone, and the outer court was dark and silent.

  Lady Essex turned on her heel, making an angry noise under her breath. ‘Come,’ she threw out sharply, lifting her skirts free of the damp grass. She began to climb the slope back to the sturdy wooden gatehouse. ‘If you have put me in danger by this, Lucy Morgan, I swear I’ll have the skin off your back for it. And your lover’s, too.’

  Thirty-two

  THE BODY HAD been brought to shore and dropped in an ungainly fashion by the watermen – still in the shallow skiffs from which they plied their trade, bleary-eyed from the earliness of the hour but staying to keep guard over their strange catch. The coming dawn was a thick reddish-grey, the clouds to the north-east of the castle heavy and brooding, a warning of rain to come. It seemed the prolonged dry weather was finally about to break.

  Beside the reedy edges of the lake, the dark-haired Welshman named Caradoc who had come to rouse Goodluck from his bed prodded the corpse with his foot and glanced back at his companion curiously.

  ‘Are you a Queen’s man?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  The Welshman looked Goodluck up and down, presumably noting that his patched and rain-stained hood had seen better days and that his coat was a dull buff rather than blue.

  ‘You’re not one of Leicester’s men,’ the man sniffed.

  ‘I serve England,’ Goodluck replied shortly, then found himself baulking at such a reply. ‘Lord Leicester sent you to fetch me, did he not?’

  Caradoc nodded.

  ‘Then let us get on. I’m missing breakfast for this.’

  Goodluck crouched to examine the body the watermen had dragged out of the lake. It was a portly man with heavy thighs and a decided paunch, somewhere in his early thirties. His sodden blue tunic, pulled in by a large leather belt, and blue hose proclaimed him one of Leicester’s household. His muddied yellow hair had been razor-cut, short to the ears, and his beard – a strand of weed caught in it now – had been recently trimmed as well. A self-indulgent man then, his paunch speaking of late nights on the castle ale, but one who nonetheless liked to take care of himself, perhaps with an eye to the ladies?

  Lifting the dead man’s left hand, Goodluck examined it closely. Tough, callused fingers spoke of daily labour but not hard, menial work, and his fingernails were short but unbroken. On his right hand he wore a broad gold ring inset with a small agate. His nose was slightly crooked – a fight in his past? – and above the mud smears to his cheeks, his bulging blue eyes were wide and staring.

  Goodluck reached forward and gently pulled the lids over his eyes. It was all he could do to repress a shudder. To kill a man and dispose of his body afterwards was one thing. To deal with a sodden corpse first thing in the morning was enough to make the bile rise in any man’s throat.

  He leaned closer, and prised the man’s stiff lips apart. There was an odd yellowish tinge to his mouth, and a sickly odour in the air. The unpleasant smell reminded him of something, but he could not place what it was.

  ‘The watermen found him, you said?’

  ‘Yes,’ Caradoc agreed, straightening up at his questioning glance. He had bent almost double to see what Goodluck was doing, clearly fascinated by his examination of the dead man. ‘They went out on the mere just before first light, as is their habit. The boat ran up against the body – with a right bump, they said – over there, nearly under the tiltyard wall. They pulled him into the boat, rowed back to the jetty, and the boy there ran to fetch help. That’s when I was informed. I’m assistant to the castle steward, see? It’s my duty to inform the coroner and the dead man’s next of kin, and see that the body’s properly taken care of.’

  ‘His next of kin? So you knew this man?’ Goodluck was startled. ‘Why didn’t you say so when I first came down here?’

  Caradoc shrugged. ‘You didn’t ask. Besides, I didn’t know myself until I seen him close up. But soon as we turned him over, I knew it were Malcolm.’

  ‘Malcolm?’

  ‘That there is Malcolm Drury. He worked for the steward too. Though he didn’t want to stay on at Kenilworth after this summer. Said he was going to London, to make his fortune there.’ The man laughed, almost contemptuous. ‘Dreams!’

  Goodluck said nothing. He had found it was often more useful to observe unpleasant behaviour than to comment on it. Besides, a pale sun was rising out of the mists along the lakeside, and the castle above them was beginning to bustle with life. He did not wish to draw more attention to himself than he already had. It was evident that Lord Leicester had wanted him to see the body and to report back to Walsingham on his findings. But in doing so, Goodluck ran the risk of being identified by those who constantly watched the goings-on at court and took reports back to their masters. Or by the Italians, who might even now be watching him.

  ‘Why did his lordship want you to see the body?’ Caradoc asked, still worrying away at the question in his head.

  ‘We’ve been missing a man since we arrived,’ Goodluck lied blithely, hoping he would not be curious enough to make his own enquiries and discover this was not true. ‘Lord Leicester may have thought this was him.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Caradoc said at once, shaking his head with the air of one who knew more than was common knowledge. ‘Couldn’t have been. This is his lordship’s man. Besides, this one,’ he said, and prodded the drowned man again with his shoe, ‘hasn’t been in the water that long. Well, I know that because I saw him two days ago with my own eyes. But a man who’s been in the mere a week or more, he’d look a good deal greyer than Malcolm here.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t like Master Drury much?’ Goodluck asked wryly, squatting back on his haunches. His stomach rumbled but he ignored it, not feeling too hungry now that he’d started the day with a sodden corpse.

  ‘We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘He can’t hear you. What was it that made you dislike him?’ He glanced at the body. ‘Did he like to show off? That ring would have cost a year’s wages at least. Malcolm must have come from a wealthy family: he couldn’t have bought such a trinket with his own money.’

  The man’s lips tightened. ‘No, that he couldn’t. But he wasn’t a wealthy man’s son. Old Master Drury kept a few acres west of here. Long dead now, his wife Goody too, and nothing to show for his sweat.’

  Goodluck considered that for a moment. ‘So where do you think he got the money from?’

  ‘His new friends, I’d say.’

  ‘Who would they be, then?’ But the man seemed to feel he had already said too much, shaking his head and backing away. Goodluck had to press further, trying his luck with other ideas. ‘From the court, you mean? Those travelling with the Queen?’

  ‘He had no friends at court,’ Caradoc muttered scornfully.

  ‘The others, then? The drinkers, the hangers-on, or perhaps those who came here this week to make money by their wits?’

  Glancing back at the dead man, Goodluck frowned. His attention had been caught by something. A mere cat’s whisker, it seemed, standing upright and tickling the edge of one bluish-white finger. He leaned forward again, and turned the man’s stiffening right hand upwards. Sure enough, something was trapped under the broad gold band of his ring.
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br />   Slowly, Goodluck extracted the whisker and held it up to the strengthening light of day – a long, coarse, black hair, such as might be yanked from a man’s head or beard in the throes of a struggle. It certainly had not come from the dead man’s own head, since he had been fair.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Goodluck tucked it into the leather pouch on his belt. ‘Nothing. Go on, you were saying?’

  But Caradoc had clearly decided that one drowned man was enough and he would not put himself in danger. He volunteered a comment about being late for his rounds, looked sideways down at the body and made the sign of the cross. Rather late for piety, Goodluck thought with a touch of asperity.

  ‘Remember, nothing’s to be said about this business,’ he added, giving the man a shilling for his silence and bidding him be on his way.

  But Goodluck knew the watermen would not keep quiet, nor the boy who had run for help, nor the handful of commoners now gawking over the tiltyard wall.

  At least in this hood he could be anyone. Well, anyone with a beard, he realized, fingering it ruefully.

  So, Goodluck reasoned, Malcolm Drury had found some new friends this past week, friends who were prepared to dig into their pockets in exchange for information. For who better to tell them the secret ways into the castle than one of the steward’s men? A man with no pressing urgency to remain loyal to his lord when tempted by more gold than he had ever seen before.

  Goodluck ordered the two waiting groundsmen to carry the body discreetly up to the castle, wrapped in sacking so as to disguise who it was. He dropped a few ‘indiscreet’ comments as he gave his orders, then walked back up the narrow path to the Watergate, secure in the knowledge that by the time the news of the death crept out, it would be claimed that Malcolm Drury had consumed a yard or two of ale, tripped over his own feet on the way home and ended up drowning in the mere. No one, it seemed, would mourn him. Least of all those who had arranged for the greedy and foolish Drury to meet his fate in this manner.