Goodluck stepped back, angled his neck and peered up the sheer stone face of the castle proper. Small wonder Leicester had not expressed too much concern over this latest conspiracy. He could see from here how difficult it would be to effect an entry into the state apartments: the stones fitted so smoothly together, there were no gaps left for foot- or handholds, nor were the windows on this side wide enough to admit a man, even if a rope could be let down.
But if the conspirators were to enter the castle by some other means …
The door to the old wine store sat low in the wall, midway between the old building and the new. The old part of the wall was lichened and crumbling in places, and the fresher sandstone of Leicester’s new construction stood gleaming in the sunlight, still bearing scoremarks from the builders’ instruments. Someone’s initials had been chiselled into the soft stone above a doorway and, rather higher up, a rude message about one of the labourers’ wives.
‘Ah, that’s it now,’ the Welshman grunted and, putting his shoulder to the door, got it open at last.
A waft of dank air blew out past their faces. They both stood and stared into the unpromising darkness.
Caradoc looked at Goodluck. ‘What is it you think you’re looking for, anyway?’
‘I don’t know.’
Caradoc gave a shrug and a shake of his head, as if to indicate that if Goodluck didn’t know, he didn’t know either.
‘You’d best go in, then. Take a look around.’
Goodluck ducked his head and entered the chamber. There was a step down to a floor that was part stone, part sand and mud. The place leaked, clearly. Several stacks of old crates stood to the left of the doorway. He did not see them in the darkness, his eyes not yet adjusted after the bright sunshine outside, and he knocked some over with a clatter. Caradoc said nothing, but stepped over the fallen crates and pointed significantly up at the ceiling.
In the dim light from the open doorway, Goodluck could just make out a wooden hatch of some kind in the roof. There were no windows in the store, and he wondered if it had been intended for ventilation.
He asked Caradoc if he knew the reason, but the Welshman shook his head.
‘Though I did hear that in the old steward’s day,’ he offered up as an afterthought, ‘barrels were sometimes hoist up on a pulley into the room above, to save the men rolling them round to the back of the great hall. It’s a steep slope out there, as you’ll have seen. But that stopped about eight years back. They sealed up this old place and used the stores by the kitchens instead for keeping the lord’s wine cool. Though why the hatch was put there in the first place, I couldn’t say.’
‘How would it have been opened?’
‘From above, though there’d be nothing to stop it being pushed open from this side.’
‘And is there any direct access to the state apartments through that hatch?’
Caradoc scratched his head, considering the matter. ‘There’s another storage room right above us, though it’s just full of clutter these days. There’s a corridor, then another storage room. And that leads into the new apartments. So yes, I suppose it would be possible to reach the state rooms from here.’
‘Is the hatch kept locked?’
‘I don’t think so. But this door is.’
With his eye, Goodluck measured the distance between the ground and the unlocked hatch. It was not a high-ceilinged room, but was not low enough for the hatch to be reached without the aid of a ladder.
‘The gate in the mereside wall,’ he asked. ‘Is it always guarded?’
‘Only now, while the court is in residence,’ Caradoc replied. ‘The Queen’s storeroom is in the base of the new building, holding all manner of precious goods and furniture, and must be guarded night and day. We passed the entrance on the way up here.’
His deep voice echoed in the empty wine store, rumbling about the walls. So the gate in the wall was kept guarded, to protect the Queen’s storeroom just beyond it. This whole business was giving Goodluck a headache. It was one mystery after another, and none of the pieces fitted together. There was something he wasn’t seeing, some piece of the puzzle he had missed. He thought of the odd loop of metal in Massetti’s room, which he now took out of his pocket and showed to the steward.
‘What do you make of this?’
The man frowned, taking a closer look. ‘Could be a belt-ring. For attaching keys to a belt, like the one I’m wearing.’
He loosened the sturdy leather belt from around his middle. Hanging down from an iron ring was a thick, stubby chain, at the end of which dangled various keys to the castle. He held the broken piece of iron next to his own belt-ring. It seemed a likely match – or likely enough to satisfy Goodluck that the odd twist of metal was linked to Master Drury’s missing keys. Caradoc seemed struck by this discovery, and a little suspicious too. He handed back the broken ring reluctantly.
‘I’d lay a wager that’s come from Malcolm’s key-belt. Where did you find it?’
‘Nowhere in particular.’
Caradoc looked at him sideways, bleary eyes narrowed. ‘What’s all this about, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I do mind you asking,’ Goodluck replied tersely, as he stooped through the low opening again into the sunlight. He had seen enough of that dank hole.
Goodluck stood a moment on the steep grassy slope under the castle wall, staring over the bright waters of the mere towards the encampment at the Brays. Behind him, Caradoc swore and wrestled again with the recalcitrant lock.
Another dead end, or so it seemed to him. Even if they had murdered one of the steward’s men to obtain the key to this door, the conspirators would soon find themselves out of luck if they tried to use it. For a start, they would need a ladder to reach the hatch. Then, there was a constant guard on the wall-gate down yonder, a gate designed to block folk from penetrating the inner defences of the castle where the Queen’s most precious possessions were kept under lock and key. And while the newly rebuilt wall between the courts might be just about scaleable, the idea of an assassin struggling over a fifteen-foot wall with a ladder in his hand was laughable.
‘Is that all you need to see?’ Caradoc demanded, no longer bothering to be polite.
Goodluck followed him down the slope, unable to enjoy the feel of the warm sun on his face. For all he knew, time was running out, and yet he seemed no nearer solving this puzzle. Nor did he have any inkling which nobles at Queen Elizabeth’s court might have instigated this latest plot, though he felt sure one or two at least must be involved.
‘A good day to you then,’ Caradoc grunted, letting him out of the narrow wall-gate. He gave the guard there a significant look, as though to indicate that Goodluck was not entirely to be trusted.
‘Thank you for your help,’ Goodluck murmured in polite reply. He doffed his cap and wandered off in search of some refreshing ale, the Welshman’s suspicious gaze burning a hole in his back.
Thirty-six
A MILE OR so further on from the chase, the broad path through the woodland began to narrow, and soon the horses had to trot close together under the fresh damp green of the trees. Lucy kept her reins light, as Tom had shown her, and was glad when he stopped pointing out her faults, riding stiff-backed beside her instead. The breeze shook the branches above them, sending raindrops scattering across the woodland track.
The first wild flowers of the summer had begun to wilt, Lucy noted with a touch of sadness, and a few tattered beech leaves lay on the grassy path, brought down by the sudden wind and rain of the past night. It was the first sign she had seen that the summer was more than halfway through. Soon they would be moving on to Chartley, the Countess of Essex’s stately residence – a beautiful mansion by all accounts, though nothing like the vast expanses of Kenilworth Castle. Not long after that, the progress would turn and begin to make its way back to London, stopping at other great houses along the way. Lucy did not think they were due to return until September, by which time half these green leaves
would be sere and fallen.
Every few moments, Tom’s knee knocked against hers on the narrow track, though his face remained averted, his surly apologies barely audible.
Her soft-mouthed mare, good-natured but greedy, nudged her way towards a clump of rain-dewed grasses and yellow-flowered plants at the side of the track. It was becoming warm again this deep into the forest, and they had been drilling outside the stables a good hour before setting off. No doubt her mare was tired and thirsty, as indeed she was too.
Out of sympathy, Lucy dropped her hands and let her mount bend to tear off a good mouthful of the damp yellow-topped stems and grasses.
‘No!’ Furious, Tom grabbed at her reins and dragged the mare’s head away. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘The poor thing only wanted some grass!’
‘That’s not just grass.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Do you want to kill your horse?’
She was stunned, staring down at the slim, yellow-flowered plants waving appealingly in the breeze. They looked innocent enough.
‘Kill her?’
‘Ragwort. It’s deadly to livestock.’
He shook his head at her expression, and kicked his horse into a fast trot, still holding both their reins. Her mare was forced to keep up with his sturdy bay gelding, her tossing head and backward-flicked ears an indication of her annoyance at this unfriendly treatment.
Lucy held on to the saddle and jolted about uncomfortably. She looked dubiously at the horse beneath her. ‘Will she die? I mean, she must have taken a good mouthful of the horrid stuff. Would that be enough to kill her?’
His smile was tight, almost contemptuous. ‘No.’
‘Oh look, can we stop?’
She had almost tumbled off as the mare stumbled over a stone.
By way of reply, Tom slowed his gelding with his knees and her mare followed its example. He handed back her reins only when they were walking sedately again, his face still surly.
‘Why are you so angry with me?’ she demanded.
He had the grace to look uncomfortable at least, a slight frown knitting his dark brows together. But he did not admit that he knew what she was talking about. Perhaps he tried to seduce young servants every day of the week, she thought with a sudden burst of fury. In which case, it was as well she had rejected him.
‘We’d better get back,’ he muttered instead, and made a great show of examining the patch of sky just visible above the treetops, as though trying to guess the time. ‘I was told to have a number of horses groomed and saddled, ready for the Queen to ride out after lunch today. But no one came down from the state rooms this morning to let me know how many and which horses. So perhaps they are no longer needed.’
‘Perhaps,’ Lucy said airily, noting that he had not even attempted to answer her question. If Tom could ignore her so easily, she could ignore him.
They rode in awkward silence for a few moments, then Tom spoke again. His voice sounded troubled, quite different from the sharp tone he had used before. ‘Did you hear about the man who drowned? Malcolm Drury, his name was. They’re saying he got drunk and fell into the mere.’
She looked at him, surprised. ‘I did hear something. Was he a friend of yours?’
‘Malcolm?’ He seemed shocked for a moment. ‘Not at all. I don’t think the man ever spoke to me. No – but it’s not true.’
‘What isn’t?’
He steered her mare absent-mindedly round a young tree growing in the middle of the track, then relaxed his hold on her reins, allowing the animal to pick her own way back across the uneven grassy verge.
‘What they’re saying about the way he died. You see, I happened to overhear my master talking to your guardian about it last night.’
‘You mean Master Goodluck?’
He nodded. ‘I should not have been eavesdropping, I know. But it was in the stables and they did not know anyone else was there, so I just kept quiet and listened. Your guardian told Lord Leicester that the man was drowned on purpose. Because of something he knew. But after I’d heard them talking about it, I remembered what you’d seen outside the stables. You said, “The bear-tamer!”’
Lucy shivered, despite the growing warmth of the afternoon sun. ‘I know, I saw him in the distance. Or I thought I saw him. It was so dark.’
‘Should we tell the earl, do you think?’
She stared, taken aback by his sudden interest. ‘About me seeing the bear-tamer?’
‘It might be significant.’
‘And then again, I might have imagined the whole thing,’ she pointed out, and added spiritedly, ‘considering how rattled my nerves were at the time.’
He frowned and looked away, his back very straight, his mouth stiff. So that blow had hit home, she thought with satisfaction, and could not understand why she felt so tearful.
They were nearing the end of the track; through the trees ahead she caught a glimpse of high towers and the reddish stone teeth of the battlements. Soon they would be back inside the castle, and she would have to return to her duties. Her heart ached at the thought.
She had to be wary where Tom was concerned. He did not see why her virginity needed to be so carefully guarded; he merely desired her, and expected her to feel the same. What Tom did not know was that it had taken a huge effort of will not to give in to him that night – and finally discover why the other servant girls of her age enjoyed cavorting naked with men, shameless as cats in heat. But she had promised the Queen faithfully that she would keep her virginity safe – at least until she was respectably married, if ever that should happen – and Lucy intended to keep her promise.
As they neared the castle entrance, a servant stood waiting for them under the impressive archway of Leicester’s new gatehouse, his pride and joy, just finished in time for the Queen’s visit. He had even had Her Majesty’s initials carved into the stone supports on one side and his own on the columns opposite, an impertinence which some said had left the Queen and her ladies gasping.
The servant ran to grasp Lucy’s bridle. ‘His lordship wants to see you,’ he told her flatly. ‘Now, in the music room.’
‘Lord Leicester wishes to see me?’
Her voice was high with surprise, coming out almost as a squeak, and she felt heat in her cheeks as Tom reined in at her side and stared across at her resentfully. What was wrong with him now? Did he think she had engineered this excuse to escape her riding lesson early?
‘Now,’ the servant repeated sourly, without further explanation. No doubt he had been kicking his heels at the gatehouse a long while, waiting for them to return from their ride.
‘When should I come back for my next lesson?’ she asked Tom, slipping down out of the saddle as gracefully as she could manage, glad of the servant’s helping hand at her back.
‘You don’t need any more lessons,’ Tom growled.
She looked at him. Managing a lighter tone, Tom asked the servant to walk Lucy’s mount back to the stables, then swung out of the saddle, landing lightly on his toes beside her.
‘That is, you’ll learn best now from just riding. We haven’t had time to go over jumping, but it’s unlikely you’ll need to ride to hunt. And if you do, just remember to sit well back in the saddle and keep a short rein.’ He fiddled with his horse’s bit, seeming distracted, his face unreadable. ‘Some follow the Spanish method and say it’s easier if you lean forward on the jump, but if you follow that advice on an English saddle it won’t be long before you’re unseated.’
‘Well, thank you for teaching me to ride,’ she stammered, and heard the words fall hollow and empty in the echoing archway of the gatehouse.
You don’t need any more lessons …
Her heart hurt as Tom cleared his throat and grimaced, not looking at her, though he inclined his head in acknowledgement. It seemed neither of them wanted to meet the other’s eyes.
‘It was nothing. Now you’d better run along and find out what my master wants.’
‘Where is the … What
was it again?’
‘The music room.’
She looked blankly in the direction of his pointing finger, and he sighed, his voice hard and impatient. ‘Through the first archway in the inner court. Now hurry. Every minute you delay, you are keeping the Earl of Leicester waiting.’
As if she wasn’t already aware of that!
Picking up the heavy skirt of her riding gown, she fled through the puddles of the gatehouse, up the crowded slope of tents and makeshift camps, and over the bridge into the inner court. A small boy called out her name from the branches of a great oak, and she turned to look, almost tripping over a twisted root in the grass.
‘Will?’ She recognized the sweet, dark-haired boy who had lost his father that day in the tiltyard, and managed a quick smile despite her panic at being late. ‘I’m sorry, I cannot stop and play this time. Is your father here?’
Will pointed across at a broad-shouldered man helping to right a tent which had fallen over, and she saw Master Shakespeare. Satisfied that Will was not alone this time, she waved a cheery farewell as she ran on.
Breathless, her hair trailing loose from under her white cap, Lucy burst through the door into the music room. The astonished lute player, a small man in a black velvet suit with very little hair and a black skullcap, immediately stopped playing.
‘I’m sorry to be so very late, your lordship,’ she gasped, hot-faced, closing the door behind her and forcing herself further into the chamber, ‘but I was out in the woods on a riding lesson and the servant you sent to find me did not know where we had gone and—’
‘Hush now, come and meet Master Oldham, who is going to teach you to sing a song which I have written for the Queen.’ The earl took her by the arm and positioned her next to the lute stand. She had expected him to be angry at the delay, but there was a smile in his dark eyes. ‘Master Oldham, this is Lucy Morgan, the singer I was telling you about.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The man turned and looked her over with small, bright eyes in a wizened face. ‘Stand straight, girl. Belly in. Chest out. And the head – no, don’t tilt it backwards. You are not looking up at an angel!’ He reached out and adjusted the set of her chin with long, parchment-dry fingers. ‘Just so.’
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