The Queen's Secret

by Victoria Lamb

  Peering out of the window, she could see only the Brays’ side of the mere, barely visible in the warm, smoky twilight, but she could hear distant shouts just north of the castle and knew the evening’s entertainments were still being prepared out on the lake. So it could not be too late. Nonetheless, if she did not hurry, she would be unable to join the Queen’s ladies for the procession out to the lake, and for that she would be in serious trouble.

  Hurriedly, she smoothed out the thick, heavy folds of the gold-embroidered underskirt, and wished again that she had someone to help her; there was still the extravagant white ruff to attach. ‘I want you to look like an angel from heaven,’ his lordship had told her, and she knew she must not disappoint him. An angel with sore fingers, she thought. Attaching the ruff was a fiddly business and by the time Lucy had slipped on her tight white and gold shoes, donated to her by the beautiful Lady Helena herself, the women’s quarters were so dark she could barely see her way to the door. But at least the corridors in this wing were well lit with torches, so she was able to find her way across the building to where the ladies of the court would be assembled – if they had not left yet.

  ‘Lucy!’

  She turned, fearing a reprimand for her lateness. But it was only Catherine, her friend from Norfolk, who had run up behind her in the flickering torchlight. They had been close before arriving at Kenilworth, where it seemed to Lucy that she had been separated from almost everyone she knew and made to live among women who were her social betters. Since moving into the inner court, she had felt too nervous to speak or even take her fair share of food at mealtimes, in case her behaviour was considered impertinent. So she greeted Catherine with relief, glad to see a friendly face.

  ‘Catherine,’ she said, and hugged her. ‘I’m late. Are you coming on the procession to the lake?’

  The younger girl shook her head. ‘I’ve been sick. I’m to watch from the windows with the other servants.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had been sick.’ Lucy stared at her friend’s pale face, exasperated. If only she had time to talk properly. Concerned, she picked up her heavy skirts to ascend the staircase to the royal apartments. ‘Will you walk with me, Catherine? I was told to attend the Privy Chamber before the procession began. I only hope the court hasn’t left yet.’

  ‘No, the Queen is still in her rooms. She’s been there since they returned from the hunt. And in a fine old temper, they say.’

  Lucy bit her lip. ‘I was supposed to ride out to hunt today. I hope no one missed me. I was stupid and lay down to rest, but I fell asleep and almost didn’t wake up in time to dress. I was so exhausted. And I’ve hardly seen you these past few weeks.’

  ‘You must be happy, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Being the Queen’s new favourite?’ Catherine flushed, looking away. ‘It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it? To sing before the Queen? The others are saying you’ll never return to the troupe, not with Lord Leicester looking out for you. He’ll be the new king, you know. They are to be married come autumn.’

  ‘What?’

  Lucy could not believe what she was hearing. She had grown so used to the idea of secrecy, that everything must be whispered for fear of being overheard, it shocked her to hear such things spoken out loud in the open corridor. Yet Catherine did not look disturbed, her face quite innocent. It would seem that the whole court knew about Leicester and Her Majesty.

  ‘Oh quick!’ Catherine grabbed her elbow, pointing hurriedly ahead as the door to the state apartments opened and the two guards at the entrance stood to attention. ‘Look, the court must be moving down to the lakeside. You’d better hurry.’

  Her friend had turned to descend the stairs, not daring to block the way. ‘Go on, you don’t want to get into trouble.’

  Reluctantly, Lucy ran up the last few steps to join the crowd now thronging outside the Queen’s apartments. It was simple to slip into the procession at the back, dropping a low curtsey to Lord Leicester as he passed, though she felt a little unnerved by the hard glance he threw her. He must have noticed her tardiness. Unless she had displeased him in some other way?

  It still weighed heavily on her mind that she had promised to report back to the Queen on any messages Leicester had sent to the Countess of Essex, and Lucy did not know how long she could avoid doing so without having to lie outright. And that was not only a sin, but treason, surely? To lie to the Queen would be to risk her own neck, a thought which left her pale and trembling, wishing she could ask Master Goodluck for his advice.

  But Goodluck was nowhere to be seen, however much she scoured the massed crowds for his bearded, smiling face. No doubt her former guardian was still angry with her for daring to speak so plainly. Her heart sank as she realized he had not come to watch her perform. What had possessed her to make an enemy of her dearest, oldest friend?

  Down at the lakeside, a huge tented pavilion, open on three sides and illuminated by many candles, had been prepared for the Queen in case of rain. For although the days continued hot and sunny, a summer storm had been predicted by the groundsmen. It was clear that Leicester was taking no chances with this very special evening’s entertainments. The main body of the court was ushered under the tented roof, and a raised throne-like seat had been set for the Queen, with cushioned benches below for her ladies and chief courtiers. Unseen in the darkness, musicians positioned out on the lake were already playing a popular French melody as they arrived, while servants were sent to thread their way between the courtiers with spiced wine and trays of sugared fruits.

  Hovering outside the pavilion, desperate not to be noticed by the Queen, Lucy caught a sudden glimpse of the lute player appointed to accompany her singing, and her insides knotted with fear.

  She felt sick, and took up a cup of wine from the passing tray, hoping to steady her nerves with its spicy warmth.

  ‘Are you ready to sing for Her Majesty, Lucy Morgan?’

  Her hand shook, spilling the wine and nearly soiling her new gold and white gown. ‘Your lordship,’ she stammered, curtseying awkwardly, the cup still held out to one side, dripping like blood over her fingers. Lord Robert took the cup from her gently, handing it to a servant, and she realized he was waiting for her reply. ‘Yes, if you please.’

  ‘You will not forget the words? And your heart – it will feel each word, press it home to the melody?’

  ‘Yes, your lordship.’

  Leicester laid a hand on her shoulder, his voice strained. ‘I need this, Lucy. Woo the Queen for me tonight with your song.’ She glanced up, finding his eyes dark and intense. ‘All is not well between us.’

  Silently, she nodded, and the earl’s hand fell away.

  A path had been cleared for her through the crowd. She stepped lightly forward, feeling empty, thin as air, her face drained of blood. Between the pavilion and the mere, a small wooden platform had been pushed into place, draped with white silk. There, the lute player sat waiting for her, his face sombre in the flickering torchlight. Lucy climbed the three steps up on to the dais, feeling as if she were going to her execution. She stood facing the court, trying not to look directly at the Queen, though she felt the burden of that sharp gaze on her face and shivered. The heat of the summer’s evening was stifling, and yet still she shivered.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she began, and found her voice barely audible above the great hum of the crowd. She cleared her throat and started afresh. ‘If it please Your Majesty, I am to sing a song for you of Lord Leicester’s own composition. Though first I am instructed to ask if you are willing to hear it, Your Majesty?’

  The Queen looked at Lord Robert, a long assessing look, while the court held its breath and Lucy stood in full view of everyone, her fingers plucking at her gown. Then the Queen nodded, her white face still and emotionless above her broad ruff.

  ‘Let us hear this song of Leicester’s.’

  Master Oldham strummed the heart-catching opening chords on his lute, and Lucy opened he
r mouth to draw breath. After that, she remembered nothing but the smell of torches, guttering and flaming, and the silence all about her, until the last throbbing line of the song died away.

  The applause came as a shock, almost a knife to her throat, startling her out of her daze. She gasped, and realized that her trial was over, the song was done, and she had not forgotten any of the words nor missed a note as she had feared. Suddenly, like surfacing from icy water, she became aware once more of the dozens of curious eyes watching her, and then she saw Leicester, a smile on his face, whisper something into the ear of his betrothed.

  The Queen gestured him to stand back, and summoned Lucy with a brief tilt of her head. ‘Come!’

  Sinking on to her knees in a deep obeisance before her, Lucy remained in that position while Her Majesty leaned forward to question her. To her surprise, the Queen’s voice trembled slightly.

  ‘You sang well.’

  She clicked her fingers, and a pretty young page boy came forward with his head bowed, carrying a small wooden chest, its lid thrown open. The Queen glanced inside the chest – almost idly, it seemed to Lucy – then drew out a delicate gold necklace, adorned with a large, single pearl. This she threw to Lucy, who fumbled to catch it, almost dropping the lavish gift in her astonishment and dread. The pearl lay cool in her palm, worth perhaps a thousand times more than most performers earned in a lifetime.

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ she managed, ‘though truly I do not deserve such generosity.’

  ‘That, we shall see,’ the Queen replied in a dry voice. ‘Now come closer. Here, at my feet.’

  She waited while Lucy rose and approached the foot of her high-backed cushioned seat, dropping into a curtsey.

  ‘Do you have anything you wish to tell me, child?’

  So the moment had come at last, here in front of the whole court, and with Lord Leicester listening!

  Her heart hammered violently against her ribs and she heard herself stammer in reply, ‘No, Your Majesty. Forgive me.’

  There was a horrible pause. Then the Queen’s voice softened, almost indulgent. ‘Come, child, it is not a difficult matter. You may rise and whisper in my ear if you are afraid to speak in front of all this crowd.’

  ‘I … I have nothing to say, Your Majesty. I most humbly beg Your Majesty’s pardon.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  Somewhere behind her on the lake the first fireworks shot up with a violent, resounding crack. The crowd gasped and several of the Queen’s ladies clapped their hands in delight. The evening’s entertainments had begun, perhaps at some unseen signal from Leicester. No doubt he thought a distraction would save them both from this interrogation, but it seemed he had underestimated the Queen’s persistence.

  ‘Nothing?’ she repeated.

  Another firework exploded overhead, blood red, and the royal pavilion was lit up for a moment by its passage, every face seemingly turned up to stare at the night sky.

  Lucy heard the fury in the Queen’s voice but still did not dare speak the truth. To do so would almost certainly condemn both his lordship and the Countess of Essex to death. The weight of that knowledge was an iron band across her shoulders.

  She bowed her head, almost sobbing out her wicked denial. ‘I know nothing, Your Majesty.’

  The fierce slap that followed caught her by surprise. Lucy fell sprawling, and knocked her head painfully against the wooden dais. A gasp went up around the court, but just as swiftly the courtiers’ faces turned upwards to watch the dazzling streaks of the fireworks, not daring to anger the Queen by staring. A shout of ‘For England and Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth!’ rang out across the lake, and the water battle commenced with a series of explosions, a deafening roar of cannon fire and the drifting, acrid smell of smoke.

  And above the noise of the water battle she heard the Queen’s command, ‘Get out of my sight, ungrateful whelp!’

  One of the older courtiers helped Lucy discreetly to her feet, his face not unkind, then turned back to the spectacle. Terrified, she slipped the necklace about her throat with trembling hands, concealing the expensive pearl beneath her high-necked bodice, then curtseyed low to the Queen and backed away into the shadows.

  Far from the circle of torches by the bridge over the lake, it was possible to mix unnoticed with the crowd, most of whom were too busy admiring the flashes and furore of the water battle to glance at the black girl passing among them, head bent to hide the blood trickling down her face.

  A great ‘Ooohhh!’ went up from the common people pressing hard against her back and shoulders, followed by an ecstatic cry of ‘Triton! Triton!’

  There was blood in her mouth, a warm sour taste. But at least her head was still on her shoulders. She could hardly hear the bang and crack of the fireworks over the lake for the thundering of her heart.

  She had sung for the Queen, as his lordship had insisted she must. Now all she wanted was to escape this noise and merry hell, and find somewhere quiet, some secret hideaway where no one could witness her shame and disgrace. The faces about her swam. Where was Goodluck?

  Forty-four

  ELIZABETH SAT STRAIGHT-BACKED, clutching the arms of her seat, shaking with fury. Damn that girl! Impudent dark eyes staring up out of her black face, like the Devil himself, mocking her failures. The fireworks shooting over the lake in fiery streaks dazzled the Queen’s eyes, but she refused to lower her head, staring blindly ahead so the courtiers nearest her would not see her defeated. The people shouted ‘Triton! Triton!’ and she saw the vast weed-covered creature approach the bridge where they sat, lifting his trident and calling aloud to her. Beneath the seated Triton swam a great false mermaid dressed with shining scales, glinting in the torchlight. It must have taken many months to create, and on any other day would have been a cause of great delight and admiration for her. Yet tonight she could hardly bear to look at it, her face set like stone.

  Robert bent to her ear again, his voice low and urgent. Elizabeth dismissed him with an angry gesture. He wanted to know how she had received his song. His song!

  The other courtiers knew something was amiss, and some were staring covertly. She could see the gleam of their curious eyes, while others carefully avoided the swivel of her Gorgon’s stare. She was suddenly, forcibly, reminded of the court’s careful, politic silences whenever her late father had lost his temper, and knew a gnawing sense of despair.

  Did they see her as no better than tyrannical old King Henry, her temper just as dangerous and incontinent when crossed?

  She had struck the Moorish girl, but that was nothing. Lucy Morgan was a servant, and her refusal to speak, to admit a role in carrying messages between Robert and Lettice, had infuriated her. Walsingham had told her everything, had exposed their secret meetings, the part Lucy Morgan had played in bringing them together. He had been more than generous in doing so, for she knew it pained him to speak ill of Lettice. No, the truth could not be hidden so easily. Foolish, wicked child, to defy her queen. She had deserved her public disgrace, to be slapped down and sent away. But this terrible desire to call for her soldiers, to have Robert and Lettice arrested and placed under close guard until she could manage their executions …

  In God’s name, I must not act rashly.

  Elizabeth’s fingers bit into the arms of her seat and she rocked forward, staring wide-eyed at the spectacle out on the lake, pretending an interest she did not feel as Triton sped across the waters, riding his giant mermaid. But she was oddly satisfied to realize how much Robert had spent to put on this show for her, digging so deep into his private coffers he must have all but beggared himself. And for what?

  She would not marry him. Nor would he understand her reasons. First, that he was unfaithful. Yes, all men betrayed their wives, she knew that as well as any other woman – and kings more than most. But with Lettice? Her own cousin, strikingly like her younger self, still strong and vivacious, still capable of bearing children. Her gorge rose at the thought of them together.

  The bl
eeding and the pain. She forced herself to dwell on that instead. It was God’s sign that she should not become a wife. To bleed so heavily after each night spent with her husband would weaken her, even leave her close to death if it continued.

  She summoned Helena to her side. ‘Where is Lady Essex?’

  ‘She is still abed, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Still?’ Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed suspiciously on the younger woman’s face, whose beauty seemed almost a conspiracy of nature – her perfectly smooth, white complexion made even more striking by a mass of red curls. ‘The countess seemed to be recovering from her sickness when last I saw her. Has she been seen by a physician? What ails my cousin?’

  The beautiful Helena looked frightened. Her voice dropped to a discreet whisper, barely audible over the crash of the water battle behind her. ‘Your Majesty, nobody seems to know. Though some believe …’

  ‘Well? Speak up!’

  ‘The physician claims she must have eaten something bad, Your Majesty. That she may have been poisoned.’

  Heads had turned now, and Elizabeth felt the strength of the court’s interest, their eyes on her face, watchful and intrigued. A delicate flush rose in her cheeks as she stared at her Swedish-born lady-in-waiting. ‘What nonsense!’ she rapped out. But she could not hide her discomfort. If Lettice were to die now, with this talk of poison in the air, the whispers would say it had been done on Elizabeth’s account. That she had ordered her own cousin’s death, as punishment for this clandestine affair with Robert. Or to remove the threat of Lettice’s beauty.

  She caught a sudden movement at her shoulder, and turned to see Robert staring at Helena too. He was pale, a haunted look in his eyes. For an awful moment she could not help but remember his wife, the sickly Amy Robsart, whom she had always despised and forbidden him to bring to court – she too had died under mysterious circumstances, and the tongues at court had wagged for months, blaming her for the woman’s death.