‘Now to finish this.’
Fifty
ELIZABETH KNELT AT her prayers, head bent, hands clasped before her. To her right, Lady Mary sighed deeply, and young Swedish-born Helena, never one for lengthy devotions, fidgeted to her left. Elizabeth herself was not over-keen on too long a communication with the Lord but she was not yet ready to lie down. Indeed, she feared a long night of restlessness lay ahead; her mind was too busy for sleep, incessantly working over the problems of the day even while she was readied for bed. Her ladies had slipped a nightgown over her head, brushed her wig until it shone, and cleansed the whitening paint from her face and throat.
Outside the high leaded windows, the wind had begun to howl about the castle, growing stronger every minute. She could hear distant shouts and the sound of a bell tolling somewhere below in the castle grounds.
Elizabeth shivered in a sudden chill draught. Her undressing had taken nearly two exhausting hours. The heavy gown required several women to unfasten and remove each separate piece, and then her pearl-laden wig had refused to be parted from the supports holding her vast, perfectly white, angel-wing ruff in place. She wished that her women had at least thought to cover her head with a cap before prayers.
Discreetly, Elizabeth opened her eyes and peered about herself. The lacy white cap lay on the bed, only a few feet away, waiting for her to finish her devotions.
‘Lady Mary,’ she murmured, eyes closed once more, hands still clasped as though in prayer, ‘my cap.’
There was a rustle to her right, the sound of slippered feet on creaking floorboards, then soft hands were fitting the lacy cap to her head, gently tying the white ribbons in a bow beneath her chin.
‘Your Majesty,’ Lady Mary whispered with her habitual deference, and sank back to her knees behind her.
No sooner had Elizabeth begun to brood on the unsatisfactory events at the lakeside, that wicked Moorish girl’s refusal to obey her, than a crash and a muffled cry from the Privy Chamber brought her head up again, hands falling to her sides.
Mary and Helena had leapt to their feet immediately, taking up flanking positions to protect the Queen. Though what they thought they could do against an attacker, she could not conceive.
Elizabeth signalled the two ladies to help her up, then placed a finger on her lips and gestured Helena cautiously to investigate.
The younger woman hesitated at the thick, studded door, listening to the sounds of struggle behind it, then called out in an uncertain voice, ‘Master of the Guard?’
There was no reply.
‘Is the chamber door locked?’ Elizabeth demanded.
Lady Mary shook her head. She fumbled at her belt and held up the key. ‘We lock the door only when you are abed, Your Majesty,’ she replied in a whisper.
‘Lock it now.’
Mary nodded, and hurried to secure the door to the Privy Chamber.
Before she could reach it, the door was flung open, and a short, dark-robed figure stood on the threshold. Grim-faced, this creature stared wildly into the chamber, then began to advance on the three of them, bearing a long unsheathed dagger still shiny with the blood of its previous victims.
Lady Helena cried for the guards to come quickly, her back straight, anger shaking in her voice.
Elizabeth stood silent. She could have told her lady-in-waiting that the men on guard outside her doors were already dead, otherwise this assassin would never have penetrated so far into the state apartments.
Lady Mary stepped in front of the Queen. Her jewelled fingers trembled as they groped for the cross about her neck. Nonetheless, she demonstrated a stalwart composure in the face of death.
She raised her chin. ‘You shall not pass, villain. This is the Queen’s bedchamber.’
The dark-eyed assassin stopped and studied each of them in turn, as though trying to decide which of these women, all in lace nightgowns and caps, was the Queen of England.
It was only then that Elizabeth realized her would-be murderer, despite the bloodstained dagger and the masculine attire, was a woman.
Outrage and fury reared inside her and she cried out, ‘Don’t dare to come a step closer, you foul disgrace to the female sex!’
The woman, if she deserved such a description, bared her teeth in a grin and shifted her knife to the other hand, her dark eyes fixed on Lady Mary.
Helena, resourceful as ever, had come up behind Elizabeth with a fur-lined mantle, and now made a show of draping this ceremonially over her shoulders. ‘I’ve opened the passage at the back of the room,’ she whispered in her ear, shocking Elizabeth with her knowledge of the secret door through which Robert had often entered and left her bedchamber. ‘Mary and I will charge her, and you must—’
‘Your Majesty!’
Another woman had come staggering through the doorway, also brandishing a knife and with blood pouring from a deep gash across her cheek.
It was Lucy Morgan.
‘Your guards are dead,’ Lucy gasped. ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I tried to stop her but she was too strong for me.’
With a hiss of frustration, the woman turned and lunged at Lucy with the knife. It seemed certain that she would kill her. Yet somehow Lucy managed to evade the assassin’s blade. One moment she was leaning in the doorway, as though near to collapse, and the next she was several inches away, astonishingly light on her feet. The killer lunged again, and Lucy’s sleeve ripped loudly. But again she moved so swiftly, as though dancing for the Queen, the assassin was unable to catch her. The next time, however, Lucy was less lucky. The knife made contact with the sleeved shoulder of her gown, ripping the stitches and slicing through to the skin beneath.
Lucy cried out in pain and dismay, dropping her knife, and stumbled to her knees as a red stain began to spread across her shoulder.
The assassin turned her back on Lucy, indicating with a contemptuous gesture how little of a threat she considered the girl. Assessing Elizabeth again through dark, narrowed eyes, she gripped the long dagger more tightly and crouched as though about to spring.
Lady Mary spread her arms wide. ‘You must kill me first,’ she insisted, her voice rising on a note of hysteria. ‘And I will not make it easy for you.’
‘If that is your wish.’
As the assassin trod purposefully towards Mary, Lucy Morgan lurched to her feet and threw herself violently at the woman, knocking her off balance and sending both of them sprawling across the floor. The dagger spun out of the assassin’s hand, clattering against a cabinet. A large gilt candlestick toppled at the impact and the burning candle fell on to the woollen rug beneath, setting it on fire.
Helena grabbed at the skirt of her nightgown and hurried past the struggling women on the floor to seize the fallen candlestick. But she was too late. Flame had already licked along the rug towards the heavily embroidered bed hangings, crackling ominously. Now smoke billowed upwards, shrouding everything in grey.
‘To me, Your Majesty!’ Lady Mary bustled Elizabeth to safety at the back of the room, a martial light in her usually sombre eyes. ‘Pray do not fear. Lady Helena and I, we shall not allow harm to come to you.’
Smoke and the stench of burning wool swamped the Royal Bedchamber, and Elizabeth found herself coughing violently, barely able to breathe. Mary dragged the lacy cap from her own head and handed it across so that Elizabeth could cover her mouth. Helena was attempting to stamp out the fire with only her slippered feet, the poor brave girl, and shouting, ‘Alarm! Alarm! Rouse the castle!’
The assassin kicked Lucy Morgan away and rose to her knees, groping now for the dagger. There was a cold fury in her eyes.
‘You will die, Elizabeth, bastard whore of England,’ she hissed in Italian. Her fingers closed around the dagger’s slim handle, and a note of triumph crept into her voice. ‘God guides my hand tonight. See, here is your death.’
Behind her, a bright flash of gold descended through the smoky air, and the assassin fell, her eyes wide with surprise.
Lady Helena stoo
d over the motionless body and studied the bloodied candlestick in her hand as though she had never seen it before. She gazed on the assassin, then lifted a stunned gaze to Elizabeth’s face.
‘I think she’s dead, Your Majesty.’
Elizabeth allowed Lady Mary to lead her past the crumpled body of the assassin and into the Privy Chamber. That broad, high-ceilinged room was less smoky than her own chamber. She was able to lower the cap from her mouth and breathe clean air again. By whose treachery had this Italian assassin been permitted to enter her state apartments? The traitor’s head must be placed on a pike before the castle gate, she thought.
But even as she considered that prospect with pleasure, Elizabeth knew she did not wish the world to know how vulnerable she still was to attack.
Again, yet again!
Then Robin was suddenly there in the room, pale-faced. He knelt before Elizabeth, clasping her hands, and begged her to forgive him for not preventing the assassin’s attack.
‘Your Majesty, I would not have had this happen for the world. We have caught some of the conspirators, and riders have been sent after those who escaped. They will pay for this venture with torture and death, they and any here who are found to have helped them.’ Her favourite held her hand tightly in his grasp, not letting her pull away, pressing warm lips to her skin. ‘I will see each of these dogs run to ground and torn apart for this treachery.’
‘Tear them apart if you wish, but I will not have this spoken of abroad,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘We will give the Catholics fresh hope if we let them know how close that creature came to killing me.’
As a thick noxious smoke continued to billow out from her ruined bedchamber, Elizabeth found herself being ushered away from the royal apartments by a flock of her white-gowned ladies – surrounded now by burly guards at arms – to a hastily prepared chamber. A flagon of wine was set out for her, and there was clean linen on the simple bed.
‘Where is Lucy Morgan?’ she thought to ask wearily as her ladies ushered her into a fresh nightgown, but nobody seemed to know. She told Lady Mary to set her chair by the window, and sat there, her nerves a-jangle, knowing she could not sleep. ‘Was she badly hurt? The girl showed great courage tonight. She should be rewarded.’
Helena curtseyed, offering her a drink of wine. ‘Should I send for Lucy Morgan, Your Majesty?’
‘Tomorrow will be soon enough. Let her hurts be tended first. Tonight I must see Walsingham. Though I imagine he is already on his way up.’ She smiled at Helena. ‘But you too were courageous, Helena. I owe you my life. It shall not be forgotten.’
‘I did nothing but my duty to Your Majesty,’ Helena said humbly, and backed away with her head lowered.
‘Indeed.’ Elizabeth’s smile faded. She stared down into her cup of wine. ‘I fear not all my subjects are so loyal, Helena.’
Fifty-one
LUCY, COUGHING AND barely able to see for the smoke, rolled from her back on to her hands and knees.
The assassin lay nearby in a dark pool of blood, gazing directly at her through the greedy flickering of flame, slack mouth turned down at the corners.
Lucy stared, shivering at the sight of her deadly enemy, every muscle in her body tensed for another fight. Then, belatedly, she saw the dull sheen across those eyes and realized the woman was already dead. She was glad then, remembering their struggle in the antechamber, how she had tried to disarm the hooded assassin, only for the hood to fall back and reveal her smooth dark hair.
A woman!
That instant of disbelief had almost cost Lucy her life. She knelt up, feeling shakily for the wound in her shoulder. Thankfully, it was not as grave as she had feared. There was hardly any blood, just a sharp, wrenching pain that left her wincing as she staggered to her feet.
A hubbub of urgent voices came from the Privy Chamber, the sound of running feet.
‘Your Majesty?’
Painfully, holding on to the wall for support, Lucy made her slow way to the door.
A handful of guards appeared in the doorway, barely noticing her. On the shouted order of their captain, they seized the assassin’s corpse without ceremony and began to half drag, half carry it away. The woman’s head lolled unpleasantly to one side, leaving a trail of blood across the rushes, mouth gaping open now, eyes still staring.
As Lucy watched this horrible spectacle, her legs trembling, one of the guards, a burly fellow wearing Leicester’s badge, grasped her by the shoulder and pushed her roughly to one side.
‘Out of the way, girl!’
‘Please, where is the Queen?’
‘What is it to you?’ The man spun on his heel and stared down at her, his eyes narrowed. She had a sudden memory of the guard who had left the gate in the wall undefended, his bulky form swimming up out of the darkness in her mind. This one leaned closer, his reeking breath hot on her face. ‘Mind your own business, girl, and get back to the servants’ quarters. There’s no place here for the likes of you.’
‘Blount!’
Surly-faced, the guard turned away, sketched a half-salute to the captain who had challenged him, and hurried out in the wake of those carrying the corpse.
Briefly, the captain also looked her up and down, noting her bloodied gown, suspicion flickering in his face. Then, with some reluctance, he nodded for her to follow the others.
‘Better take yourself downstairs and get those hurts seen to. Don’t think about wandering off though. You may be wanted for questioning, so stay in the women’s quarters until you’re sent for.’ He added brusquely, seeing her hesitation, ‘Well, do as you’re told, girl. If you’ve nothing to hide, no one will harm you.’
It seemed Lucy had no choice but to follow the slowly emptying crowd through the doors of the Presence Chamber and out on to the landing beyond, clasping her shoulder to lessen the pain. The Queen was nowhere to be seen, nor any of her chamberers and ladies-in-waiting. Some of the courtiers who had come to gawp at the commotion were still in bedgowns and nightcaps, shivering in the sharp draught from the stairway.
Lucy slipped unnoticed between the muttering courtiers, yet she did not take the stairs down to the next floor as she had been ordered. Instead she found herself following her route back along the narrow corridor to the darkened storeroom, whose door still stood ajar, and the gaping hole in the floor. That was where she had last seen Tom, holding back the bear and his tamer while she climbed the rope.
Kneeling on the lip of the hole, she leaned forward and stared down into terrifying blackness.
‘Tom?’ she whispered. The sound of his name echoed about the damp walls below.
Lucy knew what she must do, but did not want to do it. She was wounded, her head ached fit to burst, and she was scared. What would she find down there? The dead body of her friend? The black bear with its lethal claws and teeth? Or perhaps a handful of the assassin’s countrymen, waiting for their friend to make her escape?
Lucy tucked up her skirts, groped for the rope that she knew must still hang there, swung both legs over the edge of the hole and let herself down into darkness.
The bear lay on its back just below the castle wall, stiffening already into death with wounds to its throat and belly, black blood seeping into the soil. She stared at its vast corpse a moment, then swallowed her sickness and stumbled on, fearing what lay ahead. She found Tom about a hundred yards further down the rough slope, half hidden behind an ancient oak stump. She knew he was dead as soon as she saw him, his dark mass spreadeagled in the starlit grasses, yet allowed herself to hope for a moment that she was mistaken.
‘Oh Tom,’ she managed under her breath, gently lifting his head into her lap to cradle it.
Leaning closer, she saw the blood congealed on his shirt, and the deep, ragged gashes to his chest which had drained his life away. He must have tried to crawl on after killing the bear, brave to the end, perhaps thinking to raise the alarm at the gate below. He had died in the attempt.
Tears choked her and for a while she could only repeat
his name, rocking back and forth. ‘Tom, Tom.’
There was a shout from below. One of the guards must have seen her. With hoarse cries, a line of bobbing torches began to ascend the slope, then she was surrounded, the smoky light illuminating Tom’s face, the proud jut of his chin, his eyes closed. Were it not for the blood smeared across one cheek, he might have been sleeping. There were mutters of recognition from some of Leicester’s men, and one tried to lay his jacket over Tom’s face, hiding him for ever.
She wept then, bitterly, fearing they might handle his body roughly, just as the guards had handled the assassin in the Queen’s chamber. She refused to let them cover him.
‘Leave me,’ she told them. ‘I will look after him.’
One of the men bent to drag her away and she resisted fiercely. ‘No! I must stay with him. This is my fault. Tom would still be alive if I had not asked him to come with me tonight.’
Fresh cries brought new men up the slope to where she knelt, protecting Tom with her body.
Through the stinking smoke from the torches, she recognized one of Goodluck’s men among the newcomers, and called out to him in relief. ‘Master Twist! Tell them to leave him. This is all my doing. I must be allowed to … to clean his wounds before … before …’
Master Twist knelt beside her and looked carefully from her face to Tom’s, then shook his head. ‘You must leave him to these men now, Lucy. He is one of theirs. They know what to do.’
‘I will not let them touch him!’
‘You must,’ he insisted, then lifted her away from Tom, pulling her damp face into his shoulder. ‘Hush. Come now, there is someone here who has been most anxious to see you safe. And then you must have your own hurts tended.’
She saw Will standing behind him, his face pinched and white in the torchlight, more like a wraith than a living boy, and her heart flooded with guilt. In her grief and pain, she had forgotten about the child.
He was staring down at Tom’s body in a kind of trance, his eyes wide and fixed.
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