The Queen's Secret

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Don’t look,’ she whispered, hugging him. ‘You should not be here. Where is your father?’

  ‘Below at the gate. He is waiting for me.’

  ‘Then you must go to him at once. He will be worried. Come, I’ll walk down with you. The castle is not safe tonight. There … there are murderers walking free here.’

  ‘Not for long,’ Twist muttered, his face grim.

  With one arm about her waist, Twist led her and Will down the dark slope, away from the man who had helped to save the Queen’s life, his body stiffening on the cold ground. Bitterly, Lucy wondered if the Queen would ever know his name or be told of his fate. She must ensure that the Queen was informed, even if that meant braving the royal presence again, knowing how much she had displeased Her Majesty. Better to face punishment and disgrace for failing to obey the Queen than allow Tom’s sacrifice to go unspoken.

  ‘Where is Goodluck? Did you find him?’ she asked Twist quietly, not wishing to alarm the boy any further. Young Will seemed to have fallen into a reverie, his face distracted.

  ‘No one seems to know,’ Twist replied. He said nothing more for a moment, then added in her ear, ‘Best to prepare yourself for the worst. If Goodluck was still alive, he would surely be here with us now. This has been a dark night’s work.’

  Lucy nodded, though her heart bled at the news.

  First Tom, then Goodluck.

  She did not want Will to see her distress. Kneeling hurriedly at his side, she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Farewell,’ she said, and put the boy into the hands of his waiting father.

  ‘Farewell, Lucy Morgan!’ Will called back over his shoulder. ‘Until we meet again!’

  Once they were both safely out of sight, Lucy turned away and hid her face in her hands.

  Epilogue

  Richmond Palace, south-west of London, autumn 1575

  THE CROWD BEGAN to cheer and wave flags as the procession rounded the bend and the gold and white vision of the Queen once more approached the vast gates of Richmond Palace. It was still warm for early autumn but a cooling breeze from the river kept the courtiers from overheating in their stiffened silks, brocades and jewel-studded velvet jackets. Somewhere behind the high palace walls a chorus of trumpets sounded, startling birds to rise from the banks of the River Thames. The familiar stench of the river mud was dulled now that high summer was long past and the court had not been in residence for many months.

  Two well-scrubbed small children ran out of the crowd with bunches of wild flowers and presented them to the Queen.

  As she bent to receive them, exchanging a few words with the children, voices on both sides of the crowd-lined thoroughfare called out, ‘Welcome back, Your Majesty!’ and ‘God bless Your Majesty!’ and ‘God save our Good Queen Bess!’

  Lucy, riding a short distance behind the Queen’s party, no longer had to remember Tom’s advice to keep her hands low and the reins short whenever the crowd pressed too near, for it came naturally to her now.

  Faces from the crowd stared up at her, some mean-eyed and suspicious, others openly admiring of her skin, so black against the white of her cloak. ‘Look at the Moor!’ one intrepid woman shouted, and the crowd there took up the cry, swelling forward to see ‘the Moorish girl!’

  Within a few minutes, the guards had to ride close and drive back the people with their pikes, while flowers and insults alike rained down on Lucy’s head. The crowd’s attention was terrifying, their faces lifting and rolling like a wave of the sea. Once, she would have died of fright, listening to their shouts. Now, all she could think of was how the guards at Kenilworth had dragged her to the back, out of sight of the entry procession, for fear the colour of her skin would frighten the Queen.

  Just ahead, Lord Robert turned to glance at her, his dark eyes restless, a stormy look about his face. It was common knowledge that the Queen had forbidden the Countess of Essex to follow the progress back to London. It was said that Lettice had been ordered to spend time at home with her children and her husband, recently returned from Ireland, and his lordship was in a fine temper over that.

  Of course, nobody was talking about their affair. Yet everybody knew. Lucy was still unsure how two contraries could be true at the same time, though it was not the only instance of such doubleness. It was an open secret at court that the Queen was no ‘virgin’, yet to speak such a treasonous thought aloud would be to ask for an agonizing death.

  Nonetheless, she risked a brief smile for his lordship’s benefit, then discreetly lowered her gaze to her horse’s plaited mane. Falling into a kind of daydream, she had a sudden memory of a gentle afternoon on the woodland paths at Kenilworth, riding under the trees with Tom, his hand clutching at her bridle – she could not remember if it was because she had nearly fallen, or whether the horse had startled at something and tried to bolt – and this simple realization left her half in tears, biting at her lip. Already her memory of those long sultry days at Kenilworth was fading, his beautiful smile, his lithe black body, the grace with which he had held himself.

  Tom.

  Coming level with the gates, Lucy found herself caught in a melee. The crowd pressed in hard, shoving this way and that. The reason was simple enough. The road narrowed here, with double guards on either side to prevent the commoners from entering the palace, and the courtiers on horseback could only pass through the gates two or three abreast.

  Falling in beside two older courtiers, their lined faces showing their exhaustion, Lucy sat waiting her turn in silence.

  She felt a sudden tug on her reins, and glanced down.

  ‘Penny for a sick beggar?’ the man cried in a hoarse, cracked voice. His face was blackened with dirt, his eyes bloodshot. ‘Save you, mistress, have you a penny to spare for your old father here?’

  One of the courtiers in front turned round, his face wrinkled in disgust at the smell, and lifted his whip. ‘Get away from the lady, sirrah!’

  ‘No, please,’ Lucy said at once, horrified by the threat of brutality. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I do have a penny for him. He is old and almost blind, do you see?’

  ‘He is not a day older than I am,’ the courtier spat, but spurred his horse forward, leaving her beside the palace gates with the beggar clutching at her gown.

  She fumbled for her purse, hidden among the folds of her skirts, and extracted several coins.

  ‘Just one, Lucy,’ the beggar hissed. ‘Are you trying to make them suspicious?’

  Lucy’s whole body jerked in shock as she stared down into the dark, watchful eyes of Master Goodluck. She nearly cried his name aloud but Goodluck laid a warning finger on his lips.

  ‘Goodluck,’ she breathed, but said no more at his furious shake of the head. He was in disguise, for some reason she could only guess at, and she might endanger his life by betraying that she knew him.

  Correcting her mistake, Lucy made a great show of dropping one slightly bent penny into his trembling, outstretched palm.

  ‘One penny, old father,’ she said clearly. Then she bent further towards him with a little cry of disgust, pretending to brush her gown clean where he had touched it. Her voice dropped almost to nothing. ‘I thought you were dead!’

  ‘It takes more than that to dispatch me.’

  Some men in the crowd jostled past him and Goodluck made a noisy show of dropping the coin into his belt pouch, hoarsely crying aloud his thanks.

  ‘I leave for the coast tonight, but I had to see you first.’

  Anxious at once, Lucy searched Goodluck’s face for signs of trouble. ‘Why?’

  Under the grime, his blackened mouth cracked into a smile that revealed strong white teeth. ‘Because you are my sweet Lucy Morgan and I wish to take the memory of your face on the road with me.’

  ‘Oh, you fool!’

  ‘Hush!’ he cautioned her. He was still smiling, but she could hear disappointment in his voice, and a little disapproval too. ‘I hadn’t expected to find you such a great lady. With rings on your fingers and bells on your toes. T
his gown alone must have cost the Queen’s coffers dearly.’ He glanced at the fading scar on her cheek, where the assassin’s knife had gashed her. ‘I thought that business at Kenilworth would have scarred you for ever. Yet you are as beautiful as ever you were. And you ride close to Her Majesty.’

  ‘I have to ride close at hand,’ she whispered defensively. ‘The Queen likes me to sing to her sometimes on the road.’

  ‘My little songbird.’ His mouth twisted in a brief smile. ‘Listen quickly now, Lucy. If I don’t come back to see you within a year, never mention me again. Pretend not to know my name. It will be safer that way.’

  She stared, aghast. ‘Why would you not come back?’

  ‘Just remember what I’ve said.’

  ‘How could I ever pretend not to know you? You are my guardian.’

  ‘Not any more. Besides, a dead spy is an embarrassment to his country and best forgotten. Look what happened to young Massetti. Buried in an unmarked pit somewhere, and not a word home to say how he met his end. Even your friend Tom.’ He paused. ‘He was a brave lad.’

  Tears filled her eyes and she found she could not speak.

  Someone jostled him from behind, and Goodluck drew down his hood, so that all she could see of his face was his unsmiling mouth and the beard below.

  ‘Farewell then, young mistress.’ His voice was that of the old beggar once more, hoarse and breaking. ‘God bless you!’

  Forgetting all Tom’s careful advice, Lucy fumbled and dropped the reins. By the time she recovered them, her impatient horse had squeezed through the palace gates and her own dear Master Goodluck was gone, lost behind her in a blur of faces and waving flags.

  She cried out in frustration and despair, her voice swallowed up in a sudden, frantic cheering as Queen Elizabeth, having now reached the grand pillared entrance to Richmond Palace, began to dismount from her horse. The crowd was in a fever of excitement now, and more guards poured out of the palace barracks to contain the thronged masses at the gates.

  It was all Lucy could do not to weep openly.

  Recovering herself, she sat straight-backed, head high, as stiff in the saddle as the Queen herself. She would not permit any of the courtiers to see her cry and to despise her for such a sign of weakness. This was her chance to rise in the world, to shine, and she must not cast it aside for any man. Besides, she could draw some comfort from the knowledge that Master Goodluck was not dead, as she had feared. There was still the chance that she might see him again, one day.

  Author’s Note

  It is only half an hour’s drive from my Warwickshire home to Kenilworth Castle, once a great English fortress, now lying in partial ruins. It was on regular visits to the castle, maintained by English Heritage and a favourite outing for our kids, that I first conceived the idea of setting a historical novel there during the time of Elizabeth I’s visit in 1575. Queen Elizabeth liked to escape the stinking cesspits of the city during the summer months and tour the countryside ‘on progress’, with her court in attendance, visiting the grander homes of her subjects. These passing visits were often so lavish, the cost of accommodating and feeding the Queen and her vast entourage falling entirely on the host, they left many courtiers destitute. Even the wealthy Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, spent the rest of his life trying to recover from the nineteen-day extravaganza laid on for his queen in 1575. There can be little doubt he had hoped to recoup his loss that summer in daring style – by finally persuading Elizabeth to marry him.

  Gossip during Elizabeth’s reign constantly linked these two, claiming clandestine meetings between the ‘Virgin’ Queen and her ‘Robin’, as she affectionately dubbed Robert Dudley, and even a number of secret children, presumably born and spirited away at dead of night. Despite the frivolous nature of such rumours, a letter from the long-dead Leicester was found in a bedside chest after Elizabeth died, with ‘His last letter’ written across it in her own hand, a keepsake which suggests more than mere affection for a favourite courtier.

  So why would Queen Elizabeth choose not to marry Robert Dudley if she loved him, particularly after promoting him to the title of earl, so much closer to her own rank? Theories abound, from the pragmatic one of wishing to retain control over her throne to the fascinating suggestion that she was in some way physically abnormal, i.e. incapable either of normal sexual intercourse or reproduction. The simplest explanation may be that Elizabeth, having had ample opportunity in her youth to witness the devastating effect of marriage on women, with both her mother and stepmother executed by a lascivious husband, chose to rule England alone despite the enormous pressure on her to marry. Yet there always remained rumours that the Queen was barren, or suffered from some mysterious gynaecological complaint – though discreet examinations carried out on behalf of foreign suitors appear to have been inconclusive.

  Elizabeth’s chief rival for Leicester’s affections in 1575 was the fertile and red-haired Lettice Knollys, another of the Boleyn family from which Elizabeth also sprang on her mother’s side, famed for their charm and beauty. It was whispered that Anne Boleyn’s sister Mary had fallen under Henry VIII’s roving eye, and been married off to the discreet William Carey before her pregnancy was too apparent. If so, her granddaughter Lettice might have considered she had almost as much of a claim to the throne as her cousin Elizabeth, since both Elizabeth and her own mother, Catherine Carey, would have been ‘bastards’ descended from the late King. (Elizabeth was declared illegitimate following her mother’s execution in 1536; that ruling was never lifted, even after she was returned to the line of succession.)

  Some historians consider Elizabeth to have been unaware of Leicester’s rekindled interest in the beautiful Countess of Essex, but this seems unlikely. The two had enjoyed a brief fling ten years before, at which time Elizabeth had angrily warned Leicester away from her younger cousin, and in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the court, with its many observers and informants, the Queen could hardly have remained ignorant of their renewed affair for long. After all, it was only just prior to this that Leicester may have married one of her other ladies-in-waiting, Lady Douglas Sheffield, in a secret ceremony which he later vehemently denied – though Lady Sheffield produced a son in 1574 whom Dudley acknowledged in his will.

  In 1575, Lettice Knollys was wife to the Earl of Essex, a strict military man who was away subduing the Irish, and mother to his children. The earl openly quarrelled with his wife on his return in November of that year, presumably over her affair with Leicester, and died soon after going back to Ireland during what may have been an outbreak of dysentery. There is no hard evidence that Essex was poisoned, but there was open enmity between the two men, not least thanks to the gleeful rumour that Lettice had already borne several children to the indefatigable Leicester, whose illegitimate offspring must by now have been littering the back streets of England. Whatever caused it, Essex’s death cleared the way for Robert Dudley to marry his widow in a secret ceremony at Kenilworth in 1578. One can only imagine Elizabeth’s reaction, first on discovering this betrayal, and later, when Lettice gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

  In this retelling of Elizabeth’s visit to Kenilworth, I have drawn extensively on Robert Laneham’s Letter, a document published soon after the royal visit in 1575, perhaps as a paid exercise in propaganda. In this journal, Laneham describes both Kenilworth Castle and Leicester’s extravagant festivities in meticulous detail, including the many hunting expeditions enjoyed by the Queen whenever the weather was favourable. But Robert Laneham would not, of course, have been privy to intimate goings-on in the fabulously furnished state apartments, built specially for Elizabeth’s visit. My own frequent visits to Kenilworth Castle, though it is much changed since Tudor times, have aided me in imagining the carnivalesque atmosphere it must have possessed that scorching hot summer, with as many as 300 cartloads of workers and courtly hangers-on housed about the castle and its environs, plus a steady stream of local visitors to the ‘spectacles’ laid on as entertainment. And in commo
n with many historians and literary commentators, I have envisioned the young Will Shakespeare, then a boy of eleven, travelling from the small market town of Stratford to see the Queen and her glamorous court at Kenilworth.

  Which brings me to Lucy Morgan. That such a person existed, and may have been one of Queen Elizabeth’s small army of attendants in the years following the festivities at Kenilworth, is attested by court records. The name Lucy Morgan appears several times between 1579 and 1581 in both the Egerton Manuscript1 and the Public Records Office. She is noted chiefly as having received gifts of clothing from the Queen’s ‘Great Wardrobe’ – on one notable occasion, ‘six yards of russet Satin and two yards of black velvet’, a lavish gift at a court where ladies-in-waiting dressed in black and white, and were not supposed to outshine their queen. There is also mention of a generous six shillings eight pence in Sir Thomas Heneage’s office book in 1582, given as a traditional New Year’s Day gift to a ‘Mistress Morgan’s servant’, a sure sign that Lucy Morgan herself enjoyed ‘bouge of court’ or free board and lodging courtesy of the Queen, most probably in the capacity of lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty.

  As for Lucy Morgan’s African descent, some historians have linked this privileged Elizabethan lady-in-waiting with a later ‘Black Luce’ or ‘Negra Lucia’ living in Clerkenwell, courtesy of informal letters and reports written at the time. The Lay Subsidy Roll would seem to support this conjecture, showing a ‘Lucy Morgan’ living in that area in 1600, and Leslie Hotson makes an interesting case for these being one and the same person in his Shakespearean study, Mr W.H. But the character of Lucy Morgan as drawn in this book remains my own creation, albeit with links to her shadowy namesakes in the past.

  Were there black performers at the court of Elizabeth I? Absolutely, and a painting by Marcus Gheeraerts the Elder from 1575 proves it, depicting black musicians and entertainers performing before the Queen. Indeed, due in part to the newly flourishing slave trade, there was a growing black population in England during the later Elizabethan era. Religious belief was a vital element in determining how easy life would be for these early black settlers. A rapid conversion to Christianity, which enforced the adoption of a Christian name, eased integration and enabled immigrants to avoid cruel penalties – including imprisonment and execution – for religious non-observance. These converts would not have retained their original names after baptism, making it hard to tell from official records just how many settled here in Britain during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Their social status was also uncertain, following a famous test case in 1569 which apparently gave us the following judgement on slavery: that ‘England was too pure an Air for slaves to breathe in’. To add to this confusion, parish records of the time either simply noted their colour – as if this alone was an indication of status – or intriguingly described black people as ‘servants’ rather than slaves. So the fictional Tom Black in this story loses his African name to become ‘English’ and reinvent himself as one of Leicester’s head grooms – a free man, if still in service – and such a radical change of identity was by no means unusual.2