She turned back towards the palace. ‘Speak, what is it?’ she asked brusquely, seeing one of her stewards hurrying towards her.
‘The Spanish ambassador awaits you in the Presence Chamber, Your Majesty.’
Signor Mendoza! She had forgotten their meeting this morning. She thought of his watchful eyes and the dark oily sheen of his hair, but could not quite find it in herself to dislike the man. He might be reporting every movement she made back to Spain, but at least he understood how to entertain a bored queen with gossip.
‘What’s that?’ she demanded. Something had fluttered slowly down from an open window above their heads. Elizabeth stared upwards, but it was impossible to make anything out against the sunlight. ‘Pick it up, man, and give it to me. Is it a letter? From whose window did it fall?’
‘Window?’ the steward repeated blankly, but craned his neck upwards at her command. ‘I cannot tell, Your Majesty. I see no one.’
The letter was not addressed to anyone; it merely held a few lines in a bold hand. Her blood chilled as she read them.
‘I do not believe it,’ she choked, then crumpled the letter up tight in her gloved hand.
God’s blood, could it be true?
Remain calm, she told herself, aware of her women staring. Remember that you are a queen. Reveal nothing.
‘Send for Lord Leicester. I would speak with him at once.’
‘But, Your Majesty, he … his lordship is not at court at present.’
‘Then send to Leicester House and tell him I will brook no delay, but must see him this very day.’ Elizabeth stared at the trees swaying gently in the spring breeze. How dared he? How dared he? The blood thrummed in her temples. ‘No, wait! I shall go myself. Have my barge readied.’
The steward stared at his queen as though she had turned mad as old King Canute. Perhaps she was mad. Yes, that would explain her look: as if she would snap his neck like a twig if he did not at once carry out her command.
‘Your b … barge, Your Majesty?’
‘Out of my way, fool,’ she snapped, sweeping past him in such a rage that she was barely able to make herself understood to her women as she fumed at them to change her walking gown.
She stood impatiently while women fussed about her, stepping out of her petticoats and holding up her arms for the sleeves to be unlaced. She did not stop to wonder who would have thrown down such a letter for her to find. Walsingham could discover that later. For now she must simply determine whether or not it held the truth. Though in her heart she knew it was no lie.
Damn him, damn him!
Elizabeth rode towards the river in the breezy spring sunshine, surrounded by guards and her flustered-looking women, a light wind whipping up sand on the pathway. Was that genuine confusion on the faces of her ladies-in-waiting or had she been the last to know again? Bad enough his flagrant affair with Lettice three years ago, that Elizabeth knew had slowly rekindled after Lettice’s husband had died, but this …
In the royal barge, she straightened out the crumpled note and read it once more, her heart lacerated by its contents.
R. has been secretly married these past three weeks to Essex’s widow, who now holds court with him in queenly estate at Leicester House. A Friend.
Holds court? That was a cunning phrase, right enough, but what did it signify? Did Lettice now presume to become queen in her place? Elizabeth ground her teeth in rage and frustration. She would have this out with Robert today, even if it meant outright war between them. At least surprise would be on her side.
But on arriving at Leicester House, Robert’s extensive London residence that opened its gates on to the Strand, Elizabeth found to her great annoyance that a messenger must have ridden hard ahead of their company. The doors to the great house stood open, all the servants down on their knees outside as the cavalcade approached, a litter bearing her from the river.
‘His lordship is unwell,’ his steward babbled as Elizabeth was helped from her litter, ‘and begs for a little more time to prepare himself for your honoured visit, Your Majesty.’
Ignoring the man, Elizabeth strode into the house, past staring servants, and up the grand staircase. Her women began to follow her in whispering disorder, but she barked, ‘Wait for me below!’, sending them back outside in disarray. Let them stare and make baleful predictions there, she thought. This was one interview they would not be allowed to overhear.
Elizabeth found Robert in the doorway to his bedchamber, wrapped in a house coat, looking very pale – and in truth unwell.
‘Your Majesty,’ he croaked, then knelt, head bowed, as she met his gaze with utter fury and contempt. ‘Forgive me.’
His servant bolted when she turned to glare at him.
‘Is it true?’ she managed after a threadbare silence, looking down at Robert’s bent head. ‘Are you and my cousin Lettice wed?’
He looked up then, and she knew the letter had not lied. His dark eyes watched her, eyes that made it impossible for her to order his death. ‘Yes, it is true.’
The blood beat in her ears so loud she thought she would faint. Married, married, married. She would kill him. No, she would kill her. Rip her throat out. Toss her liver to the dogs. Stick her bloodied head on a pike for all to see.
Elizabeth counted silently to ten. Better that than launch herself at him with a scream, all claws like a shrew.
‘And where is this she-wolf?’
Why did her voice have to sound so shrill? It angered her that she cared what Robert did after all these years. They were not promised to each other, had never been in any way the Council would recognize. This jealous rage demeaned her, lowered her to the status of a fishwife. He was her subject. Nothing more. What did it matter with whom he coupled, so long as he served her? Except this union could weaken her hold on the English crown. Lettice was of royal blood, had some claim to the throne, and Robert might no longer be young, but he was a nobleman now, an earl with vast resources at his command. Resources she had put in his path. Elizabeth cursed herself again for a trusting fool.
‘Not here,’ he told her. ‘I sent her home.’
‘Home?’
‘To her children.’
She waited. ‘You did not seek my permission to wed.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Would it have been given, Your Majesty?’
‘That is not the point.’
Her voice nagged at him. Yet she was somewhat mollified by his penitent tone. She liked that Robert was still on his knees, looking up at her like a supplicant. That was his place, that was where he belonged. On his knees to her, his queen.
‘My cousin Lettice is the widow of an earl, not a washerwoman. Her remarriage required my signature, as well you know. I should have you both arrested.’
‘Arrest me, Your Majesty, not your cousin. The fault is mine. I insisted that we wed without waiting for your permission.’ He was sweating and shivering, his discomfort obvious. Hard to counterfeit a fever. ‘Lettice is guiltless in this.’
She would have laughed but her anger forbade it. Lettice guiltless? One day, she thought. One day I will make her suffer for this insolence.
‘You are fortunate that I am a forgiving queen,’ she told him, then hated herself for such female weakness. Arrest them both. Give Lettice a taste of the Tower that would leave her knock-kneed in fear for the rest of her life. Do not let their disobedience pass without right and proper punishment. Yet she found herself saying instead, ‘However, you will not return to court. You and your bride are no longer welcome there. Not for any reason, not on pain of death. Am I understood?’
Her favourite nodded, clearly relieved to have escaped a stay in the Tower. He knew what horrors that grim place held. They both did.
‘Yes, Your Majesty. I thank you for your mercy.’
He must think her a fool. And with good reason. She struck at him with the only thing she had left. Not her pride. Sweet Jesu, that had gone years ago between them. ‘If all goes well, you may yet be permitted t
o return to court to celebrate my nuptials. Though your wife will never be invited.’
His eyes had narrowed as he watched her face. Elizabeth smiled, knowing that word had slipped between his ribs like eight inches of Italian steel.
‘Yes, my nuptials,’ she repeated, gloating over his dismay. ‘For you should know, I have recently been reconsidering Alençon’s interesting proposal of marriage, and find we may suit after all. I could not take him seriously as a spotty youth, but now that he is grown to manhood and been made Duke of Anjou …’
‘Marry a Frenchman?’ Robert seemed to be choking.
‘You have often said I should marry, so why not a French noble? Besides, a union with France pleases me more each time I think of it.’ Oh, the steel was in him now, she thought. His eyes were suffering. ‘Alençon is still young, yes, but that will have its advantages in the marriage bed. Or so the doctors tell me.’
Excellent, she thought, now he’s sweating for quite another reason. As she turned to leave Robert to his feverish imaginings, Elizabeth permitted herself a further sharp thrust, just to make sure her favourite knew she meant it.
‘These things always take so long, though, if left to diplomacy alone. I will arrange for Alençon to visit me once he is free of his military duties, and then we shall see if any … intimacy develops. I am still angry with you, Robert, but we have been friends such a long time.’ One more should do the trick. ‘Wish me well with my young French suitor, won’t you?’
Part One
One
The Cross Keys Inn, London, autumn 1583
‘OUT THE WAY!’
At the hoarse cry, Will Shakespeare flattened himself against the wall of the passageway. Late for his cue again, William Kempe squeezed past in his tattered fool’s costume, gripping the wooden neck of a hobby horse. As he dashed on to the makeshift stage, the theatre erupted in cheers and whistles, those seated in the galleries drumming their feet on the wooden boards with a sound like thunder.
‘How now?’ Kempe called across the heads of the groundlings, then whirled into a crouch with teeth bared and arms wide.
The house fell silent and breathless, waiting for his next line.
Someone came up behind Will, muttering in his ear: ‘They were ready to tear the place apart a minute ago. Now they’re meek as lambs. How does he do it?’
It was James Burbage.
‘He makes them laugh and cry at the same time,’ Will whispered, watching Kempe as he effortlessly dominated the scene, ‘and they love him for it.’
‘Another full house.’ Burbage jingled a bag of coins at his belt. His voice held satisfaction. ‘God preserve us from the plague and the city magistrates, and we’ll be rich men in another year.’
Will looked at the heavy pocket-bag. ‘I owe a month’s rent.’
Burbage clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. ‘All in good time, Shakespeare. Never let it be said I allow even my apprentices to go short. But think, if I were to pay you now, how much of it would go on saving your family’s reputation?’
Will frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you not heard of the fall of the mighty Ardens? Why, man, it’s all they were talking about in the Tabard last night.’
‘I was busy last night. Making a fresh assault on The Troublesome Reign of King John.’
‘Excellent. Is the play finished yet?’
‘Not quite. It is proving more troublesome than I expected. But if you will give me these ancient plays to rewrite …’ Will glanced out as another roar of laughter went up from the groundlings: Kempe galloping about with a woman’s petticoat over his face. ‘So what tale is this about the Ardens? They’re not close family of mine, you know. Distant cousins.’
‘Aye, that’s it, best to disown them.’ Burbage tucked his purse out of sight under the folds of his jacket. ‘No amount of money could save Edward Arden anyhow. They say his head will be decorating London Bridge soon enough. Yes, and with the rest of the family to follow by Christmas.’
Will stared. ‘Traitors? The Ardens?’
‘If you poked your head out of your pit more often, Master Shakespeare, you might hear something of the world’s doings. Yes, the Arden family were arrested as traitors a week or more ago. It’s a rare old tale. Arden’s son-in-law is John Somerville. You know of him, surely? Poor fool, they say he was born with his brain cracked. Well, good John sets off for London, ranting at every inn along the way that he plans to shoot the Queen.’
‘What?’
Burbage grinned, warming to his story. ‘Somerville was seized before he even reached the city, of course, and Edward Arden and his wife and daughter were taken soon after, as equal conspirators against the throne. The whole family rests now in the Tower, they say, with Edward Arden himself in Little Ease.’
‘Good God.’
Burbage laughed. ‘Who would have thought it, eh? Your sleepy Warwickshire risen against the Queen before the North. It seems the Catholic roots run deep there.’
Edward Arden, head of the family, in the grim Tower cell they called Little Ease, where it was said a man could neither lie down nor sit? Will thought of his mother and father back in Stratford, not far from the Arden estate.
‘What of the rest of the family?’ he demanded. ‘How far do these accusations go?’
‘Now, don’t start dreaming you’ll rush home to save your loved ones from the law. Write them to hide their catechisms and get themselves to a good Protestant Mass, and no one will hang for it. If the Queen killed all the Catholics, there’d be no one left to wind the clocks and run the towns. Jesu, man, you’re as pale as a sack of flour.’ Burbage nodded towards the stage. ‘Hurry, now. Isn’t that your cue?’
‘Aye, aye.’
Blowing out his cheeks, Will stepped from the dark passageway into the draughty hall of the Cross Keys Inn. The floor was lit with chill November sunshine streaming through the unshuttered windows, with lanterns set in brackets on the walls to further light the small playing area before the crowd.
All eyes turned to him as he made his entrance. Will felt again the rush of blood that had so excited him the first time he had ever spoken a line onstage. Then he had been a boy, beardless and still unmarried. It had seemed such a great adventure, playing to the city crowds at Coventry, walking home that night with the unaccustomed weight of coins in his purse. Now it was his work and he could not live without it. He was already up to his ears in debt, with a wife and child at home in Stratford expecting him to support them.
Yet there was still a tingle of excitement on treading the boards, knowing that when he opened his mouth to speak all these folk would stop and listen.
Kempe pretended to slip over, crossing the stage, and Will’s first line was drowned out by a roar of laughter from the crowd.
Undeterred, Will raised his voice.
Kempe stumbled back to his feet, his expression rueful. He made a face, then rubbed his backside with both hands. The crowd roared again, delighted by the fool’s antics.
Adopting an attitude at the front of the stage, Will folded his arms. He waited for the laughter to die away before attempting to deliver his next line. He suppressed a flicker of annoyance. It was all part of the act; Kempe loved to upstage the other players and raise the temperature of the house.
Will gazed across the laughing crowd of playgoers, those who could not afford seats pressed together near the stage. There was a cloaked woman among them, watching him intently. She was taller than the rest, her face half-hidden by a smoke-grey hood. There was something about the woman that drew Will’s attention, and it was not just that her skin was as black as the night sky, and her eyes …
A shock struck him, like a flaming arrow to the heart, and suddenly Will could not recall his next line.
‘Lucy,’ he whispered under his breath.
The woman stared back at him. Her dark gaze widened and locked to his.
He had been little more than a boy, a mere eleven years old, the summer he had met Lucy Mor
gan. Yet he had never forgotten her, nor the marvellous festivities laid on for the Queen’s visit during those long hot weeks.
Had she recognized him?
Kempe launched into a foolish little song-and-dance routine, improvised to cover Will’s silence.
‘There was a man with half a head,’ he began whimsically, and the audience laughed, waiting for the rest.
No doubt believing Will had forgotten it, the prompt called out his line from the side of the stage.
Faltering, Will gave his line, and the next lines too. But he performed them only to the Moorish woman in the hooded cloak, who did not smile at his attention but drew back cautiously into the shade of her hood.
That night at Kenilworth eight years ago, he had climbed the steep bank above the castle wall and seen Tom’s bloodied body on the grass, men peering down at his corpse in a ring of flickering torches. It had been his first sight of a dead body. At the time he had assumed that Tom Black and Lucy Morgan had been lovers, and that they would have married if the Moor had lived. Certainly the two had been close.
His father John had dragged Will home before he could discover the full truth of what had happened that night. A plot against the Queen was all he had been told, with never a whisper spoken afterwards. Everyone in Stratford knew the Shakespeares were not the good Protestants they pretended to be, so to dwell on such things could be dangerous. Will had begged to be taken back to Kenilworth to see Lucy, to comfort her over Tom’s death. Part of him had worried that he had been to blame, that he had not run for help quickly enough. But he had never seen Lucy again.
Now here she was, a few feet away in the crowd, no dream to vanish at daybreak but a flesh-and-blood woman.
A sudden shriek turned Will’s head. A woman had risen from her seat and was screaming hysterically, pointing at a broad-shouldered man in a coarse suit. He had blood on his hands and was stooping over another man, who seemed to be slumped in his seat.
His Dark Lady Page 2