‘We are safe enough here,’ Will reassured him. ‘My neighbours are actors and they are all out tonight. At the whorehouses, I should expect.’
‘Well, and why not?’ Richard spat on to the hearth, regarding his saliva on the hot stones with satisfaction. ‘A young man should know how to stir a pudding.’
Will covered his snort of laughter by poking the brazier noisily. He threw the iron aside with a clatter. ‘I’d heard that Edward Arden had been brought to London, yes. But his arrest will come to nothing. A few months in the Tower, perhaps. They would not dare to proceed with any trial without strong evidence. And what can they prove? That his son-in-law John Somerville is mad, and anyone in Warwickshire could tell them that.’
‘Stark staring mad, the poor lad,’ Richard agreed. His shrug was fatalistic. ‘But that will not stop Leicester from prosecuting the law to its fullest extent. Don’t forget, it was Edward Arden who called him a whoremaster before the Queen the summer she came to Kenilworth. Aye, and refused to wear his livery and take his orders that year, and all but publicly named the Countess of Essex as Leicester’s mistress. A man as powerful as the Earl of Leicester does not forget such insults, however many years may have passed since they were thrown at him.’
Will nodded. He had some vague memory of the scandal, though what he chiefly remembered from that summer at Kenilworth was Lucy Morgan’s dark face and eyes.
Richard slapped his knee. ‘I knew you would understand, that you had not forgotten your roots.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And here is where you play your part, Will. The family needs to know what is being said here in the city about the Ardens. We are so far away in Warwickshire, we have little warning when danger threatens.’
Will stared, frowning. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sniff about the city, see what you can glean of our troubles. If Arden is to die, we cannot help him if we are unprepared. And if there are any here who would support us in a fight, send us their names. Not too openly, though, in case the letter should be intercepted.’
‘So I am to spy for you?’
‘For God’s sake, hold your tongue!’ Richard looked furious. ‘Spy is not a word to be used aloud. Do you know nothing of discretion? You will make enquiries on how opinion swings in the city and send back reports. You are a player, Will. Hundreds pass through your theatre doors every day. You must hear all the latest gossip, whatever is being said on the streets and in the taverns. You are no spy in this matter, merely a friend to the Ardens.’
Will looked down. ‘Aye,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I will keep my ears open whenever I can.’
‘Good lad. I knew the family could rely on you.’
Richard eased back in his chair and accepted another cupful of ale with sincere thanks. They warmed their feet at the glowing brazier and spoke for another hour of homely matters – the seasonal tide of rural Warwickshire life – the conversation easier for both of them when it concerned sheep and local politics rather than treason. The Watch called out the hour in passing at eleven o’clock, and Richard finally sat up, stretching sleepily.
‘Eleven? Sweet Jesu, I did not know the hour was so advanced. I’ve a place commanded at an inn a few streets shy of the city wall, and I’d best not disturb the landlord too late.’ Richard frowned. ‘I’ll be spending this winter at the farm. Send any correspondence there. But write circumspectly. Say nothing that could be misread if intercepted.’
‘And if I discover nothing?’
‘Not possible.’ It was a threat and both of them knew it. Richard stood up and reached for his cloak. He shot Will a look from under straight brows. ‘Your mother may have married a Shakespeare, but Arden blood runs in your veins. You are one of us – one of the old kind. And while you remember that, the Ardens will remember the wife and child you’ve left behind. They will come to no harm in our care.’
Will wondered how much longer the Ardens would be a name to conjure with in Warwickshire. But he said nothing, merely showed his visitor politely to the door. The powerful Edward Arden and his family in the Tower, the old Catholic families of Warwickshire held in the greatest suspicion, their houses ransacked, their livelihoods under threat. The whole thing was a bloody mess, whichever way it was looked at.
Wrapping his long cloak over one arm, Richard paused in the doorway to embrace Will. He gazed balefully around at the neighbouring houses, their slatted walls cracked and daubed with mud and dung. Somewhere a baby was crying for its mother, and three young men were staggering past from the ale houses, singing loudly with no fear of the Watch calling them to order.
‘This is a stinking place,’ Richard commented at last.
‘But cheap,’ Will murmured. He raised his hand to one of the drunken young men, an actor friend and a neighbour of his. ‘Parker!’
‘Will Shakey Speare!’ his friend replied cheerfully, and sketched an unsteady bow. ‘I’m drunk as a horse.’
‘Best get yourself to bed then, ale head, you’ve a rehearsal in the morning.’
‘Who’s your friend?’
Richard Arden drew his hood close over his head and frowned warningly at Will.
‘No one.’
‘Someone from the country, by the vile look of his hose.’
Parker gave a violent hiccup and staggered to his door, waving goodnight to his friends. ‘Goodnight, goodnight!’
There was a burst of hysterical barking from within Parker’s lodgings. Then the door banged shut behind him, the two friends lurched drunkenly on, and the street fell silent again.
‘If I need to send a letter, can I reach you at this address?’ Richard asked Will, his look disdainful.
‘That depends on whether I get paid tomorrow. I owe several weeks’ rent on this place.’
His cousin fumbled at his belt, releasing a small leather purse. ‘Here,’ he muttered. ‘Use that to keep yourself off the streets. You can pay me back when you come home.’
Will took the bag reluctantly, hearing the clink of coins inside. He knew what it signified. ‘Thanks. But you’re sure you won’t stay the night? I’ll be working late on the play, you can have the bed.’
Richard shook his head. He pulled his cloak tight and stepped over the stinking sewer. ‘Thank you, no. Keep yourself well, cousin. God be with you.’
‘And also with you.’
Will shut the door on Richard Arden’s retreating back and leaned against it, swiftly counting the contents of the purse. Enough to pay the rent he owed, and some left over for a good supper. Several suppers if he chose the establishment wisely.
A goodly amount. The price of a man’s integrity.
Four
ELIZABETH SAT IN state in the Presence Chamber, surrounded by the decaying tapestries and archaic glory of Whitehall. She sighed, resting her chin on her hand as the courtier on his knees before her droned on ad nauseam. Some dreary dispute with his neighbour at court, a matter of no importance whatsoever. Elizabeth tried not to look as bored as she felt, examining the Presence Chamber with a jaded eye. Whitehall had been her father’s most flamboyant city palace, and Cardinal Wolsey’s before that, but she had been unable to spare anything from the royal coffers for its upkeep, and its age was beginning to show. The gilt ceiling murals were flaking, moths had made holes in the magnificent tapestries, and the large private apartments stank of sewage all year round, not helped by an all-pervading stench of mud and ordure from the nearby River Thames.
Perhaps if she had agreed to marry Alençon, the French duke’s coffers might have paid to clean this place and the stinking city streets beyond its arched doorways. The little Duc d’Anjou with his curly black hair and muscular body had come closest to being her husband, after all; she could not deny that giving herself to a man like Alençon had seemed an attractive proposition in those first grim years after Leicester’s marriage. But the game had rapidly grown stale. Public flirtations, secret messages and assignations, the gorgeous little gifts they had exchanged … and the kisses. The anger of her people had on
ly served to make her more determined to marry him. How dared they seek to sway her mind with seditious pamphlets and rebellious mutterings?
And Leicester’s grief had been a rich reward for those nights she had indiscreetly allowed Alençon the freedom of her chamber. Yet she had flinched from his offer in the end. Marry at last, after all these years, and bow her head to a Frenchman’s will? So she accepted the fading splendour in which she was forced to live. It was one of the prices she had paid for her freedom.
London had grown filthy in recent years, the river almost solid with black slurry in places, the narrow city streets teeming with disease and foul air. Every now and then, the plague would sweep through it like wildfire, killing thousands of her people, their diseased corpses cast into plague pits without name or ceremony beyond a muttered prayer for their souls.
Some nights Elizabeth woke hot and sweating, fearing herself sick with the plague, and would cry fitfully into her pillow once the physicians had gone, not relieved by their reassurances and wishing herself safe in the country. But her people liked their queen to reside here a few months of the year, to show her face and walk among them on holy days, dispensing alms as her father had often done or healing the sick with just the touch of her hand. So it must be the palace of Whitehall now and Richmond later, or perhaps Hampton Court; she could not recall which of her residences would be ready for the court first.
‘Your Majesty,’ someone murmured, and Elizabeth came to with a start, realizing that the droning courtier had finally stopped talking. He was still on his knees, waiting for her to pass judgement on his complaint. She glanced about the crowded Presence Chamber and the assembled courtiers discreetly averted their eyes.
Had she been on the verge of sleep? Well, if these fools would bore her.
‘Where is Lucy Morgan this morning?’ she demanded, noticing that the young black singer was not among her ladies.
No one spoke. Several of her women glanced at each other, though. Such malicious smiles. What were they hiding? She heard rumours about Lucy from time to time. But the girls who brought them to her ears never seemed sure of their veracity. And yet … Well, she suspected that Lucy Morgan had been involved with Robert’s secret marriage, but she had little proof of it and would not make a fool of herself by pursuing the matter.
One day the truth will come out, Elizabeth thought bitterly. Then she would have her revenge. She would make Lucy suffer for aiding her rival to marry where Elizabeth could not. Meanwhile the wretched girl was not in attendance on her – why was that?
‘Find Lucy Morgan and bring her to me,’ she instructed one of her pages, who jumped to his feet and scampered off through the courtiers. She looked about the chamber restlessly while she waited for him to return, searching for Robert’s dark head in the crowd. ‘And where is the Earl of Leicester these days?’ she demanded of her ladies. ‘Is he missing from court too?’
Now she was not imagining the smiles. Well, let them smile. It had been a mistake to allow her old favourite out of exile so swiftly, barely a few months after his marriage. She knew that. She was weak, that was the truth of it. And Robert still had the power to amuse her. Besides, there were so few men left at court whom she could trust. The doughty old noblemen who had surrounded her during her first years on the throne had died, one by one, and the youths with their pointed beards and lavish doublets who had taken their places were not of the same character.
She could no more ask advice from such boys than she would order her hunting dogs to sit on the Privy Council.
Robert had gone home to his wife again without permission, no doubt. Why did no one obey her any more? Was she grown so toothless, so ancient, that her courtiers mocked her behind her back and did precisely as they chose?
She sighed and leaned her cheek upon her gloved hand again. They were the gloves Alençon had given her. Perhaps she ought to have accepted him. She could be married now, and with a son of Tudor blood to inherit her throne. What was left to her instead but this tiresome parade of complaints, and the same old songs, for the rest of her life?
A tall, silver-haired courtier in russet threaded through the crowd and sank stiffly to his knees before her. What now, she thought wearily, what now? As he looked up and their eyes met, she realized it was Robert.
But how old he looked!
‘Your Majesty,’ Robert murmured. ‘You called for me?’
Did she look that old? She baulked at the thought. Yet they were the same age. Fifty years. Fifty years old? It was hard to believe she had now been on the throne half her life. Once, it had seemed such an impossible dream that she would ever wear the crown. First had come her poor brother Edward. Then Northumberland and his treacherous plot. Poor little Jane had paid the price for that, sweet child but too weak to save herself from ruin. After that, her sister Mary. That nightmare had dragged on and on until she had thought she would die in the Tower before she was ever queen. Yet here she still was, clutching at a crown that constantly threatened to be snatched away if she so much as blinked.
‘I am glad to see you at court, my lord Leicester.’ Elizabeth moved upright in her seat. Her body was stiff, her skirts rustling. I am not old yet, she insisted to herself. Slowly, she thought back over the particulars of the man’s complaint. ‘Let the baron be fined for his lack of consideration, and let him leave court until … until …’
‘Michaelmas?’ Robert suggested.
Elizabeth nodded, trying not to let her gratitude show on her face. She had not yet forgiven Robert for marrying that woman. Perhaps she would never forgive him. But she did feel weary today.
‘Is that the last this morning?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. Though there is that other matter that needs to be heard. Sir Francis Walsingham awaits your pleasure in the Privy Chamber.’
Thankful, Elizabeth rose and allowed her old court favourite to help her down from the low dais. She did not need his help, nor the velvet-topped cane her steward shuffled forward to offer her and that she waved impatiently away. But after sitting so long, her legs were always a little stiff and her knees liable to give.
She gripped Robert’s velvet sleeve. ‘We missed you at court last week, my lord. I do not recall giving you leave to return home. Not so soon after your summer visit there.’
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’
Never. She stiffened and her lips thinned, but she said nothing. There was nothing more to be said on that score.
In the terrible weeks after she had heard of his marriage, she had wept so bitterly she had thought she would die of a broken heart.
Toothache, her old complaint, had come back to haunt her, like a physical reminder of the pain she was feeling inside. She had sent away all her women, smashed priceless ornaments in her private apartments, spent long cold hours alone, planning how she would avenge his betrayal. Oh, how she had wanted to punish them both, to see them on their knees before her! Nothing short of the headsman’s axe would do for that she-wolf, that thief of men, Lettice Knollys, so shameless in her crime. But for Robert?
There, she had been hazier in her plans. Even in the white heat of her fury, Elizabeth could not quite bring herself to take his head. Not Robert’s darkly beloved, treacherous head.
Yet the punishment she did impose – Robert’s exile from court – had not lasted as long as she had intended. Time had dragged without his presence, and his letters of humble contrition had touched her heart. And so within months Robert had been back at her side, paler than before, less outspoken, but still the companion of her youth. Later, a son had been born to the she-wolf, healthy and strong, but Robert had not dared raise the subject in Elizabeth’s hearing, and she had never spoken of his heir. His marriage was still a wound in her side, a vicious thorn no amount of talking would pluck out.
Elizabeth raised her voice. Let the court hear her reprimand, she decided. They must know her favourite to be still unforgiven for his secret and imprudent marriage. Elizabeth Tudor was not weak and womanly like her cous
in Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, whose husbands had always played the tune to which she’d danced so foolishly. She would have the respect of her people, even if, as she constantly feared, she did not have their love.
‘You will not leave court again without our permission,’ she told Robert coldly. ‘We have need of you here. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The richly dressed courtiers fell to their knees on either side as she passed, murmuring, ‘Your Majesty,’ in suitably respectful tones. Among their downturned faces were one or two young noblemen who eyed her eagerly and with a little too much impudence. She ought to have reprimanded them, too. But to own the truth, it was entertaining to see their boyish smiles in the court, and to dangle intimacy in front of them whenever she wished to hurt Robert. Today though, she could not spare the time for such pleasures.
Gripping Robert’s arm more tightly, she walked steadily past the kneeling courtiers and into the Privy Chamber, followed by two of her noblewomen. She could guess what awaited her behind the splendid double doors, and drew herself up, not wishing to hear more bad news but knowing such blows to be an inevitable part of government. It seemed there was always one more thing to be faced before she could make her throne secure. If it could ever be fully secure, which she was beginning to doubt.
Damn Catholics, always scheming for her death.
In the first years of her reign, she had set her heart on a smooth transition back to a Protestant country. She had intended no burnings, no torture, no lengthy or unwarranted imprisonments, and a tacit pardon for those willing to forego their Roman Mass for the plainer truths of the Anglican church. But Elizabeth had not reckoned on the stubbornness and absolutism of these religious fanatics, on their determination to drag her from the throne rather than live peaceably in the new and more tolerant England she had built.
Walsingham and her treasurer, Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley, were waiting for her in the Privy Chamber, two black figures on either side of the fireplace; vying with each other, it seemed, as to which should look more sober and plainly dressed. They bowed as she entered with Robert, and she waved them to their seats. She had no time for ceremony today. Her head ached, and her bad leg was throbbing. The physicians would need to tend to it again before tonight’s feast for the visiting Swedish ambassador and his entourage.
His Dark Lady Page 4