His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘The pain will pass,’ she groaned, barely able to form words. ‘It always does. Give me something for it. Poppy or strong liquor to help me sleep.’

  Her physicians looked concerned. They muttered among themselves while she writhed in agony, clutching her jaw. ‘It could be dangerous, Your Majesty. At your age …’

  ‘I am not old!’

  More fearful muttering. More frowning and head-shaking. Old men with moths in their fur-lined cloaks and straw between their ears. Let one of them rule a kingdom, they would soon learn to act swiftly.

  A cup was brought to her lips and she drank in tiny thankful sips, roaring each time the foul liquid touched her inflamed tooth.

  The room seemed to darken. Elizabeth looked up groggily. Where had the sun gone? Rain beat against the windows in a thrumming rhythm. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, warming her drowsy body. The bed was candlelit. That was when she realized that time had passed. She was lying down, her jaw bound up in warm cloths that stank of some herbal astringent, and Helena, dear kind-eyed Helena, was perched on the coverlet beside her, a steaming bowl in her hands.

  ‘Better, Your Majesty?’

  She lifted her head, and the pain shot through her again. Not so intense now, though. A sharp, quick, circular pain that filled her mouth, danced on the bones of her spine a moment, then ebbed to a dull ache. It was nearly over. At least, she no longer felt an urge to strangle her doctors with her bare hands. That was a good sign.

  Warily, she sat up. ‘A little,’ she conceded. ‘How long have I slept?’

  ‘Most of the day, Your Majesty. It is nearly nightfall.’ Lady Helena hesitated. ‘Lord Leicester is waiting in the Presence Chamber, Your Majesty. He heard you had the toothache and came straightaway to see you. I … I hope I did right in asking him to wait. I remembered how his lordship always used to sit with you when your toothache came on, and you said you could not have got through it without him.’

  He was out there now, waiting while she slept? The thought pleased her, though she felt anger, too, that he had not been dismissed as soon as he had arrived. It was true. Robert knew how to joke and bully her through the pain better than anyone. But let him in now? Into her own private space – her bedchamber, no less? How would he explain that to his wife?

  His first wife, Amy Robsart, had died soon after Elizabeth became queen, falling downstairs ‘accidentally’, the coroner had ruled. It had never bothered her to invite him into her bedchamber when he was married to Amy, nor to allow him to kiss and caress her, a married man, promised to another in the sight of God. But this was different. Lettice Knollys was no meek country girl like Amy, easily neglected and forgotten, easily sidelined from court. Or perhaps it was her own feelings for Robert that had changed. Did she no longer love him? She thought of her love, and saw how it had been dented by his marriage to Lettice, broken and battered like a shield that could no longer hold off its enemies. Robert, Robert. She allowed herself another moment of childish dismay at his betrayals and lusts, then moved on. Her toothache. His presence. The decision.

  ‘Tell him to go,’ she muttered. ‘I am much recovered and do not need him to … Tell him to go.’

  Lady Helena’s eyes were sympathetic. She was a good girl. Not like some at court. ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ she agreed, and removed herself from the room.

  As soon as the door had closed, the pain flared up again. Elizabeth’s tooth became the centre of her being for one exquisite moment of agony, then the rest of her jaw caught fire. She buried her head in the pillows again, stifling her moans.

  If only Robert was here, she thought, to let her squeeze his bare hand. That would help to distract her from the pain. Or he could play thimblerig to infuriate her, switching cups around too quickly for her to remember which one hid the gold coin. Or juggle apples on one leg, laughing, until he sent the fruit rolling across the floor. Or peel and slice the least bruised one, feeding it to her on the tip of his dagger with studied intimacy.

  But she must keep him at a distance now. He was no longer hers. It was hard remembering that. And becoming harder with every day that passed.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, Will. I can’t be a player short for a court performance, and this part calls for a “handsome young man of Italy”.’ John Laneham nodded as Will laughed. ‘I know, I know! But you were the only player under twenty-five I could find in the city who can carry a line and isn’t otherwise engaged tonight.’

  Laneham handed over the other shoe and watched critically as Will forced his too-large foot into it.

  ‘Sorry about the tight fit, lad. Gerrard had a smaller foot than you.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Foolishly, just as the drunken sot lived.’ Will looked up and Laneham made a face. ‘He fell off a ladder during a performance at the Cross Keys. Snapped his neck clean in two. Don’t you do the same, you hear me? I can’t afford to keep buying in new players. He was meant to be climbing over a high wall to woo his lady, but if you don’t think you’re up to it—’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Good lad.’

  John Laneham threw him a richly embroidered, fur-lined cloak that seemed smart enough until Will looked at it closely. Then he spotted the loose seams and realized it needed a trip to the seamstress. Or else the midden, he thought, recoiling from the smell.

  ‘You have a play roll for me?’

  ‘Here.’ Laneham took a battered play roll from the roll bag and handed it across. The parchment was torn in places, and marred by scribbling and greasy fingerprints. ‘This was Gerrard’s. The lines are simple enough. “I love you, I want you to be my wife,” and all that. You could crib them in half an hour, which is about all you’ve got before the performance starts. You play a young Italian who’s sick with love. That can’t be too much of a stretch for you, even for a man who’s sworn off women.’

  Will smiled. ‘Alas, my reputation as a happily married man …’

  ‘Now don’t blaspheme, lad.’ But Laneham grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come to me after the play, there’ll be two shillings in it for you. And a jug of ale, too.’

  ‘No wine?’ Will glanced about the high-ceilinged room with its gilt walls and expensively leaded windows. ‘I’ve no wish to sound churlish, but I expected more hospitality from the palace of Whitehall. Is it true what they’re saying, that the Queen’s coffers are empty?’

  ‘Be content with the ale and the two shillings, lad, and keep your mouth shut around court. You should think yourself lucky to be working here at all.’

  ‘It will be good to have money in my pocket again, not just a promise of it.’

  ‘Oh aye, the money’s good for us Queen’s Men, for all it’s a new company. And I don’t doubt there’ll be wine aplenty for the fine courtiers, as there always is when we play at court. Rivers of the bloody stuff, from Burgundy or the Rhône or wherever. But the Queen’s Men won’t see a drop of it. We’re players, lad. Too lowly for such costly fare. They’ll give us roast pig and a good jug of ale apiece after we’ve done our work. What more could a man want?’ Laneham grinned. ‘Except a woman who doesn’t mind a jig or two when the candle’s out?’

  ‘You’ll not find many of those at court.’

  Laneham tapped the side of his nose. He leaned in close, stinking unpleasantly of cabbage and unwashed body. ‘You leave it to me, young Master Shakespeare. These court ladies may look too fine for the likes of us, but trust me, if there’s one here who will fall on her back for me, I’ll find her before they kick us back out into the streets. I can sniff out a silken whore at a thousand paces. Yes, and have her too, before the bitch even knows what’s been up her skirts.’

  Will laughed. ‘You are a very devil!’

  ‘It has been said, Master Shakespeare. It has been said many times. Nor have I ever denied it. But only for the ladies, mind. I’m as true and honest a man as you will ever meet elsewise. And here’s my hand to prove it.’

  Will shook his hand. He look
ed about in the general hubbub as the other players began to arrive and pull on their costumes. He recognized a few faces, for the London players were few, and frequented many of the same taverns. But he was only with the Queen’s Men for tonight’s performance. It would not feel right to mingle too freely with them.

  ‘I’d better find somewhere quiet to learn my lines and cues.’

  ‘I’ll send a boy for you when the court’s assembled and we’re ready to start. We have a prompt, in case you forget your part, but I’d rather you were not for ever stuttering and staring before the Queen. She’s had the toothache this past month, they say, and her mood is bitter. So learn your part well.’

  With a nod, Will took his play roll away down the narrow corridor. He wandered aimlessly for a moment before finding an opening in the wall that led out into a small enclosed garden. There was nobody about. It was chilly and already growing dark, but Will knew he would rather get cold outside than try to read by the light of a spitting torch in some smoky antechamber.

  He found a stone seat under a willow and settled himself there to read the play roll, peering at the cues in the semi-darkness to make sure he knew each one. The lines themselves took only a few moments to commit to memory. It was always the cues he had trouble remembering.

  Will could hear the sounds of the city outside the walls, still humming with life even at dusk: street sellers packing up their wares for the night, women laughing somewhere nearby, the constant rumble of carts and, a little further away, the haunting cries of the watermen, drumming up night trade or just calling to each other across the broad expanse of the River Thames.

  Cursing, he wiped his hands on his too-loose trousers. Why was he so nervous?

  Will knew the play well enough – he had seen it performed twice before, at Warwick and Coventry – and he had a good memory for lines. He could only assume it was being in the rarefied courtly air of Whitehall that was making his palms sweat.

  That, and the knowledge that if Burbage heard of him taking a part in another man’s company, even just for this one night, he could lose all hope of future work in that quarter. Burbage didn’t like his men to play for anyone else. It was a matter of honour with him, of loyalty to the company. But then, Burbage didn’t have to scrape a living from a few shillings a week, sending home as much as he could to a wife and child he had not seen in months.

  Above, shutters were thrown back noisily and a light shone from an open balcony window. Inside he caught a glint of gold and heard the whisper of women’s voices, then a rustle of stiff silk.

  Shrinking into the shadows – was he even allowed to be here, in this private garden overlooked by what must be the Queen’s own apartments? – Will sat perfectly still and gazed up at the woman who had come out on to the narrow balcony.

  The woman was turned away from him, looking back into the room. She was wearing a broad-skirted white and black gown decorated with pearls, her bearing very erect. The gloved hand that clutched the stone rail of the balcony bore a large ruby ring. Even in the gloom of dusk he could see that she was tall, stately even.

  One of the Queen’s ladies, he guessed, judging by the richness of the pearls glinting in her dark hair and on the bodice of her gown.

  Then the noblewoman turned to look down into the garden, and he saw her face for the first time.

  A shudder ran through him. Lucy Morgan!

  Will stared hungrily up at the dark face he remembered, beautifully drawn by the hand of Nature with the high cheekbones and full lips of the African. He had seen her at the Cross Keys Inn, and now here she was again. His whole body shivered. He had chosen to come to court for this night’s work, knowing he might see her again in the Queen’s company of ladies. But this chance meeting …

  Not chance, but the hand of God. It had to be fate that Lucy Morgan had come to this very window and looked out over the garden in which he had chosen to sit. What else could she represent but his destiny, clothed in human flesh – and a gorgeous black flesh, at that?

  Lucy shifted slightly, and noticed his still figure under the willow tree.

  Fixed by the intensity of her dark, brooding gaze, Will found himself unable to move or speak. Perhaps she would think him a statue.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded, shattering the illusion. When he did not respond, she drew herself up angrily, staring straight at him. ‘Speak, or I shall summon the guards.’

  Had she always been so tall?

  Will frowned, looking again at the black hair that framed her face, bound in a silver net and gleaming with tiny seeded pearls. Pearls were the Queen’s favourite adornment, too, a symbol of chastity, of untried virginity. Yet surely an exotic beauty like Lucy Morgan could not still be unmarried? Though perhaps, in the service of the Queen, she had little choice but to remain a virgin too, as her mistress claimed to have done.

  He was not tongue-tied, but dazzled. He revelled in being able to say her name for the first time in years. ‘Lucy Morgan.’

  She stared down at him through the darkness. Her voice was hesitant. Perhaps she feared he was a courtier who would be offended by her questions.

  ‘Who are you, sir? These are the Queen’s apartments and you are standing in her Privy Garden. I don’t know how you came to be there. But if you are seen, you will be arrested.’

  He let the play roll drop and came swiftly to the foot of the wall. The balcony on which she stood was two floors up, but there was a young sycamore tree immediately below it, and a high ledge to one side that he could probably stand on to speak to her. He gazed up, assessing the height. As a boy in Warwickshire, he had been for ever in and out of trees ten times the size of this. Leaving the stinking cloak behind him on the grass, Will scrabbled up into the tree, balanced along one of its slender branches – which bobbed and danced beneath his weight like an unbroken pony – and pulled himself painstakingly up on to the stone ledge.

  Flattened against the wall, Will turned his head to see Lucy hanging over the balcony, staring down at him. God, she was a beauty. He felt himself harden with desire and was shocked into silence. What had he told Laneham? That he was a happily married man?

  Since coming to London, he had seen women running about half-dressed in the streets, and had had young whores sit in his lap, offering him their bodies for little more than fourpence, and had not been moved.

  Lucy Morgan was different.

  She was shocked that he knew her name, that he had climbed up like a boy to speak to her. It was in her eyes, the way her hands gripped the stone rail of the balcony. Was she Lucy Morgan? Could he have been mistaken? No, hers was the same dark face he remembered, the beautiful woman of his dreams.

  ‘You don’t recognize me, Lucy?’

  She frowned. ‘You’re … the player from the Cross Keys.’

  She did not remember him. Why should she? He had been nothing to her at Kenilworth. Just a local boy. He must make a fresh start with her, make her see him as a man.

  ‘You must look further back than that.’

  From the start, Will had been desperate to conceal his rural origins from the London players, renting a more costly room than he could afford, packing away his frieze suits for a more fashionable doublet with slashed sleeves and coloured hose, even shedding his embarrassing country accent. To be thought a country bumpkin had been his constant fear.

  Now, though, he made no attempt to hide the soft brogue of his Warwickshire burr, hoping to remind her of the past. ‘Eight years back, to a boy who had lost his father in the hurly-burly of a great country castle welcoming its queen.’

  She looked at him properly for the first time. Her stiff court dignity fell away. For a moment, she was almost the old Lucy, her voice rising like a girl’s. ‘Will? Is … Is it truly you? Young Will Shakespeare?’

  ‘The very same.’ Will bowed as best he could, balanced on the narrow ledge. ‘Though not so young any more. I shall be twenty years of age in April. It is good to see you again, Mistress Morgan.’

  She was
shaking her head, her eyes still wide. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She stared at his face, then at his clothes. ‘You look so different.’

  ‘I’m a player now. I’ve come to play before the Queen tonight.’

  ‘You’re with the Queen’s Men?’

  He wanted to say yes, to impress her. But it would be a simple enough lie to expose. ‘For tonight only,’ he admitted. ‘I am not attached to any company, I work where I am paid to work. They were a man short tonight. But I would like to join them, yes. If they will have me.’

  Her gaze moved to the play roll, lying forgotten beside the bench. ‘You were learning your part?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Someone called her name in the brightly lit room behind her, and Lucy straightened, something like fear in her face. ‘You’d better go before they come out here to find me,’ she told him hurriedly, and glanced over her shoulder. ‘The Queen must be leaving her chamber. I have to accompany her downstairs with the other ladies.’

  ‘You’ll be at the play?’

  She turned back, and now she seemed to be smiling. ‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘But you must go, Will. If you’re seen here, you might be mistaken for a spy.’

  That was no exaggeration, he thought wryly. The company had been closely searched tonight on entering the palace, their play chests thrown open for scrutiny, even their carts turned over. On the streets of London, the muttered talk on everyone’s lips was the continuing ferment of Catholics in England, and the threat of a war with Spain. People were nervous. And in such times, for him to be caught climbing a wall in the Queen’s Privy Garden would be tantamount to treason.

  Nonetheless, Will could not seem to make his feet move from the ledge. ‘Don’t go,’ he told her, and he reached up as far as his arm would stretch. ‘Not yet.’