His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘I must,’ she replied. That half-smile again. Yet she did not move either, looking down at his hand near to hers, so close.

  ‘Lucy Morgan.’ He took pleasure in her name, willing her to reach out and touch him. ‘Please.’

  Her eyes met his, pleading with him in return. ‘I can’t. If anyone should catch us …’

  Will said nothing but continued to hold out his hand, his gaze locked with hers.

  ‘Lucy!’ the woman called shrilly from inside the room. Her voice was angry now, insistent. ‘Her Majesty is waiting! What are you doing out there?’

  Lucy leaned perilously far over the balcony. She was tall and must have been standing on tiptoe; even so it was a stretch. Her hand met his for a second, just a brush of gloved fingertips across his. Then she was gone.

  The balcony was empty.

  Will dropped lightly to the grass, resettled the filthy player’s cloak about his shoulders and hurried to retrieve the abandoned play roll. How much time had passed up there on the balcony ledge? His eyes skimmed the lines, but his mind could not seem to take them in. He was so on edge after that strange meeting. Lucy Morgan. The object of his secret desire for most of his boyhood. And he had met her again here in London, still beautiful, still bewitching. Too bewitching for a married man, he thought.

  ‘Master Shakespeare?’

  Startled, he looked up from studying his part. But it was only one of the play boys, calling his name up and down the cloisters. He gestured to the boy and quickly rolled up the lines, sticking them under his arm.

  Of course, the Queen must have descended by now, which meant the play would be starting. He had no speech until at least fifteen minutes in, but it would be best to get himself behind the screen that would serve as their backstage area in the Queen’s audience hall.

  Will slipped out of the Privy Garden as quietly as he had gone in. He knew his part. Just as well, too, for all he seemed able to think about was Lucy Morgan, her gaze meeting his as they touched fingertips.

  Guiltily, he thought for a moment of his wife. Quiet, slender, pale-skinned Anne.

  He had left her back at his father’s home in Stratford, nursing their child at the breast and helping his mother run the household. It was not a happy remembrance. Anne had been furious when he’d told her he must leave, that London was where he had to live if he wished to make his fortune. She could not be made to understand that he had no desire to follow his father into the glover’s trade. Whenever Will thought of his father’s house in Stratford, he remembered the stench of leathers soaking in lidded buckets along the outside passage or in the back yard, and his nose twitched in disgust.

  That was no life for him, a life of tanning and stretching skins. Not when he could live like this instead, paid to step out on the boards and perform to a lively audience day after day. To laugh at the heckles of the crowd and sometimes do a little jig at the end for ha’pennies. He was even paid to copy out and improve the plays from the play chest, for he was no mean copyist and had soon learned a trick or two from watching so many performances himself. One day he would no longer be a jobbing player, working where he could, but a full member of a noble company like the Queen’s Men. Perhaps, like James Burbage, he might even be master of his own company.

  Leaving Stratford, he had promised Anne he would not lie with the whores and the slatterns, but keep himself clean and faithful only to her. And he had never once been tempted. Not even by the merchants’ wives who hung about the theatre doors after the plays finished, disguised with veils or hoods, eager to take players into their beds. The wives were clean and pretty enough, it was true, though faithless to their husbands. He had to confess he had looked once or twice at the younger ones with interest, even if he had never gone with them.

  Lucy Morgan was no whore. Yes, she was one of the Queen’s ladies now, and some of them were of easy virtue. Will was certain though that Lucy had never played the games that ladies loved at court, lewd games they called Gentlemen’s Fingers or Hunt the Lady’s Purse back in Warwickshire.

  How he desired her! But would a court beauty like Lucy ever consider taking a rough country player as her lover?

  Will listened for his cue behind the wooden screen, trying not to think of his absent wife, Anne Hathaway. His conscience pricked him. What of his marriage vows made before God, did they mean nothing?

  With difficulty, he pushed Anne’s face to the back of his mind. His wife was half a world away in Warwickshire, and he had kept his word to her until now. He still loved Anne. But he was in London now, and what she did not know could not hurt her.

  Eight

  LUCY GATHERED HER skirts and hurried down the stairs after the Queen’s entourage. She caught the eye of her friend Catherine rising from her knees as the Queen passed on through the hall, but had no time to do more than smile. She knew Queen Elizabeth would be furious that she had not been there when the party began to descend, as Her Majesty enjoyed showing Lucy off at these public occasions, the Moorish singer who served now as one of her ladies-in-waiting. Nor did Lucy think the other ladies would have made an excuse for her absence. Most of them hated her, for she was not of the English nobility like them, but descended from an African king. Of course, she had no proof of noble descent. It was merely what she had been told by her guardian as a child, after being orphaned and left in his care. Master Goodluck had barely noticed her as a child, leaving her with his sister’s family, all of whom were acrobats and performers, until she was old enough to be around players and theatre men.

  And now her attention had been caught – and held – by another player!

  For shame, she told herself angrily. Those wild early days with Master Goodluck were long over. She was in the Queen’s service now, and not able to please herself for a husband. The Queen would have her severely chastised if she knew about that snatched conversation in the garden.

  Master Shakespeare.

  Where was he now? Among the players? She could not see him there. But then, she had only just left him in the Privy Garden. He would be on his way to join them, reading from his play roll, no doubt, their meeting forgotten.

  For a moment, she had looked into Will Shakespeare’s eyes and remembered every horrific detail of the time at Kenilworth when they had last seen each other. That had been the night of the attempted assassination of Queen Elizabeth, when her beloved Tom had died. They were memories she had shut away in her heart, and seeing Will had brought them all tumbling back.

  How old had he been when they’d last met? Eleven?

  Lucy herself had been little better than a girl at Kenilworth that year, and like a fool had fallen helplessly in love with Tom Black. Of African descent like herself, Tom had been such a handsome young man, one of Leicester’s most trusted grooms.

  Tom had loved her too, she felt sure of it. Yet his love had killed him. Trying to protect her and the Queen from death, Tom had met a brutal end himself, mauled viciously by an assassin’s bear, then run through with Italian steel and left to die below the castle walls. And for what? Most of the Italians involved in the assassination attempt had never been caught, and the Queen had never mentioned Tom’s death afterwards. He had died to save them, yet it seemed to Lucy that Elizabeth had accepted his sacrifice as though it meant nothing to her.

  Lucy took up her customary position near Queen Elizabeth’s throne and sank into a deep curtsy as Her Majesty seated herself on the high dais.

  When she straightened, Lucy looked across at the assembled players from under discreetly lowered eyelids. She was waiting for Will Shakespeare to make his appearance. She was also aware of the Queen watching her suspiciously, and was careful not to look too eager for the play to begin.

  Queen Elizabeth had been in a foul mood for weeks. Her bouts of toothache came and went, sometimes leaving her weak and miserable, sometimes resulting in such a temper that none of her ladies dared approach her for fear of being slapped or dismissed. Dark days at court, and darker still for those with secrets to h
ide. Lucy never knew what mood her mistress would be in when she was called to sing or dance before her. But one thing was for sure: the Queen could sniff out a secret at a thousand paces. If any of her unmarried ladies appeared late to their duties, breathless, their hair untidy or their gowns awry, they would be immediately questioned under suspicion of ungodly behaviour. Lucy shuddered at the thought of undergoing any such rigorous examination herself, especially if she was ever brought before the Queen’s stern spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. She had known Sir Francis since her earliest days in the Queen’s service, and had not yet earned his disapproval. Yet Walsingham still had the power to terrify her with a single look.

  The play had begun. In the gallery, the musicians were playing some soft Italian air. The bearded players strode to and fro, speaking their lines in a stilted fashion and flourishing their swords. A young boy stepped out from behind the wooden screen at the back of the hall, dressed in a long gown, and began to sing.

  ‘Signorina,’ came a discreet whisper beside her. It was Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador. He searched her face as she turned towards him. ‘You do not smile tonight, Signorina Morgan. Does it displease you, the subject of this play?’

  Mendoza. A man to avoid, if the rumours were true. She forced a smile. ‘No, Signor Mendoza. The play does not offend me. I do not even know what it is about.’

  The Spanish ambassador smiled in return, though he must have thought her a simpleton. His dark hair glistened with oil. He took her hand and kissed it in an exaggerated way, his head bent. ‘It is about love, Signorina Morgan. It is a play about lovers.’

  Lucy waited a decent interval before pulling her hand away. Horrid man. But she must hide her distaste for him. That was how the courtly game was played. ‘Then the play cannot offend me, sir. There is no better subject for a play than love.’

  ‘You would not prefer a history, or a biblical tale?’

  ‘Not at court, sir. This is too intimate a space for such epic subjects. But we must be quiet.’ People had turned to stare at their whispered conversation. Her skin crawled. She did not want to be thought his ‘special friend’. Or worse, his accomplice. Lucy laid a finger on her lips and moved a little away from him. ‘The song is finishing and we will spoil the tale by talking.’

  He shrugged and turned to watch the play. Lucy saw Sir Francis Walsingham watching her from the doorway and schooled her expression to reveal nothing. There had been rumours flying about the court in recent weeks that the Spanish ambassador had exceeded his authority and the Queen was not pleased. Little surprise that Mendoza should have turned to her. She too was an outsider, never quite accepted at court. But she had been careful not to smile too long at him, nor too warmly. Even a smile could be misinterpreted as conspiracy when directed at such a man.

  Lucy heard Will’s voice. That soft Warwickshire burr. He had stepped out from behind the screen, swaggering slightly, wrapped in a long fur-trimmed cloak he had gathered up and thrown over his arm, no trick of her imagining, but as real and solid as when she’d touched his hand in the garden.

  It was strange to see Will as a player. She remembered him as a boy, that serious face set above a lanky body and thin legs. He had been as brave as any man twice his age, and intelligent too. Sharp eyes, and a sharper mind behind them. Now there was a neat pointed beard on the once-hairless chin, his chest and shoulders were broadening out, and his boy’s high pitch had deepened. All in all, a man.

  He had not lost his accent, though his voice was less countrified than the one he had used in the garden. Did Will Shakespeare fear to be mocked for his true self, for the green meadows and hills of Warwickshire that lay behind each word? The sound of his voice brought back Tom’s face, his kiss, the way he had touched her one night in Lord Leicester’s stables. If she had lain with Tom then, as he had asked …

  Her eyes were suddenly wet. Lucy lifted a hand to dry them. No one must see her cry. She bent her head as though she had something in her eye, some irritating speck of dust. Not memories of a love she would rather forget.

  Will was courting the young boy in a woman’s hood and gown, kneeling to declare himself. But his eyes lifted to hers. Locked with them. Made his intentions known. For a guilty moment, she allowed herself to imagine Will Shakespeare touching her, and felt a sharp thrill that pierced her to the belly.

  At once she was hot with shame. Tom had died to protect her. Now was she imagining another man in his place?

  All her life she had heard women described by men as faithless, and had been determined not to prove so herself. Yet a young man had touched her hand tonight, and already she was dreaming herself in bed with him, her past love forgotten in the time it had taken for a man to whisper her name in the dark.

  ‘Signorina?’

  The scene had finished and the court was applauding the players. Mendoza was whispering to her again, his dark eyes keen on her face.

  ‘You do not look well, Signorina Morgan. Allow me to have wine fetched.’

  The Queen’s voice broke across his whisper, shrill and demanding. Her toothache still paining her, no doubt. ‘What is it? Is something amiss, Lucy?’

  Danger prickled under her skin. ‘Nothing, Your Majesty, I am merely a little warm.’ She curtsied very low, not rising until she felt it was safe to do so. ‘The room is so close.’

  Elizabeth was not easily satisfied, of course. But she seemed to let it go, her eyes darting from Lucy’s face to Mendoza’s. ‘Signor Mendoza, come and speak to me. Not to my ladies. Tell me what you think of this play. These lovers seem too young and unruly, too ready to ignore their parents. It displeases me. This scene takes place in Italy, we are to believe. Tell me, would such a free courtship be permitted in Spain?’

  The Queen fell into rambling Spanish. The ambassador moved swiftly to her side, bowing and complimenting Elizabeth on her command of his language with many eloquent gestures. He was a player himself, Lucy thought drily. The theatricals stood frozen, glancing uncertainly at each other. They could not continue without the Queen’s permission. The court held its breath and watched to see what would happen, some turning to consider Walsingham, who was still blocking the doorway, others looking for Leicester, who seemed to have drawn a little way off with the Captain of the Queen’s Guards.

  Her Majesty waved Mendoza silent with an impatient hand. ‘Yes, but when a rule has been laid down, and it is wilfully broken, what would the punishment be in Spain?’

  ‘It would depend, Majesty, on whomever had made the rule.’

  ‘If it was …’ Elizabeth hesitated, and there seemed to be cunning behind her words, and malice too, her small dark eyes narrowed on the ambassador’s face, ‘… the King of Spain, let’s say, who had made this rule, and it was broken, what then would be the punishment?’

  Mendoza must have felt the trap tighten about him, for he looked uneasily around the court. His gaze lighted on Walsingham first, at the door, then moved slowly through the assembled courtiers until he had found both Lord Burghley and Lord Leicester. He hesitated. ‘I am not sure what the punishment would be, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Death, perhaps?’

  A bead of sweat rolled slowly down the ambassador’s face. ‘It would …’ He cleared his throat and began again. ‘The severity of the punishment must depend on the severity of the crime, surely?’

  Elizabeth pretended to ponder this. ‘You believe so?’

  ‘A great prince is always merciful, Your Majesty.’

  She nodded, and played thoughtfully with her ostrich-feather fan. ‘You think exile would be the answer, then, rather than imprisonment and execution? Dismissal from court?’

  He knew he was in deep now. The fear on his face could not be hidden from the court, and nor could his guilt. Lucy looked from the Queen’s easy cruelty, playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse before she deals the final crushing blow, to Mendoza’s tense, sweat-riven face, and almost felt sorry for the man. But she too was afraid. For whatever the Queen’s spies had found out about
Mendoza, for Elizabeth to destroy the Spanish ambassador in so public a manner could mean only one thing. She intended war with Spain.

  Mendoza broke. He bowed stiffly, pretending to be in pain and clutching at his stomach. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I would not offend you but I am taken ill. May I crave your leave to depart?’

  Elizabeth’s lips tightened to a thin line. But she did not deny his request. Her hand cupped her jaw, rubbed at it rhythmically. Toothache again? ‘You may leave us, Signor Mendoza. Only do not stray far from your rooms. Sir Francis Walsingham has some small matter he would speak to you about when you are in better health.’

  Still bowing, Mendoza walked backwards from her presence, only straightening when he reached the door, which was still blocked by Walsingham’s dark figure.

  The two men looked at each other, one in fury and terror, the other calmly and with intent. Then Mendoza pushed past with a muttered apology, and Walsingham turned to watch him go. The Spanish ambassador’s two swarthy servants hurried after their master, bowing to the Queen and the court as they left, one losing his cap in his hurry to escape.

  Walsingham looked up at the Queen on the dais. He did not smile, yet Lucy knew that he was satisfied – perhaps even amused – by Mendoza’s reaction. Elizabeth gave the slightest of nods, and Walsingham bowed deeply, then left the chamber himself.

  Lord Burghley struck the floor with his cane. Another player. ‘Let the play continue!’

  The courtiers, who had been holding their breath throughout this fascinating exchange, began to shift and whisper among themselves, a noise like the Thames rising at flood time along the banks. Accompanied by this agitated hiss of voices, the players sprang into movement, like living statues released from a spell. The scene was hurriedly changed, and Lucy found herself looking at Will Shakespeare on his knees in a dark cell, pretending to weep as he cradled the head of his ‘dead’ lover on his lap – though the boy twitched and rolled an eye at the audience, so that even Elizabeth laughed, the pathos of the scene ruined.