Her mouth twitched. She remembered only too well the burnings of Protestants that had taken place in market towns throughout England during her sister Mary’s reign. She did not wish to make an enemy of the common people as her sister had done, yet how else to control these Catholics? They were like a disease spreading through a healthy body and destroying it before her eyes. Left to thrive and multiply, the Catholics would bring England to her knees, and not in prayer.
‘I will not have us brought to civil war.’
‘You may have no choice in the matter, Your Majesty. But there will be a war, even if it does not come yet. Spain is not afraid to engage us in conflict. It only waits to make its position stronger. Meanwhile, the greatest threat still lies at home.’
‘Meaning?’
Her sharp question brought his wandering gaze back to her face. ‘Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. You hold the most important piece in this game, yet you hesitate to use it against your enemies.’
Elizabeth stiffened. ‘My cousin is a queen anointed, as I am. To execute her would be to condone the disposal of a prince from her throne.’
‘Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, to execute Queen Mary would be to make England safe from the nearest of these Catholic plots.’
Elizabeth stared into the fire, which was dying now. The heat of the red-gold embers seemed to mock her chilled body. ‘She is my cousin, Robert.’
He nodded without speaking, then stood abruptly. He swung the cloak from his own shoulders and laid it about her own. ‘The room grows cold. Shall I call for more fuel?’
‘No, I must get to bed and sleep.’ She looked up at him, still leaning over her. His face was haggard, wearing his years heavily. ‘But what of you?’
‘I shall retire soon, Your Majesty.’
‘I meant, how are you? You are so often from court these days.’ Elizabeth hesitated, then forced the difficult words out, her smile thin. ‘Marriage and a comfortable home in the country suits you better than bouge of court, perhaps?’
He was surprised. Then wary. ‘Not at all, Your Majesty. I am content to serve you and England as Your Majesty decrees. If I am away too often, I pray you forgive the duties of … of a new father.’
She waved him to sit down again on his stool. Robert complied, the silence between them awkward. He looked once more like a schoolboy in fear of a reprimand from the schoolmaster, crouched on the stool in his fine silver doublet, playing with the hilt of his sword, his face averted.
‘I have heard of this child,’ she managed, then cleared her throat. ‘You call him the Noble Imp?’
Robert looked up eagerly at this. There was a new brightness to his eyes that no talk of Spain and the execution of princes could have put there. Elizabeth thought of a hound’s head going up at its master’s whistle, and almost smiled.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘And,’ she ventured, ‘the mother does well?’
‘In good health, Your Majesty. The child, too. Little Lord Denbigh will make a fine boy and a good servant to Your Majesty.’
Her eyes met his, and she saw him break. His face changed, just for an instant, and she almost put out a hand to him, so clear was the pain on his face.
‘Robert?’
He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled. His feathered red-velvet cap fell to the floor. ‘Forgive me. I beg you to forgive me.’
She did not move, could not speak. She had never seen him so broken. All her anger evaporated, leaving nothing but a terrible sadness in its place.
‘Y … your Majesty, it was wrong of me to marry Lettice w … without your consent …’ His stammering lurched to a halt. ‘Elizabeth … please.’
He looked up, and his eyes met hers at last, bloodshot. His words were half-excuse, half-apology. ‘She gave me a son,’ he whispered.
Her hands were shaking. She laid them in her lap, not looking at him any longer.
He was crying. God in heaven, he was crying like a boy! Elizabeth tried to think of the last time she had wept so passionately, and could not remember. There was only a chill numbness inside where womanly tears had once been. That was the price of kingship.
Robert came to his knees before her, and laid his head in her lap like a supplicant, nudging her hands.
For a moment Elizabeth said nothing.
Then she placed a hand on his head and stroked his silver-streaked hair. ‘I know,’ she murmured gently. ‘I always knew she would.’
Ten
WE ARE BETRAYED. Meet me under the sign of the wool merchants, River Lane, sundown.
Goodluck tucked the coded note back inside his jacket and peered out into the rain. The needle-thin alley in which he had taken up position was opposite the entrance to the old, high-gabled wool merchants’ building. The sky was gloomy, the sun on the point of dropping below the horizon. Most of the wool workers had gone home for the day, only the turnkeys left behind to lock the shutters and secure the gates for the night, shadowy figures moving occasionally in the interior. Rain had been falling heavily, and the mud-riven streets were all but deserted now, only a few determined souls braving the sluice of open ditches to reach their single-storey makeshift dwellings along the waterside. This close to the river, mud slides were common in bad weather, the bankside lanes too treacherous to attempt at night.
Receiving the note that morning, Goodluck had recognized the hand at once. The thick slanted flourishes belonged to Sos, the little Greek with whom he had been working since returning to London.
The code was good. Even their new pass sign had been sketched on one corner of the note, leaving him in no doubt that it was genuine.
We are betrayed.
For the first time since returning to English shores, Goodluck experienced a flicker of fear. The Catholics were not this organized. Or never had been before. This was something new. It felt personal, aimed solely at him and his men, as though he himself had been identified as a target.
Up at the east end of the lane, a handful of rain-sodden men wearing the Queen’s livery gathered under the hunched, mossed column of an ancient stone cross, sunk so far into the mud at an angle that it looked more like a milestone. One of the men was giving orders, pointing the others towards the nearest buildings.
Gloomily, the bell of a nearby church began to toll the hour. Through a darkened haze of rain, Goodluck saw a familiar cloaked figure approaching from the west end.
It was Sos.
The short, wiry Greek was staggering through the muddy sluice as though drunk. His hands were held out before him, his face hidden by the deep cowl of his hooded cloak.
For a moment, Goodluck hesitated, fearing a trap.
Then the Greek’s voice, muffled but still recognizable, called out, ‘Goodluck!’
Goodluck stepped out of the alleyway to greet him, but the laughter died on his lips when he saw that his friend’s wrists had been bound together with frayed rope. Below the drenched hood, Sos’s face was contorted with pain. There was blood on his lips, and the whites of his eyes were showing.
‘Sos!’
Gargling blood as he struggled to speak, Sos plunged forward, just missing Goodluck’s outstretched arms and falling face-first into the mud. That was when Goodluck saw the black-handled knife between his friend’s shoulder blades, buried up to the hilt.
There were shouts from the top of the lane. The Queen’s men must have seen Sos fall. Goodluck saw three running towards him, pikes held out at a threatening angle.
Goodluck turned away at once and slipped through the open gateway to the wool merchants’ warehouse. It was dark inside, only one man in sight, keys in hand, preparing to lock the gate.
‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’
Ignoring the man’s shouts, Goodluck ran through the warehouse, keeping low behind stacks of untreated wool as he made for the light on the waterside.
Near the back of the warehouse, a row of high-sided wooden vats rose out of the darkness, blocking his way. Goodluck threaded a path
between them, choking and covering his mouth with his sleeve. The acrid stench of the wool treatment stung his throat and eyes.
He grieved for the Greek, but there was nothing he could have done. The wound had been mortal.
He heard shouts behind him in the warehouse. Crouching lower, Goodluck hurried towards the gloomy patch of light coming from the waterside door.
If he was taken, it could take days for Walsingham to give the order for his release. Assuming the Queen’s spymaster would even do so. Goodluck had not been received with much grace on his return from Italy, as though his story of capture and incarceration was considered suspect. It was a risk he did not wish to take, having only just escaped from a long stretch in an Italian prison.
To his frustration, there was an old man standing guard over the back door to the warehouse when he reached it. No doubt hearing the shouts and sounds of pursuit, the old fool had armed himself with an ancient pike. His grey beard swam up out of the gloom, his face pale but showing determination to do his duty.
‘Hold fast there!’ he called in a quavering voice, and shoved the pike in Goodluck’s face.
‘I’ve done you no harm, sir,’ Goodluck murmured, opening his hands to show that they were empty. ‘And I’m not here to steal. Just let me pass and there’ll be no trouble.’
Even in the dim light, Goodluck could see hesitancy in the old man’s face, and guessed he would prefer not to use the pike.
Then the damning cry went up behind him, ‘Murderer!’
‘He’s back here!’ the old man called out, then lunged at him with the rusty old pike, ripping Goodluck’s cloak and almost catching him in the shoulder.
Cursing, Goodluck felt for the long dagger at his belt. But he did not draw it. He knew the odds were against him succeeding if he made a fight of it. His pursuers would be upon him before he had a chance to use the dagger. Flight was his best option. Hurriedly, he took advantage of the old man fumbling to pick up the pike, and ran past him to the open doorway on to the river.
It was almost dusk, and rain was still falling heavily. There were no boats tied up to the entrance, nowhere to jump to as he had hoped. Again, he cursed under his breath. There was nothing for it but to go down into the water.
Standing on the lip of the waterside doorway, Goodluck glanced down for an instant, trying to judge the height of the drop. The river lay at his feet, a dark mass rolling sluggishly under the constant pelter of rain, maybe twenty feet or more below.
He looked up and out across the River Thames. He knew how to swim, thank God, but it was a daunting stretch between him and the nearest spars of the south bank. A few small craft bobbed at anchor in the distance. Rather closer to hand, drifting slowly under the nearside arch of the bridge, was an ancient river barge. Battered, and listing badly in the current, the barge looked as though it had seen service in old King Henry’s time. Through the dark haze of rain, Goodluck could just make out a squat figure, wrapped up and hunched over the tiller. There could be little hope of help there.
‘Murderer!’
Half-turning on the ledge at that cry, Goodluck felt something thrust between his shoulder blades with a terrible burning pain.
His knees crumbled as the cold metal twisted in the wound it had made, then was brutally withdrawn. Too late, he realized the old man was not as frail as he had looked.
With an agonized cry, Goodluck launched himself into mid-air and fell, quick as a stone, into the dark current below.
Eleven
Whitehall Palace, London, spring 1584
LUCY SANK TO her knees before the throne and waited for the Queen to snap her fingers so she could rise. She enjoyed singing the English country songs best, for they suited her voice, but the old French ballad requested by the Queen for tonight’s masque was also one of her favourites.
‘Now for some dancing!’ the Queen announced. She straightened her gold-fringed mask and clapped her hands at the bemused courtiers, seeming to forget that Lucy was still on her knees before her. ‘Come, let us hear something livelier!’
Leicester bent to her ear, and Elizabeth made an angry gesture at his whisper, then rose to dance.
‘Sir Christopher, I wish to lead the revels tonight,’ the Queen said, and held out her hand to an elderly courtier in a stiff doublet of black and silver. Sir Christopher Hatton bowed low over it before guiding her down from the dais.
Hurriedly, the court musicians struck up a tune with horns and flutes, one single drum note keeping the beat, and the Queen began to dance. She raised her heavy skirts with one hand until a gold-encrusted slipper appeared, tapping to the beat of the drum. Hatton bowed slowly, turned, and lifted her hand between them in a high salute. She swayed back and forth in the dance, finally allowing Hatton to lead her round the circle of admiring courtiers, rather like a horse at market being shown off to prospective buyers.
Cautiously, her knees aching on the cold stone, Lucy raised her head and peered through the slanted eyeholes of her mask at Lord Leicester.
Leicester gave a shrug. She could not see his expression under the black mask, but his fist was clenched in anger on his sword hilt. He glared across at the Queen, who was apparently too busy dancing with Hatton to notice, and gestured Lucy to rise.
Staring at the dancers, Lucy wondered what she could have done now to incur the Queen’s displeasure. She tried to school her expression not to show her concern, but it was impossible. Her friend Catherine sidled up through the crowd and squeezed her arm.
‘Don’t pay it any mind,’ her friend whispered in her ear, leading Lucy away from the dancing. Reaching the back wall of the chamber, she stopped to adjust Lucy’s mask, which did not seem to fit properly and kept slipping off. ‘Gossip has it that it’s not just the toothache that irks her these days. Some say the Queen’s been bleeding for weeks and is in a foul temper. Soon she’ll be too old for childbearing, and that’ll bring an end to all the handsome young foreign princes coming to court her.’
‘Hush, Cathy,’ Lucy cautioned her, though she could not help smiling at her friend’s wicked gossip. ‘Someone might hear you.’
‘No one can hear us.’ Catherine pressed a cup of wine into Lucy’s hand. ‘Look, drink this and cheer up. You’ve been gloomy for ages. What is it? Still dreaming of poor dead Tom back in Warwickshire?’
Lucy drank some wine. It felt heavy and strong, tingling against her tongue. ‘No,’ she defended herself. ‘I was thinking of my guardian, Master Goodluck. I sent him a letter two weeks ago, asking his advice, and he has not written back.’
Guiltily, she realized that she had not thought of Tom Black for ages. Not since that strange night when she had seen Will Shakespeare in the Queen’s garden. It was as though seeing the boy again – a man now, and grown more handsome than she could have imagined – had erased Tom Black from her mind.
‘Good,’ Catherine said pointedly. ‘It’s about time you stopped mourning poor Tom. It’s been years since he died, and you’ve never even looked at another man since. As for Master Goodluck, he’ll be in some scrape or other, and will no doubt send you word once he’s out of it. Besides, I’ve something exciting to tell you.’
Lucy looked at her suspiciously. Her friend’s eyes were glittering oddly behind the mask.
‘What are you up to this time?’ she demanded, then lowered her voice at Catherine’s instinctive protest. It was always important not to be overheard at court. ‘Come on, what news is this? You’ve been planning something for weeks. I can always tell when you’ve some new mischief in hand.’
‘It’s Oswald.’
Lucy sighed at the name. She had never met Oswald, but had heard of him often enough from Catherine. He was the eldest son of one of her father’s neighbours back in Norfolk, and completely besotted with Catherine, by the sound of it. ‘Not Oswald again.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s no use trying to see him, you only just returned from Norfolk. You’ll need special permission to leave court again so soon, and you’ll never get it, not with the su
mmer progress so close at hand.’
Catherine grabbed at Lucy’s hand and drew it to her belly, which felt curiously hard and rounded under the folds of her skirts. ‘I won’t need permission now,’ she hissed in her ear. ‘Feel that bump? Oswald wrote me yesterday. He knows about the baby and says we’re to be married at once. I’m leaving court tomorrow and going back to Norfolk to be with him.’
Lucy was aghast. ‘A child? Out of wedlock? But you’ll be punished once they find out.’
‘They won’t find out,’ Catherine said, and smirked from beneath her little white eye-mask. ‘I’ve told the steward my father is dying and I’ve to go home at once. Once there, I’ll be married straightaway and that’ll be that. I’m not like you. I’m not important. No one will miss me or care if I never come back to court.’
‘I’ll care,’ Lucy said thinly. ‘You’re my only friend here.’
Catherine hugged her. ‘I’ll write every month.’
‘It won’t be the same.’
‘It can’t be helped. Not now.’ Catherine kissed her on the lips. ‘You must see that I have to marry him.’
Lucy closed her eyes. ‘Oh, Cathy.’
‘You must come and visit me in Norfolk once the baby is born. I’ll be bored to death in the country. Promise me you’ll visit next year.’ Catherine gave a little cry, squeezing Lucy so hard she could hardly breathe. ‘I don’t know how I’ll survive not being at court. Not dancing every day. Not singing for the Queen. It feels like I’ve been here all my life.’
‘You belong here.’
There was some noise and commotion behind them. The horns and flutes had stopped. From the sudden burst of laughter and applause, Lucy guessed that the players had entered the chamber. She glanced over her shoulder and saw lithe men in striped yellow and green tumbling and jumping on each other’s shoulders. They reminded her of the young Italian acrobats she had seen at Kenilworth, she thought, and the memory was like a knife to her heart.
‘Who is it?’ Catherine asked, staring.
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