‘The Queen’s Men, I think,’ Lucy whispered back into Catherine’s ear. Her friend was holding her by the waist. ‘They’re to play a short comic piece before the Queen. Do you sing later?’
Catherine nodded. ‘With the others.’
The play started and the crowd about them thinned, moving to watch the players.
Catherine took another drink of wine and looked about the chamber. ‘Everyone is so stern these days,’ she whispered. ‘I heard the Spanish ambassador was escorted to the coast under guard in the New Year, and all his servants with him. Will there be war with Spain now, do you think?’
‘Yes.’
Catherine’s unbound fair hair shone in the torchlight as she shuddered. ‘I’m not sad I shall miss that. Though Oswald is so stupid sometimes. He talks of going to war at his father’s side if it comes. I’ve told him he can’t. Not once we are married, and he is a father himself. But he refuses to listen. Oh, Lucy, how shall I bear it if he is killed?’
‘He’s too young. They wouldn’t take him.’
‘Oswald’s not a boy any more. He’s almost twenty-five years of age.’ Catherine giggled at Lucy’s amazed expression. ‘He has a full beard!’
Lucy stared, then shook her head. ‘I forget, sometimes, how long we’ve been at court. The years fly so quickly.’
‘Then let that be a lesson to you to get yourself a man and marry before it is too late.’
‘It’s already too late.’
Catherine pinched her arm. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. You are still a young woman.’
‘Her Majesty would never give me permission to marry. She made me swear, years ago, to stay a virgin.’
‘She makes all her unmarried ladies swear that! It doesn’t mean you have to obey.’ There was a burst of laughter from the crowd as the fool slipped over, making some jest at his own expense. Catherine dragged Lucy nearer to the door before releasing her, and lowered her voice. ‘You want to grow old and wrinkled and barren like the Queen, is that it? You want to sleep alone every night and never know the pleasure of a man inside you?’
Lucy laughed, though she was in truth a little shocked by her friend’s directness, and shook her head. ‘Well, if that’s how it must be—’ she began, and looked up to meet the intense stare of Will Shakespeare.
The words dried in her throat and Lucy stumbled, putting out a hand to support herself against the wall. She glanced at him briefly, then away, suddenly unable to trust herself even to look at him without revealing her thoughts.
Will was bare-headed, his short dark hair slicked back. He was cloaked as though dressed for the street, where it had been raining most of the day. Underneath the cloak he was dressed in the green and yellow stripes of the company, his mask dangling unused in his hand.
‘What’s the matter?’ Catherine asked, then turned and saw Will herself. Her smile broadened as she gazed from Lucy’s averted face to Will Shakespeare’s, no doubt sensing some intrigue between them. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Madam, my name is Will Shakespeare and I bid you good evening.’ He looked directly past her at Lucy. ‘I do not wish to be uncivil, but may I have a word alone with Mistress Morgan?’
Catherine ignored Lucy’s urgent protest, and curtsied. ‘But of course you may,’ she said at once, annoying Lucy. ‘You are not uncivil, Master Shakespeare, though you are perhaps a little rough in your ways. My friend Lucy may not like such stableyard manners.’
‘I am from Warwickshire, madam. My countrymen are all like this, or worse.’
‘I am from Norfolk myself, so I shall not chastise you further.’ Catherine smoothed down her fair hair, still smirking. ‘Indeed, I am very glad to go, and must take my leave anyway. If the players have finished, I have to go and sing for the Queen.’
‘Another songbird,’ Will murmured admiringly, and bowed again as Catherine disappeared into the noisy crowd. He turned back to Lucy, his eyes alive with determination. ‘Shall we walk together, mistress?’
‘No, we shall not. I’ll be seen!’
‘Unlikely. Everyone is looking at the Queen, you see, and the Queen is looking at the players.’ To her horror, he pulled her by the hand through the open doorway, past the grinning guards, and down the corridor away from the noise of the masque. ‘Hush now, and stop struggling. I won’t hurt you. I have paid good coin for a few moments alone with you in a room set apart, and I intend to have them.’
‘What?’ Lucy’s eyes widened in astonishment. Paid good coin? ‘You bribed the guards?’
‘It didn’t seem a very surprising arrangement to them. I’m guessing it happens quite often at court. Ah, here we are. They said this was a popular spot for such meetings.’
Will pulled her into some kind of low-roofed storeroom and shut the door behind them. The place was chilly, but a flaming torch had been thrust into a high sconce, lighting the room with its rows of wooden chests and barrels. There Will pushed her against the rough stone wall and smiled into her eyes.
‘Not as comfortable a place as I would have liked for our first meeting alone, but it is at least private.’
‘You must be mad.’
‘Mad with love, yes.’ He took her hand and kissed her fingers, one by one. ‘Mad with desire. Mad for you.’
‘Madness will be no defence when we are caught here. You will be whipped, and I …’ She shivered, imagining the Queen’s fury at hearing of this loose behaviour. ‘Please let me go.’
‘Not yet. A moment longer.’
She said nothing, watching him. He touched her face gently and wonderingly, as though he had never seen a woman before, lingering over the contours of her mouth. A feather’s touch, a stroke of warm air against her skin. He closed his eyes, then opened them again on a sigh, staring at her. Such dark eyes, she thought, and was suddenly a little fearful. She could lose herself in them.
He murmured in her ear, ‘Do you feel nothing for me at all?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Liar.’
His hands were at her waist. ‘No,’ she insisted, a little flushed now, and pushed him away. ‘You have mistaken me for another woman.’
‘Impossible thought.’ His eyes found hers again, pinning her back against the wall. She found she could not move, caught in the silence between them. The longer he held her, the less able she was to remember why she should not be there. It was a trick. A spell. He was a player. He understood how to charm and flatter with a look and a word. All this was false. ‘You are Lucy.’
She tried to speak, but could not.
‘What is my name?’ Was he a conjuror? Surely he must have her in some kind of spell? Her skin seemed to prickle with his nearness, her senses dazzled by the dark narrow space between them. ‘What is my name, Lucy? I want to hear you say it.’
‘Will,’ she managed hoarsely.
His eyes closed and he breathed slowly. ‘Again.’
‘I cannot!’
He moved his hands to either side of her head. Eyes still closed, his head dropped, his mouth came close to her throat. Her mind leapt to the sinewy leopards, all claws and teeth, that prowled the tapestries at court. What was wrong with her? How had she allowed this to go so far?
‘Indulge me,’ he whispered. ‘Will.’
‘Oh, my lady,’ he whispered, and touched his lips to her throat.
She inhaled sharply, scenting ale on his player’s costume, her whole body tingling. Was he drunk?
‘Stand still,’ he told her, and turned his head, finding her mouth.
Lucy had thought Will little more than a charming boy before. Now as he touched her she realized he knew the world better than she did. Certainly he knew more about passion. If this was desire, her love for Tom Black had been little more than girlish adoration, for she had felt nothing like this when Tom had kissed her in the stables at Kenilworth. Will leaned against her, trapping her against the wall so that she felt her own helplessness, and his tongue invaded her mouth. He groaned against her lips, kissing her deeply.
; ‘Lucy,’ he muttered. ‘I always knew you would taste this sweet.’
His fingers stroked her throat, trailing down to the cleft between her breasts. Then he slipped a hand inside the bodice of her gown and stroked her skin, his mouth on hers. It was an intimacy that excited her. No, he was no longer a boy. And she would find no distaste in becoming a woman beneath him. His hand cupped her breast, brushed her stiffening nipple. She found herself imagining what might follow, the unknown pleasures of surrender, and her mind shrieked at her to escape before it was too late.
‘Please don’t,’ she managed to tell him, and after a moment’s hesitation, his arms dropped away.
He watched as she prowled the small, torchlit room like a wild animal looking for a way to escape the trapper’s cage. ‘What is it, Lucy? Have I misunderstood the signs? You do not want me?’
There was no useful answer she could give to that question. Her mouth still tingled from his kisses. The truth would only make her appear light in his eyes, and she did not wish to lie.
‘We should not be here like this,’ she compromised, trying to keep her distance from him in the cramped space between barrels, though in truth they could never be more than a few paces apart. ‘Not in the heart of the court. It’s too dangerous. I am one of the Queen’s ladies. Have you no sense?’
He grabbed her hand and drew it to his lips. ‘Not where you are concerned, it seems.’ His smile was swift, almost boyish, reminding her of the young Will Shakespeare she had known in Warwickshire. ‘My body is on fire for you, Mistress Morgan. I would risk even my poor neck to pursue you. No, not only is my body on fire, but my heart, too. I am in love with you. I think I may have been in love with you ever since I was a child and first saw your beauty. Looking at you is like staring into the sun. You leave me blinded. Will you not let me show you the depth of my love?’
‘The Queen—’ she began carefully, but he interrupted her.
‘The Queen is not here. In this little room, it is but you and I, and the heat that lies between us. Do not lie to yourself and turn cold, Lucy.’ His voice seduced her. ‘Be warm and true with me.’
Will pulled her close and kissed her again. This time Lucy did not protest but closed her eyes, daring to enjoy the heat and pressure of his body against hers. Many of the court ladies took lovers behind the Queen’s back. It was a dangerous game – but a highly pleasurable one, she had been told. Would it be so terrible to let herself feel for once? Her body craved his, of that she was sure. She had been locked up in darkness and isolation for so many years, clinging to her memories of a dead man, a love she had long since outgrown. Why not let the past go?
Will had sensed her acquiescence. His kiss deepened, his hands grew bolder. Lucy allowed this madness too, her eyes still clamped shut, not wanting to see even the dark outline of his head, to remember who this man was and where they were, hidden away only a few steps from the Queen and her court.
‘You want me?’ he muttered in her ear.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. He had felt the heat on her skin. She had matched his kisses. Why bother to deny it now?
But when he dragged at her skirts, pulling them up past her stockings to expose bare thighs, she pushed them down again.
‘No, Will,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot.’
‘I thought you wanted me, that we were agreed. Now you tell me no. Must I court you over again?’ Will Shakespeare stared down at her for a moment, his features barely visible in the dark room. His chest rose and fell as though he had been running. ‘Are you promised to another man? Is that it?’
‘I am promised to no one. Nor am I likely to be, for you must know the Queen’s ladies are required to stay maids until Her Majesty gives them permission to marry, which she does not like to do, being fixed as a virgin herself.’
‘So, what then? We part and never see each other again?’
He was still so young, so passionate, she thought. He fancied himself in love with her, but she could not bring herself to believe in such a violent passion. If she let him take her, calling it love, that passion would blow itself out like a tempest in the night, and she would find herself pregnant and alone at first light.
Lucy came at it from another direction, struggling to make him understand her fear, her hesitation. ‘This is just too sudden, Will. Your love is too violent, and I cannot take it in. One minute you were a boy in my memory, now you are a man and want to be in my bed.’
‘At least I am an honest man, then.’
She did not laugh with him. ‘My head is spinning. I cannot think with you so close.’
‘What is there to think about?’ Will demanded, and kissed her throat hotly. His hand stroked beneath her skirts again, bold and invasive. ‘Come, I shall give you more pleasure than you have dreamt of.’
She pushed against him, but her heart was not in the struggle, and they both knew it. The temptation to give in to his seduction was too strong.
‘How can you know what pleasures I have dreamt of?’ she began to ask, but was interrupted.
The door creaked open and one of the guards stood there, peering round the room, a smoking torch in his hand. The guard winked at the sight of Lucy and Will together. ‘Begging your pardon, young master. But your time here is finished, unless you have more coins in that fat purse of yours. The Queen calls for her lady.’
‘Another minute, for pity’s sake!’
‘Another shilling for another minute, master. And another again for our silence.’
Will groaned, and dropped Lucy’s skirts with an angry laugh. In his frustration he turned cruel. ‘My purse is as empty as hers, so it seems we must all go begging.’
Another shilling for another minute? How could he laugh when the man might as well have called her a whore and had done with it?
Lucy tidied her dishevelled skirts and dragged the back of her hand across her lips. Her desire had fled, replaced by fear and a burning sense of humiliation. If the Queen should hear of this, she would be dismissed from court as a slattern.
‘You have shamed me, Will Shakespeare,’ she managed in a low voice before turning to the door.
Will followed her to the doorway. The fire and passion seemed to have died out of him now, his eyes intent on her face.
‘I did nothing shameful. Nothing you didn’t want me to do.’
What a fool she was! If she had truly wanted him to stop, she could have done it with a single blow. Goodluck had taught her once how to defend herself against men if she had to. A pity he had not taught her some defence against her own desire!
Now Shakespeare thought her a whitewashed whore, one of those self-righteous court ladies who professed virginity and chastity while sweating under a different courtier each night. And who could blame him, after the way she had encouraged him?
She must put him off with insults. It was the only way. He must not be allowed to come seducing her at court again.
Lucy drew her skirts about her and squeezed past the sneering guard in the doorway, head held high.
‘Lucy, wait!’
‘Pray do not bother to pursue me, Master Shakespeare. I have no taste for young men. I shall be on progress with the Queen soon enough, and beyond your reach. But do not despair.’ She swept away down the corridor. ‘There are plenty of whores in London who will scratch your itch for a shilling.’
Twelve
GOODLUCK BECAME AWARE first of a gentle rocking motion, like being carried on a litter, followed by an unpleasant smell of river mud that seemed to pervade everything.
So he was not dead. Not yet.
Behind the rocking and the stench was pain, beginning to throb in slow waves throughout his upper body. It hurt even to take shallow breaths, which could not be a good sign. The pike – or whatever it had been – must have buried itself deep enough in his back to be mortal.
He wondered dimly how long he might have left. Minutes? Hours?
Goodluck clung to that comforting darkness for a few more minutes, then reluctantly opened his ey
es.
He was lying in a rough, narrow cot, under a horsehair blanket drawn up to his chin. The low-ceilinged space in which he had been laid was cramped and piled high with sacks, barrels and other debris. It was lit by one gloomy lantern that swung slowly from a central hook, creaking along with the timbers that surrounded him. Between the cot and the lantern, a small brazier with a makeshift chimney gave off enough heat to make the room feel pleasantly warm. A short man sat huddled on a wooden bench opposite, watching him in silence. His thick, coarse-haired coat steamed in the heat from the brazier. That was the source, Goodluck suspected, of the nostril-twitching stench of river mud.
From the constant rocking, he guessed he must be on board a river vessel. Goodluck shifted, trying to look down at himself, but the nausea he felt at the pain in his chest persuaded him to lie still again.
Despite the warmth in the smoky little space, and the horsehair blanket over his wet clothes, Goodluck found that he had begun shivering violently.
Another bad sign.
The man’s gaze held his for a long moment, a pair of not unfriendly hazel eyes peering out from between the turned-up collar of his steaming coat and the pulled-down woollen cap that all but obscured his swarthy face.
Goodluck suddenly remembered the squat figure at the tiller of a passing river barge. ‘You were there,’ he managed hoarsely, ‘when I fell.’
With that, the rattling agony in his chest overwhelmed him, and he sank back into oblivion.
By the time Goodluck came to again, the lantern had been lifted from its hook and set on top of a barrel next to his cot. The fire in the brazier was burning more fiercely, lighting up the narrow space below deck. The man in the woollen cap had risen and was bending over him, peeling back the horsehair blanket with careful hands.
Goodluck’s instinct was to push the man away, yet he could not seem to move his arms. He was shivering once more, his teeth chattering.
‘Try not to speak again,’ the bargeman warned him. His voice was muffled by the thick folds of his coat, pulled up high over his mouth, but he spoke with the coarse brogue of the Thames watermen. He tucked the horsehair blanket back under Goodluck’s chin and straightened, so short he hardly needed to bend his head under the low ceiling. ‘There’s a hole in your back big as a man’s fist.’
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