His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Aye, we’ll be back after the summer.’

  One of the men spat on the ground, as if to seal the deal, then followed the others as they walked back to the carts and horses which had brought them into town.

  The stout ringleader did not seem to believe they should have given up the fight so easily.

  Nonetheless, he glanced at Will with his outstretched sword and reluctantly followed his friends back to the carts.

  ‘Next time, Master Shakespeare, you had better have your debt ready to pay, and the right money too, or I shall not answer for my anger.’ The man swung himself up on to a covered wagon and slapped the horses’ reins. ‘Walk on!’

  Above them, John Shakespeare closed the shutters about his bedchamber window with a bang.

  Their neighbours were still staring from windows and doorways, most in nightcaps and gowns. Will looked about at their wide-eyed faces, daring any of them to pass comment on his attire, then made his way back to his own snug little house.

  Anne stood waiting for him on the doorstep, dressed now in her day clothes. Susanna, perched on her mother’s hip, brightly gurgled at his approach and held out a chubby hand to him.

  Will bent to kiss her hand, which made the child gurgle even more, her little face delighted, then he led them both inside. The room was chilly, the hearth still dirtied with last night’s cold ashes. Once the door was closed he stood his sword against the wall and turned to Anne.

  ‘I told you to stay indoors.’

  ‘You are my husband, Will. I was worried for you.’

  He tried to keep his tone light, his anger under control. He did not want to raise his voice in front of the child. ‘I am not a boy, Anne. I do not need my wife to watch over me. It was nothing. Those men were full of bluster, that is all. Wind and bluster. They blew themselves out.’

  ‘Is that why you took the sword?’ She was busy tidying the child’s rough smock, cleaning her face with a wetted finger. ‘Because it was nothing?’

  Will drew a breath and let it out again. ‘You are a woman. You do not understand how these things work. They needed to see the sword to know that I was serious. Next time they come for their money, they will be more polite about it.’

  Her blue eyes lifted to his face. ‘Or they will come with swords and pikes, and kill us in our beds.’

  ‘That will not happen. This is England. We are at peace with our neighbours.’

  ‘Will—’ she began, and he silenced her with an angry look.

  ‘That is enough. You have said your piece, Anne, and I have said mine. That is an end to it. Now I must get dressed and speak with my father. He will expect it.’

  Will stooped slightly to enter his father’s house, finding his sister and his brothers sitting at the fireside, taking some porridge to start the day. They called out to him joyously, their little faces bright with enthusiasm. ‘Will! Will!’

  His sister Joan came to kiss him on the cheek, her smile entertained. ‘My fiery brother! Where is your sword? The little ones want to see it.’

  ‘I’ve put the sword away,’ he admitted, grinning over her head at his younger brothers. ‘But I’ll get it out again later and show you a pass or two I’ve learned at the playhouses in London. Once I even had to die on stage. I made a good death,’ he added, and clutched his belly, staggering about the small kitchen as though mortally wounded. ‘But then I could not move until the end of the scene, and a fly lighted right on the end of my nose.’

  The children gaped in delight and astonishment at this, then begged to hear more about the kinds of plays he had acted in.

  ‘Later, later,’ he told them, laughing at their insistence. He kissed his mother on the cheek and sat at the table. ‘First let me take a bowl of that porridge, if I may. It smells so good!’

  But after he had eaten, it was time for Dick to set off for school. Will watched him go, then shut the door and went to sit by the fire, his conscience pricking him uneasily. He was a married man and this was his family. This was where he belonged. He should never have risked all this by pursuing Lucy Morgan. What would his father say if he knew the extent of his involvement with another woman?

  Will was burned up with lust for her beauty. Her face haunted his sleep. But his soul was in jeopardy, and he knew it. He did not want to be a Jack-the-lad like most of the other players, who boasted of their conquests and held it a triumph if they managed to hoodwink one mistress while sleeping with another.

  When he returned to London, he would make no further attempt to seek Lucy out again. This constant wish to betray his wife was a sin, and unworthy of his vows to her. He must conquer his lust for Lucy Morgan, or else give up the stage and become a glover here in Stratford like his father. Anything less was unworthy.

  Seventeen

  THE PALACE OF Nonsuch had been built by Elizabeth’s father, and bore King Henry’s lavish but undoubtedly male touch in its marvellous octagonal turrets and panelled royal chambers. While the outer courtyard was plain enough, the inner one looked more like a Roman temple than a hunting lodge, its walls heavy with stucco gods and goddesses, and many of the doors and fittings in the palace itself gilt as befitted a king’s residence. The grand tapestries in the halls were faded, though, some in dire need of repair, and all looked as though they belonged to her grandfather’s generation rather than her father’s. Everything about the place seemed larger than she would like, the furnishings and even the rooms themselves somehow awkward and unsubtle, the ceilings too high and the bed-chambers draughty.

  She enjoyed her visits the most in summer, when the formal gardens were at their best and she could walk beside the cooling fountains. In the winter, there was an air of gloominess that hung over Nonsuch Palace and made her long to be elsewhere. Though even in broad sunlight, on a long hot summer’s day, Elizabeth could sense some unspoken menace about the place. Walking in the gardens with her ladies in the mornings, delighted by the butterflies that played so daintily about their heads, she would look back, and it would seem as though the turreted palace was frowning at her.

  A foolish idea, but one she had never quite been able to shake off.

  Now, though, she stood alone with her closest advisers in the Rose Room, beneath a high and marvellously intricate ceiling of red-emblazoned stucco roses, that dizzied her whenever she looked up at them. Elizabeth laid aside the letter she had been reading from her Scots cousin Mary, closing her eyes in sudden, bitter fury.

  ‘Why does my cousin still live?’ she demanded of Cecil and Walsingham, aware of the peevish note in her voice but too frustrated to care what they thought. ‘Mary is never comfortable. She complains of her jailors. She complains that her bed is too hard. If a meal gives her the stomach ache, she suspects poison. She asks why, if I love my cousin, I should allow her to suffer these indignities, and does not speak of the troubles she causes me simply by being on God’s earth. Why can Mary not be like any other mortal and die of the ague, or the pain in her bones, or whatever new sickness plagues her body whenever she writes to me?’

  ‘It could be arranged, Your Majesty,’ Walsingham murmured discreetly, and passed her a silver dish of sugared almonds.

  She opened her eyes to glare at him. ‘I am no murderer, sir. I do not ask for her food to be poisoned by one of your agents. I ask why God in his mercy does not rid me of this woman, this bitter thorn in my side. Every day now, it seems, you come to tell me of some new fanatic who would see Mary crowned in my place, or the thousand Catholic priests who swarm on to our shores each year to spread civil disobedience along with their Roman faith. My own nobles whisper my cousin’s name behind my back, saying she is more beautiful and more devout and more fit to be queen than I am.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I cannot believe—’

  ‘Do not look at me with that long face, my lord, and say you cannot believe such things,’ she told Cecil in a waspish tone. ‘Not when your friend Walsingham whispers daily in my ear of secret revolts, and intercepted letters between conspirators, and courtiers w
ho meet after midnight in the darkest corners of my palace.’

  ‘Not in your own palace,’ Walsingham corrected her gently. ‘Even those who wish for new governance would not be so bold.’

  ‘New governance?’ she repeated scornfully. ‘To put a whore on the throne of England, and watch her tear this land apart with her ignoble lovers and her divorces and her open murders? Is that the new governance of which you speak?’

  Cecil cleared his throat. ‘It shall not happen, Your Majesty, for the remedy lies in your own hands. If you would only agree to what we have discussed, there could be an end to these constant plans and plottings, and peace secured for England.’

  ‘Order Mary’s execution?’ Elizabeth demanded, and shivered just at the sound of those heretical words. ‘On what grounds?’

  Walsingham arched his thin dark brows. ‘We have evidence enough to condemn that lady ten times over, Your Majesty. I hold in my own custody men who have admitted to carrying letters of rebellion against Your Sovereign Highness, and some of those letters are either addressed directly to your cousin or signed by Mary in full knowledge of her treason. If you would allow me to read you one or two of these secret letters, I could soon point out the fault.’

  Elizabeth made an angry noise at this, and Walsingham bowed, yet continued with his argument undeterred.

  ‘I am convinced you would be less averse to ending this dance of plot and counter-plot if you would but agree to read her treason first-hand.’

  ‘I have told you before: I shall not budge on this point. I grant you, gentlemen, my cousin Mary is a whore and a traitorous conspirator against my throne. But she is still my cousin, an anointed queen whose Scottish throne has been usurped. I shall not spill a drop of royal blood, no matter what the provocation.’

  She had spoken passionately, with a fiery heart, but knew her head to be clear on this point at least.

  Her councillors stood silent, their grey heads bowed in deference to her orders, though no doubt thinking her a foolish woman with no more sense than a peahen.

  Exasperated, Elizabeth threw down Mary’s infuriating letter of complaint and consoled herself with a sugared almond instead. Yet even that was a mistake. Her skin prickled at the taste as she remembered Robert feeding her sugared almonds once, in the intimacy of her bedchamber.

  ‘Has Robert returned from Wanstead yet? I have written to him twice, demanding his immediate return, and still he does not come.’ Angrily, she pushed the dish of nuts aside and stood up. ‘Am I no longer Queen? Am I some dairymaid to have my orders flouted? To be mocked by men who would rather visit their wives than travel with my court in progress?’

  Walsingham excused himself with some muttered comment she did not catch, and Cecil, Lord Burghley, was left to placate her. ‘Your Majesty, I believe his lordship returned to court last night.’

  Her heart jolted at the news that Robert was here at the palace of Nonsuch. Elizabeth drew breath to steady herself, willing her blood to remain cool. If she wished to be treated as a queen, she must act like one.

  She walked to the windows of the Privy Chamber and looked down at the green lawns of Nonsuch. Peacocks strode to and fro across the grass like miniature blue emperors. One bird screeched in the sunshine. Seconds later another answered its call. Wild and imperious creatures, she thought, and gazed past them at the soft red climbing roses entwined with holly bushes and privet along the edges of the lawns, the rows of strawberry beds with their luscious fruit, then the elegantly arched gateway into the formal gardens beyond.

  Why had he not come to visit her yet? The question snagged like a thorn, would not let go.

  ‘I wish to see Robert at once,’ she said with control, though she knew there was little point hiding her feelings from Cecil. Her most trusted councillor had known her too long to be deceived. ‘Send for him.’

  Cecil bowed and withdrew without comment.

  She did not have to wait long, though by the time Robert came cap in hand to her door, Elizabeth was seated in the high-backed chair that stood below the heavily ornate mantel, her hands folded sedately in her lap. Above her head the Tudor rose design sprawled across the ceiling in testimony to her family’s power and magnificence. If she liked anything about Nonsuch Palace it had to be its extravagance, the knowledge that it had been built in great style by her father, not sparing his purse but spending lavishly, the sheer expense of the place intimidating to those who walked there.

  Head bent, Robert sank to one knee before her. ‘Your Majesty.’

  His hair might be silvered, but he still looked much younger than she did, Elizabeth realized with a sudden touch of irritation.

  ‘You ignored my letters,’ she said petulantly.

  ‘I came as soon as I could, Your Majesty. I apologize for having kept you waiting.’ He hesitated, then added unwillingly, ‘My son was unwell.’

  ‘I see.’

  His son by her!

  She asked stiffly, ‘Your son is recovered, I trust?’

  ‘Not quite,’ he admitted, and did not meet her gaze. ‘But I am told his health has much improved, Your Majesty.’

  He had left his home at Wanstead before his beloved child was fully recovered, she realized with a shock. Her hands could no longer lie idle in her lap, but gripped the arms of her chair in a sudden burst of triumph. He had ignored both his wife’s command and his son’s illness, and returned to court in deference to her will. Pleasure throbbed through her, and she smiled down at him, magnanimous in victory.

  ‘I hope your son regains his strength soon,’ she told him kindly. ‘If he falls ill again, you must seek advice from one of my own royal physicians, here at court. There are none better in the land.’

  ‘I thank you, Your Majesty.’ Robert smiled and bowed his head, but she sensed that he was still concerned over his son’s health. She had never been a mother, so could not be sure how it must feel to fear for a child’s life. Yet she had often fretted when Robert was away from her side, and so could understand how sharp the sting must be when one’s own flesh and blood was in danger.

  He stood at her gesture and seemed to set the matter aside, his voice brisk. ‘Cecil tells me there has been another letter received from our Scottish prisoner.’

  Wearily, she indicated Mary’s letter on the table. ‘My cousin is fast becoming the bane of my life.’

  Robert read the wretched letter in silence, then laid it aside. He thought for a moment, fretting his lower lip between his teeth. ‘All these letters and complaints mean nothing when we cannot be sure what is truth and what is the imagination of a desperate woman. Forgive me for speaking plainly, Your Majesty, but it seems to me that someone more trustworthy than her jailor must review Her Highness’s circumstances in person, and make a full report to the Council.’

  ‘I heartily agree.’

  ‘Do you wish me to go up there and speak with her myself, Your Majesty?’ Robert asked directly, and looked at her.

  Elizabeth froze, staring back at him. Again, her knuckles gripped the carved arms of her chair until the skin whitened.

  Was he truly aware of what he was suggesting? That the most powerful man in her kingdom should leave court and meet with her greatest enemy?

  ‘Go yourself?’ she repeated slowly, and for a space pretended to give the idea serious thought. ‘Mary is our royal guest, detained at my pleasure and for her own security. These tales of sickness and squalor do not sit well with her position. Certainly someone should go and view her conditions on the crown’s behalf. A man of rank whom my cousin will respect and confide in. But I am not sure that I can spare you for the task, Robert.’

  Her heart struggled like an animal in a trap. All her instincts screamed at her not to allow him within a foot of her beautiful cousin, who by all accounts had captivated almost every man she had ever spoken with. Not only did Robert belong solely to her, to Elizabeth Tudor and not that Scots pretender, but if Mary Stuart were ever to ally herself with the Earl of Leicester, already too frighteningly close
to Elizabeth in power, England itself might be at risk.

  Robert’s thin smile cut her, and she stared. He had known before offering what her response would be. He had been playing with her, mocking her weakness. How dared he?

  He did not argue but bowed his head. ‘As you wish, Your Majesty. Should I appoint someone else to go in my stead?’

  ‘No, you must remain at court in case I need you. I shall instruct Cecil to make the arrangements,’ Elizabeth insisted, and experienced a small jolt of satisfaction at seeing his brows contract. Always she had been able to play him off against Cecil. The fear that she trusted the older statesman more than Robert was a stick Elizabeth liked to poke him with whenever he angered or frustrated her. Like an irascible old bear, Robert might growl and show his claws from time to time. But underneath that show of rage he was impotent. She was his queen, and there was nothing he could do to prevent her from tormenting him.

  Except marry and get with child another woman behind your back, her mind jeered at her.

  Silly old fool, she told herself fiercely. This man does not love you. You may be the Queen, but he loves the she-wolf who lies with him at Wanstead, and who has given him a son and heir to raise.

  He came to kneel at her side. ‘What next, though?’ he asked softly, and carried her hand to his lips, no longer one of her sombre Privy Councillors, but plain Robert again, her horseman, her dark-eyed gypsy. ‘Her constant complaints about jailors and ailments are a distraction from her true activities, nothing more. What will you do if Mary will not drop these plots against your throne?’

  ‘She is alone. She cannot succeed in her treason.’

  ‘Mary has a following of stout-hearted traitors, do not believe otherwise. I have seen Catholics tortured who have refused to give up her secret plans. I have spoken to men who have sworn with their dying breath to honour Mary Stuart above you, their rightful queen, so the Roman faith might come again to England.’