His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  Elizabeth looked down into his face. ‘You think me wrong to keep her alive?’

  ‘I think you are merciful beyond your cousin’s deserving.’

  ‘If one day it proves to be God’s will and in England’s interests that my royal cousin Mary should die, then I hope to act with the fortitude of a prince in ordering her execution. Until that day, I shall continue not to act.’ She thought his expression betrayed impatience and frustration. ‘I would remind you, Robert, that it is also princely to be merciful.’

  ‘Then may you live not to regret your mercy,’ Robert murmured, and she smiled at the warning in his voice.

  ‘Don’t fret, Robert. I am safe enough from Mary’s childish plots.’ Elizabeth played her fingers along his jaw and cheek, delighting in his presence back at her side. ‘It is good to see you at court again, though I have still not forgiven you for refusing to come back as soon as I commanded it.’ She looked down at him through her lashes. ‘Fetch wine. And the chessboard. Now we are alone together, let us play a game.’

  Eighteen

  LUCY WALKED A few steps behind Her Majesty, holding her book and ostrich-feather fan. Two of the Queen’s white dogs ran past, knocking Lucy aside as they bit and snarled at each other. A young page came dashing after the dogs with an upraised birch switch, lashing out at their thin flanks as he scolded them. Queen Elizabeth laughed at their antics and turned to Lord Leicester, who was walking beside her, his head bowed in thought. ‘You see that? No manners at all. Those curs are like my English nobles. They need a whipping to teach them obedience.’

  Leicester was staring at the dogs, seemingly distracted. ‘Which nobles are those, Your Majesty?’

  ‘I leave the names to my sombre Walsingham. He is an expert in these dark matters. Though sometimes he shows me letters, signed by names that pain me. Names of great men whom I have trusted, that now turn their gaze and their allegiance to my cousin Mary.’ The Queen grimaced, her back very stiff. ‘What is the world coming to, Robert? My authority flouted, my nobles in secret dispute over the throne. And now we hear that Prince William of Orange has been murdered. Is royal blood no longer sacrosanct in Europe?’

  Leicester did not answer, his head still bowed.

  ‘What, do you find my company so tedious?’ Queen Elizabeth snapped her fingers furiously. ‘No, pray keep your head low, I shall find it easier to strike off!’

  Leicester looked up then, and stared at the Queen as though he had indeed just woken from sleep. ‘I beg pardon, Your Majesty. I was thinking of …’

  He glanced over his shoulder at Lucy. With compassion, she saw that Leicester’s eyes were bloodshot, as though he had not slept well. Lucy knew at once that he was still concerned for his son’s health, which, by all accounts, was not much improved since Leicester’s hasty return to court.

  ‘I crave Your Majesty’s forgiveness for my poor wits. Pray do not disturb yourself over this recent murder of the Prince of Orange. Such a heinous act cannot happen here. Your subjects love and honour you as their rightful queen. There is not a man in England who would not die to protect you.’

  ‘So you say,’ Queen Elizabeth murmured drily, yet seemed mollified.

  ‘Your dogs do not obey you,’ he continued more smoothly. ‘If you will permit me to take their training in hand myself, Your Majesty, they will soon be walking behind you as pretty and docile as Mistress Morgan.’

  The Queen turned to look at Lucy in an unfriendly way. She glanced at her other ladies, walking some distance behind, then sniffed loudly, her lips pursed. ‘Lucy,’ she remarked coldly, ‘I had forgotten you were still there. You walk so quietly … like one of Walsingham’s spies. Tell me, have you learned the steps to that new Italian dance yet?’

  Lucy hesitated. ‘Not yet, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Then you must do so at once. Give those things to one of the other ladies to carry, for it seems none of them have anything to do but look pale and bored today, either.’

  Lucy stood bewildered, unsure what she had done to displease the Queen. She glanced at Lord Leicester and then wished she hadn’t, for he winked at her behind the Queen’s back, and might have made her grin if she had not been quite so apprehensive.

  Queen Elizabeth glared at her furiously, her small dark eyes narrowed against the sun. ‘Back to the palace with you, Lucy Morgan, and without delay. I do not spend a fortune each year to keep you at court so you can look “pretty and docile”. I wish the Italian ambassador to see you dance after dinner tomorrow. I have promised that he will be amazed at your skills. Go now and make sure of it.’

  Lucy curtsied low and hurried away.

  She had not gone more than ten paces through the gardens towards the palace when she stopped, hearing her name being whispered hoarsely from behind a hedge.

  ‘Mistress Morgan!’

  A young boy in ragged clothes was peering at her round the hedge with eyes as bright as a magpie’s.

  She glanced over her shoulder, but the Queen and her entourage had already moved on into the formal gardens. There was nobody else about.

  Lucy looked at the ragged boy. He was holding out a folded piece of paper. Her heart began to beat hard. Was it a message from Master Goodluck at last?

  ‘Is that for me?’ she asked him.

  The boy nodded without speaking and came forward a few steps, but did not pass her the letter. Instead, he held out a filthy hand in a begging gesture. Lucy fumbled in her purse for a penny and dropped it into his palm. Pocketing it, he pushed the letter into her hand. Her eye was immediately caught by a familiar symbol scribbled lightly across the fold: a narrow twist of corn or barley, interlaced with a sloping T.

  Master Twist!

  Lucy turned to the young messenger with questions on her lips, but the boy had already vanished.

  Driven by a caution that seemed to have become second nature to her now, Lucy walked on a little further, then turned aside into the shade of some plum trees. There, unobserved, she opened the letter.

  Meet me at the ruin they call Saxon’s Tower as soon as you can get away. I have grave news. T

  She read Twist’s message over several times, startled and uncertain what to think. She knew the place he meant, a tumbledown tower on the northern edge of the Nonsuch estate that had stood even before the palace was built. As far as she knew, the rough shepherds who tended the royal livestock slept there in times of poor weather.

  But Master Twist was here in person?

  I have grave news.

  She dreaded to think what that could mean. Why else would he have come to Nonsuch unless he had news of Master Goodluck? Bad news, at that.

  As soon as you can get away.

  The plum trees buzzed with wasps and bees above her head, their yellowish fruit sweetly fragrant as it ripened. Warily, Lucy stepped out of their pleasant shade and glanced about herself. The sunny gardens were empty of courtiers, only a few men in leather aprons tending the lawns with edging tools and barrows. From behind the privet hedges into the formal gardens she could still hear the barking of the Queen’s dogs. She could slip away and walk across to Saxon’s Tower now. With the Queen still at her morning walk, Lucy would not be missed for a good hour or two. There was still the new dance to perfect for the ambassador tomorrow, but it should not take long before she had the steps right. It must be now, or else she might miss her chance.

  Lucy hurried across the sunlit lawns and through into woodland, thankful for the dappled shade. It was a hot July day and her heavy skirts made walking a penance. Every few minutes she glanced over her shoulder to be sure she had not been seen.

  The ruined tower leaned perilously at the edge of the forest, more a tall circular heap of stones than a tower, cracked and mossy with age. A rough wooden door had been set into its base, and the gaping holes in the roof where tiles had fallen in were covered with a kind of rough thatching of twigs and moss.

  As she came close, Lucy saw that the door stood ajar.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, pushing i
t open.

  Someone moved within, then Master Twist loomed up out of the darkness. He caught her by the hand and dragged her inside. His face was haggard, blue eyes bloodshot as he stared out of the door behind her. ‘You came alone?’ he pressed her. ‘No one saw you leave the palace? You were not followed?’

  ‘No,’ she assured him, bewildered.

  ‘Well done,’ he muttered, and closed the door behind her. He hurried away in the glimmering darkness of the interior, then she saw the warm glow of a lantern spring to life as he removed the cover. They were standing in a little stone cell at the base of the tower, just a rough mud floor underfoot and one window slit that had been blocked up, presumably in an unsuccessful attempt to keep out the tiny black flies that were everywhere. She batted several away as they tried to land on her face. But at least it was not hot and stuffy, like the interior of the palace, which lay most of the day in full sun. This place was cool and damp, and smelt mustily of animals. A heap of matted fleeces lay in one corner, serving as a bed, and above it a crumbling flight of steps led away into darkness. She imagined the top floors were blocked off, too, for they could only lead to the open air now that half the tower had tumbled down.

  Master Twist looked as though he had been sleeping rough for several days. His hair was tousled and his shirt soiled, and he was wearing the breeches and plain jerkin of a mercenary soldier, a short dagger stuck in his belt. He seized Lucy by the waist and kissed her fervently on the cheek. Then his kiss touched her lips, and she took a step backwards, startled by his sudden intimacy.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said at once, and released her. His smile seemed strained. ‘I’m so glad to see you, Lucy. I have a flask of wine if you’re thirsty. Will you sit down?’

  Lucy looked about the stone cell. There was only a rough three-legged stool to sit on, or the filthy bed of fleeces. She shook her head, frowning. ‘What if we are discovered here?’

  ‘No one will come until tomorrow morning. I gave the shepherds a shilling apiece for the place. It’s rough, but it will suffice.’

  ‘I was so afraid when I saw your note. You said … grave news. Does it concern Master Goodluck?’

  Twist took her hands in his and squeezed them. His face was grim. ‘Yes.’

  She stared at him, terror in her heart. ‘For pity’s sake, tell me what has happened. I knew that Master Goodluck was missing, that he might be in trouble again. He hasn’t replied to my letters for months now. But I thought perhaps an assignment in France or Italy …’

  ‘My dearest Lucy, I wish I had better news for you—’ Twist began slowly, but she interrupted, unable to wait.

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Master Goodluck is dead.’

  Lucy heard the words she feared most in the world, and shook her head in speechless anguish. She dragged herself free from Twist’s hands and backed away, coming up against the filthy wall of the shepherds’ cell.

  Her guardian dead?

  It could not be true. She thought of Goodluck’s black beard, his intelligent eyes, the way he nearly broke her ribs whenever he hugged her in welcome or farewell. He was a part of her. It was not possible that Goodluck could be dead and she had not felt it, had not already known in her heart.

  ‘Another mistaken report,’ she whispered. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time he has been thought dead.’

  Twist was shaking his head too. ‘With my own eyes, I saw him die,’ he replied simply.

  Her eyes widened, and she looked a question at him. ‘Saw?’

  ‘It was an ambush. One of our men was murdered in the street. Goodluck ran. The murderer gave chase and killed him, too. I was just behind, but couldn’t shake off my own pursuer.’ With a grimace, Twist stared at the lantern as though seeing Goodluck’s last desperate fight in the flame. ‘We were at the back of a merchant’s yard by the Thames. It was pouring with rain. There was mud everywhere. I saw Goodluck stabbed through the body. Then he fell into the river.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s true.’

  Lucy’s voice was husky with tears. ‘Yet you escaped?’

  He could hardly have missed the accusation in her tone, but he did not choose to comment.

  ‘Barely.’ Twist rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to display an ugly scar from a sword slash, the skin still red and puckered as though only recently healed. ‘I got this pretty keepsake on my way out. But at least I survived. For once, I was luckier than Goodluck himself.’

  Lucy ran a fingertip along his scar. Her hand was shaking. ‘This looks recent. Three, maybe four weeks old?’

  He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. ‘I lay in a fever afterwards. There’s a woman who looks after me from time to time. She took me in and tended my wounds. But yes, it cannot be more than a month since he died.’

  ‘But I wrote to Goodluck. At the start of the summer, before the Queen took us on progress. I wrote several times. He did not reply.’

  ‘It was a difficult time. We were followed so closely.’

  Lucy frowned, trying to understand his words, though her head was throbbing with pain. How could such a horror be true? Yet she must accept it. Her guardian was dead and she would never see him again.

  She remembered the last time she had feared he was dead, her terrible grief then and how she had wept for weeks, only to discover that he still lived. But no, this time it must be true. Master Twist had seen Goodluck stabbed through the body, he had seen him fall into the River Thames and drown. There could be no doubt.

  ‘Did you ever recover the body?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Give him a good Christian burial?’

  Twist hesitated, then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy. By the time my fever had broken and I was able to rise from my sickbed, it was too late even to bother looking for him. The river currents are strong. They can bear a man’s body many miles downstream in the space of a few days, let alone twenty.’

  ‘Then he could still be alive?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Do not say so!’ she exclaimed bitterly, feeling her last slender hopes falling away even as she said it.

  ‘Lucy.’

  As if to comfort her, Twist put out a hand to stroke her cheek. She flinched from his touch and he frowned.

  ‘Even if the wound had not been mortal,’ he continued, ‘the water would have done for him. It had been raining hard all that day, and the river was swollen higher than I’ve seen it since. A strong swimmer would have struggled against that tide, and this was a seriously wounded man. I’m sorry, but he would have drowned within a few minutes of hitting the water.’

  His words had the weight of hard truth behind them. Lucy held her breath, willing the trembling light in her eyes not to quiver and humiliate her with weakness. Yet still the tears came, spilling down her cheeks.

  She wept, hiding her face in her sleeve. The rich fabric scratched her face.

  ‘Hush,’ Twist said, drawing her into his arms. ‘Take comfort, it was a kind death. Goodluck was a great man and a master spy. But even great men must meet their makers eventually. I have known you since you were a baby in the care of his sister, and he always bade me look after you if anything should happen to him. Trust me, I intend to fulfil that promise.’

  He tilted her chin up and kissed away the tears as though she was still a child and had skinned her knees falling over.

  ‘I want you to think of me as your guardian from now on.’ His hands tightened about her waist as he spoke, his voice hoarse in her ear. ‘You will not find me any less a man than Goodluck.’

  She looked at him and did not like the expression on his face. ‘Master Twist,’ she whispered. ‘You’re hurting.’

  He loosened his grip, but did not release her. Even in the soft glow of the lantern, she could see that he was staring at her mouth. ‘My beautiful Ethiop,’ he muttered. ‘Such full lips. I have dreamt about you, and what lies beneath your courtly gowns. Did Goodluck ever discover the dark treasure hidden there?’

  She was shocked. ‘What a
re you saying?’

  ‘You understand me well enough.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘I would watch the two of you together, and could not believe he would leave such a delicious peach unbruised. Tell me the truth! When did Goodluck first have you? How many times did he enjoy you?’

  She was suddenly scared, seeing the lust in his face, thinking back over his description of Goodluck’s death. Twist claimed to have seen Goodluck stabbed. To have seen him fall to his death in the Thames. But what if it had been Twist himself who had stabbed Goodluck and pushed him into the water?

  ‘Come, Lucy, you will not find me a hard master to please.’ He began to drag her by the wrist towards the pile of fleeces. ‘Or you will find me hard, but you should enjoy it.’

  She fought him, but Twist was stronger. He threw her back on to the fleeces as though she weighed nothing, and scrambled on top of her before she could roll away, pinning her body down into the filthy stench of the wool.

  ‘You were always breathtaking, even as a child. To think that Goodluck was enjoying free access to your body …’ He shuddered, kissing down her throat, jerking her bodice aside so he could touch her breasts. ‘That left a bitter taste, I can tell you.’

  ‘He never touched me! Goodluck would never—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ he snapped, and slapped her so hard across the face that her ears rang and her eyes blurred with tears.

  Twist pushed up her skirts, touching her just as William Shakespeare had done. Only this time she felt nothing but fear and disgust. She suspected now that Twist must have killed Goodluck himself, or at least assisted in his murder. Certainly by his own admission he had made no attempt to save his old friend’s life.

  Now he intended to rape her – and probably murder her afterwards to hide his crime. Her body sickened at the thought of such a betrayal.

  ‘I know Goodluck must have had you,’ he continued unsteadily. ‘You were never just a daughter to him. I believe he enjoyed you as a woman. As I am about to do.’