His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Perhaps I will take the jewel,’ the man whispered hoarsely, feeling about inside the patterned leather shoe, ‘and not carry your message. You are a traitor to the Queen and destined for the gallows. You could not stop me.’

  ‘You will not do that because it is not in your nature,’ Goodluck replied. ‘You are an honest man, and I trust you to do what is right.’

  The guard had found the secret pocket in Goodluck’s shoe, a cunning slit where a small object or slip of paper could be hidden. He dropped the shoe and held the jewel up to the torchlight, turning it between his fingers. It was a modest but well-cut ruby which Goodluck kept for just such moments of extreme danger, where a substantial bribe could make the difference between life and death.

  He shrugged. ‘The name of your friend?’

  Goodluck hesitated, considering. A man like this would not risk taking a message to Walsingham, in case it came out that he had accepted a bribe. But he might deliver a message to someone of no consequence. ‘Mistress Lucy Morgan. You will find her with the court at Richmond Palace. If not, ask where she is living and deliver my message there instead. She will know what to do.’

  The guard had turned to stare at him. ‘You want me to carry this message to a woman?’ he asked in disbelief.

  ‘Yes.’

  The guard looked at him doubtfully. Then they both heard the squelch of footsteps in the muddy corridor, and a man whistling a popular hymn as though on his way to church.

  Richard Topcliffe was returning from the privy with the clear conscience of a sadist.

  The guard’s smile vanished. He slipped the ruby into the grimy black pocket hanging from his belt.

  ‘The message? Quickly, man.’

  ‘Tell her Master Goodluck is not dead. Tell her where I am and why. She will know what to do.’

  As Topcliffe came back into the room, Goodluck knew a moment of lightheadedness and recognized it as terror. Hazily, he tried to see his situation from a distance, to gain some understanding of what had happened. If Pooley was one of Walsingham’s spies, he would have been arrested at the house to make him appear innocent of duplicity in the eyes of the other conspirators, and then released so he could make his secret report to Walsingham.

  But why had Goodluck’s name not been on the list of men to be let go, too?

  Perhaps someone had suggested to Walsingham that Goodluck was now too close to the Catholic conspirators, and had become one of them. Such conversions had been known to happen even to the best spies.

  Or perhaps his name had been on the list, but had been crossed out.

  He remembered John Twist, his cap pulled low and his beard dyed to look like a young man’s, and that meaningful nod he had given the leader.

  John Twist had betrayed him. He had changed the list of those in Walsingham’s pay or had paid the leader to pretend his name was not on it. Somehow he had discovered that Goodluck was not dead, as he had no doubt supposed, but very much alive, and now wished to rectify that situation as soon as possible. And by ensuring that Goodluck would be handed over to Topcliffe on arrival at the Tower, he might yet have his wish.

  Time seemed to pass very slowly, voices echoing in the narrow, torchlit cell.

  Then everything sharpened again so that Goodluck felt he was seeing the room through a crystal. His mind cleared. He must focus now on his survival. The guard had been dismissed and Richard Topcliffe stood in front of him, a fresh apron tied about his waist. The torturer reached with gloved hands into the red heart of the brazier and extracted a glowing iron.

  ‘As God is my witness, I am one of Walsingham’s own men and should not be here,’ Goodluck managed, ashamed to hear how his voice shook at the sight of that hot iron. ‘I am no Catholic, but a Protestant spy.’

  ‘Now, my good sir,’ Topcliffe murmured, as though he had not even heard him, ‘first we shall see of what stuff God has made you, and then we shall talk.’

  The iron seared Goodluck’s chest with a horrendous agony, held there longer than it seemed possible to bear, the pain so exquisite it was almost beyond feeling.

  He smelt his own flesh burning, and sagged in the chair. He felt an uncontrollable weakness in all his limbs, and knew from the warmth trickling down his bare legs that he had pissed himself.

  He felt no shame, for he had been tortured before and knew there could be no shame in fear.

  The only shame lay in betrayal.

  ‘Lucy,’ Goodluck mumbled, not knowing what he was saying or even whether he had spoken any coherent word or merely groaned.

  He watched as the iron was thrust into the brazier to heat again, then came resolutely back to sear his flesh, upon which his mumble became a trembling scream.

  ‘Lucy!’

  Thirteen

  LUCY HADN’T LONG been asleep when she woke with a start, hearing a knocking at the door below. Will Shakespeare again, she thought bitterly. She lay a moment, her heart thudding fast, then felt under the pillow for her dagger.

  She crept down the stairs in the dark and listened. The knocking came again, not loud but insistent.

  Fumbling for the tinderbox, she lit a half-burned spill and balanced it on the stone lip of the hearth. It gave out a ghostly half-light, but was better than darkness.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded, her ear pressed to the door.

  ‘A friend,’ a man’s voice replied.

  Instantly on her guard, she drew back. A friend? What friend? She had no friends in this city. Some of the women along her street had begun to spit as she passed. They thought her a whore. Small wonder too. Shakespeare’s visits were to blame for that.

  Yet there was something familiar about the man’s voice. Did she know him?

  Her skin prickled, gooseflesh on her arms under the thin nightshift. Some fresh danger come to my door, she thought, and weighed the dagger in her hand.

  ‘What is your name, friend?’

  ‘I bear a message from Master Goodluck,’ he replied, his voice muffled. ‘Let me in before I am seen by the Watch.’

  Master Goodluck? Her heart squeezed shut like a fist. Goodluck? It hurt to breathe. That was a name she had put away, blocked from her mind. She could not bear to hear it spoken, to think of his death. What evil trick was this?

  ‘Master Goodluck is dead,’ she whispered, staring at the door as though she could see through it.

  ‘Let me in,’ the man repeated, more urgently.

  She was shaking but could not deny him. He might kill her, whoever he was. But his words …

  Master Goodluck’s name was like a charm, letting in light where she had walked so long in darkness.

  Gripping the dagger between her teeth, Lucy slid back the heavy bolts that held the door firmly shut at night. Then she took a step back, set her feet wide and gripped the dagger in her right hand.

  Master Goodluck is dead, she told herself. Believe nothing else. If her guardian had been alive, he would have come to find her himself by now. But could he have left some final message for her with a friend? And knowing Goodluck’s friends as she did, it was also possible this was the first chance one had found to deliver it.

  Whoever was on the other side of the door, she was prepared to listen to his message. But she would take no chances.

  The latch lifted and she saw a man’s hand reach inside the crack of the door, as though groping for her in the half-light. On his smallest finger was a thick gold ring which she recognized. That foul man, John Twist!

  With a cry, she sprang forward and bore down on the door with all her weight.

  ‘Get out!’

  He swore and pushed violently against the door. ‘Lucy, don’t be a fool. You need me. You can’t live here alone for ever. I won’t hurt you, let me in!’

  Lucy strained to keep him out, but he was strong. I can’t hold him off much longer, she realized, and despaired. Why did none of her neighbours come to help? A dog was barking hysterically somewhere down the street. She heard a man shout at it to be quiet. The Watch must hav
e heard the noise by now. Did they despise her so much they would see her murdered in the night? Was this how her life would end?

  Twist’s hand curled around the door frame. It looked like a giant spider. She took the dagger from between her teeth, slashed at his nearest finger and heard him shriek. The hand was withdrawn, and for a few seconds the pressure of his weight against the door slackened.

  Lucy gave a tremendous shove and the door clicked shut. She slammed the top bolt home, then the bottom one, then slumped against the door, panting. Her blood roared in her ears. Was there any other way into the house? Only by climbing up the outside and through her bedroom window.

  ‘That hurt,’ John Twist exclaimed. She listened to him breathing hard as he leaned against the other side of the door. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Lucy. I’ll be back, and next time you’ll open this door of your own accord or I’ll smash it down.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’

  ‘How are you planning to stop me, Lucy?’ John Twist waited for an answer, then laughed. ‘You should never have left court. You have no man to protect you here, no one to come running if you scream in the night. No one here would bestir himself for a black whore in the house of a dead spy.’ He was calmer now, more sure of himself. Don’t get too sure, she thought furiously, and imagined sinking her blade into him. ‘But I’ll protect you, Lucy. All I ask is to share your bed and taste a little of what you were giving Goodluck.’

  ‘Don’t say his name,’ she hissed.

  ‘I’d rather hear you say mine.’ He scratched what sounded like the point of a dagger down the door. ‘Think about it, Lucy. This can be a rape or you can give yourself freely. But your door will open next time I come calling, and on that you have my word.’

  His footsteps retreated along the street. The wax-dipped spill burned to the end and went out, smoking gently. Lucy stared long into the darkness, listening for John Twist to come back. But he didn’t. Nonetheless, she sat with her back against the door for the rest of the night, barefoot and wearing nothing but her nightshift, dagger cradled in her lap. When the first light of dawn began to creep between cracks in the door, she shifted uncomfortably, realizing that she had fallen asleep.

  She crawled to her feet, stiff and aching, and was on her way back up the stairs when there was another knock at the door.

  Lucy stared at it. What now? she thought wearily. The knock came again, quiet and discreet. It did not sound like Jack Twist’s hand behind it. Nor, though, did it sound like Will Shakespeare’s light, confident rap.

  She crept into the kitchen and listened, standing a few inches away from the door. Nothing. The knock was repeated, this time a little louder.

  ‘Who is it? What do you want?’ she demanded, feet set apart. Better to sound shrill than uncertain.

  Perhaps Twist had paid one of his cronies to trick her into opening the door. Well, she had been a fool last night, but she would not be one again.

  ‘I bring a message from a Master Goodluck,’ a man whispered through the door. He sounded nervous. ‘It is a private message. For a Lucy Morgan.’

  Lucy put her eye to one of the cracks in the door. It was a tall, pale-looking man she did not recognize, his cheek scarred and his cap pulled down, broad shoulders swathed in a dark cloak as though he did not wish to be seen on the street.

  Who was this now? And bearing another message from her dead guardian? She shivered, cold and exhausted, more ready for her bed than to fend off another attacker. Yet surely if this was one of Twist’s men, he would have come up with a different approach. That line about Goodluck had served well enough in the night, but in the chill light of dawn …

  Over the stranger’s shoulder she caught glimpses of early risers on their way to the market or down to the river, some with covered baskets over their arms, others pulling handcarts laden with goods to sell. The sun was rising and the city of London, always busiest in the mornings, was beginning to stir itself.

  ‘I’m Lucy Morgan.’ She tightened her grip on the dagger. ‘Did John Twist tell you to come here?’

  ‘I don’t know a John Twist.’

  ‘What is your message, then?’

  ‘I told you, it’s a private message. I don’t wish to give it on the street for anyone to hear. Will you open the door?’

  ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘Speak now, or go away.’

  The man stood silent for a moment, as though undecided. Then he shuffled closer to the door, so she could no longer see his face.

  ‘Very well. Master Goodluck wants you to know that … that he is not dead,’ he whispered hoarsely through the crack. ‘Last night he was in the Tower under the care of Master Topcliffe. He says you will know what to do with this information.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I have delivered my message as promised, mistress. I bid you good day,’ he finished, and she heard him turn away.

  Lucy stood for a long while in front of the closed door after he had gone, not quite able to believe what she had heard. Her scalp prickled, and her body felt as though it had been struck by lightning, still shuddering from the blow.

  Goodluck was still alive and in the Tower?

  Could this be another of Master Twist’s tricks? He could be trying to lure her out of the house. Yet it was daylight now. Even such a villain as Twist would hardly dare to snatch her in the street. Slowly she turned from the door, frowning as she puzzled it out. Perhaps if Twist planned to sneak inside when she was safely out of the house and hide himself upstairs …

  Fool!

  Spinning on her heel, she threw the dagger point-first into the door and watched it quiver.

  Twist had lied that terrible day at Nonsuch when he had told her Master Goodluck was dead, and she, like an idiot, had believed him.

  Master Goodluck is not dead, she thought. Wonder burst inside her as she realized the truth. He is not dead!

  Running upstairs, Lucy lifted her nightshift over her head and dragged a low-cut court gown from the chest at the end of her bed. Shaking out the creases, she dressed herself as quickly as she could and tweaked her bodice until her breasts showed prettily over the top. Then she tidied her wayward hair and pinned it up under a French hood with lace trim. She hesitated over the remaining pieces of her jewellery, before choosing a sapphire pin and a gold chain Lord Leicester had given her, slipping them both into her purse. She did not know what horrors might await her at the Tower, but it would be foolish to arrive there empty-handed.

  Much to her relief, Twist was not in the street when she finally ventured outside. She had brought the dagger, but kept it hidden under a cloth in the small basket hooked over her arm, walking nonchalantly down the sunlit street as though on her way to buy food. Several of her neighbours turned to stare as she passed in her old court gown, for she had worn only plain gowns and sombre caps since coming to live at Goodluck’s house. She did not look at them but gazed straight ahead, wishing she could have afforded to keep her maidservant when she had left court.

  Not that she could have taken her maid on this particular walk, Lucy thought drily. Still, it stung to know how little her neighbours thought of her.

  She had intended to walk down to the banks of the Thames and buy herself a passage to the Tower from one of the skippers moored up there. But when she reached the end of the street, she hesitated, looking down at the flash of sunlight on the river, then instinctively turned left instead, heading away from the water and towards Seething Lane. She had heard Goodluck mention that address often enough.

  Seething Lane.

  The name had always made her shiver as a young girl; it sounded like a pot boiling over on the hearth or a cat with its back arched. But it was where Sir Francis Walsingham lived when not at court, the house where he met and spoke privately with his spies. If any man alive knew why Goodluck was in the Tower, and how to get him out, it would be Sir Francis. Though if Goodluck had somehow betrayed the Queen – a treachery of which she did not believe her guardian to be capable – there woul
d be no saving him from the gallows.

  It seemed to be her court gown which persuaded Walsingham’s new secretary to admit Lucy to his study – or perhaps the low bodice, for he was a younger man than the one Lucy remembered from court, and gazed at her curiously when she asked to see Sir Francis Walsingham. The room into which she was shown was plainly furnished but clearly that of a wealthy and sophisticated man. She trod softly about it, admiring his shelf of gilt-edged, calf-bound books, a carved oak chest and a large portrait above the ornate fireplace of Walsingham’s daughter Frances, whose secret marriage to Sir Philip Sidney had angered the Queen for many months. ‘Mistress Morgan?’

  She turned from her contemplation of the portrait and sank into a curtsy, seeing Sir Francis Walsingham on the threshold. Sombre in his customary black, a single diamond star pinned to his chest, winking like an eye, Walsingham looked across at her in mild surprise. No doubt he did not often find lone women in his private chambers. Words failed her for a moment. Why had she come to such a great man over what might be nothing more than a cruel trick?

  Then Lucy gathered herself. Speak up, she thought sternly. This is no time to stare and gape like a witless fool. Goodluck’s life was at stake. Besides, Walsingham had told her once that he would help her if ever she needed it. Well, now was his chance to prove he had meant it. She had asked little enough of him before now.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Sir Francis,’ she began, picking her words carefully. ‘A man came to my door today. He brought word that Master Goodluck is not dead, as I had been told, but is in the Tower. I thought you might be able to advise me whether or not …’

  She faltered, suddenly fearing he would tell her it was not true and that Goodluck was indeed dead.

  Walsingham went to his desk, frowning delicately. He walked more slowly than she remembered. But then he was getting older – as was she. It seemed another age since she had first stood before him in the castle at Kenilworth, a child frightened by the Queen’s great spymaster himself.