His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Master Goodluck? Certainly he is not dead. I apologize that it was necessary for you to believe that. But in the Tower? That is news to me.’ He bent to search through the scattered papers there. ‘It’s good to see you again, Lucy. I have often thought of you since you left court. I trust you have not given up hope of returning to your position. The Queen’s favour is fickle, and it may be that she will miss your voice soon and command you back.’

  Be forgiven by the Queen? Lucy said nothing, not wishing to offend such an important man, though she found him difficult to understand. Why had it been necessary for her to think Goodluck was dead? And there was more chance of her sprouting wings than returning to court. The Queen’s dislike of her had been growing for years, and there were many young women at court with strong voices and feet light enough to enthrall Queen Elizabeth. The only reason Lucy had lasted so long among her ladies was that visiting ambassadors were often charmed by the novelty of her black skin and hair.

  ‘Here we are,’ he muttered, extracting a sheet and glancing over it, ‘a list of those to be released in the event of their arrest this week. Master Goodluck. He is clearly named. Yet you say he is in the Tower?’

  She nodded. ‘Could this be the work of Master Twist, sir? He is no friend to Master Goodluck these days.’

  ‘So Goodluck told me.’ Walsingham raised his uncomfortably direct gaze to her face. ‘It could be that his other suspicions were well-founded, and our Master Twist will prove himself no friend to the Queen, either.’ He unclipped the ornate glass lid of his inkwell and dipped his quill. With a few careful strokes, he scratched out a note, stamped it with his seal ring, and handed it to her. ‘This will free Master Goodluck from the Tower. Do you know where he is being kept?’

  Lucy curtsied, accepting the note with relief. ‘I believe a Master Topcliffe has care of him.’

  Walsingham looked grim. ‘Then God speed you to the Tower, child. I pray your guardian still lives.’

  The Tower was only a short walk from Walsingham’s home. Due to the crowds milling about as they waited for an execution, though, it was almost noon before she managed to deliver his note. The day was hot and there was no shade under the grey-white stone walls of the outer defences. Lucy waited a little away from the gate, her gaze on the entrance to the guardroom. She was in a frenzy of impatience but knew better than to draw attention to herself by asking for them to hurry. Being there on her own was dangerous enough. The liveried Tower guards stared down at her on their patrols about the battlements. Two or three jeered openly as they passed, their contempt undisguised.

  She ignored them as best she could, tightening her grip on the basket and bending her head to avoid unfriendly looks from passers-by. A poor woman staggered away from the Tower holding out her husband’s bloodstained rags, shrieking, ‘Dead! Dead!’ The noonday sun beat down on the entrance yard, its glare bouncing off the high white tower above until Lucy had to cover her face with her hands, suddenly dizzy. Trying not to consider what she would do if Goodluck was already dead, she listened to the gulls screaming overhead, and the shouts from the river traders selling fresh eels and whelks from handcarts outside the Tower gates.

  Eventually, the captain came to the gate and beckoned her over. ‘This way, mistress,’ he said, not unkindly, and drew her aside so they could speak more privately. The captain’s neatly trimmed beard was grey, but he had the look of a younger man, not much given to idleness. Lucy took an instant liking to him and curtsied, managing a smile. ‘I’ve given orders for your man to be brought up from the cells. You can be thankful Master Topcliffe was not with him long, for he had many suspected traitors under his charge last night. You may take him away, but you’ll need a cart.’

  She stared, not understanding. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You won’t find him as you left him, so to speak,’ the captain told her, his manner restrained. ‘Did you bring a cart? I can call for one to carry your man home, but it won’t come cheap. Can you pay?’

  Lucy showed him the sapphire pin and he stared at it, surprised.

  ‘It won’t cost that much. Here,’ he said, and handed her two shillings from his own pouch. ‘I’ll not have you pay the cart-man twenty times his hire. You have an honest face. Pay me back when you can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered.

  Lucy did not have to wait long before an old cart-man with a pipe in his mouth pulled up at the gate. He listened to her directions without seeming to hear them, then pocketed his two shillings fare without a word. He was just relighting his pipe when the gate opened to reveal Master Goodluck, barely conscious, being dragged across the threshold by two guards.

  Goodluck was barefoot and wore no shirt nor cap, his hose stained so badly it looked as though he had soiled himself. But it was his chest and belly which caught Lucy’s horrified attention first. Scored with shiny red burns, his torso looked as though he had leaned against a brazier. His face too was bruised and battered, his bottom lip split, his forehead and nose scaly with dried blood.

  She resisted the urge to shriek his name, remembering the woman she had seen sobbing in the yard. Instead, she pointed to the cart and watched in silence as the guards grunted, heaving and pushing him up there with little attempt at gentleness.

  His eyes closed as though dead, Goodluck lay sprawled on a pile of rotten old sacking that stank of fish. Lucy bent over him and felt for a pulse. He had not moved, but he was still alive. Just.

  ‘Goodluck, it’s me, Lucy. I’ve come to take you home to Cheapside,’ she whispered.

  He did not stir.

  Straightening, Lucy nodded curtly to the cart-man. ‘Go carefully,’ she instructed him, and wiped her damp cheek with the back of her hand. ‘There’s no hurry.’

  Fourteen

  ELIZABETH HELD UP her hand. ‘Hush,’ she instructed the party of ladies and gentlemen at her back. ‘Look, a deer. And see how tame she is? Not afraid of us at all.’

  She turned to Lord Burghley in sudden excitement. ‘Do you have a sweetmeat, my lord? In your pocket, perhaps? Or a piece of dried fruit, something to tempt the creature nearer? I stroked a deer once, when I was being held at the old manor of Woodstock. They are as tame there as hounds, and will come to your call. Though that was many years ago, of course, when my sister Mary was on the throne.’

  Elizabeth watched as the hind took another delicate step towards them, regarded her rich gown of red damask with wide liquid eyes, then turned and fled silently across the formal lawns of Richmond Palace towards the woodland.

  ‘There, too late.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘I suppose the deer must be quite wild at Woodstock now, for the palace was in ruins even then.’

  Lord Burghley bowed, apologizing. ‘Alas, my pocket was empty, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Like my coffers these days,’ Elizabeth responded tartly, and moved on, resting her hands on the broad foreskirt of her gown. Her leg ulcer seemed much improved these days, though the doctors had warned her this would alter if her ladies did not continually change the dressings on her tortured flesh and bathe her leg in some strong-smelling milky solution they had prescribed. It was a nuisance, and the stench of the dressings left her uncomfortable at night, but at least she was able to walk more easily and even dance the galliard without too much pain.

  At her back, Lady Mary Herbert followed with a fringed canopy raised on a pole to shade her from the sun, though in truth Elizabeth enjoyed its warmth on her face after so many months spent hiding inside, in fear of assassins. Lady Mary looked sulky, her face averted. The countess had begged leave to return home to her young children this summer, and Elizabeth had refused. But she could not allow her ladies to leave court whenever the whim struck them, or she would have no one left to attend her!

  They walked for a while in silence, slowly making a circuit of the large park at Richmond Palace, a few of the gentlemen in her entourage discussing the lack of rain that summer and how brown the grass looked away from the river banks. A loud crack from the woods made Elizabeth
turn in that direction, abruptly on her guard, but all she could see were oak trees heavy with dark leaves, the tiny buds of acorns just beginning to show their bitter light green above the stalk and cap.

  ‘I am glad to be out in the daylight again. I have felt like an owl this past year, rarely allowed out except under strict guard. But at least here we should be safe, with such high walls.’ Elizabeth gestured to the others to fall back. It was time for them to talk more privately. ‘What news from Walsingham about this latest plot to do away with me?’

  ‘Sir Francis has been reticent on the matter in recent weeks, Your Majesty. Though that is by no means out of character. He will be playing some deep game, I expect.’

  ‘No doubt,’ she agreed. ‘With me as his pawn.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not, Your Majesty.’ Lord Burghley glanced over his shoulder at the handful of courtiers who had accompanied them out from the palace, followed by only three of Elizabeth’s bodyguards. ‘Perhaps it is time to walk back to the palace, Your Majesty. Even within the grounds, we are still very exposed here and the guards are too far behind. Perhaps we should summon them. Or wait for the courtiers to catch us up, at least.’

  ‘In heaven’s name, no!’ she exclaimed. Yes, by all means keep her safe from would-be assassins. She understood his caution. But this was going too far. ‘Pray do not spoil an excellent morning’s walk by treating me like a prisoner. I wish my guards to keep a good distance, so that I do not have to be reminded at every step of the hatred in which I am held by English Catholics. I have followed Walsingham’s advice to have my dishes tasted before every meal, and have suffered no more cramps or sickness since that last bout. The grounds here are walled and, I believe, well-guarded. What harm can come to me?’

  They walked on. Burghley still seemed troubled, limping slightly as though he too suffered some infirmity. But he did not press his argument to wait for the guards.

  ‘Do you fear Walsingham dangles you as bait for these men?’

  ‘I do not fear it, I know it. Not all of them have been run to ground,’ Elizabeth pointed out coolly. ‘And if they can be smoked out by seeing me as a target, so much the better. Though their treasonous activities are of no concern to me. I am not afraid of such cowards. Let one of these men come before me and state his grievance to my face. I shall not flinch if he has good reason to wish me dead. But his only reason can be a treacherous one, and that is beneath my notice.’ She fanned herself slowly in the heat. ‘No man who can plot the murder of his prince and the elevation of a foreigner to the English throne is worthy of my attention, let alone my fear.’

  ‘Bene dite,’ Burghley murmured in Latin.

  Elizabeth smiled, studying the delicately feathered fan in her hand with its design of a bear and ragged staff set into a golden, jewel-encrusted handle. ‘Robert gave me this fan before he went abroad. A poor soldier’s gift on going to the wars, he called it.’ She spread the fan to its full extent and batted the air with it. ‘That is a ruby in the bear’s eye. It does not look very poor, does it?’

  ‘Lord Leicester has always been a generous man, both with his gifts and his words,’ Burghley remarked drily.

  ‘Robert is a peacock and a mad popinjay,’ Elizabeth corrected him, but laughed. She glanced back at her ladies-in-waiting, who had stopped by the edge of a small ornamental lake, smiling and conversing with the noblemen who had accompanied Elizabeth out on her walk. ‘Luckily, I am not averse to such proud, showy birds. I spent my childhood in rags and tatters, hidden away from the pomp of the court and eating my supper with a wooden spoon. Robert understands why I ask for gold plate and silver cups at my table now, why I must wear the costliest jewels and the finest gowns, and suffer my ladies to wear nothing but sombre black and white.’

  ‘He is not alone in that understanding,’ Burghley pointed out gently. ‘I, too, knew you when you were unjustly held as a prisoner of your sister, the Queen.’ He bowed as the path narrowed, close to the woods, and allowed her to walk just ahead of him. ‘But you do yourself wrong, Your Majesty. I have never seen you wear costly stuff for yourself alone, to satisfy some inner greed, but rather to impress the court and visiting dignitaries with an image of merry England as it was under your father. You may drink from a silver cup, but your wine is watered down so you may attend to affairs of state while your noble courtiers doze at the table. And, if you’ll pardon my impertinence, what you eat from your gold plates is hardly enough to keep a sparrow alive.’

  ‘So I seem to live as a Queen, but in truth am more like … what? A pauper?’

  ‘You are a beacon of hope to your people,’ Burghley supplied quietly. ‘And a great prince.’

  Deeply touched by this unexpected accolade, Elizabeth stopped and placed her hand on his. ‘I thank you, dear Cecil. Coming from you, a man who lives as soberly as a hermit in a holy cell, that is praise indeed.’

  ‘Your Majesty!’ one of her women cried, some way behind.

  Elizabeth turned. Her heart seemed to stop with a jolt. She stared in the direction that the woman had pointed.

  A commoner was nearly upon them. He walked unsteadily, as though drunk. He must have come out of the woods, for his garments were dishevelled and his cap askew.

  Shocked, Elizabeth instinctively began to hurry away. Do not allow this poor creature to alarm you, she told herself sternly. Yet she was alarmed, despite herself. Her chest was tight and her mouth dry. Her steps increased in speed and her mind ran wild as he closed the gap between them, ignoring Lord Burghley’s loud protests.

  What is this man planning to do? Is he about to kill me? Sweet Jesu, what should I do? Scream and run, or stand firm and demand his business?

  She looked back over her shoulder. The man’s face twisted, his eyes narrowing. Some dangerous emotion was driving him.

  Elizabeth came to an abrupt halt and turned to face her would-be assailant. It felt safer not to provoke him into violent action by moving or calling out. Besides, she did not know what concealed weapons he might be carrying. He had one hand tucked behind his back, as though hiding something.

  Where was Lord Burghley? Only a few steps behind her on the path. She must not allow this villain to cause him any harm.

  Drawing herself up to her full height, Elizabeth looked at the stranger. ‘Sir?’

  He met her gaze, then looked away. Elizabeth had the impression of a torn, desperate spirit, hell-bent on his course. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said raggedly, and drew his hand out from behind his back.

  Lord Burghley exclaimed in horror and turned towards the courtiers, shouting, ‘An assassin! Summon the guards!’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the man repeated, his voice strained. He had produced a dagger. The long blade caught the light as his hand shook and Elizabeth stared at it, imagining how it would feel to be stabbed by such a cruel instrument.

  For a moment it was as though the two of them were alone on the path, Queen and would-be assassin.

  ‘What is your name, sir?’ Elizabeth demanded, and raised her eyes slowly to his face.

  His hand shook more violently. He was younger than she would have expected of an assassin, his face flushed, his gaze not quite meeting hers. ‘Robert,’ he muttered. ‘My name is Robert Barnwell.’

  ‘I know another man by the name of Robert. The Robert I know is a brave man and true.’ As Elizabeth continued to regard him, she saw anger and shame in the young man’s look. ‘What heinous act have you come here to perform, Master Barnwell? Is the rightful Queen of England to die at the hand of a common assassin?’

  His gaze warred with hers for a moment and she thought that he would strike at her heart, that it was all over.

  Then Robert Barnwell lowered his eyes and fled, just as the deer had done, on silent feet across the lawn, back into the green shelter of the woods.

  The palace guards had finally caught up with her, sweating and weighed down with their armour and weapons in the overwhelming heat. At her brusque gesture, they ran on into the woodlands, calling out to each
other and making so much noise as they crashed about between the trees, searching for the intruder, that even the birds roosting in the high branches flew up with a clatter.

  ‘Fools!’ Elizabeth exclaimed.

  She could stand on her own legs no longer. She staggered. Lady Helena sat down on the grass, hurriedly billowing out her silk gown, and Elizabeth lay back against her old companion like a child in her mother’s lap.

  Her hands were trembling. Elizabeth held them up before her face and laughed. ‘I did not shake when I saw his dagger, Helena, but look now. I am like an aspen in the wind.’

  ‘Your courage is beyond that of any woman I know, Your Majesty,’ Helena murmured, taking her hands and squeezing them gently between her own.

  ‘This is the second assassin we have faced together,’ Elizabeth reminded her, thinking of the bold-faced Italian woman who had gained access to her royal apartments at Kenilworth. She too had been wielding a dagger, but had been knocked bravely down by Helena, armed with nothing but a candlestick. ‘These wicked villains who would destroy a country with a single blow. We put them all to rout, do we not?’

  ‘I was too slow, Your Majesty,’ Helena pointed out, ‘and cannot share the glory this time. You chased this one away on your own.’

  ‘Indeed I did!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, and laughed. ‘Perhaps we should bring the men home from the Low Countries, and send none but seasoned women to fight the Spanish. That should see the war resolved within a month.’

  Lord Burghley returned from his muttered discussion with the other courtiers. He seemed most agitated by the incident. ‘It is not safe for you to remain here, Your Majesty. There may be others of his evil persuasion about the grounds. Men will be sent to find this Robert Barnwell’s lodgings and search them for names of his accomplices. Now I beg you will go inside out of this hot sun. A litter is on its way, Your Majesty, to carry you back to your apartments under guard. Your chief physicians have also been ordered to attend, and will examine you on your return to the palace.’