His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  Anne bent her head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  She looked up then, and bit her lip. ‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted. ‘But I didn’t mean to destroy our marriage. It was done before I knew it. One minute I was telling him of how lonely I felt without you, and the next he was kissing me.’

  Will pulled his hand free from hers. ‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ he said, as evenly as he could.

  The stab of jealousy had returned, thrusting deep into his gut with every word she spoke, and Will feared where that anger might lead. Yet his heart felt empty, his senses too bewildered to act. Perhaps this was how it always felt to fall out of love with one’s wife.

  ‘It’s enough to know that it happened,’ he continued, ‘and will never happen again. You understand me? Never again, Anne, or I swear I’ll kill both of you.’

  Anne wiped away the last of her tears, then sat up, rigid now and straightbacked. She stared at the swollen river, where a family of swans were drifting past in their severe white plumage. The swans looked beautiful and ethereal, like ghosts on the water, though Will knew from experience that they were violent, unpredictable birds if approached too closely.

  ‘I cannot promise you that, Will,’ she told him. ‘Edward has left Stratford though, and sworn to your father that he will never come back, so you’re safe enough.’ Her smile was cold. ‘I know my place. Your parents’ house is my prison, and your children my jailors. If you will not leave London and come back home to Stratford, then I must do my duty and live out my days as a player’s widow.’

  He stood and waited while she composed herself, then they began to walk back along the river.

  ‘The twins,’ he asked, ‘are they mine or his?’

  Anne seemed shocked by the directness of his question. ‘Yours, of course,’ she managed, but he sensed a moment’s hesitancy beneath her answer and was sickened by it.

  Where the channel narrowed at the next bend in the river, the family of swans came alongside them. Their long white necks craned in and out of the weed-infested river, their webbed feet paddling swiftly but with apparent effortlessness. One of the larger swans surfaced with a trail of slimy weed caught in his beak, and Will guessed he had been fishing. The younger ones skirted close to the bank, smaller-chested and grey-feathered, curious to see who these visitors were, staring up at Will and Anne before swimming back to their parents again.

  ‘There are hundreds of white swans on the Thames, most of them clustered around the arches of London Bridge all summer,’ Will remarked, stopping to watch as the swans lost interest and swam slowly back downstream. ‘No one dares hunt them, for they belong to the Queen. Each year dozens are caught and plucked to fill all the Queen’s feather mattresses and pillows.’

  ‘What a thing it must be,’ Anne murmured at his side, ‘to wake up every morning in a soft feather bed, and know you are a queen.’

  Three

  The Earl of Southhampton’s residence, London, October 1586

  THE RIVERSIDE WALK of the old palace was lit by flaming torches, their thickly smoking lights reflected on the dark swell of the Thames just beyond the wall.

  Elizabeth walked to the far end, gazing across to the busy south bank of the Thames, where ferry boats and small craft illuminated by single torches bobbed at anchor on the incoming tide, waiting for fares back to the city after the pleasure houses closed for the night. The gates into the city from London Bridge were locked at dusk, so a boat would be the only way for roving gentlemen to return to their wives. Elizabeth grimaced. She did not know precisely what happened in such places, but had been told that many of her own courtiers frequented the newly established ‘houses of Venus’ across the river. There seemed little anyone could do to discourage this practice, for the city fathers had no jurisdiction over the south bank, and the private landowners there appeared to be on friendly terms with certain members of the Privy Council.

  Staring out over the water, Elizabeth raised a pomander which hung about her neck to her nose, attempting to dispel the greasy stench of the river. She ought to go back inside, she thought, knowing that the nobles would be wondering why she had fled the room. But the breeze here was refreshing after the stuffy interior of the old palace, and it was a relief to be alone with her thoughts after the usual tiresome conversations about how the conflict in the Low Countries was going. It seemed to be the court’s only topic of conversation these days, with two questions paramount in everyone’s mind: how the struggle against the Spanish was going – badly, though no one had yet dared venture such a perilous opinion to her face – and when it would end. Never, at this rate.

  ‘Are you cold, Your Majesty?’ Cecil, Lord Burghley came to her side, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Perhaps you would like me to escort you back to the banqueting hall?’

  Elizabeth glanced at her treasurer impatiently, then realized she was indeed shivering in the chill October air. Besides, Lord Burghley was right to be concerned. Now more than ever, she should be making an effort to seem like a strong queen, able to command respect from her troops and her people. She abhorred weakness of any kind, and this desire to escape her duties was a weakness she would not tolerate.

  ‘Yes, very well,’ Elizabeth agreed, and allowed him to lead her back inside. ‘You must write and thank young Henry on my behalf for his hospitality tonight. Your ward is still at Cambridge?’

  ‘St John’s College,’ Lord Burghley agreed.

  ‘Let us hope he is not tempted to fall into Roman ways like his late father. Rarely have I known a more stubborn and unruly earl.’ She brooded a moment on past disloyalties. ‘Henry must be presented at court after he has finished his studies, Cecil, and nurtured in the Protestant faith. Too many of our noblemen have been lost to that old cause.’

  ‘I will see to it, Your Majesty.’

  The old palace had belonged to one of her father’s bishops before she was born, but was now the property of the wealthy young Earl of Southhampton. Poor boy! His father, the second Earl of Southhampton, had been accused and imprisoned for various acts of treachery over the years, and once even suspected of harbouring that tiresome priest Edmund Campion. A careful man though, he had been hard to convict, and she did not want his son Henry to follow the same path into ruin. At least under Lord Burghley’s guardianship that now seemed unlikely.

  While the boy was at Cambridge, she was often invited to dine at his charming residency on the Thames, its renovations currently being overseen by Cecil. New white stucco covered the cracked red brick outside, making the vast, warren-like building feel less dark and oppressive as winter approached. Yet it seemed nothing could be done about the ancient fireplace in the Great Hall, which had smoked relentlessly throughout tonight’s banquet. Indeed, the hall had become so thick with smoke, Elizabeth had been forced to rise from her seat soon after the seventh course had been served, sweeping out on to the paved riverside walk to escape it.

  Now she seated herself at the head of the table and waved the nobles to sit again, for they had stood and bowed as she re-entered the room. The air was clearer, and the minstrels were playing in the gallery above the banqueting table. She looked down at the creamy, frothing liquid in the cup that had been placed before her by the food taster, his solemn bow indicating that it was safe for her to eat.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Helena murmured, seated just down from her on the left, ‘it is a lemon syllabub. A little tart on the tongue, but very refreshing.’

  ‘Well, we must enjoy the lemons while we have them,’ Elizabeth told her, lifting the cup and sniffing avidly. The sharp scent of citrus filled her senses, reminding her at once of sunshine and the pleasure of warm summer evenings spent in her palace gardens. ‘Winter is on its way. There is a distinct chill to the air tonight.’

  There was a noise at the door. One of the nobles at the far end rose from the table and dealt with it. He came back after a moment, and bent to whisper in
Lord Burghley’s ear. Elizabeth felt herself shivering again, despite the warmth of the vast log fire that illuminated the banqueting table and cast shadows in every corner.

  Lord Burghley came to her side. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said gravely, ‘there is a messenger at the door. He went to Whitehall first, then came here in search of you. He bears a letter from Lord Leicester. An urgent letter, Your Majesty.’

  ‘A letter that could not wait until the morning?’ she demanded, then saw the stricken grief in his face. ‘What is it, Cecil? For heaven’s sake, do not keep it from me. What is the news?’

  ‘It might be better, Your Majesty, if we were to go aside with this messenger,’ Lord Burghley murmured, and stood to pull back her chair so she could rise. ‘And perhaps take one or two of your ladies with you?’

  Her heart contracted with fear. Clearly some terrible news had been received, so appalling that Lord Burghley dared not speak of it before the other nobles. Her mind ran feverishly ahead as she left the hall, clicking her fingers at Helena to take up her train and follow her outside. Elizabeth could see the messenger now, waiting in the corridor. Even in the darkness, his face seemed hollow with grief and pain.

  Was Robert wounded? So badly perhaps that he had written to take his final leave of her … ?

  Lord Burghley found a small candlelit library where she could receive the messenger without fear of being overheard. He ushered them all inside, closed the door, and urged the exhausted messenger to hand over the letter.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the man breathed, sinking to his knees before her and dragging a rolled-up parchment from his dispatch bag. There was dried blood on his face, and his clothes were spattered with mud. ‘This missive was written by Lord Leicester himself. He bade me hand it to no one but the Queen.’

  ‘You have come straight from the battlefield?’ she asked, taking the letter with unsteady hands.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘How goes it?’

  Warily, the messenger looked from her to Lord Burghley, then back again. He licked his lips. ‘Not well when I left, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Take some wine before you go,’ she instructed him, glad to hear how calm her voice sounded. ‘And tell the steward to serve you a good supper at the Queen’s command. Whatever costs you have incurred, they will be reimbursed.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

  She handed the parchment silently to Lord Burghley, not trusting herself to read Robert’s letter without breaking down. He must have already ascertained the general gist of its contents before it was delivered to her, for Lord Burghley showed no surprise as he unrolled it and read through it by candlelight.

  His face was grim as he turned back to her. ‘It is the worst of news, Your Majesty. Sir Philip Sidney is dead from the wound he received last month at the battle of Zutphen.’

  Elizabeth stared. ‘Pip?’ she faltered. ‘What, dead so young? And his wife heavy with child?’

  ‘It is a tragedy, both for England and for those of us who loved him dearly,’ Burghley agreed sombrely. He glanced down at the letter. ‘His brother was with him at the end, and Lady Sidney too, the poor gentlewoman. Lord Leicester is sending her back to England once her strength has returned, for he fears she may give birth prematurely after this shock. No doubt Lady Sidney will return to her father’s house for her lying-in, which cannot be far off. This will be a hard blow indeed for Walsingham. He always embraced Philip as the son he never had.’

  ‘I pray his grandson may be born safely, then,’ Elizabeth said, and turned away to hide her tears.

  Lord Burghley dismissed the messenger, then handed her back the letter once the door had closed behind the man. ‘I am sorry to disturb you further in your distress over this news, Your Majesty. But you will see from his letter that Lord Leicester asks to return to England at once. As we suspected, the campaign has not gone well this year. He says he has supported the rebels in their fight against the Spanish, as our treaty with the Dutch demanded, but the numbers are against them. And the conditions worsen daily as the rains continue. His lordship claims the English troops will not survive another winter out there.’

  ‘He asks to withdraw?’ She was aghast, scanning the letter with only half her attention on its contents. Robert’s handwriting was so familiar, the loops and slants were darts that pierced her heart. She held the parchment against her chest and closed her eyes, inhaling. This had been written hundreds of miles away on a battlefield in a foreign land, yet she fancied she could catch Robert’s scent on it, that musky tang of leather and horses that always seemed to surround him.

  And now dear sweet Pip was dead. A wound taken in battle last month that had festered and refused to heal. She read the letter again more carefully. Brave and impatient to be in battle again, the young man had not taken as much care with the wound as he should have done. After a few weeks, gangrene had set in and killed him.

  Her body ached with the knowledge that she would never again see Sir Philip Sidney’s handsome face at court, nor watch him dance so elegantly that his feet seemed to fly across the floor, nor hear his delightful, intelligent poetry recited in the evenings to the gentle plucking of a lute string.

  But Robert was still alive. Alive and asking to be allowed to return to England, she reminded herself.

  If she denied him, would his death be the next bad news to arrive from Utrecht?

  She could not stand to lose Robert. The very thought of his death wrenched at her heart. It would be a loss like none other she had ever suffered.

  Elizabeth signalled Helena to stand apart from them. She murmured to Lord Burghley, ‘How bad is it out there, do you think? Can we afford to withdraw our troops? I do not wish England to look weak.’

  ‘It is a matter for the Privy Council, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently, then pursed her lips. ‘I will write to Robert myself tonight. The messenger is to be given clean clothes and a bed, and a speedy passage back to the Lowlands tomorrow. Robert must come home as soon as possible and carry Sir Philip Sidney’s body with him. Let the ship be draped in mourning cloth and have black sails. There will be a state funeral for the poor boy, with a marble tomb and mourners lining the streets. He was one of our most glorious young English noblemen and deserves to be remembered as such. You and Robert can see to the arrangements between you.’

  Lord Burghley stiffened, but bowed. She knew he would wait and try to beat her down on the expense later, when her feelings were less inflamed. For now it salved her guilty conscience to think of her dearest Pip coming home wrapped in cloth-of-gold and under guard, to be laid like a young prince in a marble tomb at St Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he ventured, ‘should you not wait for the Council to decide what is to be done before writing to Lord Leicester?’

  ‘The Privy Council may decide whatever they wish,’ Elizabeth replied coldly, and strode to the door, Helena hurrying behind to snatch up the extravagantly laced and beaded train of her gown. ‘If this wasteful death of our most shining youth tells us anything, it is that life is short and we must not squander a moment of what has been granted to us by the grace of God Almighty.’ She turned in the doorway, and caught him frowning. ‘Oh, away with that long face, Cecil. You may deliberate on the campaign all you wish with the other councillors. But I have been without my right hand too long. I am the Queen, and I will have Robert back at my side before Christmas.’

  Four

  SOMEWHERE IN THE dark, jumbled maze of smallholdings clustered against the city walls, a cock began to crow. A few moments later, another joined it. Light had begun to glimmer behind the shutters half an hour before, but Lucy had not moved, lying there with an arm over her eyes, trying not to keep dwelling on the people whose faces she missed most here in Aldgate: Will Shakespeare, her dear friend Cathy, and Master Goodluck.

  The church bell tolled the hour and Jack Parker stirred beside her, half propped up on pillows. The light was stronger now, and there could be
no pretending that the day had not begun in earnest. A fat black spider dropped from the roof beams on to the coverlet and began to scrabble hurriedly across the weave. Jack stared at the spider for a moment, his eyes bleary with sleep, then brushed it to the floor.

  ‘Tell me it’s not dawn yet,’ he mumbled, and wiped drool from his mouth. ‘My head! I don’t remember coming to bed last night. I wasn’t alone at the Swan though, I’m sure of it. Who did I bring home?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucy replied tersely, and swung her legs out of bed, desperate to relieve herself.

  She knew her insensitive young husband would not leave the room while she performed this necessary function, so she contented herself with squatting over the chamber pot behind a latticed screen. When she had finished, she came out and found him out of his nightshirt but not yet dressed, bent over the washbowl with nothing on. His nudity was not a sight she had grown used to yet, nor did she wish to. Carefully, Lucy averted her eyes. It was strange to live in such intimacy with a man who never so much as looked at her breasts. But true to Will’s promise, Jack Parker was oblivious to her as a woman. His reasons for marrying her did seem to be the opportunity for a reconciliation with his parents – and the generous dowry handed to him by Walsingham himself on the night of their wedding.

  Squeezing into her workaday gown and apron – and finding both increasingly hard to fasten as her girth swelled ever broader – Lucy hurried down to light the fire and bake the first bread of the day. Jack came whistling down the stairs after her and went straight out of the house, stealing an apple from the barrel and munching on it as he left.

  ‘I’ll be back in time for supper,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘Well, most likely.’

  Laying out fresh logs and kindling on the hearth, Lucy stiffened at the tiny fluttering sensation under her apron. She had felt it a few times now, and knew it must be the baby kicking.