Her Last Assassin

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Mistress Morgan, are you ready to sing for the Queen?’

  Shocked, Lucy looked up into the sombre face of Lord Burghley. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I must have been daydreaming.’

  He held out his hand and she took it, rising to her feet, still dazed by the play’s curious power.

  ‘I am to sing one of Master Morley’s songs of spring tonight,’ she announced. ‘Her Majesty the Queen has requested a song to shake away this winter’s cold.’

  The Great Hall fell silent as she stood before the court, breathing deep and intending to sing unaccompanied by any musician or drummer. Lucy clasped her hands together and looked up at the Queen’s faery-like figure, magnificently regal in her bell-shaped gown of gold and silver, a vast angelic ruff stretching several feet up behind her head, the candlelight glittering on its silvered tips.

  She felt oddly sick, she realized. Her heart was beating too fast, her belly knotted as though she faced some terrible trial.

  She had sung hundreds of times at court. Tonight though, knowing that Will was among the players listening from behind the curtained screen, she was more nervous than ever.

  Now is the month of maying,

  When merry lads are playing, fa la,

  Each with his bonny lass

  Upon the greeny grass. Fa la.

  The Spring, clad all in gladness,

  Doth laugh at Winter’s sadness, fa la,

  And to the bagpipe’s sound

  The nymphs tread out their ground. Fa la.

  Fie then! why sit we musing,

  Youth’s sweet delight refusing? Fa la.

  Say, dainty nymphs, and speak.

  Shall we play at barley-break? Fa la.

  As her last note faded into the silence, Lucy allowed her gaze to slide sideways to the Earl of Southampton. She encountered such a hostile look from his narrowed eyes that she had difficulty not recoiling. Then the young nobleman turned abruptly and walked out of the hall.

  Why did Southampton hate her so much? What had she ever done to the earl that he had forbidden her to see Will again?

  His dislike was a mystery she could not unravel.

  Henry Wriothesley was a dangerous man to have offended, for he was too young to have become politic yet and might at any moment tell the Queen her secret, or force some unhappy argument on her which might lead to her dismissal. She only prayed he would soon forget his enmity towards her. For if he continued in this hatred, her life at court would be difficult indeed.

  Lucy knew what her friend Cathy would say. ‘Leave court and seek a new life with me in the country. If you feign a serious illness, the Queen will have to let you go, and I would go with you.’

  Some days, she was almost tempted by that offer. Yet there was an emptiness inside her that was still unsatisfied, and she feared that life as a country widow was not the answer to such a void.

  The steward came out at that moment and struck the floor three times with his staff of office, a signal for them to resume their seats. Lucy sank on to the floor beside the Queen again. She took advantage of the Earl of Southampton’s absence to look for Will among the players as the troupe filed out once more to bow before the Queen.

  ‘Approach us, Master Shakespeare,’ Queen Elizabeth declared loudly, summoning him to the dais.

  Will removed his cap and came forward, his face intent, and dropped to his knees before her.

  ‘Sir, I find your play much to my taste. Only let there be more music in your next piece, and more comedy, for we have troubles enough in England without dwelling on those of others.’

  ‘It will be as you wish, Your Majesty,’ Will replied, bending his head respectfully.

  Elizabeth dismissed him with a wave of her hand and Will rose, backing away, cap in hand. As he did so, Lucy saw his glance find her. She met his gaze, and for a few seconds it was as though a light had blinded her, her whole being dazzled by the intensity in his face. His dark eyes spoke to her across the hall, trapping the breath in her chest.

  She stared, and could barely hear what the steward was saying as he called the last stragglers to their places.

  Will was angry with her. He did not understand why she had not visited him, nor answered his many love letters.

  Yet what other course had been open to her? She had acted to save both of them from disgrace.

  She longed to slip away from the hall, to escape the brooding accusation in his face, but forced herself not to be foolish. She must sit still and watch the play, or risk dangerous comments. After all, the young earl was not the only one at court to suspect her relationship with Shakespeare; she had been seen with him in the past by some of the other ladies-in-waiting and their servants, though not for some time. But often enough for them to be curious if she were to leave the hall during this performance of his work.

  Southampton sauntered back into the hall just as the first scene began, deliberately taking up a place nearer the Queen, a move which made her feel even more under threat.

  Did the earl suspect she was still seeing Shakespeare outside the court? If so, he would be most unjust in his exposure of her past misdeeds, for she had followed his injunction to the letter.

  As soon as the play had finished and the Queen had left the hall, a white and golden effigy accompanied stiffly to her bedchamber by servants with torches and her most favoured ladies in procession, Lucy attempted to escape out of the lower door. She heard his cry behind her and knew that Will had seen her leaving.

  She must not speak with him, she thought suddenly. Nor risk any kind of physical contact which might be observed by the earl or his spies.

  Desperate not to provoke Southampton into exposing their affair, she lifted her skirts and broke into a most undignified run. The low-vaulted cloister outside the hall was cold and unlit, the air chill where the passage was open to the weather.

  Unsure which way to take, Lucy hesitated, then turned to the left. There was a small privy garden that way, she remembered, and in this dark she would soon lose him.

  But she had bargained without William Shakespeare’s tenacity.

  Will came upon her in the privy garden, turning her to face him in the frosty darkness. ‘Why have you not come to visit me in so long a time, Lucy Morgan?’ he demanded, staring at her. ‘Nor responded to the letters and poems I sent?’

  His throat convulsed when she did not answer. His eyes filled with pain. ‘Have you taken another lover? Is that it?’ He seized her by the shoulders. ‘Speak, do not hide your shame but tell the truth. Are you warming another man’s bed these days?’

  ‘No, no!’

  ‘Thank God for that, at least!’

  His mouth found hers, kissing her with such hunger she could barely breathe or stand, stumbling backwards until Will was pressing her against the rough stone wall.

  ‘I had meant to ignore you, to say nothing, to let you go. I have hurt my wife enough, it is a sin to keep pursuing you.’ His voice was hoarse, his mouth warm on her throat as he held her close. ‘In truth, I was happy when I returned to London after the summer, and still you did not come to see me. But when I saw you in the hall tonight …’

  Will sounded almost wild, his hands clasping her by the waist, their bodies pressed together.

  ‘God help me, Lucy, I have struggled to remain true to Anne, but I cannot let you go. Not without speaking to you at least. Not without kissing you one last time.’

  She did not need him to explain. She understood only too well the deep and irresistible connection between them, the tugging of two souls together while the world rebelled against such a forbidden union. And yet even love was not enough. Not to save them.

  ‘We cannot do this,’ she told him in a whisper, and put a finger to his lips. It was dark in the small palace garden, but they could still be overheard. ‘I should not even be here, it is so dangerous. I did not answer your letters because …’

  ‘What is it?’

  She was worried by the look on his face. ‘Swear you will not take any dan
gerous action when I tell you.’

  ‘Lucy, for pity’s sake, tell me what has happened. I must return to my company soon before I am missed. Is this about Master Goodluck?’ His gaze searched hers intently. ‘I know that I have wounded you in the past, and do not deserve your trust as your guardian does, but I still love you deeply and would not for the world have you thinking ill of me. What have I done to incur your displeasure?’

  She hesitated, looking over her shoulder. The place was dark and still. It seemed the revellers had all dispersed after the Queen had left, for the palace lay quiet, only the servants moving softly through the corridors, extinguishing the lamps.

  ‘It is not you, nor Master Goodluck, but the Earl of Southampton who keeps us apart.’

  Lucy was uncertain whether she should be telling him about the young nobleman’s threats. But she could not bear the way Will had looked at her tonight, his cold anger so evident, believing she did not love him any more.

  ‘Lord Southampton came to me and laid our affair before me, saying he knew all and would take the matter to the Queen unless I agreed never to see you nor lie with you again.’

  ‘What?’

  Lucy saw at once that Will was stunned. His hand had loosened about her waist, and she wriggled free of his grasp, moving away from the stone wall and carefully putting some distance between them. ‘That is why I have not answered your letters, Will, nor come to visit you at the theatre, for fear Lord Southampton would learn of it and tell the Queen. You know the penalties for adultery, and worse, for unchaste behaviour by one of her ladies.’

  ‘But how could Lord Southampton know of our love?’

  ‘Perhaps we were not as careful as we should have been.’

  ‘You must be mistaken.’

  He was shaking his head. He did not believe her. He did not trust her enough. What could she do but repeat her story? Lucy could think of no other way to make him understand.

  ‘My love, I am not mistaken,’ she insisted gently. ‘His lordship the Earl of Southampton forbade me to see you again, on pain of discovery to the Queen, and I have only kept away from you out of compliance with his terms.’

  She could see confusion in his face now, and a growing disbelief that made her despair. He tried to approach her but she shook her head, holding him at a distance.

  He stood rooted then, fists clenched by his sides. ‘I tell you, Lucy, this is not possible. I do not doubt that his lordship spoke to you. But you have mistaken his meaning, that is the only explanation.’

  When she took another step away from him, Will did not pursue her this time, but watched with cold eyes.

  ‘I spoke with the Earl of Southampton only a few days ago,’ he continued. ‘He is my patron. He was pleasant and friendly, as he always is. He even asked to hear my new poem. Why would he say one thing to you, and another to me? If our love offends him – and I cannot believe such a thing – then why would his lordship not have approached me about it himself?’

  Lucy did not know the answer to that, so said nothing. But she could see that Will did not believe her. Perhaps he feared she was lying to him, blaming her long absence on his patron in order to ruin his chances of advancement. That her lover could be angry with her for telling the truth was hard enough to bear, but that he no longer trusted her, nor believed her story about the young earl, was like a knife thrust deep into her heart, killing her where she stood.

  ‘All I can think is that you must be jealous,’ he muttered, staring at her now as though he did not recognize her. ‘When I was a humble player and you were a great court lady, our secret love amused you. You could come to my rough bed for the kind of love you would not find at court. But now I am grown to be a man of some consequence, and Queen Elizabeth herself singles me out for praise, you are envious and wish to see me cast down again.’

  ‘No!’ she cried, and reached out to him, laying a hand on his chest. ‘I love you, Will. Nothing has changed in that respect. How can you think such a terrible thing of me?’

  ‘What else am I to think, Lucy?’ Will demanded, and she saw too late that he had grown suddenly furious, his temper whipped up like a summer’s storm. ‘You tell me what I cannot believe possible, that my lord and patron supports my endeavours with one hand and slaps my courtly mistress with the other. You must be lying, your tale makes little sense otherwise.’

  He finished in a rush, ‘If you no longer want me, say so and have done with it.’

  If only it were that simple, Lucy thought wearily. She longed to have her clever William back, the lover who wooed her with such charm and wit. But there was no talking to him in this mood.

  She tried to turn away but he seized her. There was pain in his voice as well as contempt. ‘What, sweet Luce, are you afraid to end our love cleanly? I am no villain. I shall not strike you for honesty, only for lies.’

  Lucy dragged herself free of his grasp, breathing hard. ‘Then you are a great fool, William Shakespeare, if you cannot tell truth from lies when it is your own heart that is involved.’

  She let her own temper rise to match his, and did nothing to contain it. Why should she hold back? Shakespeare was more of a deceiver and dissembler than she had ever been, and she would not stand to hear him slight her character so unjustly.

  ‘You want honesty?’ she demanded. ‘I am glad Lord Southampton has forbidden us to meet, for it saves me from making such a decision myself. Yes, it is over between us. Now go, and do not write to me again, for I shall merely burn your letters unopened. I cannot wish you ill, Master Shakespeare, for that would be to work against my own heart. But I trust that God will go with you, and watch over you, and perhaps one day bring you back to your good senses.’

  She stood in silence as Will bowed and left her alone in the small privy garden, his face averted, no doubt still believing her fickle and cruel. When he had gone, she sank down on to the icy grass, not caring that her black velvet gown would be ruined, and covered her face with her hands. But her eyes were dry and her hands did not tremble.

  I will not weep, she told herself fiercely. I will not!

  No, not for a man who could court her for years and still think her capable of such evil. William Shakespeare was not worthy of her tears. Nor should she weep when the fault was not hers, but his alone. And yet her heart was broken and might never be mended again.

  ‘Lucy?’

  She looked up, hurriedly rising as she saw the dark shape of a man blocking the arched gateway to the privy garden. Who was it? Shakespeare back again? No, the man was too large and broad. Had one of his patron’s men secretly followed her from the hall, perhaps, and seen her speaking to Will? Had she been discovered in her disobedience to the Earl of Southampton?

  ‘Who is there?’ she whispered, suddenly afraid.

  The man came slowly forward across the frosty grass, wearing the livery of the Queen’s household. Was she to be summoned to the Queen’s presence, perhaps? Then the faint moonshine fell on his face, illuminating a pair of familiar dark eyes and a beard, and her heart jerked in shocked amazement.

  It was Master Goodluck.

  Eight

  ‘YOU WISH MY ladies to be dismissed?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ young Cecil agreed, waiting for her permission to rise, where Essex would not even have knelt in the first place.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Elizabeth said wearily, and gestured her ladies to withdraw.

  Sleepily the women curtseyed and departed the Privy Chamber, closing the door behind them. Elizabeth drew her furred mantle about herself, for the month was December and the vast log fire in the hearth could never quite shake off the cold at Nonsuch, for all that her father’s grand palace was impressive to look upon.

  For a moment she gazed upon Sir Robert Cecil, youngest son of Lord Burghley and his successor in terms of political ability. She felt no inclination to speak to the young man, who looked shorter and more deformed than ever on his knees. However distressing his looks though, there was no doubting either his loyalty
or his wits. She did not know how the Privy Council would have managed if he had not tacitly taken on most of his elderly father’s duties as secretary of state.

  ‘Very well, you may get up now,’ she told Cecil impatiently. ‘How is your father?’

  The young man rose to his feet with apparent difficulty. His face was sombre. ‘Still in much pain, Your Majesty, and likely to be confined to his bed until the end of the month at least. My father sends his deepest apologies and begs to be excused a short while longer from his duties at court.’

  ‘I suppose we can make do without Lord Burghley this Christmastide,’ she agreed reluctantly, then caught a flash of something in Cecil’s face. Irritation? Disapproval?

  Her temper flared, and her voice rose. ‘No doubt you think me cruel, sir, to keep your father in service when he has reached his allotted three score years and ten. But these are difficult times, and there is no man yet to replace him. Except you, perhaps. Though you will need to stop butting heads with my other courtiers if you wish to succeed.’

  So Lord Burghley was suffering with gout again. While Elizabeth felt every sympathy over his unpleasant ailment, she cursed her old councillor for being absent from her side when everything was still topsy-turvy in the world. The Earl of Essex had been at loggerheads with Sir Robert Cecil ever since his ignominious failure and return from France, and now she had heard that Bess Throckmorton, who had begged leave to return to her home at Yuletide, had done so in order to be delivered of a son, having been secretly married to Sir Walter Raleigh for some time.

  Cecil said nothing in return to this pointed remark, but merely waited with his gaze lowered diplomatically to the floor, his figure small and hunched over, oddly reminiscent of a bat in his long-sleeved black coat.

  She did not sit for this interview, preferring to stand, for she was beginning to find it hard to get up again after sitting for too lengthy a time. But she did signal her newest privy councillor to pour her a glass of wine, the heat of the fire having made her head hurt. She took a few sips, wetting her dry mouth, then nodded him to speak.