An icy voice from behind them drew Wriothesley up straight, his hands dropping to his sides.
‘My lord, your clumsiness is not to be tolerated. You are holding up the dance.’
It was the Queen, who never seemed to miss any indiscretion among her courtiers, however small.
‘Remove yourself at once, my lord, and pray do not dance at court again until you have the steps by heart.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Henry Wriothesley said stiffly, and backed towards the door, still bowing to the Queen.
At the Queen’s cold nod of dismissal, Lucy curtseyed and slipped gratefully away into the crowd, heading towards the candlelit sideboard where the wine was being served. She wanted to get as far from the Earl of Southampton and his cruel hands as she could manage. Somehow she found an empty seat against the wall and sat there, trembling with rage at Wriothesley’s treatment, barely dredging up a smile when one of the older courtiers stopped to ask if she was unwell. He called a servant and had wine brought, then moved on into the crowd, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She had given in to Henry Wriothesley’s demands too easily before, that had been her error. He was still young, still learning the ways of the world. Her unquestioning submission had given the earl hope that he could treat her however he wished, speaking to her lewdly and without respect, even humiliating her before the Queen.
But how to correct her mistake without endangering her position at court?
Cathy found her, her look flustered. ‘Thank the Lord, you are still here. I was beginning to think you had gone back to the ladies’ chamber.’
‘Cathy, what are you doing here?’ Lucy stroked her friend’s cheek, concerned by the tremble in her voice. ‘You could get a whipping if you’re here without permission.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I had to see you, Lucy. I couldn’t wait until later.’
Catherine looked agitated, a strained look in her friend’s face that Lucy did not like. A stray lock of fair hair had tumbled out from under her hood; she tucked it away with a shaking hand, biting her lip as she glanced about them at the thronging crowd of courtiers.
‘What in God’s name is it? You look awful, Cath.’ She rose. ‘Come, you must take my seat. Has something bad happened?’
Cathy shook her head. ‘No, it’s nothing, I’m just … a little unwell, that’s all. Here, though,’ she said, and drew a rolled slip of paper from her sleeve. ‘This … This message came for you.’
Lucy took it, frowning. ‘What is it? Who brought it?’
‘A boy, I don’t know his name.’
She began to unroll the paper, but Cathy put a hand on her arm. ‘Not here, don’t read it here,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Hide it, and come aside with me. I know a quiet place close at hand.’
Lucy pushed the message into the small leather pouch at her belt, then followed her out of the Great Hall, away from the state chambers and through a narrow maze of corridors. Soon they had left the noise of the revelry behind, the palace quieter here, only a few servants moving softly around, bearing empty trays back to the kitchens or replacing burned-out torches with fresh ones.
They passed along a cloistered walk, the uneven flagstones slippery with ice; Lucy looked up at the night sky through the ornately carved archways and saw the moon rising in the heavens, mistily haloed.
It was bitterly cold.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, her heart beating loudly.
It was unlike Catherine to be so secretive; nor had she ever seen her friend so frightened. Lucy peered over her shoulder in the darkened cloisters, thinking she heard footsteps behind them, but saw only shadows and patches of moonlight on the icy stones.
‘Cathy, I do not know this part of the palace. Where are we?’
‘Have patience. We are nearly there.’
Just beyond the cloistered walk, Cathy reached a low wooden door in the stone wall and pushed it open, gesturing Lucy down the steps. The room below was small and dimly lit by a single candle, furnished simply with a table and a pile of straw, a stack of wooden crates to one side, as though the place was sometimes used for storage.
Lucy trod carefully down the steps, holding her skirts out of the straw, and looked up into the face of Henry Wriothesley.
Stunned, she nearly tripped, stumbling over the bottom step. ‘You? My lord Southampton? What is this trickery?’
‘Forgive me, Lucy,’ Cathy said in a gasp, and now Lucy could see what she had missed in the darkness, her face flushed with shame. Cathy stood at the top of the steps, staring down at her. ‘I … I didn’t want to do this. His lordship made me bring you here. He gave me no choice, you must believe me.’ She glanced at the earl, then hurried outside as though in sudden fright, dragging the door shut behind her and calling down, ‘It … it’s in her pouch!’
Lucy turned to face the Earl of Southampton. She did not know if he intended her harm, though the pile of straw in the corner might serve as a mattress if he planned to rape her. She had faced such horrors from men before though, and felt no fear at what was to come, only disgust.
‘Well, my lord? Your trap has worked and you have my attention. Though I fear you will have the Queen’s attention soon, once she hears of this indignity.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said calmly, and nodded to her pouch. ‘Take out the letter.’
She set her jaw at this command. Damn his eyes! He must have learned of the message – which came almost certainly from Will Shakespeare – and bribed Cathy to bring her and the message here. There could be no other explanation, though she would dearly love to know why Cathy had betrayed her.
Since there seemed little point in denying it, she undid her pouch, pulled out the message and held it out to him.
‘Have you read it?’ he demanded, not taking it from her.
‘No.’
‘Do you know who it is from?’
She shook her head.
‘Read it then,’ he insisted coldly, looking at it. ‘Read it out loud, for I would know what this message contains. Though I believe we can both guess who it is from. Your lover, the poet Master Shakespeare.’
‘He is not my lover!’
‘Do not lie to me, whore!’ Henry Wriothesley seemed to tremble with rage, his young face flushed with it. Then he collected himself and nodded again at the message. ‘Your servant Catherine has been most helpful in this matter. Not trusting your word that you would never have any dealings with Shakespeare again, I set the slut to watch when you should receive any secret message, and bring both you and it straight to me in this place. She sent word to me at the feast tonight that such a message had just arrived, and then led you here, as arranged.’ His smile made her blood chill. ‘And if that letter is from Shakespeare, I shall convey you before Her Majesty the Queen this very night, and tell her of your whoring ways.’
‘But you are Shakespeare’s patron. Surely you cannot wish to see him in the Tower?’
‘Master Shakespeare will not be punished as you will be,’ he said softly. ‘The Queen treasures his poetry and will be swayed by my defence of his good name. I shall argue that you seduced Master Shakespeare against his better judgement, and that you alone should bear the guilt of this transgression. He is a married man, and the Queen looks kindly on such men who are led astray. Though not so on her ladies, who face the whip and a prison cell for their sins. I could name half a dozen in the past few years who have shared that fate.’
She knew he was right, and raged against the unfairness of the Queen’s judgement, who always forgave a lustful man more readily than a woman. Her fingers trembled on the message that would condemn her, wishing she could destroy it.
‘Read!’
Well, why not? Might as well get it over with, she thought, and face the Queen’s wrath. She could not stand there all night in her thin dancing shoes until her feet turned to ice.
Lucy stripped off her gloves, unrolled the message, and stared down at it in silence.
‘Well?’ he demanded impa
tiently.
She handed the paper to the earl, almost tempted to smile.
‘What is this nonsense?’ Southampton frowned as he turned the paper over in his hand, then examined its message again. ‘These strange markings, what do they mean? This … This message is in code!’ His eyes narrowed in accusation on her face. ‘By God, it is worse than I thought. You are a spy!’
‘Me? A spy?’
‘Wait until the Queen hears of this. Do not think you will escape punishment because you are a woman. You will be burned alive for this treachery, Mistress Morgan, for that is the method of execution reserved for a woman who has betrayed her country. I believe it is a terrible and agonizing death.’
At that moment, the door above creaked open. She turned in relief to see the Earl of Essex at the top of the steps, a servant behind him with a flaming torch in his hand.
Essex looked briefly from her face to Southampton’s, then called down, ‘Come away, Mistress Morgan. I will see you safely back to your chamber.’
‘No, wait, my lord, you must see this!’ Henry Wriothesley swore, pushing past her up the steps to thrust the message under Essex’s nose. ‘You see this? I found it on her person. It is written in code! This is the traitor you have been seeking. Lucy Morgan is the one who has been spying on us for the Spanish.’
Essex took the paper, glanced down at it blankly, then handed it back to Lucy. ‘This is yours, I believe.’
When his friend began to protest, Essex put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let it drop, Henry. Come to my rooms tomorrow, I shall explain some of what has passed here. But you must not speak of this to anyone. Do you understand?’
Wriothesley looked past him at Lucy, his face contorted with fury. But he seemed to grasp there could be no winning this argument, for he gave a short reluctant nod, and shrugged off Essex’s hand.
‘Very well,’ he muttered. ‘But say what you like, she is still a whore.’
Essex left her not far from the large chamber where she slept with the other women, his manner icily polite. She noticed he did not bow.
‘Be warned to keep out of this game, Mistress Morgan, and tend the Queen only. That is your rightful place, whatever your guardian may believe.’
When he had gone, Lucy stood a moment in silence, her wits not quite steady, trying to understand what had happened. Then a bulky shadow detached itself from the others along the corridor and she turned to find Goodluck at her back.
He looked at her grimly without speaking, then laid a finger on his lips and drew her into a dark alcove.
‘This is my fault,’ he muttered, once he seemed convinced that none could hear them. ‘I sent you that message and never considered that it would reach your enemy first. I simply wished to see you again, to ask how you are faring at court. But when I realized that your friend Catherine had betrayed you, I followed both of you to the storage room, then went to alert the Earl of Essex. Robert Devereux is an unpredictable master, and he is no Walsingham, more’s the pity. But I trust him, for he holds the Queen’s safety close to his heart.’
She remembered how Lord Essex had looked at her coldly before bidding her goodnight. ‘He does not hold me in much regard, I think.’
‘That his lordship does not,’ Goodluck agreed wryly. ‘But at least my lord Essex understood tonight why you – and my coded message – had to be rescued from young Southampton. My exposure could risk the Queen’s life.’
So that was why he had come to court, working in the Queen’s household like a common servant. He had not told her as much at their meeting, merely shaking his head at her questions with his customary air of mystery. But she had known him all her life, and ought to have realized. Why else would Goodluck have trimmed his famous beard so neatly, except in some vain attempt to disguise himself?
‘There is another plot against Her Majesty’s life?’
Goodluck nodded, then took her hands. He frowned, rubbing them between his. ‘In God’s name, you are so cold. Where are your gloves?’
‘I’m not sure. I must have left them in … in that room with Southampton.’
‘Then let me warm them for you.’ He brought her fingers up to his chest, pushing them beneath the liveried jacket to keep warm. She could hear the beat of his heart, deep and steady.
She raised her eyes shyly to his. ‘Thank you, Goodluck.’
‘Do not thank me, for this is my fault. I should never have sent that message and risked your safety like this. In God’s name though, how I itched to kill that arrogant young fool for daring to speak to you with so little courtesy, to lay his violent hands on you.’ His eyes darkened with fury. ‘And these are the noblemen who run our country. Braggarts and fools.’
‘Forget him, Goodluck. There is no harm done. Southampton is a fool, yes, and a braggart. But he did not lay his hands on me.’
Not this time, she thought fiercely, remembering how the young earl had struck her across the face at their first meeting.
As though reading her mind, Goodluck stroked her face with the back of his hand where the earl’s blow had caught her.
‘You are my dearest love,’ he muttered, watching her, ‘and the only woman I truly care about. I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you.’
His hand was so warm against her cheek. She felt the shock of that touch run through her, her lips suddenly tingling as she gazed up at him. Goodluck was one of the few men she knew who was taller than her. She had never thought of it before, but if she were to stand on her toes, their mouths would be almost on the same level.
In her mind’s eye, Lucy saw herself placing her hands on his shoulders and her mouth on his, and kissing him.
Desire coiled in her belly, sharp and pleasurable at the same time, an unfamiliar ache that was quite unlike her feelings for Will. Suddenly she could not breathe, but stood staring at him through the darkness, lips parted, eyes wide.
Kiss Goodluck?
She had never thought of her guardian in such terms before, and now could not quite believe her own naivety. For as she examined her turbulent feelings, it became clear that she loved Goodluck, not in filial affection for her guardian as she had thought all these years, but as a woman loves a man.
‘Goodluck,’ she whispered, then took a quick step back, shaking her head, scared to reveal her thoughts.
What if she were to kiss him and Goodluck pushed her away, shocked at her wantonness? She knew he was no cold-blooded celibate but a man who enjoyed a woman’s company. To her knowledge though, Goodluck was not a frequenter of Southwark’s many disreputable houses of Venus. He would certainly be shocked to know what she was thinking.
Her guardian had always treated her as a daughter, even his bear hugs fatherly, deliberately averting his eyes when she so much as showed an ankle.
‘Lucy?’ His voice was husky. ‘What is it?’
‘I …’ She was lost for an answer.
‘Come here.’
To her dismay, Goodluck enfolded her in his arms.
‘Do not be afraid,’ he murmured, frowning at her expression, no doubt surprised by how she trembled. He stroked her back, his hand slow and reassuring, unaware of how his touch inflamed her desire to have him love her.
‘The danger is past. It is not like you to lack courage.’
She studied him, thinking how much younger he looked with his beard trimmed.
He was right. It was not like her to lack courage.
‘I love you,’ she murmured in a sudden moment of daring, and raised herself on tiptoe to press her lips to his.
For a moment, Goodluck stood immobile, cold and stiff under her tentative kiss. She felt sure he would push her away. Then his arms tightened about her and he gave a muffled groan.
‘Lucy,’ he managed hoarsely.
He drew her closer, his mouth moving hard and compulsively against hers. The kiss deepened until she was breathless. Then Goodluck turned her in one swift movement so Lucy had her back to the wall, with him pressing urgently against her.
/> His hand crept up to her neck, holding her gently while his mouth explored hers. His kisses surprised her but were welcome. She was no innocent virgin, and could feel desire in the body which pushed so hard against her.
Goodluck wanted her too!
Boldly, she let her tongue stroke along his lips, and heard him groan again.
He drew back a little to look into her face. ‘We should not do this. I am your guardian, dearest. It is not right.’
‘You do not want me?’
‘Of course I want you.’ His voice hardened, a flick of self-loathing in his words. ‘But I shall not take you. You are like a daughter to me, Lucy. It is not so many years since I was your guardian. It would be a betrayal of trust to give in to this desire and lie with you.’
She ran a slow hand down his body and felt him respond, his eyes very dark as she stared into them. ‘And if I tell you how much I want you too, Goodluck? Would it still be a betrayal?’
‘It is too dangerous, Lucy. You are one of the Queen’s ladies. You do not know what you are asking.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I have not been the Queen’s chaste maid since I was a child. I have been Shakespeare’s secret lover these past years, as well you know, and been married and widowed in that time too. Oh, I may not be as experienced as you in the bedchamber,’ she said deliberately, laughing at the flash in his eyes, ‘but I have learned something of the nature of desire, and I desire you, Goodluck, whatever danger may come from it.’
Goodluck had listened with a strained expression as though he could not quite believe what he was hearing. She wondered if he thought her wanton, inviting herself so freely into his bed. But he did not reject her as she feared and half expected.
Instead, he cupped her face, his palm warm against her cheek. ‘Well, then,’ he told her huskily, ‘I shall attempt not to disappoint you, my dearest. But not here, and not tonight. There are too many who might see us together and report you to the Queen.’
Nonetheless, he kissed her fiercely before releasing her, his lips scorching her mouth and throat. She clung to him, kissing him back, breathing him in, wishing they could be private that night, and every night. That they could lie together like man and wife for the rest of their lives. Her heart stuttered and raced as she imagined them in bed together, incredulous that she had never before realized the depth of her love for this man. Her love and her desire.
Her Last Assassin Page 19