‘How so?’ she demanded coldly, preceding her secretary into the chilly maze of corridors that led to the Great Hall.
Courtiers fell to their knees as she passed, their heads respectfully bent, muttering, ‘Your Majesty.’
She ignored them, worrying away at what Burghley had said. They passed through the busy Presence Chamber, crowded with courtiers hoping to put their petitions before her or present their young sons and daughters, but she did not stop until she was safely inside the Privy Chamber and had signalled the doors to be closed against the noise and bustle of the mob outside.
‘I am almost afraid to disclose it, Your Majesty,’ Burghley said quietly, going straight to the hearthside and pouring them both a cup of warm, spiced wine from the jewelled flagon waiting there.
She stripped off her gloves and took the cup from him, inhaling the fragrant warmth of the wine.
‘Speak, old friend, and do not fear reprisals for being the bearer of bad tidings,’ Elizabeth told him impatiently, and met his eyes with candour. ‘I may be famed for my ill temper, and rightly so, but you are exempt from its worst ravages. Besides, after thirty-five years’ service to my throne, surely there can be no need for such caution on your part?’
‘Very well, Your Majesty. The house where this traitor Ferreira took refuge,’ he murmured, ‘is the home of Rodriguez Lopez, your personal physician, who is himself a Portuguese Jew – though he calls himself a Christian.’
Late that evening, fetched to the palace from his London home, Master Lopez was escorted into the Privy Chamber, flanked by four guardsmen with pikes as though she was at risk from this old man.
‘You are dismissed,’ Elizabeth told the guards, and they withdrew, bowing, though she noticed with some irritation that the men glanced at Lord Burghley and his son Robert Cecil for confirmation before backing away.
She remained standing to question her physician, as was her custom in the public chambers, for she disliked being considered weak. Catching Cecil’s astute glance, she nodded briskly to Lopez, who had served as her doctor for many years and been more intimate with her than any other living man in England.
Master Lopez stared about the room in despair, as though fearing he had been condemned without trial. His sombre black robes declared his profession as physician, while a large silver cross hanging from his neck proclaimed him a Christian. His skin was dark, swarthy rather than olive, his eyes a deep nut-brown, and his features were markedly Jewish. She had never considered his personal history before, having once satisfied herself that he was a Christian. Now though she looked at her physician with fresh eyes, wondering if Burghley and Essex could be mistaken in their suspicions.
Surely they must be mistaken, though. Master Lopez had attended her for years without causing her or any other person in her household harm. Why would this Portuguese gentleman, having been well rewarded with wealth and respect, suddenly cast aside his many years of loyal service to the English crown to bow the knee to a Spanish king whose claim to Portugal’s throne was tenuous and unpopular?
It made no sense whatsoever.
But no doubt Essex was hungry for success in his long fruitless hunt for a traitor in her household, she thought grimly. She recalled a short comedy presented before her the previous year, entitled A Knack to Know a Knave. She now wished fervently that she possessed such a knack. But lacking it, she must make do with asking questions instead.
‘Come forward, Senhor Lopez,’ she ordered him coolly. ‘Do not look so afraid. You are not on trial here, nor accused of anything. I merely wish to address a few questions to you on the subject of your recent guest, Senhor Ferreira.’
Senhor Lopez came forward, cap in hand, and fell to his knees before her. ‘Your Majesty, forgive me,’ he began, his hands clasped together, his face upturned in the firelight. ‘I am a foolish old man. I took Senhor Ferreira into my home because he was a fellow country man who came to my door in the middle of the night, with a tale of having been turned out in the winter cold by his master over some misunderstanding. I had no knowledge that he was a traitor to the most excellent Don Antonio, nor to England, a country I have made my home these past thirty years and would protect with my life. I swear there is nothing sinister behind my sheltering of this man, Your Majesty. My only sin was an excess of charity which I now bitterly regret.’
She listened in silence to this impassioned speech, then asked, ‘I am told you are no Christian, as I was led to believe when you first joined my household, but in fact a Jew.’
‘Not true! I swear by Almighty God that I am a good and devout Christian like yourself.’ Her Portuguese physician crossed himself, then lifted the silver cross at his neck and touched it most reverently to his lips. ‘I was born and brought up in Christianity by my enlightened parents, and am a true believer in Jesus Christ. I call on His most holy and precious blood to open the eyes of those who have wrongly accused me. May I die a thousand deaths in Hell if I have in any way wronged or deceived you, Your Majesty. I am your faithful servant, and no traitor.’
Elizabeth studied him thoughtfully. She did not believe he was a traitor. But as Burghley had suggested, the old man might have been led astray by promises of great rewards if he lent his support to the Spanish cause instead of his adopted country, England. And he did look like a Jew. Those who outwardly professed Christianity but practised their Jewish faith in secret were known as Marranos. Could he be one of those?
Lord Burghley stirred and came forward into the light, as though concerned that her questioning was not stringent enough. ‘This is a Christian country, sir, and a Protestant one. If you are racked and found to be a Marrano and a traitor to your queen, you will die a traitor’s death on the scaffold.’ He waited, but the old man said nothing, staring up at his accuser in horror. ‘Best to confess your crimes now and beg for leniency.’
‘My lord, I have no crimes to confess,’ Lopez answered him, still on his knees. He turned his grey head back towards Elizabeth, and she saw terror in his face. ‘Please, Your Majesty, spare my life. I have done nothing but take in a man from the cold of whose good character I felt assured. Indeed, I still cannot believe Senhor Ferreira to be a traitor to his master and his country. Why would he betray a nobleman who may yet, God willing, rightfully ascend the throne of Portugal?’
She nodded, and looked at Lord Burghley. ‘I have heard enough, my lord, and am convinced this man has no guilt to answer. Let him return to his duties and his home unmolested.’
‘But, Your Majesty, Senhor Lopez gave succour to a suspected traitor, a man who may well prove to be one of King Philip’s assassins …’ Robert Cecil stared at her, aghast, his voice only falling into silence when his father placed a cautious hand on his arm.
She heard the incredulity in the young man’s voice, but would not relent. ‘Closely question this Senhor Ferreira to discover the truth, as you would any other suspected traitor, and bring your findings before me. But I will brook no more false accusations against my physician. Is that understood?’
Lopez had begun to tremble, no doubt with relief that he was not about to be dragged away to prison and a traitor’s death.
‘I thank you, Your Majesty,’ he managed hoarsely, settling his black velvet cap back on his head as he attempted to compose himself. ‘I knew your mercy and compassion would save me. You are indeed the wisest prince in Europe, a most gracious and Christian queen.’
‘You may leave us, Senhor,’ she told him, her tone not altogether friendly, ‘though in future, you would be better advised to bar your door against those of your countrymen who would trespass against your hospitality.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ he whispered, and promptly withdrew, bowing so low his cap tumbled off and he had to snatch it up from the rushes. ‘May the Lord bless and preserve you, Your Majesty.’
Robert Cecil hurried after him, taking his leave in a rushed manner, muttering, ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but an order was sent out to arrest Senhor Lopez’s son, who is at Winchester Sc
hool. It must be rescinded at once.’
Left alone with her secretary in the Privy Chamber, Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at him. ‘You were having his son arrested? A schoolboy?’
Burghley had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Lord Essex thought he might be better placed to extract a confession from Lopez if his son was also in custody.’
‘I see,’ she said drily.
‘We have not acted out of malice or prejudice,’ he pointed out mildly, ‘but thought only to secure Your Majesty’s person from a suspected assassin. Senhor Ferreira was unlikely ever to gain access to the court, even in disguise, so his threat was always more to Don Antonio. But if he had been able to influence your physician into some malignant action against you, a man so intimately placed in your household—’
She held up a hand, interrupting him. ‘I understand your motives, my lord, and hold you in no less regard for your zeal in pursuing this matter. But equally it is clear that my lord Essex has not been successful in hunting down the traitor he believes to be lurking here at court, and that the unfortunate Senhor Lopez was to be his lamb to the slaughter, offered up to hide my lord’s failure.’
‘I am sure that was not his lordship’s intention, Your Majesty, any more than it was mine.’
She became stern. ‘Hear me, my lord. I shall not budge on this matter of Senhor Lopez, or not without the strongest, most irrefutable evidence against his loyalty. If you and Essex must seek a traitor at court, take care you search for him elsewhere, not among my most trusted and learned servants.’
Lord Burghley bowed. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘You will convey this instruction to Lord Essex straight away, if you please,’ she told him, then called him back when he turned to leave. Her conscience was troubling her, for she knew Essex’s temper was as sharp and easily roused as her own, and being still young, he lacked Leicester’s charm and diplomacy in times of disagreement. After today’s unsettling events, she did not have the strength to face another show of fireworks between them. ‘Wait!’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘Be sure to tell his lordship that this failure has not prejudiced my belief in his loyalty and good service to the throne. Without his vigilance, this Senhor Ferreira might have continued his treacherous schemes undetected.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Ask Lord Essex to attend me promptly tomorrow morning, if he is able to rise from his sickbed, and we shall discuss his reward.’
Some premonition flickered in Burghley’s face. He stiffened. ‘You surely do not mean to admit his lordship to the Privy Council, Your Majesty?’
‘Is it any of your concern, my lord?’ she demanded icily.
Her secretary bowed, betraying a twinge of pain. Was he unwell again? ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean to be impertinent. I will convey your message to his lordship tonight.’
‘Send a servant with a note,’ she told him, ‘and get you to bed. It is late.’
He smiled wearily. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty. Give you good night.’
‘Good night, my old friend. And sleep well.’
Elizabeth signalled to the steward to allow her ladies to approach, for she was overtired herself and ready for her bedchamber.
‘We are safe enough from King Philip’s assassins here, whatever Lord Essex might say. All the same, with this new worry, and the plague back in the city, it might be prudent to move the court out to Richmond for a few months.’ She closed her eyes, already wishing herself among the peaceful open fields of Richmond, a good ride west of Greenwich. ‘There should be better hunting there, anyway.’
Four
‘SHAKESPEARE? WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing in a brothel in Southwark?’
Kit Marlowe stared down at the buxom girl in Will’s lap, squirming pleasantly as he tried to study his cards around her fulsome figure.
‘And a good evening to you too, Master Marlowe,’ Will managed, then grinned, pleased that he had not slurred his words despite the large amount of ale he had consumed that day. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’
Kit’s eyebrows shot up as he took in the unfastened doublet, the fresh pitcher of ale on the stained table, and the flushed faces of the good-natured fellows with whom Will was playing cards.
‘I had heard that Master Shakespeare was a little wild these days, but this is beyond even what I had envisaged.’ He paused, becoming serious for a moment. ‘I am glad to see you in London though. I thought you had disappeared off to the country again.’
Will raised his brows at that unpleasant suggestion. ‘Not I.’
Kit looked thoughtful. ‘I have been reading that epic poem you sent me. Venus and Adonis. It is a rare piece of work, Will, far better than anything you have written for the stage. I tell you, reading it made me sick with jealousy. That poem will make your name.’
Will was surprised by this unexpected praise. He felt heat in his face, and did not know what to say. ‘I thank you, Kit.’
‘Your patron is the Earl of Southampton?’
‘Yes, and a more generous patron I could not have hoped for.’ Will caught an odd expression on Marlowe’s face. ‘What is it?’
‘Only that powerful men make dangerous bedfellows.’ Marlowe looked at the girl in Will’s lap, and his friend had the impression that Kit was trying to distract him. ‘Is this your catch of the night? Are you in such a rush to catch the pox? Because if so, I can suggest whores of even less repute than this pretty jug in your lap.’
‘I’m here with Dick Burbage,’ Will replied shortly, playing his hand to jeers from the other men. ‘Damn, I’m out.’
‘I’m not surprised, with cards that bad.’ Kit frowned, glancing around the brothel’s smoky room. ‘Where is Dick?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘I see.’ Kit smiled as Will extricated himself with difficulty from the whore’s arms, amid her shrill protests. ‘Are you not heading that way yourself, then?’
At that moment, Dick Burbage appeared in the low doorway, his clothing dishevelled. He spread his arms wide at the sight of them. ‘Kit, my friend! What, are you here too? Come and join us, there’s plenty of soft flesh in this house to go round, if you don’t mind dipping your ladle in the same barrel as the rest of us.’
Burbage stumbled into the room, a fair-haired girl on his arm, her gown pulled down to expose large, pink-skinned breasts with prominent nipples, her face drowsy with too much ale.
‘Will!’ he exclaimed, dragging the girl forward so that she cried out and stumbled, almost falling into Will’s arms. ‘See, I found the girl I was telling you about. She’s a trifle drunk, which mars all, but when her head clears, I swear she will show you a trick with her purse to surpass any performance you have ever seen, in bed or on stage.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Will said drily.
‘Well, sir, you must,’ Burbage rejoined sharply, slapping him on the back. ‘Consider our parts. I like to play the nobleman, you prefer to play the pauper. And as every fellow knows, the prince must be served before the pauper.’
Kit gave a bark of laughter at this exchange. He shook his head and moved away to speak to a foreign-looking man at the counter. There was a brief exchange, then the man handed him something and left the room.
Watching uneasily, Will could not see what it was the man had given him, but saw Kit push it hurriedly into the leather pouch on his belt.
Marlowe came back to the table, still laughing. ‘Shall we retire upstairs then, and see this trick?’ he asked, surprising Will, who had thought he had little love for women. ‘I have a few shillings to throw in the kitty if you’re short.’
‘Short?’ Burbage belched loudly at this implied insult, and shook his head in mock anger. ‘No such thing, I promise you. And this little kitty will vouch for that later tonight. Why, she’ll be walking stiff for a sennight after our sport. Won’t you, my sweet Marjorie?’
‘Margaret,’ the girl corrected him sourly, no doubt sobering up at the prospect of three o
n one, but allowed Burbage to lead her back towards the stairs.
They passed an open door at the head of the stairs. Within the narrow smoky chamber Will could see men playing illegally at dice. Beyond their table, a girl lay nude and shameless on a straw pallet, so thin that her ribs showed through her skin. Her legs were still sprawled wide from where they had used her, her thumb in her mouth like a child, fast asleep despite the shouts and laughter around her.
‘With the plague raging and the Rose shut down, what is there to do but lie with whores and play dice?’ Burbage declared, staring lewdly in at the naked girl on the bed. ‘Do the city fathers not understand that closing the theatres leads us poor players into sin, not out of it? Come, girl, where is this chamber? I am eager to be up and at it.’
The girl Margaret obediently showed them to a room further along the upper landing. It was cramped, just one bed, and stank like a fishhouse, but Will barely considered this as he kicked the door shut – this was no stage, and he would not be watched by strangers while he performed – and jerked the fair-haired girl towards him.
He kissed her mouth, which was not so sweet as he had hoped, then ran his hands over her full breasts. A driving need for debauchery had taken hold of him in recent months, his lust insatiable, as though each girl he used was another blow against Lucy’s hold on his heart.
Lucy! Lucy! She was lost to him. He should not even think her name.
And yet he could not help but bring her to mind every morning when he woke and every night when he lay down to sleep. To remember her face was a pain beyond anything he had ever felt, a hammer-blow to his manhood. He told himself he hated her, and meant it, but the agony such reminders brought could mean only one thing: that he still loved her, and had been rejected.
The only way to drown out her incessant name in his head was to lie with other women, to indulge his lust for this sweet flesh until he was wholly emptied of it.
Her Last Assassin Page 22