Her Last Assassin

by Victoria Lamb

  Goodluck descended the stairs two at a time, ignoring Frizer’s shout from the lower room, stumbled from the house and ran back along the lane. Out of breath, his chest heaving, he dragged the horse’s reins free and clambered into the saddle.

  ‘Hie! Hie!’ he gasped, and kicked the startled animal into a trot, then into a canter. Moments later he was fleeing Deptford at an ungainly gallop, men staring as he passed, clods of turf flying up in his dusty wake, his horse’s head turned towards Richmond and the court.

  Marlowe was dead. Horribly dead. And given the secret nature of their meeting, he had every reason to fear the Queen would be next.

  It was dark before Goodluck reached Richmond, his horse exhausted and trembling as he slid from its sweat-slick back. The guards had only let him through the gate when he invoked the powerful name of Essex, a talisman against questions and delays. But now that he was here, Goodluck was suddenly unsure what to tell him, still trying to weigh up his master’s allegiance to the Queen.

  With Walsingham, it had been more clear-cut. A villain had been a villain, even if sometimes it had been necessary for Goodluck to play that part himself, in the hope of bringing light to a dark situation.

  With Essex though, he often suspected the earl knew more than he did about the plots they were constantly attempting to thwart. It was almost as though some of these villains were also in his employ. Which was not a thought he could ever voice, Goodluck thought grimly, unless he too wished for an early death.

  Had Marlowe been reckless enough to suspect or question his master’s loyalty?

  Lord Essex, he was told, was dining late that evening with the Queen and the rest of the court. He stopped only to wash his face and brush the worst of the dirt from his clothes, then stumbled into the banqueting hall. His first thought was for Lucy, but she was not in the crowd of ladies milling about behind the Queen’s table. Reluctantly, he put his beloved out of his head, and made his way up the hall towards the dais where Essex was dining at the right hand of the Queen.

  Essex saw him at once, beckoning him over with a frown. He must have known Goodluck would never approach him so openly if it were not vital.

  ‘Goodluck?’ He wiped his lips with a napkin, then looked him up and down. ‘What is it, man? Quietly now, what’s the matter?’

  Goodluck bent forward and whispered in his ear. ‘Marlowe is dead, my lord. Murdered in Deptford this very afternoon, at the house of a widow named Eleanor Bull.’

  ‘You were with him?’

  ‘I was outside. I … I heard a commotion, then ran inside and saw …’ He paused, not wishing to recount the rest of what he had seen. ‘My lord, there were two agents of the crown present. Maybe three.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Nicholas Skeres, Robert Pooley, and one Ingram Frizer.’

  Essex did not blink. He sat back instead, waving him away as though what he had said held no special significance. ‘Very well, I see. Go now, change your clothes. Take some wine and get some sleep. I will send for you in the morning.’

  ‘My lord,’ Goodluck said urgently, ‘I fear Master Marlowe may have discovered a plot against the Queen’s life by these men and was silenced for his knowledge.’

  A serving man was approaching the high dais, a vast platter of glazed fruits balanced most unsteadily before him.

  Essex stared at Goodluck, his eyes cold. ‘You have spoken out of turn, Master Goodluck. I regret Marlowe’s death, but I can assure you that it was in no way connected to any plot against Her Majesty.’

  Goodluck’s belly tightened with fear. Lord Essex had known that Marlowe was dead, even before he had whispered the cold fact in his ear. He might even have ordered the playwright’s execution himself. That could be the only explanation for his words, his calm dismissal of Marlowe’s death. Today’s meeting at the widow’s quiet house in Deptford had been an assassination disguised as a secret rendezvous between spies. Though why had the killers not struck in the morning when Marlowe arrived? Why wait until the sun was almost ready to set before striking the vicious blow that would deprive the playwright of his life?

  Because Marlowe held some information they had to extract first.

  A confession, he wondered feverishly? Or perhaps the identity of the assassin hired by Philip of Spain?

  The serving man was lowering the platter of glazed fruits before the Queen, wobbling slightly as he knelt at her side. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said hoarsely, ‘my master sends you this with his compliments.’

  ‘You must thank him for me,’ the Queen replied graciously, then gave a sudden horrified gasp, for the man had pulled a long sharp blade from under the platter of fruits. Her pale fingers clutched Essex’s sleeve as she recoiled in her seat. ‘Robbie!’

  ‘Die, you Protestant whore, in the name of King Philip of Spain and the Holy Roman Church!’ the assassin yelled at the top of his voice. His hand drew back to stab her in the throat, his face twisted with triumphant rage.

  The room seemed frozen, like a brightly coloured tableau at a pageant, as every courtier and servant turned to stare at the high dais. Then, with miraculous speed, before his knife had descended, three of the Queen’s bodyguards seized the assassin, sent the blade spinning from his hand and forced him to the floor. The man lay there grotesquely, arms twisted behind his back, face pressed into the greasy rushes of the banqueting hall, still yelling obscenities.

  Above his head, the Queen’s ladies screamed and stared and fluttered their painted fans, pressing close to see the would-be killer.

  The Queen herself shrank back in her chair, staring first at the floored assassin and then at Lord Essex.

  ‘You swore I would be safe, Robert,’ she whispered accusingly, her face stiff and white as a mask. ‘You promised me.’

  Six

  LUCY STOOD IN the centre of the gilt-ceilinged ladies’ chamber, staring about in despair. The room lay in utter chaos, mostly made by the other women with whom she shared this chamber when Her Majesty was in residence at Richmond. Everyone had squeezed into the narrow room to change their gowns for tonight’s dinner, given in honour of Sir John Puckering who had lately entertained the Queen at his house in nearby Kew, and then left the place in disarray. A bolt of white lace was veiling the mirror, petticoats and hoops lay abandoned on the floor where women had simply stepped out of them, velvet hoods and court slippers were strewn higgledy-piggledy across the numerous mattresses.

  ‘Where did I put my pearl earrings?’ she muttered to herself. The earrings Sir John had given her at New Year. She had looked everywhere and could not find them.

  Lucy blew out her cheeks, suddenly fearful that she would miss the end of the banquet and be reprimanded for not starting the dances. The Queen had noticed she was not wearing them and sent her back to find them.

  I shall be scolded so badly if I have lost Sir John’s gift, she thought, and bent to rummage in a chest under the window. At last her hand fell on a small rose-coloured silk bag.

  ‘Are they not in here?’

  She loosened the drawstring and peered inside, then drew out the exquisite pearl earrings with a smile. Slowly, she fed the thin gold wire through the holes in her ear lobes. It was an uncomfortable sensation, and she was not yet accustomed to the weight of jewellery there. But Queen Elizabeth liked her ladies to keep up with the fashions, and the Lord knew she needed to remain in the Queen’s good graces these days, for there was always some whisper against her at court.

  Once again, she regretted that Cathy was not there to help her. But ever since her friend had so inexplicably betrayed her to the Earl of Southampton, Cathy had chosen to serve the other ladies of the court, and had never once spoken to her about that night. Lucy had passed her a few times in the corridors and in the ladies’ chambers, but Cathy had always lowered her eyes and hurried away, her cheeks flushed.

  Why had Cathy betrayed her?

  It was a mystery, and one which still pained her. She had never treated Cathy as a servant but as a friend. Though perha
ps such distinctions were not enough when their very different duties at court had kept them so often apart.

  Lucy hurried alone through the corridors, her broad skirts brushing the stone walls, for Richmond Palace had been constructed long before this new rage for hooped skirts. She wondered where Goodluck was tonight. His last note had been terse, promising that he would return to court in a sennight, unless his business called him elsewhere.

  Business. He meant spying, of course.

  Her body tingled with excitement at the thought of how often they had made love since that first night in his chamber, skin against skin, taking risks which had terrified her with Shakespeare, yet which felt so natural and right with Goodluck.

  As she reached the base of the west tower and turned to descend the winding staircase towards the banqueting hall, she gazed out across the Thames through the leaded windows as she always did, admiring the glitter and flash of torchlight on the current as it flowed past the west front of the palace.

  A burst of deep male laughter from one of the rooms off the staircase caught her attention; she paused on the stair in surprise, glancing into the candlelit room.

  Two men, standing close together, almost in each other’s arms.

  One was Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton, who hated her with such a passion.

  Then her heart clenched in sudden dread as she recognized the second man. The voice first, once so beloved, then the dark head, the slim figure in a plain white shirt and leather jerkin, the traditional garb of a player.

  William Shakespeare.

  She stared, her heartbeat galloping, and cursed herself as a fool, thrown into confusion just by his presence. Yet what was he doing here at court? He must be here for some theatrical performance, though she had not heard that any company would be performing before the Queen tonight.

  She lifted her heavy skirts to continue down the stairs, determined to leave her love for Shakespeare behind, and then it happened. Her gaze still locked on Shakespeare, she suddenly saw what she had missed before – the closeness of their bodies, the earl’s arm draped so possessively about Will’s shoulders, their hips pushed oddly together – and could not miss the moment when Henry Wriothesley leaned forward and touched his lips to Shakespeare’s.

  Not a kiss given in chaste friendship, but open-mouthed, kissing him fully, his hand clasping the player’s dark head.

  Lucy almost fell down the stairs, her hand flying out to the wall just in time to prevent her fall. She could not breathe, and thought herself under some kind of spell, for what she had seen was surely impossible. Not two men kissing each other, for she had discovered the existence of such unusual pleasures after her marriage to Jack Parker, but that he, her one-time lover Will Shakespeare, could find joy in the embrace of another man. And not any man but the Earl of Southampton, barely grown to manhood himself, and Lucy’s most vicious enemy at court.

  But that was why!

  How blind she had been. How blind. No wonder the young earl had been so vile, warning her to stay away from Will. She almost ran the rest of the way to the banqueting hall, wishing she could undo that terrible glance, that moment of shock and amazement, that unravelling of everything she had ever known or thought about Will.

  She was no longer a fool to his attentions, but all the same, her heart burned with shame at how she had been in thrall to such a man. She suddenly remembered her wedding night, the awkwardness of Jack’s ribald jokes, and how Will had laughed at her for fearing rape at the hands of her new husband. Had Will and Jack been lovers too? Had they made love together at Will’s lodgings while she was keeping house with Mistress Parker, then laughed at her simple trusting faith?

  Her troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of angry shouts ahead, a clatter of benches knocked over. She stumbled into the high-ceilinged, torchlit banqueting hall. The place was in confusion, all the guests on their feet, the captain of the guards shouting orders to his men, ladies weeping into their hands, men staring and pressing forward to the dais.

  What in God’s name could have happened?

  In the noise and confusion, she found herself facing Master Goodluck across the high-ceilinged room, his face the only clear one in the hall, while men crowded past her to the Queen’s side.

  Goodluck!

  Master Goodluck saw her, and his eyes widened. But when Lucy would have approached him, he shook his head and motioned her to attend the Queen instead.

  Her heart jerked in shock. For a few blinding seconds, in the chaos around them, Lucy had forgotten she must hide her love for him. At his gesture she had herself under control, her smile erased as she pushed through the crowd of courtiers to the high dais.

  A man was being dragged away, his hands bound behind his back, guards on either side, his face red with hate and anger.

  ‘I would to God I had murdered her!’ the man spat at his captors, then shouted wildly, for all the court to hear, ‘You are all sinners, to kneel and pledge allegiance to this whore. I go to my death with no sin on my conscience, for Elizabeth the bastard is a heretic and a usurper. I may have failed, but others will take my place!’

  Lord Essex, dressed lavishly in cloth of gold, a diamond-studded gold star pinned to his chest, was standing over the Queen, who had sunk into her high-backed seat, her face white as plaster, her eyes wide and dark with fear. Behind her seat, her ladies crowded, jostling one another, trying to soothe their mistress with wine and comforting prayers.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Essex was saying urgently, trying to support her, ‘are you hurt? Did his knife cut you?’

  ‘Let me be, don’t fuss, I am unharmed,’ the Queen insisted in an angry mutter, pushing him away. She accepted a white lace handkerchief from Sir John and pressed it to her mouth, gasping, ‘Though only by the grace of God, it would seem. Why in the name of all that’s holy was this lunatic allowed into my presence?’

  ‘That shall be discovered. For now, you must allow me to escort you to a place of greater safety, Your Majesty.’ Lord Essex clicked his fingers at the captain of the guards. ‘Your guards will accompany us to the Privy Chamber and secure the place. The villain may not have come alone.’

  ‘Oh, very well. But I am vexed that I shall miss the dancing.’ Queen Elizabeth sighed, then held out one pale jewelled hand, allowing his lordship to raise her from her seat. Lord Essex placed an arm about her waist. She did not protest but leaned against him, staring about the hall, her hand seeming to tremble on his chest. ‘So that was my secret assassin. Not a terribly successful murderer, my lord, after all your fears that he would do for me. Who was he in the end? Does anyone know the villain’s name? He was wearing my household livery. I thought you told me all my servants had been questioned to ensure their loyalty.’

  Lord Essex looked furious. He was afraid too, his gaze seeking out Goodluck’s above the crowd of startled courtiers. ‘And so they have been. These things will be discovered in time, Your Majesty. But since we are still uncertain of the truth, let me take you back to the Privy Chamber under guard.’

  Her voice was querulous, as though she suspected him of a coup. ‘Take me back under guard? Your guards or mine? What, am I a prisoner in my own palace now?’

  ‘They are your own royal bodyguards, Your Majesty,’ he reassured her, ‘and all hand-picked men. It is for your supreme safety that they will escort us, and no other reason.’

  The captain of the guards had caught Lucy’s eye, gesturing her to join the confused throng about the dais. She glanced about for Goodluck, but he had vanished. Gone ahead, no doubt, to check the Queen’s state apartments were safe to receive the royal entourage. She knew what he would be thinking: that if an assassin could attack her so openly in the state rooms, an accomplice could easily have entered her royal chambers during the confusion and even now be awaiting the Queen’s return.

  Lucy fell into line, following the other shocked and whispering women along the corridors, though her mind was in chaos. First that disturbing glimpse of Shakespear
e and the Earl of Southampton together, now an attack on the Queen in her own palace.

  Goodluck was back earlier than expected. She had never seen his face so grim, and guessed instinctively it was not this unsuccessful attack on the Queen that had brought him back to court.

  So what else had happened to put that frown in his eyes?

  Even safely installed in the Privy Chamber, her bodyguards thronging at the door and her armed nobles about her, the Queen refused to sit but stood resolutely at the window, staring out at the darkness. Lord Essex spoke to her urgently, his voice kept low so only the Queen could hear. She waved him away after a moment, then turned to face the room as the doors were shut and barred against the rest of the court.

  Lucy watched in silence, concerned by what she saw; the Queen was trembling, her face pinched with worry and fatigue. Anger too, and small wonder. Who could she rely on to protect her but these men?

  Cautiously, not wishing to draw attention to him, Lucy’s gaze moved round to where Goodluck stood, his back against the door. His eyes sought her out, not reassuring but their gaze steady enough, then he looked away. He knew something. But like the old campaigner he was, he was not going to speak unless there was no help for it. Truth, as he had often told her, was a dangerous thing when spoken out loud.

  ‘How could this have happened?’ Queen Elizabeth was demanding, glaring at each of her nobles in turn. ‘Where is Lord Burghley?’

  His strangely hunched son, Robert Cecil, stepped forward in his customary black robes. He bowed before her, his look apologetic. ‘My father was not well enough to leave his chamber tonight. But I can answer for him, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I might have died out there. The villain had a knife. Did you see it? Mere inches from my throat.’

  ‘I did indeed, Your Majesty.’ Cecil turned his accusing gaze on Lord Essex; Lucy shivered to see the malice in the young councillor’s face. ‘Monitoring plots and threats of assassination is your province, my lord Essex, is it not? I take it you were unaware of this man’s existence in Her Majesty’s service, right under your nose?’ He paused, as though for effect. ‘Wait though, I seem to recall being told of some plot involving a servant of the Queen. But perhaps you considered those who work in the kitchens too lowly to be a threat to Her Majesty?’