Her Last Assassin

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Why did you come, Anne?’

  ‘To see you,’ she said simply.

  ‘I’m sorry I was not here when you arrived.’

  ‘I did not mind waiting,’ she said in a colourless fashion, and he knew she was lying.

  Two days she had waited for him, living alone in his dusty, untidy lodgings while he was sporting with the Earl of Southampton. He shuddered at the thought of what gossip she might have gleaned from his neighbours. Nothing good, that was for sure.

  He set his teeth, trying not to sound angry. ‘Anything could have happened to you, alone here at night. You should have made Cousin Richard wait with you. Or you could have stayed in Stratford and waited for my return as you have always done.’ He saw some flicker in her expression. ‘Has it been so long since my last visit?’

  ‘Nigh on a year,’ she told him, then shook her head angrily when he stared at her in surprise. ‘You have not come to see your children since last summer, and then you only stayed a night. The summer before you came for a sennight. Do we mean so little to you that you have missed the months passing since last you were in Stratford, kissing your daughter Susanna and holding little Judith and Hamnet?’

  ‘Anne,’ he began in self-defence, but got no further.

  Her voice accused him, sharp as a knife. ‘Your children miss you. I cannot for ever answer Hamnet with a lie when he asks why you do not visit. I tell him his father is working hard for us in London, working every hour God sends, so he can earn money …’

  Her voice broke and she turned away, hiding from him. Perhaps she could no longer bear to look upon his battered face.

  ‘It is no lie,’ he insisted. ‘I do work hard. And I send home money for your housekeeping.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When did you last send us money?’ Anne choked out, and looked back at him. Her cheeks were wet. ‘When, Will?’

  Surprised by her question, he counted silently backwards in his head. It must be almost a year since he had last consigned a purse for her to a courier, he realized, and was shocked by the discovery.

  ‘I can’t recall exactly when,’ he said guiltily. ‘Though I’m sorry it’s been so long. The city fathers closed the theatres because of the plague, so I haven’t earned enough to pay my rent and send money home too. Am I to be blamed because this city is riddled with disease?’

  ‘Yet you have managed to buy yourself a fine suit of clothes,’ his wife remarked, gazing pointedly at his torn shirt and bloodstained doublet, ‘and ruin them in a street brawl.’

  He opened his mouth to deny that it was a brawl, then closed it again. How could he reveal the truth?

  ‘It is expected,’ he muttered. ‘I am called to court sometimes. I cannot attend the Queen and her nobles in my workaday clothes.’

  Anne said nothing, but took a few steps towards him, angrily twisting the folds of her skirt between her fingers. She glanced behind him at the low table before the fire, where a pool of spilt wine had stained the wood.

  ‘I cleared that table of empty cups and trenchers when I arrived,’ she told him coldly, ‘for the place stank of wine. You had left cheese and bread on the hearth, and the mice had been at it. There was a flagon of beer too, standing uncovered on the windowsill. It must have been there some days, for it had more than a dozen flies and cockroaches dead in it.’

  ‘I have been away, though I am not a good housekeeper even when I am at home. If I had known you planned to visit me, I would have set the place to rights.’

  ‘Where were you last night? And the night before?’

  He hesitated a space before replying. ‘I dislike your tone, Anne. You are my wife, not my keeper.’

  She shouted, ‘What is her name?’

  He stared, shocked by her sudden rage, and could not speak. His heart began to race. What secrets did she know? Nothing of him and Southampton, it would seem. But a little perhaps of his long affair with Lucy Morgan. Or his more recent taste in whores. The local women gossiping …

  Or had some bawd come round from the brothel, looking to collect on a debt? He owed money at one of the houses of Venus across the river. Not much, but enough perhaps to prompt a visit.

  ‘I swore to myself when I found the place empty that I would not ask your whereabouts,’ Anne continued angrily. ‘I promised myself that I would not shout at you, nor make demands you could not meet. That I would be a good wife. But then Cousin Richard went about his business and the hours passed. It grew dark outside. I felt so alone here, I sat by the fire and cried. There were men shouting and wandering the streets half the night. Drunkards, thieves, rapists. And I did not know where you were, Will.’

  Awkwardly, he took her in his arms, blaming himself for the fear she must have suffered. It felt strange to feel her soft body against his. His wife. A woman. He had grown accustomed to the hardness of a man, a mouth as hungry and demanding as his own.

  He bent his head to kiss her, though his lip burned and throbbed where it had been split by that man’s fist.

  ‘It is my fault,’ he told her. ‘Don’t cry.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘This wrong I have dealt you is soon remedied. Tomorrow I will take you back to Stratford, and stay with you until summer’s end at least.’ He managed a smile when he saw the hope in her face. ‘Is that what you want? To have me home again?’

  Anne nodded, drying her tears. ‘Oh Will,’ she said faintly. ‘Yes, it is what I want. Forgive me for what I said, the way I spoke to you. But even in Stratford we have heard strange rumours. Unkind whispers about you and … and your friends.’

  He froze, staring at her, a sickness like bile rising in his throat. Even in Stratford we have heard strange rumours. He had thought her innocent of his recent sins. But perhaps his long-suffering wife had merely chosen to ignore the rumours.

  God, he was tired. So tired of London, tired of constantly lying, tired of everything. And his body hurt now with a vicious throbbing pain, like he had been kicked repeatedly by a horse. He needed to sleep soon, to close his eyes before he collapsed or vomited.

  ‘All envious falsehoods, of course,’ she continued, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘We did not believe them. But even if they were not … What a man does when he is not at home should not concern his wife. Besides, I am hardly unblemished myself.’ Gently, she touched his bruised cheek, and he held still under the caress. ‘It was wrong of me to speak of this, William. I shall not mention it again.’

  ‘The past is forgotten. Did we not agree that? There is no one else in my heart,’ Will tried to reassure his wife, perhaps too hurriedly. He felt wretched. He despised himself even as he lied, the falsehood so smoothly delivered he was sure she must suspect. ‘No one but you, Anne.’

  Part Four

  One

  Essex House, London, October 1593

  SOMEWHERE OUT IN the darkness, deep and grave, church bells announced the hour. Eleven o’clock. Goodluck turned away from the window and stared at the half-open door through which he could occasionally hear whispers and see shadows passing to and fro in the great house. Impatience twisted within him again, fretting, and he tried to damp it down, telling himself that this summons meant nothing. There had been no indication in his master’s letter to give him cause for hope. Yet still he hoped, grimly and stubbornly.

  His feet hurt from long standing. Goodluck sat at last, but could not settle in the uncomfortable high-backed chair which was the only furniture the room afforded to visitors.

  He had been waiting in the small antechamber to Essex’s study for over two hours. How much longer before he was admitted to the earl’s presence?

  The door to the study opened. Essex stood there, dressed sombrely in black, a single diamond pinned to his doublet, a gold-hilted dagger at his belt.

  ‘Come,’ the earl said briefly. He stood aside to let Goodluck enter, then closed the door again. ‘I have a task for you.’

  The room was warm, a good fire burning
in the grate, and all the windows were shuttered against the chill October wind. Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and a portrait of the Queen hung facing the ornately carved desk, strewn with documents and open books. The place reminded Goodluck of Walsingham’s old corner study in Seething Lane – and of happier days, both for himself and for England.

  ‘My lord?’

  Essex handed him a rolled-up letter. ‘My men took this from a man who came into the country at Sandwich yesterday. A Portuguese commoner. The name on his papers is Gomez d’Avila. The man appears to have little English. Do you know this language? Or the hand?’

  Unrolling the letter, Goodluck glanced down at it and frowned. ‘I do not know the hand, but this is written in Portuguese, my lord.’

  ‘Can you translate it?’

  ‘Given time, yes.’

  ‘I need it within the hour.’

  Goodluck was surprised. ‘So urgently?’ His senses prickled. There was more to this than a suspect letter.

  ‘We have found a translator to aid in d’Avila’s interview, but he is also Portuguese. I cannot entirely trust that we will get the full account. I would have you listen from a secret vantage point, and afterwards tell me if you believe anything was missed out by the translator.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Essex sat down behind his desk. He looked heavy-lidded, his face drawn, as though he had not slept much in recent days. ‘So now to you. What news do you have for me? You have been out of the Tower since June, yet I have had few enough reports of your progress.’

  ‘I have been watching Don Antonio as you requested, in the guise of a servant,’ Goodluck told him, and shrugged. ‘I have seen nothing but a Portuguese nobleman going about his daily business. Foreign letters sometimes arrive, secretly or via couriers, and I take pains to find and read them where possible. But there is never anything suspicious or written in any code that I can discern.’ He paused. ‘His son, Don Manuel, is another case, however.’

  The earl’s gaze narrowed on his face. ‘You suspect Don Manuel to be a traitor?’

  ‘He has received a few visitors at night lately. Foreigners, possibly Spaniards. I have not been able to overhear their conversations. But I did find a note once, signed by him and then torn up, the pieces discarded when he was called away suddenly. I was able to reconstruct part of the note before he returned, and there was some mention of a bribe. And initials which could have been a reference to King Philip.’

  ‘If his father were to die, Don Manuel would presumably inherit his mantle as next in line to the throne of Portugal.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Goodluck frowned. ‘But it may be that Don Manuel is prepared to forgo that honour if King Philip offers a lucrative enough inducement to relinquish that right for ever to the Spanish.’

  ‘Or perhaps the King hopes to recruit Don Manuel to his feud against Queen Elizabeth.’ Essex leaned back in his chair with a grim expression. ‘He would make an excellent rallying point for traitors and dissidents in this country, for the Queen refuses to believe ill of his father.’

  ‘Rightly so, I believe.’

  ‘The Queen does not understand the danger in which she stands. She allows these secret enemies into the country, then hampers my efforts to have them watched.’ Essex glanced at him, his face suddenly shuttered, as though realizing the disloyal nature of what he had just said. ‘You will not repeat what is said here to any man, you understand? And after tonight, you will return to your post and watch Don Manuel more closely. I want to know everyone he speaks to, and what is said. And keep copies of any letters you intercept. I did not have you released from the Tower to waste my time with half a story.’

  Boldly, Goodluck replied, ‘I shall continue to serve you with all loyalty, my lord. But you told me on my release that Mistress Morgan would also be freed if I performed my duties to your satisfaction.’

  Essex said nothing, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of impatience.

  Goodluck continued, refusing to be silenced, ‘I am concerned for Lucy’s health now that the cold weather is here, for I have heard she has not been well in recent weeks. Nor have I been permitted to visit her, even though it was my own reckless behaviour that brought her to such a cruel fate.’ He hesitated. ‘I will always be deeply grateful for your mercy towards me, my lord. But you have the Queen’s ear. Is there no way you can also arrange for Lucy’s release?’

  ‘It was not mercy, Master Goodluck, as I am sure you have guessed. I needed your services. But the Queen has no such need of Lucy’s services. And she is still angry about her wantonness in lying with you while unmarried.’

  ‘That was my fault. I persuaded her.’

  The earl smiled drily. ‘And I have no doubt she was willing to be persuaded.’

  ‘My lord—’

  ‘Listen, it was not my mercy which brought about your release. It was a trade agreed between myself and your lovely Mistress Morgan. Your release in return for some information which interested me greatly.’

  Goodluck stared. ‘Information?’

  ‘Its nature need not concern either of us now. The situation was resolved. Yet although the Queen agreed to your release on my request, as a man who could still be useful in this war against Spain, she would not hear of allowing Lucy Morgan to go free.’

  Essex looked at him with some degree of pity, then added, ‘I have informed the Queen that Mistress Morgan’s health is suffering in the chill confines of the Tower, and have arranged for one of her former servants to wait upon her there, so she is not alone in her sickness. But I fear Her Majesty will not countenance your lady’s release. She is too angry over Lucy’s betrayal of her trust.’

  There was silence in the warm book-lined study. The fire crackled cheerily in the grate. Goodluck stared at it dumbly. So Lucy had traded information with Lord Essex to obtain his release. He had no idea what she had known that could be of such value to Essex that he would go against the Queen’s orders and release him after he had served only ten days in the Tower. Though they had been the longest days of his life, he reminded himself, spent staring at the sky through a narrow iron grating in his cell and wondering where Lucy was being held, if she was safe.

  At least she had been spared the pain and humiliation of a flogging. He had borne that punishment gladly for her. It was only flesh and blood, after all. The human spirit was not destroyed by such physical trials, though it could be crushed by the withholding of love, light and liberty for too long a period of time.

  Her Majesty will not countenance your lady’s release.

  His lust and impatience to enjoy her body before they could be properly wed had brought his beloved to a small, dank cell in the Tower of London. And Lucy would almost certainly die there if he could not find a way to have her released.

  ‘However,’ the earl continued speculatively, ‘perhaps if you could prove your worth to the Queen … If you were to perform some great service to her throne, Her Majesty might find it within herself to forgive your transgression and consent to Mistress Morgan’s release – and to your marriage.’

  Goodluck scrutinized the Portuguese letter again. His attention was arrested by a phrase that seemed oddly convoluted. He frowned, reading on, the florid hand yielding up its secrets with difficulty. Something about the gift of a costly ring from the King’s own hand, sent as a gesture of good will, and had it been received yet by the proper person?

  A gold and diamond ring.

  ‘Perform some service to her throne?’ he repeated, rolling up the letter again.

  His lordship meant some further service, surely?

  ‘You mentioned an interview with this man d’Avila that you wished me to hear, my lord?’

  He removed his cloak and draped it over his arm. His heart was beating fast, for some parts at least of the puzzle that had nagged at him ever since Marlowe’s murder were beginning to fall into place.

  ‘Then I will need ink and paper if I am to translate the letter he was bearing.’r />
  In a threadbare suit and patched hose, Gomez d’Avila looked like a man at the end of his resources. His face was turned away from Goodluck’s vantage point for most of the interview, but he could see the coarse dark louse-ridden hair that d’Avila scratched at nervously while he spoke, and the scrawny neck painted with designs that Goodluck had seen before on the bodies of Arabs.

  ‘I swear to you, my good lord, I am merely a courier,’ he was telling Essex, via the translator, a man whose impatience and tendency to leave out half of what Gomez said marked him out as unreliable. ‘I was asked to bring this letter to England, a letter which contains nothing but negotiations of commerce between two gentlemen, and to wait for a reply. That is all I know. I swear this on my life. On my mother’s life. Read the letter, I beg of you, my lord. It is an innocent letter.’

  He waved his hands as though performing a spell to make his guilt disappear. ‘Innocent.’

  His hoarse whining tones were oddly familiar. Goodluck put his eye more closely to the spyhole, studying the man intently.

  Of course!

  In Nieuwpoort, Goodluck had known him as Juan. A quiet man, Juan had served in some minor capacity on Stanley’s staff, speaking nothing but fluent Spanish in public. Indeed, Goodluck had never suspected that he might in truth be Portuguese.

  ‘And to whom were you bearing this letter?’

  ‘I … I cannot recall at the moment, my lord. All these questions … It has gone out of my head.’

  ‘I need a name.’

  ‘It will come back to me. But I swear, no one important. An English merchant looking to buy some jewels. Some pearls, that is all. You will see from the letter.’

  ‘His abode?’