‘Master Shakespeare,’ she murmured, and curtseyed, rising to look at him with a shy smile. ‘I didn’t know you had returned from London.’
‘I only came home last night.’
‘Oh, but your face …!’
Her husband touched her arm. ‘Master Shakespeare was set upon by vagabonds.’ He glanced at Will, and this time his mockery was plain. ‘A large band of them, I presume?’
‘Three only,’ he admitted. ‘But they got my dagger off me, and after that I had no chance.’
Sally shook her head. ‘How dreadful!’
‘That’s London for you.’
She looked at him secretively from under her lashes. ‘Well, I still wish I could visit London. Christopher said he would take me there one day, to see the great bridge spanning the river Thames and all the traitors’ heads stuck up on pikes.’ She caught her husband’s warning glance, and pouted. ‘But little Ned would miss me sorely, even if I left him with my mother. And I shall have another child come the spring, so I suppose I must stay at home.’
‘It is a long journey,’ Will told her uncomfortably.
She smiled. A delicate twitch of her lips. ‘Yet I heard your wife, Anne, travelled all the way to the city last week to visit you.’
And to fetch you back, were her unspoken words.
Will was suddenly angry, despite the young wife’s loveliness and the bloom in her cheeks. Was this one of the women who had been mocking Anne behind her back?
‘Yes, and then I brought her home again.’ Pointedly, he touched his battered cheek. ‘The city is no fit place for a decent woman.’
There was an awkward silence.
An icy wind whistled past his ears, chilly on the back of his neck where his cap was not pulled down far enough. Snow was on its way, or something even colder. Less forgiving.
He glanced at young Hamnet, then back at his friend. ‘Forgive me, Christopher, but we must get on. The afternoons draw in so early these days, and I do not wish to lose the light.’
They walked on together, again in silence, following the course of the river. The Avon flowed sluggishly past under a darkening sky.
Will found the glassy pool on the bend where he used to fish as a boy, and waited there while his young son slipped like a shadow along the river bank, hunting for worms to bait their rods. Once he had done the same for his own father. Now it was his turn to stand and wait, staring at the river as it rolled inexorably past.
The widening current of the Avon ran greyish-green past the bend, under trees stripped bare by winter. Yet where the water steadied itself against the edge of the pool, it seemed lighter, reflecting stark fingers against a backcloth of cloud. And a man, though his face was unclear.
While they waited for the fish to bite, Will showed Hamnet how to whistle through a blade of grass, making a sound like a wild duck crying overhead.
‘That’s it,’ he said encouragingly, listening to his son’s strangled efforts. ‘Though not so hard. Don’t force the breath. It should come natural.’
It started to snow. Hamnet smiled, gazing upwards as tiny flecks of white swirled down and coated his little cap and shoulders. Then he stuck out his tongue, as all small boys do, and laughed when an icy snowflake landed there, melting swiftly.
‘You will not be able to return to London if the snow becomes too deep for cartwheels to pass,’ Hamnet said after a while, then sat down beside Will on the bank.
‘Unless I ride back,’ Will commented lightly.
His son looked at him for a long moment, all his childish joy at the snow abruptly forgotten. ‘Are you going to ride back, sir?’
How cruel he was. The boy was crestfallen. His dark eyes stared as if in anticipation of a blow. He just wanted to hear that his father would not ride, that he would stay until Christmas, until New Year, until spring …
Or maybe for ever.
‘I have to return to London soon,’ he told the boy gently. ‘You know that I must, Hamnet, that I am needed in the theatre. That is where I earn my keep. And must continue to do so, more so than ever now, since your mother has set her heart on a fine new home.’
Hamnet nodded, then dragged up the rough collar of his jacket against the wintry air. His hand crept into Will’s and bunched there, as though trying to warm itself. He squeezed the boy’s fingers. They were cold as stone.
‘Your hand is frozen. Where are your gloves?’
‘I forgot them,’ Hamnet admitted sheepishly.
Will sighed, then drew off his own sheepskin gloves and slipped them over his son’s hands. ‘Here, put these on.’
His gloves were ridiculously huge on the boy, like cows’ udders dangling from each hand, but at least Hamnet would not suffer the danger of frostbite. He himself could always blow hard on his fingers and clap his hands all the way home, to keep the blood moving so it would not freeze to ice in his veins.
‘Father, will you take me to London one day? To see the big round theatre where your plays are performed?’
His voice was a thin piping against the wind, almost drowned by its chill whistle. The snow was falling more heavily about them now, beginning to whiten the grassy banks of the river. The boy looked down at the gloves Will had given him, studying the stitchwork, as though afraid to meet his eyes.
‘I know you will not take Mother, because she is a woman. But will you take me? Not now, but when I am older? Please, sir?’
‘When you are older,’ he said, ‘I will take you to London with me and show you the world. That I promise you.’
Hamnet’s face lit up with incredulous pleasure, as though the boy had not expected that answer, would never have expected it.
Will smiled down at his son. A promise. Such a simple thing to bring such joy.
‘Now, young Master Shakespeare, how about those fish?’
Six
‘IT’S SNOWING!’ Cathy exclaimed.
Lucy came to stand at her shoulder, pressing her own cold face into the narrow angle where the window looked down to the river Thames. On the path below, between the high stone wall and the tower that blocked the afternoon light, was a faint dusting of snow. As they watched, flakes began to come more thickly, whirling past the window and whitening the path down to the river.
Shivering, Lucy wandered back to her chair and sat down. The sun would go down soon and there was a brisk wind off the river, whistling through the crack under the door and about the window frame. It was November now. Already her small cell was icy at night. Would she be kept there all winter, she wondered?
Perhaps she would stay here for ever, a prisoner of the grim Tower. Or until the old Queen died and she could sue for pardon from the new monarch.
It was not a comforting thought, and she put it aside.
She drew on her gloves again and clapped her hands together, trying to keep warm. Cathy had brought a book of sonnets with her, and Lucy had discarded her gloves in order to turn the pages. But it was too late for such pleasures now. The daylight was failing. Within an hour it would be too dark to read except by candlelight, and she did not want to waste her candle allowance unnecessarily.
‘Snow makes everything look so pure,’ Cathy murmured.
‘And cold,’ Lucy added, pragmatically.
‘You have no poetry in you,’ Cathy complained, frowning.
‘Sometimes it is better that way. Poetry can be beautiful, I will not deny it. But too much poetry can blind you to the harsh truths of this life. Such as being too cold to think, let alone read a poem.’
‘Perhaps we should build up the fire before it gets dark.’
Lucy glanced dubiously at the low fire, barely giving out any heat, then at their meagre store of logs on the hearth.
‘Mistress Hall will be furious if we ask for more wood.’
Irritable now, Cathy picked up the book of sonnets she had brought and flicked through it. ‘Let us burn poetry to keep warm then. I could read a poem, and then if it is no good, we will tear out the page and burn it. How about thi
s old one by Thomas Wyatt?’ She glanced over the first few lines of the poem, then giggled. ‘This will make you laugh. Listen to how it begins …
‘They flee from me that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot stalking within my chamber:
Once have I seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild, and do not once remember,
That sometime they have put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range
Busily seeking in continual change …’
‘Hush, put it away,’ Lucy warned her hurriedly, for she could hear heavy footsteps on the winding stair. ‘Someone is coming. Besides, that is quite the wrong poet to have chosen, for did not Master Wyatt almost lose his head in this dreadful place? And indeed his son lost his after a revolt against Queen Mary.’
Cathy looked aghast. ‘You are right. I had forgotten.’ She threw the book down. ‘Horrid thing.’
The door was being unlocked, the key being turned, the outside bolt drawn back.
Lucy heard Mistress Hall outside, talking to someone urgently. She sounded almost angry.
A man replied, his voice low and somehow familiar, and the hairs prickled a sudden warning on the back of her neck.
She sat forward in her chair, breathing quickly now, a protective hand resting on her rounded belly. What was it now? She had so few visitors these days, any change to her routine had become a cause for alarm. Every now and then, when the wind was still, she would hear the distant cries of the crowd as someone was whipped or hanged out on Tower Hill, and her blood would run cold. Perhaps one day they would come for her, she thought wildly. Once the babe was born, of course, for no woman in her condition could be hanged. Though the Queen could not hate her that much, surely? Not over a simple case of wanton behaviour. Yet still her mind ran on, unable to rest, fearing the worst of the Queen’s anger.
The door was thrown open at last. Master Goodluck stood there on the threshold, cloaked and capped, his beard more silvered than ever, but his eyes bright and intent on her face.
‘Lucy, my love.’ He opened his arms and she stood up, gasping, then stumbled towards him. He caught her before she fell. ‘Your ordeal is over. We are to be married.’
She stared. What had he said to her?
‘Married?’
‘Here in the Tower chapel. It is true, I swear on my life.’ He put a hand to the hard swell of her belly, his touch oddly gentle for such a large man. ‘I do not wish to hurry you, my love. But the priest and witnesses are waiting for us below in the chapel of St Peter, and the place is very cold indeed. I will help you down the stairway, you need not fear that you will slip.’
She saw Cathy staring too and wondered vaguely if this was a trick. But why would Goodluck trick her? She could not think. Everything was topsy-turvy.
He put a finger under her chin, raising her bewildered face to his. ‘Look at me, Lucy. We shall be married this very day. Then I am taking you home with me to Oxfordshire.’
‘But Her Majesty—’
‘Calm yourself,’ he told her, and pulled off one of her gloves to kiss her hand. His beard tickled her cold knuckles. ‘It was the Queen herself who signed the papers for your release.’
Inexplicably, Lucy began to cry.
‘Hold me,’ she whispered, and paid no attention to Mistress Hall’s cluck of disapproval when he finally took her in his arms. ‘I am so tired. Please hold me.’
She lay against his chest, limp and exhausted by the months she had spent in that place, mostly alone, mostly in fear for her life, and hardly ever knowing where Goodluck was, whether he was alive or not, whether he still loved her. Now he was there, and she could scarcely believe it.
Two guards entered and spoke to Mistress Hall. Two more people to witness her tears. She buried her face deeper in his chest and listened to his heart.
‘I thought you would not come. That this was the end for me.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said deeply, then hesitated. She knew he could not speak freely before the others. ‘I had things to do. You know my calling.’
‘I know, I did not doubt you. I doubted myself.’
‘I believed in you, Lucy. I knew you would be strong. Indeed, it was only that knowledge which allowed me to go about my business.’
He shook his cloak back to hide her from the others, the thick material flecked with wet from the snow, and drew her aside to the tiny alcove space where she slept.
It was not much in the way of privacy, but at least she was shielded from their curious gazes by his broad back.
‘You are frozen!’
She heard the anger in his voice. Goodluck looked about at the ugly bare walls of the cell, the narrow window which let in the draught, then at the modest glow of the fire, almost burned out now.
‘This place is barbaric. No woman in your condition should be kept a prisoner here. Come, I know you are not strong, but you must allow me to help you down the stairs to the chapel, and then on to Oxfordshire as fast as we can.’ He took her bare hand and began to rub it between his own, warming her skin. ‘It is a wonder you are not dead from the cold in this godforsaken place, you and the babe too!’
‘Are you angry with me, Goodluck?’
‘Angry with you?’ It was his turn to stare, uncomprehending. ‘Over what?’
Deliberately, she drew his hand back to her hard belly, and laid it there, pressing down. At that moment, the babe within kicked. She saw his gaze widen in shock, then fly to her face, startled by the presence of another being between them.
‘The child,’ she whispered. ‘Are you angry that I kept it a secret all these months? That I did not tell even you, though you are the father?’
Goodluck closed his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head. When he opened them again, there was a hint of laughter in his face. ‘My dearest love, I know I am the father. There was never any thought in my head otherwise. Though I admit, when I first learned that you were with child, I was angry with you for not telling me as soon as you knew yourself.’
He stroked her swollen belly, and the child kicked again, provoking one of his broad smiles. The room was suddenly warmer. She basked in his presence, his smile. She had never thought to see that smile again, nor be held in his arms like this, nor listen to his deep voice that always struck at the chord of her heart.
‘But then I thought of how you are, Lucy. Of how you have always been. I thought of your pride and stubbornness. And I understood.’
‘You forgive me?’
He kissed her, and she felt a sudden, fierce desire beat beneath her skin with a wildness that was almost uncontainable.
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ he murmured against her mouth, then drew back to gaze at her sombrely. ‘How could there be something to forgive? You were alone here, Lucy, and made your choices as you thought best. I would have done the same in your position.’
‘You are a man. You could never be in my position. But I should have told you. Only I could not trust that you wouldn’t … I thought it might lead to more grief.’
‘Let us have no more grief,’ he said flatly. ‘Surely we have taken our fill of grief. It is time for fate to release us so we can live out our days in peace.’
‘Amen.’
He thought for a moment. He held her hands, his head bent. ‘When I heard you were with child, Lucy, I was overjoyed. All my life I have considered myself unworthy to be a father. Then, when you and I first lay together, I began to think … I dared to hope that we might have a child together.’
‘You wanted a child?’
‘A child from our love. And son or daughter, it will be loved.’
She smiled, drawing strength from his words. ‘Yes, it will be loved.’
‘Come then, now that we have agreed that, and let us be married before God and the witnesses below.’ His smile was weary, but it was self-mocking. He had been released from captivity, but he too had been alone. He had wandered in the darkness and doubted her lo
ve. ‘Unless you do not wish to be my wife. You have had ample time to think, up here in your cold tower room. Perhaps you have grown to enjoy solitude. Perhaps I am no longer the man for you.’
‘Don’t,’ she managed, choking. ‘Please don’t.’
Goodluck let his cloak drop away. The glow of the firelight intruded, and the stares of the others, watching. They were no longer alone.
‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘But I had to be sure. Now that I am, are you ready to be married, my love?’
‘My things …’
‘Cathy will pack them for you while we descend to the chapel.’
She glanced at her friend, and Cathy nodded her consent. She was smiling now, but Lucy could see she had been crying.
Cathy too had suffered from the life they led at court. She had been forced to lie and betray, though it was not in her nature to be so cruel. She was not even free to be with her son, James, who was growing up in Norfolk. She had not seen the boy for years.
Lucy put a hand to her belly. She would not be separated from this child, even if it meant her disgrace. Even if it meant her death.
‘Then I am ready.’
Outside, snow had fallen white across the grass and pathways that threaded the confines of the Tower walls. The wind from the river was still blowing sharply, like a knife under her skirts as she raised them, stepping carefully through the snow. Though only late afternoon, it was already darkening to dusk, the November sky heavy with more snow.
Goodluck led her across to the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, where they knelt on the cold flagstones to speak their vows. The chapel was long and narrow, a row of fluted columns supporting the roof. The remnants of daylight poured through high windows. God’s light, falling upon their shoulders. She spoke quietly, affirming her faith, her hand in Goodluck’s. His voice echoed hers. In the shadowy side aisle, she caught an occasional glimpse of priests moving about their business, lighting glimmering banks of candles against the winter’s dark.
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