Her Last Assassin

by Victoria Lamb

They were not alone for their strange wedding. Cathy came to kneel behind her during the final prayers, and kissed her affectionately on the cheek when Lucy rose from her knees, now Mistress Goodluck.

  ‘I shall miss you,’ she told Lucy, and this time did not bother to conceal her tears.

  ‘Come and live with us in Oxfordshire,’ Lucy insisted. She knew that loneliness in her friend’s eyes. She had tasted it too often herself, waking in the night to cry alone and silently. There was no remedy for that pain, but love and good company could hold the shadows at bay for a little while at least. ‘No one will force you to stay at court, not any more. Walsingham appointed you and he is long dead. Ask formal leave to depart, then bring James and come to us. Not as a servant, but as my friend and companion. You will be made welcome there.’

  They embraced for a long moment outside the chapel, the snow falling around them.

  Cathy asked, ‘Are you sure?’ but she was smiling.

  ‘Goodluck will give you the directions.’ She kissed her oldest friend, then let her go. ‘I will not rest happy until I see you and James in Oxfordshire, Cathy. Do not fail me.’

  ‘I shall not,’ she promised.

  An odd shuffling figure at the back, hiding behind one of the Tower guards during the ceremony itself, turned out to have been Jensen, the barge woman. She pressed a clay pipe into Goodluck’s hand after the service, took off her cap to Lucy, then disappeared into the whitish dark, shambling back towards the river.

  Wearily, Lucy accepted the nods and winks of some of the Tower servants and guards. Men who would have taken her to the block if a death warrant had arrived. They had meant her no harm. It was only duty.

  The snow continued to fall, gently whitening the cruel grey towers around the walled enclosure. Lucy began to shiver, her teeth chattering. Someone put a cloak about her shoulders. She gripped its folds tightly, wondering if they would even manage the long journey into Oxfordshire, for if there was another day of snow the roads might become unpassable. Mistress Hall had been looking after her gloves while Lucy said her vows, but had vanished.

  Summoned at last from her supper, her jailor handed her gloves back with a thin smile.

  ‘I wish you well, mistress,’ was all she said before sweeping out, stiff-backed and broad-skirted, towards her quarters.

  Soon Master Goodluck was the only one she had not spoken to. It was late and she was cold. The sky was almost black, no stars burning yet. Lucy turned to look at him. Her husband.

  There was joy in her heart. But such weariness too, she could barely stand now that it was all over. Her body felt heavy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, as though she could have lain down in the snow and slept in its frozen stillness for the rest of eternity.

  Goodluck kissed her on the forehead, as if she were a child again. ‘You look tired,’ he said simply, and took her hand. ‘Not long now. One more task, and then I can take you home.’

  ‘One more task?’

  ‘The Queen is at Whitehall. She has sent for us, and we must obey her summons before we can leave London.’ He nodded towards the river. ‘Jensen is waiting to take us on her barge. But we must hurry, for the tide will soon be against us.’

  As they approached Whitehall by river, with all the long windows of that great palace illuminated by torches, Lucy began to feel less brave. She had told herself it was necessary to face the Queen again, to beg forgiveness for her acts of wantonness, and to thank Elizabeth for releasing them both from the Tower. But now that the moment was at hand, Lucy could almost wish herself back in her cell again.

  ‘Have courage, my love,’ Goodluck told her. ‘You must have faced worse than this over the years.’

  ‘True,’ Lucy agreed.

  Yet still she shivered in Goodluck’s arms and could not seem to take comfort from his whispered encouragement. The day was like a strange dream that was shifting slowly into nightmare. She had not thought to return to court ever again. Yet here were the jetty and the water steps, the choppy water making her sick, and there was the intimidating expanse of the Palace of Whitehall, unseen pennants flapping on the towers high above the river.

  Goodluck helped her ashore first, then stopped to exchange some muttered words with Jensen. Lucy looked ahead, her hard belly aching. She rubbed it absentmindedly.

  Liveried servants were waiting for them in the palace gateway, flaming torches keeping the dark at bay.

  She had not thought to see Goodluck again either, let alone become his wife. Yet here he was by her side, and she bore his name now. They had spoken their vows before God and their child would be born in wedlock. Born legitimate, wanted by both its father and mother.

  Whatever Queen Elizabeth intended to do or say to them, she could not change her mind and take away their marriage. It was done now.

  The steward led them through the long torchlit corridors Lucy had trodden once as a lady-in-waiting. It seemed so long ago now, as though another Lucy Morgan had served the Queen, a younger woman she no longer knew, a woman who lived in fear. She saw faces in doorways and through arches, watching them curiously as they passed. Most she recognized. Others were new.

  The court was like that, she thought, meeting their eyes in silence. Constantly renewing itself. Throwing up new courtiers to dance attendance on the Queen, still sweet and young, come fresh to the whispering and the intrigues. The old ones were washed away in the dark stretches of the night, dismissed or imprisoned, anywhere their lost reputations would not cause a stench.

  The old Lucy had feared everyone. Suspected everyone. But the long silences of her Tower cell had brought her to a new understanding of the court. Now she knew the only person to fear in this place was the Queen. For although Her Majesty had signed her release papers and agreed to her marriage to Goodluck, that did not mean she had finished with Lucy. All it meant was that someone had been persuasive. But who?

  She asked Goodluck this question, and he looked at her grimly. ‘Lord Essex.’

  Essex had been her champion?

  They arrived at an antechamber and an uninterested secretary, intent on his paperwork, instructed them to wait. A servant came to offer red wine. Lucy refused, but Goodluck accepted a cup with thanks. The wine was from the southern regions of France and darkly fragrant. It made Lucy feel queasy, sensitive to such smells in her condition. They stood slightly apart, waiting to be admitted into the Queen’s presence. Someone opened a door elsewhere, and a sharp wind blew through the room, rustling the secretary’s papers and filling out the tapestries which hung about the walls.

  Goodluck looked at her over the rim of his wine cup. ‘What was the information you offered Lord Essex?’

  She stared at him, thrown off guard by the sudden question.

  ‘In exchange for my freedom?’ he continued, watching her closely. ‘Do not bother to lie, Lucy. I know you too well to be taken in.’

  She hesitated. ‘I cannot tell you,’ she said in the end.

  ‘Why not?’ His gaze narrowed on her face, and she had the suspicion that Goodluck was angry. But at least his anger did not seem to be directed at her. Not that it ever had been. ‘Was it about William Shakespeare?’

  Did he know everything?

  ‘Yes,’ Lucy admitted, and felt her shoulders drop with the relief of not having to conceal it any longer.

  ‘You betrayed him to save me from imprisonment?’

  ‘Information was the only thing I had of any worth. And even then I was not sure it would be enough. But it was.’

  The flicker of something unfathomable passed across his face. Then he nodded. ‘Thank you, Lucy. I know how much it must have cost you.’

  She put a hand on the windowsill. Her sickness increased. It was not just the strong scent of the wine. She was sweating even in these wintry palace draughts. The room was spinning, the secretary’s face alight with avid curiosity as he looked up from his documents. No doubt the young man hoped she would faint and give him something to gossip about later. What a stroke of luck if the Queen’
s disgraced lady-in-waiting, the Ethiopian whore they called Lucy Morgan, should come to the palace large with the child of her sin, and pass out on the floor of his antechamber.

  ‘Did … Did Will suffer for it?’ Her guilt was almost unbearable. ‘I swear I did not want that. I just wanted to obtain your release from the Tower.’

  Goodluck put down his cup and took her hand. ‘Breathe,’ he told her, and stroked her palm. ‘You will only make yourself unwell like this. I do not know if Shakespeare suffered by your information. But I will always be grateful to you for volunteering it so bravely to Lord Essex, for your letter bought not only my freedom but our marriage. And when I finally get you home to Oxfordshire, and our child is born away from this city, safely and in good health, then it will have bought my happiness too.’

  Someone had come to the door while they were talking. Lucy looked round, her heart beating rapidly. It was Lady Helena.

  ‘Her Majesty will see you now.’

  Goodluck removed his cap. He smoothed down his bushy hair and beard, tidied his clothes. Then glanced at Lucy, suddenly uncertain. She gave him an unsmiling nod.

  Courage, my love.

  Though it was late, the Queen had not yet been prepared for bed. She was still in her magnificent court gown, the broad skirts a shining swathe of cloth of gold, her sleeves russet velvet seeded with pearls. Had there been a banquet tonight for some visiting foreign dignitary, earmarked to be dazzled by England’s wealth and grandeur?

  No doubt Her Majesty had been kept busy with state business after supper, Lucy thought. Hence the weary secretary outside, picking through the stack of papers she had signed. If Elizabeth had taken after her father Henry, those papers might have been composed of death warrants, seizure of lands, confiscation of goods. And their own death warrants would have been among the documents. Thankfully, it was more likely to be petty matters: import and export, land division, and release of yet more funds for expeditions, secret campaigns and seafaring offensives against Spain.

  Her ulcerated leg must have been paining her, for Queen Elizabeth had chosen to be seated to receive them. She sat upright, gripping the arms of her high-backed chair as though in pain. Her face was whitened with paint, her ruff a perfect halo slipped down about her neck. All her ladies appeared to have been dismissed for this interview, except for faithful Helena, who stood a few steps behind the Queen’s seat, not meeting Lucy’s eyes.

  The Queen turned her head, surveying them both in silence as they came into the chamber and fell to their knees before her. Something like resentment flickered in her eyes at the sight of Lucy’s heavily rounded body.

  Despite the lustrous cloth of gold, and those chaste seed pearls that matched the colour of her skin, Elizabeth looked old.

  Lucy gazed back at her with sudden pity, an emotion she had not felt for the Queen since she had been a young girl, newly brought into her service.

  But it seemed the Queen felt little pity for her.

  ‘Even you,’ she muttered, her lips twitching with disgust as she examined Lucy’s belly. ‘Mistress Morgan, who was once so proud to remain a virgin by my side. Now everyone can see the mark of lasciviousness upon you.’ Helena leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. The Queen sighed and nodded. ‘But you are Mistress Goodluck now. I had forgotten you were to be married to your seducer. And this is he. Stand up, Master Goodluck, so I may look upon you properly.’

  Goodluck stood, bowing his head in deference. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ she said drily.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Lord Essex has sent me …’ The Queen glanced at Helena, who handed her a paper. She unrolled it laboriously and read for a moment, frowning. ‘Yes, your family were disgraced under my royal sister. Is that not so? Your father executed for heresy, your lands confiscated and given to … Catholics.’ She sighed, reading on, then handed the roll back to Helena. ‘Master Goodluck, I am told by his lordship the Earl of Essex that, despite your lecherous nights with my lady-in-waiting, you have done good service to our throne. He informs me that by your bravery and skilled understanding, certain other men’s sins and intrigues have been brought to light that might have endangered our life. What do you have to say to that, sir?’

  ‘I have done nothing but my duty to Your Majesty and to England,’ he said clearly, ‘and would do so again tomorrow.’

  ‘A good reply,’ she said approvingly.

  Of course it was a good reply, Lucy thought proudly, watching them together. Goodluck was a man in a court of boys and fools, and now her husband.

  Elizabeth extended one of her hands, still thin and pale, jewelled. Goodluck knelt before her and bent his head, kissing it.

  ‘I am Your Majesty’s servant,’ he said deeply, and Lucy heard complete obedience in his voice.

  ‘You are a younger son, I understand.’

  Goodluck hesitated, then nodded cautiously. ‘I am indeed, Your Majesty. My brother, Julius Goodluck, is the head of our family.’

  ‘At Lord Essex’s suggestion,’ Elizabeth announced, not looking at Lucy but at her husband, ‘your original estate will be returned to your family. However, your lands have been granted to you alone, Master Goodluck, and not to your older brother. If he has any grievance with this, he may approach the Privy Council for compensation.’

  Goodluck was staring up at her, still on his knees. For a moment he could not speak. Then he managed a hoarse ‘I thank you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Save your thanks for Lord Essex,’ the Queen countered sharply, ‘at whose suggestion all this has been arranged. May you endeavour to deserve these honours, Master Goodluck, and live out the rest of your days in allegiance to this throne.’

  It seemed their business was concluded. Queen Elizabeth looked past him at Lucy. Her eyes became suddenly misty. She drew an unsteady breath, and her fingers tapped on the arms of her chair in a long-familiar gesture.

  The Queen raised her hand in the air. ‘A blessing on your union,’ she said, ‘and on your child.’ Then she dismissed them with an abrupt gesture. ‘That is enough. Out, out!’

  Taking Lucy’s hand, Goodluck led her to the door, still bowing to the Queen. Outside the door, ignoring the secretary’s angry stare, he kissed her as passionately as though they had only that moment been married.

  ‘My lands restored,’ he said in her ear, ‘you my wife and carrying my child. What have I done to deserve such joy?’

  Lucy smiled. ‘Take me home, Goodluck.’

  Epilogue

  Greenway Manor, Oxfordshire, January 1594

  WEARILY, GOODLUCK LAID down the letter he had received from a man he knew at court – he had learned not to call them spies, for that word distressed his sister-in-law – and looked out of the window. So Lopez had been arrested at last, and committed to the Tower. Poor foolish man, thinking he could keep King Philip happy without ever doing his bidding, yet still escape detection. His possession of the diamond ring sent from Spain would be enough on its own to convict him, but Essex was apparently leaving nothing to chance. He wanted Lopez tortured until he confessed. The Queen was having none of it, of course. She did not believe the charges against her old Portuguese doctor either. But Essex would win in the end. Queen Elizabeth would eventually concede that a confession of some sort was required, and then Topcliffe would be called to work his dreadful trade.

  The busy world of London and the court seemed so far away here. It had been snowing again in the night, and even the old barn had been obscured, a white shape where a row of tiny indented paw-prints showed the cat had been climbing after robins. Twice Goodluck and the servants had been out in the night with the dogs, chasing off a fox who kept coming for their hens. Snow had gleamed like daylight across the valley, muffling their footsteps across the yard, the icy wind freezing his nethers under a too-short nightshirt.

  Then just as he was settling back to sleep, Lucy had woken him again, complaining of pains.

  ‘The chil
d is coming,’ she had whispered. ‘Rouse Cathy. She will know what to do.’

  He had shrugged back into his coat, still damp with snow, and woken Cathy. She had run down to the kitchen for hot water, her son James staring up from his bed with wide eyes.

  ‘What is happening, Master Goodluck?’

  ‘Nothing to make you fret. Go back to sleep, boy.’

  He had woken the servants, then gone back to find Lucy kneeling beside the bed, not praying but moaning and gripping the coverlet in her fists as the pains strengthened.

  ‘Have young John Sky ride for the midwife,’ she whispered, sucking in her breath as another spasm rippled across her belly, ‘and send Thomas over to your brother’s farm. Agnes wishes to be here for the birth.’

  It had been hard, leaving his wife in Cathy’s care while she was in such pain. But he was a man, and men were not wanted at a birth. So Goodluck had called for some ham and ale for breakfast, then spent a few solitary hours pacing restlessly before a smoking fire in his study, waiting for the other women to arrive.

  The midwife was bustled straight up to their bedchamber, the door closing sharply, but not before he had heard his wife’s moaning cry. His hands clenched into fists, he had stood silent in the hall below, listening in case her cries worsened – or stopped altogether.

  Then his brother and sister-in-law arrived. Agnes kissed him and went straight upstairs, her arms full of linen for the new baby, a gift. Behind her ran his young niece Eloise, carrying copper pans and other implements, as though they had been preparing for this event ever since he had come home to Oxfordshire, accompanied by a wife big with child.

  His brother Julius, leaning heavily on a cane, laughed at his expression. ‘Come, Little Brother. Let us go into your study and wait where it is warm. We can do nothing in this business. It’s best that we leave this to the women.’

  ‘But Lucy is in such terrible pain. She may need me.’

  ‘Birth pains are always bad, but they are soon forgotten once the babe is born and is seen to be healthy. Women have amazingly adaptable memories. You will see.’ Julius limped painstakingly into the study and eased himself into a seat beside the fire. ‘What is this you have been reading, Faithful? Some news from London? Forgive me if it is a private letter, but you left it lying here on the seat.’