‘No, it’s rather that I like it too much. But how stupidly steep this hill is. Why must castles always be built on a hill?’ She paused for breath on the grassy verge, leaning on his arm. ‘Now, young Sidney, don’t dare laugh at me. My shoes pinch horribly and this sun is too bright.’
By the time they reached the castle walls, Elizabeth had dismounted from her horse at the castle gatehouse beside a filthy, hunchbacked old woman to whom she appeared to be talking. Puffed and preened like an exotic bird, the Queen was dressed in silver and white, a thousand tiny pearls stitched painstakingly into the sleeves and rich bodice of her gown, a white-feathered cap set aslant on the riot of her curly red wig. Her careless laughter rang out above the heads of the villagers who had gathered to watch her returning from Mass.
If her older sister Queen Mary had ever visited Kenilworth and gone to hear Mass in the village church, certainly she would not have returned laughing so immoderately, dazzling bright in pearls and cloth of silver.
Robert stood apart from Elizabeth, and was holding the reins of her horse while she walked among the commoners. His face revealed nothing but good humour, patient as a rock as he waited for his queen.
Lettice looked at the old woman in her rags. Her lips twitched. Where in God’s name did Robert find these people?
She excused herself from Pip’s company with a quick curtsey and moved gently up behind Robert, her tread silent on the grass. The Moorish singer who appeared to have attached herself like a shadow to him was still there, a thick gold chain about her neck that Lettice could have sworn belonged to Robert. The singer caught Lettice’s warning glance and slipped hurriedly away into the massed crowd of courtiers. As soon as she was out of earshot, Lettice laid a careful hand on Robert’s sleeve.
‘My lord?’
Robert did not speak nor turn his head, merely indicating with a nod that he had heard. His gaze remained on Elizabeth, steady and watchful.
‘I expected to see you last night,’ she commented. ‘I waited till after three before I slept.’
‘I was with the Queen, as you knew I would be.’
‘You are not alone in having spies about the Queen, my lord.’ Lettice lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I know you were not with her all night.’
Robert glanced at her then, clearly irritated, and she felt a stab of hurt. ‘Yesterday was a long day. We were all tired.’
Lettice drew a quick breath, as she remembered the hours they had spent together in the past, everything sweet and right in each other’s arms, the whole world shut out and good riddance. Had Robert lost all memory of that joy now? Was he still blinded by his restless ambition for the throne, the same crazy ambition that had led to the execution of both his father and his older brother?
What fools these Dudleys were! It was through nothing but the simplest fluke of birth that Elizabeth Tudor sat on the throne of England and not Lettice herself. For she was not only cousin to the Queen, but her niece as well.
Everyone knew that her mother Catherine Carey had been Elizabeth’s half-sister, fathered by randy old King Henry and passed off at court as Sir William Carey’s child. A cuckoo in the nest, they’d called her fiery mother, and Lettice herself was the image of her red-haired cousin. It might be treason to think such things but Lettice had as much right to the English throne as Elizabeth. For King Henry had declared Elizabeth a bastard after her mother’s execution, which surely made her no more his rightful heir than Lettice’s illegitimate mother.
Of course, such dangerous possibilities could not be voiced, not even to a potential ally like Robert, for this would be the swiftest path to the block.
‘Will you visit me tonight, then?’ she asked instead, forcing herself to adopt a softer tone, to swallow her impatience and her growing desire for him.
Elizabeth had turned away from the old woman. Now she was bending to bless a sweet-looking child who had fallen to her knees on the grass verge and was holding up a ragged bouquet of pink gillyflowers.
‘I cannot. You know how it is.’
‘But I must see you privately. Yesterday, you said—’
‘I said it was not possible, and that is still the case.’ There was a sharp anger to his voice, a clipped tone she did not recognize. ‘You must not ask me this again. Not at Kenilworth. We are watched on all sides here. It’s too dangerous. The wisest course for us would be to wait until the end of the summer, when we will be safely back in London and can meet without fear of being seen.’
For a moment, Lettice found herself unable to respond. Her hands crushed the fine taffeta of her gown in despair. Was she some lowly servant, like the Moorish girl creeping at his heels all morning, to take this coldness from him, this brusque dismissal? Was she – whose family was as good as his, Boleyns and Dudleys, their fortunes entwined for generations about the throne of England – to be ordered back to kennel like one of his hunting dogs?
Fury burned away her fears. ‘I tell you this, Robert,’ she whispered. ‘If you do not visit me soon, you will never come to my bed again. This I swear by Christ’s holy blood.’
His dark eyes sought hers, and she experienced a wave of triumph as she read surprise and uncertainty in that look. Robert Dudley had thought her weak and easily handled – a woman like his dead wife, Amy Robsart, a submissive fool who had never been bidden to court despite her husband’s prominence and who, by all accounts, had made little enough trouble wherever he chose to lay his head at night.
Well, he would soon discover his mistake if he could not find more respect in his heart for a prominent member of the Boleyn family.
Elizabeth was nearly upon them, her narrow-chinned face intent, the posy of gillyflowers clutched to her breast.
‘Watch for my note,’ he whispered at last.
Then he turned and bowed low to Elizabeth, his smile suddenly warm and engaging. ‘Will you ride back into the castle, Your Majesty, or walk the rest of the way? It’s only a few steps to the inner courtyard. There’ll be food and drink served to the whole court there, and a rustic play laid on for your entertainment. Then perhaps a song or two from young Lucy Morgan, and a troupe of Florentine acrobats who can walk on their hands, bent over backwards like crabs.’
Elizabeth looked from his face to Lettice’s, as though she knew perfectly well what had passed between them, then gave a smile like a sliver of ice. ‘Let my horse be led back to the stables. I shall walk, as God intended even a queen to do, and enjoy these entertainments you’ve described. But is all this to be held in the open air? Will there be shade for myself and my ladies? You know I cannot bear my skin to be freckled.’
Robert bowed, handing the horse’s reins to a squire. ‘My men have put up a canopy for you and your ladies, and there’ll be a goodly amount of shade for those courtiers who sit beneath the walls.’
‘Then let us walk in together.’ Elizabeth hesitated, and her gaze returned to Lettice’s face. The malice in her eyes was unmistakable. ‘My lady Essex, return to the state apartments and fetch my silver slippers, would you? You will know better than anyone else where to find them, for you are always such a help to me when I am dressing. And how else am I to be comfortable during these entertainments except in slippers?’
Lettice curtseyed deep as the Queen swept past and through the broad archway of the gatehouse. Her head was lowered dutifully but her heart burned with an indignation nigh impossible to conceal.
She, wife to the much-honoured Earl of Essex, sent scurrying off like a trained lapdog to fetch slippers?
But Robert had capitulated. For all his cold looks and ambitious plans for the throne, he was afraid to lose her. When she thought of the love they had shared in secret, the blood rose to her temples and she felt the old, familiar ache of loneliness and desolation. If her husband were less cruel, perhaps she would not have to seek comfort in another man’s arms.
Watch for my note.
She knew what those words signified. As he had often done before, he would arrange a private room where the
y could meet. Perhaps today. Perhaps this very afternoon, while the Queen watched the rustic players on the lawns and listened to her Moorish singer.
Passing unchallenged between the card-playing guards at the entrance, Lettice smiled secretly to herself as she picked up her heavy skirts to ascend the stairs to the royal apartments. Oh, Elizabeth might keep Robert Dudley hard at her heel like the obedient hound he was, but Lettice Knollys held his heart.
Thirteen
IT WAS STIFLINGLY hot, even in the shade of the broad, gold-fringed canopy. The Queen’s ladies, slumped about their mistress on the grass, snored gently throughout the rustic play. Queen Elizabeth herself, having been presented with dish after dish of sweetmeats, nuts and honeyed quince, and having consumed several beakers of the local wine, began to doze on her ornate wooden seat. The rustic players, glancing at one another in surprise and disbelief, continued to act out their play, but in soft, barely audible voices, as though afraid to disturb anyone. Beyond them, the courtiers talked among themselves, the noblemen red-faced and bored, some playing dice on the grass, others sleeping, their ladies fanning themselves frantically in the overwhelming heat, only a few joining in with sporadic applause at each change of scene.
Lucy, standing in the hot sun at the very edge of the Queen’s canopy, where Leicester had ordered her to wait over an hour before, was relieved when he finally re-emerged from the buildings behind her. She was beginning to feel a little faint, but revived at the sight of him striding towards her. He had promised that she would sing before the Queen and assembled courtiers that afternoon, and though the very thought of such an honour left her belly cramped with terror, nonetheless she would not shy away from this opportunity.
Her only wish was that Master Goodluck, who had also slipped away before the play began, would return before she had to sing.
‘Lucy Morgan!’
Leicester came towards her and she curtseyed very low in response. Knowing her gown to be a little shabby, she blushed, wishing she could hide. Anything to avoid those dark clever eyes.
‘Are you ready to sing for the Queen?’
‘As much as I will ever be,’ she said boldly, keeping her chin high.
Leicester smiled at her bravado, but she could see that something was troubling him. He drew her aside a little way and spoke softly in her ear, holding her hands. ‘If I give you a letter, Lucy, will you carry it to the Countess of Essex? Privately, without a word to anyone?’
Lucy stiffened. This was some courtly intrigue of the kind Goodluck had often warned her about. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered, and pulled her hands free of his.
‘There is no danger,’ he promised her.
She flushed. ‘Then why not give it to her yourself?’
Leicester hesitated, and glanced cautiously at the sleeping Queen. Then he whispered, ‘We are watched on all sides, Lucy. My heart is breaking for this lady, who is so unhappily married. Let me at least write my love to her, and learn whether she feels the same. I know you are not a cruel girl. Will you do me this favour?’
Lucy did not know what to say. Leicester stared into her eyes and she bit her lip, not wanting to deny him anything.
‘Lucy?’ he coaxed her gently.
‘Yes,’ she agreed at last. ‘But only if you promise it is nothing treasonous.’
He nodded soberly and laid a hand across his heart. ‘I promise you most faithfully, Lucy Morgan, that it shall be a love letter and nothing else. I will bring it to you in a few days.’
The players finished their dumbshow and bowed. But they did not disperse. Instead, they looked towards the canopy where the Queen still slept, her head on her hand, snoring quietly. Then they looked at Leicester questioningly, and Lucy realized for the first time how much power he wielded at court.
Leicester gestured to one of the women at the Queen’s side. ‘Wake her.’
‘Your Majesty?’ the young woman whispered, her pretty face flushed with the heat.
The Queen snorted, jerking awake. Her flaming red wig was slightly askew.
‘Your slippers, Your Majesty.’
Lucy, watching from beyond the deep green shade of the canopy, saw a look of intense suspicion on the Queen’s face as the young woman knelt before her, holding out a pair of extravagant silver-toed slippers.
‘Where is the Countess of Essex?’
‘She has returned to the royal apartments, Your Majesty. Lady Essex was taken sick with a headache. She said the sunlight—’
‘Oh, enough.’ The Queen looked about her, aware of the court waiting. Impatiently, she accepted a cup of wine from a bowing servant and waved at the young woman before her, still on her knees. ‘Just put my slippers on, Helena. My feet ache.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
With careful hands, the lady-in-waiting eased off the Queen’s riding boots and replaced them with the silver-toed slippers.
‘Have the players finished?’
The girl nodded and bore the riding boots away, curtseying low before the Queen as she retreated. Elizabeth sighed and gave the signal for applause. The rustic players bowed reverently before her, then trailed off through the archway, carrying their props.
‘Well, what next?’
Robert stepped forward under the canopy, bowing and flourishing his cap. The Queen turned her attention to him at once, oddly girlish, her small eyes widening.
‘Lord Robert?’
‘The Moorish girl is to sing for you, Your Majesty.’
He beckoned Lucy forward, then took several steps backwards, leaving her alone in front of the seated Queen.
‘Ah yes, your young blackbird. Well, she is indeed a handsome girl,’ the Queen observed, looking Lucy over. Her voice sharpened. ‘And of a marriageable age. Do you ever dream of getting a husband, child?’
Lucy blushed, confused by this intimate and unexpected question. ‘No, Your Majesty.’
‘Never?’
Lucy swallowed. She felt the eyes of the court upon her and was suddenly unsure what kind of answer she was required to make. ‘I … I have never turned my mind to marriage, Your Majesty.’
The Queen seemed pleased enough with this reply. She nodded, sitting back with a long sigh. ‘But you like to sing, child?’
‘I do, Your Majesty.’
Lucy curtseyed as low as she was able, feeling awkward, all arms and legs like a giant spider. Her gown might be clean and serviceable, but she knew it to be plain compared to that of the Queen’s ladies – whose stares of amused inspection she could feel on the back of her neck.
‘I enjoyed listening to your song as we returned from church this morning. You have a sweet, engaging voice. When I was your age I was often to be found singing, though my sister Mary strongly disapproved and would rather I occupied myself with prayer, especially on the Lord’s Day.’ She suddenly frowned, leaning forward in her carved chair again as though to see Lucy better. ‘What is your birth, child?’
‘My parents were Moorish, Your Majesty. But I am a Christian, born and baptized here in England.’
‘And your name?’
‘Lucy Morgan, Your Majesty.’
‘That is a good Christian name. Tell me about your parents.’
‘They are dead, Your Majesty. My father was the leader of his tribe in … in Africa, I think. When the slaving ships came, they raided our village and took my parents captive. My father died of a fever on the long sea journey. My mother was brought to England with her master, but she … she got sick and died in London a few days after I was born.’ Lucy’s voice wavered and fell away before the searching look in the Queen’s face. ‘I know nothing else, Your Majesty.’
‘If your mother died in childbirth, who told you this fantastical tale of slave ships and fevers?’
‘My guardian told me, Your Majesty.’
The Queen waited in silence, her long jewelled fingers tapping the arms of her high-backed seat, as though expecting to hear more. Nervously, Lucy glanced back at Leicester; he merely nodded at her to go on.
‘My guardian took my mother in when she was sick, and later paid for my baptism and education. His name is Master Goodluck and he lives in London.’
The Queen raised her eyebrows. ‘This man was “good luck” for you, certainly,’ she quipped, and those nobles within earshot laughed heartily, a few even clapping their hands at the jest. ‘He must be a true Samaritan indeed, to have taken in a sick woman with child and brought up her orphaned babe after she died.’
Lucy met the Queen’s gaze frankly, not quite able to believe her own daring. ‘Master Goodluck is the best man I know, Your Majesty.’
One of the younger ladies-in-waiting snorted with laughter behind her fan. The Queen shifted in her seat, her pale, heavily ringed hands curled like claws about the ends of the chair arms. She turned her gaze back to Lucy.
‘So your father was the leader of his people? That would make him a king, as my own father was.’ She stared across at her broodingly. ‘Could his throne pass from father to daughter? Or only from father to son?’
Lucy hesitated. Goodluck had spoken about her mother on only a couple of occasions since her childhood, and she had known almost nothing about her father. She could not even be sure that her parents had come from Africa. She stood a moment with her too-long arms hanging loose by her sides, eyes scrunched up against the sun, trying to imagine that hot, distant country.
‘I cannot say with any certainty, Your Majesty. Perhaps only from father to son.’
The Queen settled back on her tall wooden seat, silver-toed slippers glittering as they caught the light. Far from being angered by Lucy’s awkward replies, she seemed curious and amused.
‘I have had enough of rustic plays this afternoon. Shall we hear you sing instead, Lucy Morgan?’
‘If it please Your Majesty, yes.’
Lucy sank into another deep curtsey. The heavy silence before a song, once so daunting to her, now felt like a cooling shadow she could step into. She had come on progress to entertain the Queen and her court, and in all the past weeks this was the first time she had been allowed to sing solo. There was no reason to be afraid. She would not hit a wrong note today, nor forget her words in a childish panic. This was why she had been born. What was it Leicester had called her?
The Queen's Secret Page 9
