Eighteen
TOM LOOKED UP from his painstaking adjustment of the saddle girth to where Lucy sat side-saddle on the back of the brown mare. His broad, generous mouth twitched. ‘You look terrified.’
‘I am terrified.’
He laughed and leaned across her stiff body, rapping her knuckles like a child’s. ‘Don’t grip the reins so tight. You may be scared, but you don’t want your mount to know that. Light hands, loose fingers, remember?’ He watched her critically as she turned the pony in a painfully slow circle. ‘Better.’
‘And if I want to go the other way?’ She struggled with the reins and the mare skittered sideways. ‘How would …?’
‘With your knees, if you were a man. A woman needs to use a switch.’ He handed a thin-stripped birch rod to her. ‘And try to smile. She knows when you’re not smiling.’
‘The horse knows when I’m not smiling?’
‘She’s a pony, not a horse,’ he reminded her. ‘They always know and they don’t trust you. So smile.’
Lucy did not believe a word of this, but she forced a reluctant smile, glad to do anything that might help this lesson go a little better. An old man sitting across the green, chewing on a long stalk of grass, smiled back at her, revealing a gappy mouth with only one or two teeth. She stopped smiling and fiddled with the switch.
‘What am I to do with this?’
Patiently, Tom showed her how to brush the birch rod across the mare’s rump to keep it at a steady pace, or sting it with a smart tap when she wanted the pony to trot. ‘You won’t need to canter yet, of course. Unless you intend to hunt.’ When she giggled, he paused in his explanation and stared. There was a quiet dignity in the dark eyes that searched her face. ‘Did I say something amusing, Mistress Morgan?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, feeling an unexpected heat creep into her cheeks. Had he noticed? To distract him, she practised stroking the pony’s sturdy rump with the birch rod, not sure she would ever be able to bring herself to beat the poor animal. ‘Though I am plain Lucy, not Mistress Morgan. I was just trying to imagine myself following the hunt like one of the court ladies, with a feather in my cap.’
Frowning, he took her hand and demonstrated again how to flick the crop, jerking her wrist and catching the fleshy part of the rump.
‘Do it more sharply. Don’t worry about hurting her.’
She thought of the men who had chased her last night, what crimes they might have committed on her body if they had caught her, and snatched her hand away. ‘I’ve got it now.’ She saw his offended expression and did not know what to say, how to explain herself without risking shame. ‘I should stop now and go back inside. There are duties I was meant to attend to.’
‘I was commanded to teach you to ride,’ Tom reminded her, drawing her reins forward over the pony’s head. ‘I’ll lead you out to the village green, so you can try it on your own.’
It was cooler and quieter outside the castle walls. On the green that sloped gently towards the church, Lucy was able to concentrate on holding the reins in the correct manner, sitting awkward but upright as he had shown her, and balancing the switch across the bulky skirts of her gown. She wondered if she would ever see her old gown again, or the rest of her meagre possessions left behind in her room in the Brays. But Master Goodluck had promised he would send a man to fetch them before nightfall, and she had never known him to fail her yet.
Left alone on the brown mare, with Tom retreating to what felt too dangerously far away for him to save her, Lucy gathered the reins in her left hand and stroked the pony’s rump with the switch. Nothing happened, though the mare did seem to sigh at the contact, its fat belly and back shifting like a mattress being turned under her. She gave a little shriek and clung on, swaying in the saddle. ‘What did I do?’
‘It’s just a touch of wind,’ he called back, and she saw his mouth twitch again. ‘It happens all the time. Try to sit still.’
‘I’ve forgotten—’
‘Smart tap on the rump. Pull the reins to the right.’
Lucy followed his instructions, keeping her hand as light on the reins as possible. This time, to her great delight, the brown mare not only turned in the correct direction but took several steps forward. Unfortunately, it then bent its head to crop the rough grass. Lucy tried to drag its head back up but the mare stoutly refused, ripping the reins free of her too loose grip.
Nearly unseated by this last move, Lucy was secretly relieved when Tom pulled the reins back over the mare’s head, and handed them to her with a smile.
‘I did it,’ Lucy pointed out unnecessarily, trying not to sound triumphant. ‘I got her to walk.’
Tom nodded, and she caught a flicker of something in his face which she did not understand. Then he gestured over her shoulder. ‘Your friend’s here,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps I should get back. The hunt will go out soon.’
She turned and saw Master Goodluck heading towards them across the green. ‘Goodluck!’ Dropping the reins, she tried to get down from the mare’s back and found herself falling instead.
Tom caught and steadied her. ‘Careful now, Lucy Morgan, it’s a long way down for a lady. You must wait to be assisted from a pony, not throw yourself off like that.’
He was right, and she was vaguely aware that she was trembling, as though the fall had frightened her more than she knew. Over Tom’s shoulder, she could see that Goodluck had reached them. He held out his broad arms and she ran into them, not caring what Tom thought.
‘Master Goodluck!’ She closed her eyes, leaning against his striped and slashed doublet. ‘I am learning to ride.’
‘So I see.’ Frowning gently, he held her at arm’s length for a moment, examining her face. ‘How are you today? Much improved since last night, it seems. Everything has been arranged as I told you it would be. You are to seek out a Mistress Alice Darnley, who is in charge of the court ladies’ lodgings. She knows of your situation and will find you a quiet corner somewhere.’
‘And my things?’
‘A man has already been sent to retrieve them.’
Lucy felt enormous relief. ‘I knew you would help me.’
‘You did the right thing, coming to me. I have few friends and countless enemies, but those friends I do have are in high places.’ All the same, Goodluck continued to frown, stroking his thick beard. ‘We were unable to find the tent you described, though. No doubt the men who followed you had packed up and left by the time the camp was searched.’
‘But you said you knew who might have been involved.’
‘When you told me what your pursuers looked like, I thought the Italian bear-tamer must be behind it. But it can’t have been him as he was seen out here at dusk last night, practising tricks with his bear on the green, and came back through the gatehouse at last call. One of my own men was watching him.’
‘But surely he and the men who followed me must know each other?’
‘It’s not enough for us to guess at such a serious matter as conspiracy. We must know it absolutely.’ Goodluck shrugged. ‘My men will continue to watch the bear-tamer, have no fear of that. But without more conclusive evidence, and only the word of a girl to go on, it will be difficult to do more.’
‘But they could have—’
‘Hush, don’t think of it.’ He stroked her hair, which was loose and decorated with a simple yellow ribbon. ‘Just promise me not to creep about the camp after dark again, listening outside strange tents.’
‘I couldn’t help it.’ She laughed at his expression, though she knew he was serious. ‘I felt drawn to listen. Do you understand?’
‘I only understand that I nearly lost you. It was a woman’s curiosity and my own foolishness in mentioning my business that led you to spy on a tent full of foreigners. But it ends here. Promise me not to interfere again in my affairs.’
‘I promise.’
‘On your heart, Lucy.’
She crossed herself soberly, bobbing a curtsey to him as she used to do as a y
oung child.
‘Good.’ He seemed satisfied by this show of obedience. ‘Now, how did your first riding lesson go? And how do you like your teacher?’
Lucy knew he was teasing her and that Tom was listening intently to their exchange, but she refused to look embarrassed. ‘I do not like horses. They are too high.’
Goodluck laughed, throwing back his head with amusement. ‘That was no horse, but only a pony. You will soon grow used to the saddle. But what of your teacher?’ He tickled her under the chin, making her giggle despite herself.
Tom gave a slight bow in their direction and began leading the mare back to the stables. She watched him until he disappeared into the shadows of the gatehouse, then turned back to Goodluck.
‘You embarrassed Tom,’ she accused him.
Goodluck shrugged, slipping an intimate arm about her waist. ‘Then it will be his loss and another man’s gain. Indeed, if no one else will claim you, sweet Lucy, perhaps I should make you my wife.’
Goodluck was smiling as he said it, teasing her as he had done a hundred times before. But his powerful grip had tightened about her waist and she suspected he was at least partly in earnest.
‘A man must seize what is within his grasp, after all,’ he said softly. ‘If he does not, he is liable to lose his chance at the prize. And to a better man.’
Nineteen
THE NOTE OF the horn changed and the pack of hounds switched direction, falling over themselves in a heaving, wriggling mass of warm dog-flesh, tails wagging, dozens of throats giving tongue to the chase. The deer had been sighted again and the beaters were out on the wooded hillside, calling to the quarry, driving it towards the hounds with stick and voice. Elizabeth drew rein under an ancient oak, holding up a hand for silence. Behind her she heard the hunt come to a staggered halt, horses whinnying in protest and cracking twigs on the forest floor as they jostled for space. Even her own horse shifted beneath her. Flanks shining with sweat, it nudged towards a stream close by, held back only by her grip on the reins.
Robert’s stallion pushed through the hunt and came alongside her own mount. The intimacy of the situation was not lost on Elizabeth, who revelled in the press of his knee against her rich gown. His gaze flashed to her face, and she knew he felt it too. Here they could touch as lovers and no one could raise a word, for every rider was hemmed in by the steaming crush of horses in that leafy space, ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen of the court alike, the Queen and her favourite unregarded.
‘You hear that?’ she demanded. The horn sounded again, ever more urgent, closer at hand as the hounds yelped and swam past the horses’ legs. Their mounts jostled, shoulder to shoulder. Her black gelding threw back its head, the bit and reins jangling, and Robert seized her bridle as though afraid she would be thrown. Clever, clever. She could not help but admire his daring, the sheer audacity of a man who would take every opportunity to push himself forward, however many times he was rebuked and rejected. ‘They’ve found the stag again. They’re driving him downhill.’
‘Elizabeth,’ he muttered, abandoning all pretence at courtly propriety.
‘Robert?’
Not caring that the whole court might see and recognize their intimacy for what it was, she leaned forward to hear him. If she were to accept him this summer, her subjects would have to grow accustomed to seeing their queen alongside her consort, their new king.
Yet how to restrain a man like Robert once he was on the throne? His charming audacity could only grow, given power and influence on that scale, until her own power became diminished.
She had studied history, diplomacy, politics, the classics, and knew how swiftly one prince might oust another from the throne. She had rivals enough already.
The stag burst out of undergrowth to their right, wild-eyed and panting, its majestic antlers trailing ivy, and the hounds started towards it in a triumphant rush, baying for its blood. Elizabeth could see the shock in its eyes – the deer must have thought to have shaken its pursuers off by quitting the open ground for the dense woodland surrounding the castle. Instead it had run from the noisily approaching beaters and found the hounds waiting.
Terrified, the stag leapt forward and made for the river bank, some five or six hundred yards downhill through the tight-clustered trees. The hounds pursued it, their full-throated cries almost deafening, and the sunlit wood echoed to the shouts of beaters further uphill, the throbbing horns of the hunters and the confused jostle of horses.
Robert dropped her bridle, his smile fierce. ‘Shall we give chase, Your Majesty?’
For answer, she jabbed her booted foot into the horse’s side and followed headlong as stag and hounds plunged down the hill to the stream. At her back, she heard rather than saw the entire hunt catch fire and take horse after her, crashing through the woods.
Elizabeth felt an almost unbearable excitement in the thrill of the chase. She suddenly knew that this must be how Robert felt as he pursued her, as he played the dangerous game of courtly love, his life in the balance, the throne of England his prize.
Like every Dudley before him, Robert played for the highest stakes. Was he really stupid enough to think she would take any affront? Did he not know how closely he was watched? Or perhaps he knew but did not care? Certainly his actions were not those of a rational man. He must realize that to betray her with that she-wolf, the Countess of Essex, was to invite death. Yet still he would not let go, stubborn hound that he was, his jaws locked tight about that forbidden piece of meat while still he sniffed about the Queen’s skirts.
He was at her shoulder now, ahead of the hunt, riding one-handed despite the brutal pace, controlling the horse with his knees, his fist on his hip.
Did he think he was still a young man?
The arrogance and vanity of such a thought entertained her, yet there was something about her dearest Robert that made such weaknesses desirable. At forty-three he was only a year older than her, and still her soulmate.
‘He’s making for the water. Shall we let him go, do you think?’
‘You advocate clemency?’
‘Good sportsmanship, rather. This stag has run a worthy race today. He bested us in the fields, and will soon be in the river. He could be away if we do not allow the hounds to pursue him.’
‘So you would sue for mercy, in his position?’
Robert looked at her, perhaps catching something dangerous in her voice. ‘When it is a choice between life and death—’
‘I forget sometimes that you too have seen the inside of the Tower.’
Below them, the stag had splashed into the thigh-high water. The note of the hunting horn changed, warning the netsmen and beaters ahead to prepare their ambush. The first hounds had already followed it into the river and were swimming eagerly in its wake, their ears floating on the surface like glossy water-lily pads. The rest of the riders came down to the river bank and reined in, hesitating to go any further without permission, watching Elizabeth for the order to kill.
Looking over her shoulder, Elizabeth caught a sudden glimpse of Lettice at the back of the hunt, bold in a lavish black velvet gown, her sleeves slashed and puffed as large as her own, a huge feathered hat tilted provocatively on her head.
She recognized the gown as one she had been given by a visiting French countess some years before. It was a gown she had not worn more than once or twice, for she preferred the more glorious reds and golds. Had her wardrobe mistress gifted it to Lettice? She would have stern words with Mary Scudamore if she had, for Elizabeth was not sure she had ever given her permission to dispose of it.
More importantly, did Lettice really think to put herself above her queen with this extravagance of dress? If so, she must be brought to see the folly of her upstart ways – and swiftly too, before she gained more favour at court than was seemly.
For a few delicious seconds, Elizabeth imagined her beautiful younger cousin on her knees in one of the darkest, dampest cells at the Tower, her pretty hat tumbled off and her expensive gown dirti
ed in the stinking rushes, while a priest read her the last rites.
Then her head huntsman was before her. Sweating visibly in the early evening heat, he knelt in the muddy soil of the river bank, cap in hand, and begged her royal pardon.
‘What is your order, Your Majesty? To spare or to kill?’
She barely glanced at Robert, who was suddenly stiff and cold beside her. Her hand swept up and down in a chopping motion, and the hunt shouted, ‘Kill!’
One of the red-faced huntsmen lifted his horn and began to blow the triumphant staccato of the capture. Several men in leather hose and jerkins waded out into the middle of the river, throwing their nets wide. Within minutes, the proud stag was their captive, its eyes rolling wildly, mouth foaming, two fierce hounds clinging to its back. Three huntsmen yanked it by its vast stately antlers to land.
Forced to the muddied bank, the stag grunted and roared, but its efforts were in vain. Two of the men dragged its head backwards and, with an air of quiet deliberation, the chief huntsman drew a long knife from his belt and cut its throat, sidestepping the jet of hot blood.
The watching court applauded, and some of the older men began to sing a traditional song of the hunt, while the rest set to work cracking open the beast’s bloody ribs with their sharp tools.
The hunt is up! The hunt is up!
And it is well-nigh day,
And Bess our queen is gone hunting
To bring her deer to bay.
Elizabeth smiled to hear her father’s favourite hunting song so affectionately adapted to her own name, and clapped her appreciation. Barking and yelping, the dogs milled restlessly about their feet, waiting to be thrown the umbles, the deer’s offal.
‘The stag’s heart, Your Majesty.’ The chief huntsman knelt before her horse at the water’s edge, respectfully holding up a gory mess of solid flesh wrapped in a swatch of leather for Elizabeth to inspect.
‘It was a noble death,’ she said to the watching court, waving the man and his grisly prize away. ‘Have it sent up to the castle kitchens with my compliments. And let every man here take a cup of ale before he returns. There will be more good hunting tomorrow, if the weather holds.’
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