She allowed Robert to lead her to her seat at the head of the table, and settled herself there heavily. Lady Helena Snakenborg stood to her left, arranging the jewelled folds of Elizabeth’s gown. Lady Mary Herbert, a heavy-jawed young woman with yellow hair set in ringlets, poured her a glass of wine and set it at her right hand, then smiled prettily across at her uncle, Robert. The girl had been away from court for months, nursing her baby son. However, it was unlikely she would stay for long before returning to Wales, as her husband Henry, Earl of Pembroke, was apparently eager for yet more offspring. Being a man of advancing years, Elizabeth thought sourly, he was no doubt fearful of dying before he could secure the Pembroke line by means of his young wife.
‘Let us not waste time in pleasantries,’ Elizabeth said sharply.
‘This might be better heard alone, Your Majesty,’ Walsingham suggested.
She sighed, but indicated that the two noblewomen should leave the room. When the door had closed behind Mary and Helena, she turned to her spymaster again.
‘Well?’
Walsingham bowed, and slid a sheet of paper across the table towards her. ‘This was intercepted at Dover yesterday, Your Majesty. It is a letter from one Thomas Dooley, a Catholic priest. He writes from the seminary at Rheims to one of my agents here in London, thinking him a Catholic too. This Dooley lays out plans for how the English court may be infiltrated by Catholic priests disguised as porters and watermen.’
Elizabeth barely glanced at the letter. It was always the same thing these days. Plots, plots, plots.
‘What, am I to be threatened with incense burners and a three-hour Mass as they row me across the river? Tell me you have something more substantial, Walsingham. I have a headache.’
‘Your Majesty, Signor Mendoza is mentioned several times in the letter as a courtier to be trusted and approached for funds.’
She paused then, looking narrowly from him to Cecil. ‘The Spanish ambassador?’
‘The very same, Your Majesty,’ Cecil agreed. ‘And it is not the first time we have intercepted letters of this kind, naming Mendoza as a contact for incoming Catholics. I’m afraid there can be little doubt that the Spanish ambassador is no friend to us.’
‘Mendoza is friend only to those who would bring England back to the old faith, we have long known that. But to be named in a coded letter …’
She drank some wine and fell to brooding on her many enemies. Would she never be safe on her throne? ‘Though our Englishmen are little better. What of this Master Arden whose lunatic son was to have shot me and stuck my head on a pole, or some such nonsense?’
‘We have Edward Arden and his son-in-law safe in the Tower, Your Majesty. And their wives too.’
‘Their wives? Why, were these women to have cooked up my bones in a broth when their men were done murdering me?’
Cecil looked uncomfortable. ‘Arresting the wives along with their menfolk seemed the wisest thing to do, Your Majesty. The Arden family have long been rebellious and worked against your reign in Warwickshire. They are hardened Catholics, and would be pleased to see your cousin on the throne and England restored to the Roman faith. These arrests make an example of the entire family and may suppress further rebellion in the Midlands.’
She indicated the letter. ‘Walsingham, when we spoke earlier, you said there might be a link between these disguised priests and the Arden boy’s lunacy. What did you mean by that?’
‘I cannot say for sure, Your Majesty. But there is a link between the Arden family and Mendoza. Arden’s son-in-law, this John Somerville, has spoken several times of the ambassador under torture. Not coherently enough for an arrest, but it seems Signor Mendoza may be involved in some movement against you that stretches as far as the Midlands, and possibly into the North too.’
Cecil’s expression was cautious. ‘This is dangerous territory, sir. The boy may have heard some idle talk against the Queen through a keyhole, and decided to do the great deed himself. That he knows Mendoza’s name does not mean the Spanish ambassador was involved in some Papist conspiracy. Let us not forget the boy is a lunatic.’
‘That has not yet been proven,’ Walsingham reminded him softly.
‘Then prove it,’ Elizabeth said with a snap, and stood up from the table. ‘And don’t come back to me with any more of these wild conspiracies until you have harder evidence. This is not one of our own, but the Spanish ambassador we are talking about. We cannot accuse Mendoza on the strength of a single coded letter and the ravings of a lunatic. We must be certain of his guilt first. We must be sure beyond all doubt. Do I make myself clear?’
Cecil bowed and removed himself from the room. She looked at Walsingham. He said nothing but reached for the incriminating letter, his grey head bent.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, sir?’
‘Edward Arden,’ he murmured, ‘is not guilty of conspiring with his son-in-law to assassinate you, Your Majesty.’
‘So release him.’
‘It is not that simple, Your Majesty. He is guilty of … other crimes. He is a Catholic and a supporter of Catholics. This is not mere rumour, but cold truth. They have found a Catholic priest in hiding at one of the Arden houses, and various documents suggesting links with Catholics abroad. Arden is a dangerous man, and I have long wished for an excuse …’ Walsingham smiled and made a gesture with his hand, ‘…to squeeze and question him.’
‘You want my permission to torture Master Arden?’
‘To torture him, yes. But also to execute him for treason. And any of his family who may reasonably be suspected too. Including the young man who would have killed you if he’d had the chance.’
‘The women too?’
‘Why not, if they are guilty?’ Walsingham shrugged, and tucked the letter inside his severe black coat. ‘The creature who tried to assassinate you at Kenilworth was female, and no weaker than a man for that task.’
‘True, but these country wives may have had no knowledge of their husbands’ treachery. I would not have them go to the gallows if their complicity cannot be established.’ Elizabeth mused. ‘Well, do what you must. You have always made your own path anyway. I shall not refuse to support your actions if whatever you do is done for the good of England.’ She shivered. The fire was getting low. ‘Now I am tired. Send in my women as you go.’
Once her court ladies had come rustling into the Privy Chamber, bearing fresh wine and chivvying the servants to make up the fire, Elizabeth looked about their cheerful faces searchingly.
‘Is Lucy Morgan in attendance yet?’
The ring of women parted, and Lucy came forward, sinking to her knees in a rustle of silk, her head bent, her coarse black hair teased and combed back with chaste white ribbons.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was sick.’
Elizabeth regarded her broodingly. The memory of that dreadful night at Kenilworth eight years before still weighed on her heart. She had grown to find Lucy’s dark beauty tiresome, and distrusted the way the younger courtiers constantly complimented the African singer and followed her about the court.
But it was true that she owed Lucy her life for her part in thwarting the Italian plotters that night. Perhaps she had been hasty in her recent snubbing of the young singer, favouring other court entertainers and refusing to allow Lucy any new gowns from the royal wardrobe. Lucy Morgan had not shown herself wanton with any of the young men, after all. To be admired was not to be wanton, or else she herself would stand accused of that failing ten times over.
She gestured for Lucy to rise. ‘You are fully recovered?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty, I thank you.’
‘Why were you sick? Have you spoken to a physician?’
She eyed the girl’s belly. Still flat, her breasts small and high. No outward sign of a pregnancy. Yet the suspicion that Lucy was lying about her sickness would not be shaken off.
‘It was nothing serious, Your Majesty. A fever that lasted the night, with some sickness when I woke. But it soon passed
.’ Lucy hesitated. ‘I must have eaten some meat that was not fresh, Your Grace.’
Elizabeth settled back in her favourite chair and waved Lucy Morgan into the centre of the room. ‘If you are indeed recovered from your sickness, Lucy Morgan, then you can earn your keep and sing for us.’
Elizabeth played with the jewelled rings on her white fingers, turning them round and round. She remembered Edward Arden’s outburst at Kenilworth. She had reprimanded the staunchly Catholic Arden in front of the court and his Warwickshire peers, as she recalled, even threatening him with a public whipping if he persisted with his drunken abuse.
Was that when he and his mad son-in-law had first devised the idea of conspiring against her?
‘Give us some sweet country song,’ she muttered as Lucy took up her position. ‘Something we have not heard in a long while.’
‘“Robin, Oh Robin”?’ Lucy suggested.
Elizabeth looked at her from under lowered lids. The black girl was sharper than she liked people to think. Or did everyone at court know which way Elizabeth’s mind swung today? Oh yes, sometimes she would pout and think of the Duc d’Anjou. Sometimes she even wore the jewelled frog he had left her as a parting gift, or wrote him poignant letters which Cecil wisely refused to send. But her heart belonged to Robert. It might as well belong to a stone, of course. But she was a woman as well as a queen. She could not help her foolishness.
‘A good choice,’ she agreed drily, and took a sip of wine. ‘Come, then, Lucy Morgan. Entertain me.’
Five
THE NARROW LANE outside the Curtain Theatre was noisy and chaotic, crowded with playgoers and street sellers. Lucy was jostled on all sides and wished she’d thought to bring her maid Mary with her. Then at least she could have sent the girl for help if there was trouble.
Two coarse-voiced beggars arguing near the theatre entrance collided with her painfully. One called out a curse, making a grab for her arm.
Lucy staggered on and kept walking, her head down, face hidden by her hooded cloak. She could not afford to draw even the slightest attention to herself, not while carrying out Goodluck’s errand. Such men would cut her throat for a ring, let alone a bag of gold.
It was a chilly November afternoon. A brazier glowed at the back door to the theatre, putting out a feeble heat. Lucy stood across the lane, waiting for her chance. Players came and went, unchallenged by the scarred man on the door, but she did not see Master Twist among them.
At last, the scarred man moved away to speak to one of the older whores plying their trade among the playgoers. Despite his disfigurement, the woman greeted him cheerfully enough. Leaning against the wall of the theatre, she dragged her revealing bodice even lower, her toothless smile inviting.
Lucy hurried across the lane and slipped through the unguarded doorway.
Backstage was no quieter than the street, crowded with players practising their cues or complaining about their ill-fitting costumes. But at least the narrow passageway behind the stage was dark and concealing, the infrequent windows so small as to admit almost no light at all. Wall lanterns had been hung at intervals so that players could read their cue sheets, but their light was inadequate, leaving deep pools of shadow through which Lucy was able to pass almost unnoticed.
‘Now, mistress?’ a voice at last hailed her. ‘What are you doing back here?’
She turned. It was not Master Twist but someone she had never seen before. Balding and a little corpulent, his leather jerkin straining over his belly, he had the air of a man used to getting his own way. She guessed at once that he must be one of those in charge of the daily running of the theatre. She had known several such men as a child, growing up among players and theatricals. When she did not immediately reply, he stroked his beard, looking her up and down impudently.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Lucy knew a moment of trepidation, then stuck her chin out. If she could deal with the daily insolence of courtiers who believed her dark skin meant she would be happy to act the whore for them, then she could certainly handle a common man of the theatre.
She put back her hood and looked him in the eye. ‘I’m looking for Master John Twist,’ she said briefly, giving no further explanation. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
The man turned his head and shouted hoarsely down the passageway, ‘Twist! How many times have I told you not to bring your whores backstage?’
A dark, crookbacked figure disengaged itself from the shadows at the far end of the corridor and began limping towards them. She stared. Could this be Master Twist? She had known him since childhood, and he had always been in good health, tall and sturdily built.
‘Get rid of her, Twist,’ the man added impatiently. ‘The show’s about to start. You can tup her in the interval if you must. And leave some for me this time, will you?’ He leered at her as he turned away. ‘She’s a tasty piece.’
He disappeared back along the corridor. Lucy gazed at the crookback’s face. This was indeed her old friend.
‘Goodluck sent me,’ she whispered, seeing his look of surprised recognition. ‘Is it safe to talk here? I have something for you.’
Taking her by the elbow, John Twist steered her into a low-ceilinged, unlit corridor that seemed to lead even deeper into the inner workings of the theatre. Safely away from the curious eyes of the other players, he embraced her roughly, then held her at arm’s length, searching her face.
‘Lucy,’ Twist muttered, his lips thinning as he looked her up and down, no doubt taking in the costly court gown under her cloak.
She examined him too, not caring if he thought her rude. Twist looked older than she remembered, his face toughened and wrinkled, his hair coarser and streaked with grey. That was no surprise, of course; she herself was no longer the soft-faced child she had been during that summer at Kenilworth, though the court had saved her from the worst ravages of city life. And Twist must be in his late thirties by now, almost past his prime. Yet he still possessed the sharp self-assurance she remembered, his blue eyes watching her narrowly without giving anything away.
‘What’s this about Goodluck?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I thought for sure he was …’
‘Dead?’
‘Never coming back, perhaps. It must be several years since I’ve heard his name.’ Twist smiled down at her grimly. ‘But it seems the man has nine lives.’
‘Yes, and is going through them rapidly,’ she agreed.
‘I’m glad to hear he is alive and well.’ He hesitated. ‘What are you looking at? The hump? Never mind that, it’s for the play. I’m still the same Twist underneath.’ He squeezed her hand in reassurance. ‘But you said … You have a message for me?’
‘Here,’ Lucy said, glancing cautiously about herself before handing over the purse and letter that Goodluck had given her. ‘He wants to meet you. It’s urgent.’
‘With Goodluck, it’s always urgent.’
Twist took the purse with a slight smile. He shook it, raised his eyebrows at the weight, then clipped the purse on to his own belt and carefully arranged the folds of his costume over it.
He grinned at her expression. ‘I had better hope no one grapples me too firmly on the stage, for I shall have no chance to put this away before my part.’
There was a sudden burst of muffled applause and a drumming roar close by. The walls and wooden frames around them shook as though the theatre was being besieged. Lucy jerked at the noise and gave a little cry, her nerves already stretched. Belatedly, she realized it was only the performance starting. The enthusiastic playgoers in the gallery seats must be stamping their feet on the wooden boards, the noise reverberating through the theatre like a thunderstorm.
Twist did not seem to have noticed. He was staring down at Goodluck’s letter, a frown on his face. He did not break the seal to open it, but weighed the parchment thoughtfully in his hand.
‘I have to go soon or I shall miss my cue. The play has begun.’ He looked at her. ‘Perhaps you could stay and we’ll ta
lk later?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s too dangerous. If the Queen discovers that I have left court without permission, I will be punished.’
‘Of course, forgive me.’ John Twist broke the seal and quickly scanned the letter. He nodded. ‘Are you able to give Goodluck a reply from me? Will you be seeing him again?’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps.’
‘If you see him, tell him to meet me at the Dun Cow by Bishopsgate the day after tomorrow.’ He rolled up the letter and slid it carefully inside his shirt. ‘Between six and seven o’clock of the evening. By then, I should have what he requires.’
‘And if I don’t see him?’
‘Then I shall enjoy two or three tankards of ale, and go home that night a merrier man.’ He smiled and held out his hands to her. ‘Come, kiss me and get yourself safely back to court. It was dangerous to come this far north of the city. The theatre is no place for you.’
‘I was brought up among players,’ she protested.
His gaze moved over her court gown, an ironic gleam in his eyes. ‘I remember it well. But you are too fine a lady for us now. Quick, they have nearly reached my cue.’ He kissed her warmly on the lips and Lucy pulled back a little in surprise, lowering her gaze before his. To her relief, he did not seem to notice. ‘Don’t forget my message to Goodluck. Do you need me to repeat it?’
‘I have it perfect.’
Twist laughed, sweeping his voluminous black cloak over his arm as he bowed. ‘Farewell then, Mistress Morgan. We’ll make a spy of you yet.’
‘I hope not. Spies have short lives. I’d rather not end up with my head rotting on a pike above London Bridge.’
‘Such a pretty head too,’ Twist murmured, and smiled at her in a way she found rather uncomfortable.
His Dark Lady Page 5
