His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Sir Francis may help me,’ she whispered to herself, gazing back over her shoulder at the crush and bustle of the court. Goodluck’s master had once promised he would look after her if ever she lost her place. But she could not see Walsingham anywhere. Perhaps he was not even at court.

  Besides, she could not in truth ask such a great personage as the Queen’s spymaster to shield her from the Queen’s temper. No, she was on her own and must make the best of it.

  Yet it was unjust to have been dismissed from court for this. So unjust!

  She seized a candle and hurried upstairs to the bedchamber she had been allotted at Greenwich, so gloomy and cramped that none of the other ladies-in-waiting had wanted to share it with her. It had a rough bed, and a narrow curtained alcove where her clothes chest and other possessions were kept, and little else besides. The chamber might be inconveniently small, but its tiny window overlooked the river and brought a breeze off the water during the warm spring evenings – albeit a stinking breeze at times, for the current ran filthy and sluggish near the bank. But at least when she wished to shed a few private tears of humiliation, there was no one here to laugh at her.

  Her maid was nowhere to be seen. Lucy called for her up and down the corridor, then realized she would still be down at supper, for it was the custom for servants to eat the leftovers after a feast.

  Lucy set about undressing herself, no simple task. It was only when laying out her creased court gown on the bed, clad in nothing but her shift and woollen stockings, that Lucy noticed the scroll of parchment curled up on her pillow and tied with a red ribbon.

  Frowning, she unrolled the scroll and stared down at it. It was a short poem, boldly prefaced with the words, To LM, my dark lady:

  Love is too young to know what conscience is,

  Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

  Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,

  Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.

  For, thou betraying me, I do betray

  My nobler part to my gross body’s treason;

  My soul doth tell my body that he may

  Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,

  But rising at thy name, doth point out thee

  As his triumphant prize; proud of this pride,

  He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

  To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

  No want of conscience hold it that I call

  Her ‘love’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.

  Horrified, she turned the incriminating sheet over, searching for a name in the candlelight. The poet had left none, but she knew whose this was. Only Will Shakespeare could have written verses like these addressed to her, so mockingly coarse she felt her blood stir just reading them.

  Yet how could the poem have arrived in her bedchamber? Had Will bribed her maid to bring it up and lay it on the bed?

  ‘It’s a sonnet. Do you like it?’

  Lucy jumped in fright, then realized where the voice had come from. Furious, she tore back the curtain covering the little alcove. Will Shakespeare was hiding there, perched on her clothes chest in a florid player’s suit, feathered cap in hand, smiling up at her.

  ‘Hello, Lucy,’ he murmured, jumping down and bowing as though his visit was in no way strange.

  She had never had a man in her bedchamber before, and his presence there shocked her. Yet it strangely delighted her, too. Such a charming smile! And the awkwardness of his bow disarmed her. He was still only a boy from the country, after all.

  She ought to have been furious with him for having caused her dismissal from court. But it was the Queen she was most angry with.

  ‘You must forgive my appearance. I’ve come straight from a performance where I was a gentleman of Verona. A very strange gentleman, I am afraid.’ Will came towards her, laughing under his breath as she backed away. ‘This is rather a small room for playing Hunt the Thimble, Lucy. Though I’ll play if you will.’

  ‘How did you get up here?’

  ‘Ah, those friendly guards …’

  He seized her wrist and Lucy shook her head, panicking. ‘Will, let me go!’

  ‘Forgive me, sweet mistress. I’ve waited a long time to get you alone again, I’m not about to leave without a kiss.’ He pulled her close, his hands about her waist in the thin shift, and she felt his warm mouth on her throat, then the bare skin above her breasts. The shock of such intimacies dizzied her, and she shivered, hardly able to breathe. He saw her weakness and smiled fiercely. ‘Oh, Lucy, Lucy. I’ve wanted you since I was a boy. You must be an enchantress. I am bound by your spell and cannot leave. What is it about you that makes me so hot for your bed?’

  ‘Perhaps you are not used to hearing the word “no” very often,’ she muttered, but allowed him to kiss her again.

  It felt good to be in his arms. She knew she ought to call for help, have him thrown out. Yet the servants would still all be at supper, and would any of the guards bother to help her? Besides, if she was found here with a man, alone in her chamber, the Queen would never believe her innocent. Not after tonight’s accusations.

  She thought of how Queen Elizabeth had humiliated her in front of the whole court, and leaned further into Will’s kiss. Dismissed as a whore when she had done nothing to deserve such a name!

  Since her ‘virtue’ was already lost in the eyes of the court, what was there to lose by allowing Will Shakespeare to make love to her? Nothing, she thought wildly. Nothing, nothing. She was already lost, already damned. This act would merely confirm it.

  His hands moved up from her waist, cupping and stroking her full breasts. Lucy sighed, swaying against him, and felt her nipples tauten under the thin material.

  With a quick jerk, he dragged the thin shift dress up and over her head.

  ‘You are beauty itself,’ he exclaimed hoarsely, staring at her nakedness. He drew her close again and kissed her on the mouth.

  For a moment there was silence between them, then he muttered, ‘Yes,’ as though she had spoken, and pushed her back on to the bed.

  His lips had left her unsteady, her skin already beginning to prickle with that delicious heat she had not felt since the last time he had kissed her. Lucy shivered in the cool air from the open window but did not pull up the sheet to cover herself. Instead, she watched avidly as Will, too, shed his clothes and climbed into bed. His body was strong and lean, a young man’s, with dark hair down the centre of his chest and in his groin. He was already aroused, his organ swollen between his thighs.

  It was bigger than she had expected. She averted her gaze as he knelt above her. Was it a sin to lie with a man who loved her even though they were not married?

  Will had said nothing about marriage. Yet he had an honest face. Surely if he loved her, he would marry her in the end?

  Lucy slipped her arms around his neck, and kissed him again. It was all she could think about. His lips were forceful now, his tongue pushing hotly inside, leaving her in no doubt of what he wanted. Her body ached and trembled for him. She had been dreaming about this moment ever since he had stolen her secretly away into the storeroom, constantly imagining how it would have felt to have let him take her that night, to have given herself to him.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he whispered, watching her face as he stroked his hands down her body.

  ‘I’m not,’ Lucy replied, almost defiant. Well, maybe a little, she admitted silently, and thought again of what she had seen before he climbed into bed. Would it hurt?

  Will laughed and bent his head to her breast, sucking one nipple fiercely into his mouth. Her fingers clenched in his short dark hair and Lucy gasped in helpless excitement, arching her whole body towards him.

  This was not how it had been with Master Twist. Then, Lucy had been desperately fighting, repulsed by his selfish and unfeeling lust. With Will, it was more like a dance, a dance where she had not been taught the steps yet somehow knew them instinctively. Lucy moved with Will and not agains
t him, welcomed his touch, moaning under her breath as he shifted his lips from one breast to the other, teasing her into forgetfulness.

  If this was the sin of lust, it was how she had always imagined love would feel. It was so all-consuming, it ate away her fears and left no other thought in her head but the need for his body to cover hers.

  ‘You must forgive me for how I treated you when I last came to court,’ he muttered, kissing her. ‘I had been drinking in the taverns all day. I was half-mad with love for you and could think of nothing but tasting your beauty. Did I frighten you, Lucy?’

  ‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted, but stroked his hair. ‘You do not frighten me now, though.’

  Will raised his head to stare down at her in the candlelight, his body suddenly tense. His eyes narrowed to dark slits as he examined her nakedness, as though looking for some sign that she had betrayed him. ‘I do not frighten you? What do you mean by that? Am I not the first in your bed?’ He seemed to choke over his own questions, his voice thick with hurt. ‘It’s a year since I last saw you. Have you taken a lover?’

  The flash of his jealousy took her by surprise. How could he think her so light of virtue?

  Slowly she shook her head, unable to speak. It was because of him that she had lost her place, and now this …

  He was not satisfied. ‘You are still a maid? Swear to it!’

  ‘I swear that I am still a maid,’ she whispered into the stillness between them, and was relieved to see his gaze lose that disturbing intensity. ‘Why should you care? Does my maidenhead mean so much to you?’

  ‘It’s only that I cannot bear the thought of you lying like this with another man.’ He kissed the flat of her belly, then moved even lower, making her gasp with shock. ‘I told you, it’s a divine madness that I feel for you. I have struggled against it this past year, but cannot control it, nor my jealousy. Promise me now that you will never kiss any man but me, nor let him undress you, nor do this to you.’

  He slipped his tongue cleverly between her thighs, working at the flesh there, and Lucy writhed in pleasure. She pulled his head closer, gasping like a spent swimmer against the tide. I’m drowning, she thought helplessly, and heard a sudden roaring in her ears. He’s going to kill me. This is the end.

  He raised his head. ‘Tell me, could any other man bring you to such joy?’

  ‘No, no,’ she moaned. Love me. Don’t stop to talk.

  But Will had other thoughts now. ‘Swear on your life that you will never open yourself like this to another man.’ He shifted above her, positioning himself so gently between her thighs that she was not at first alarmed. ‘Let me hear you swear it. I must hear you swear first.’

  ‘I swear it on my life,’ she whispered.

  He pushed into her body, groaning with undisguised pleasure at his conquest. Dear Lord, it was agony! She lay still as a board beneath him, her expression wooden, all pleasure gone.

  ‘Dearest, dearest Lucy. It will only hurt for the briefest of spaces, my sweet virgin.’

  Does every married woman go through this? After the initial pain had eased, his mouth and fingers slowly coaxed her back into pleasure. That’s a little easier, she thought at last. Almost worth waiting for.

  Then it was good. Undeniably good. Will stifled her moans with his kisses, stroking and teasing until she was half-mad with excitement. They made love in a kind of trance, her gaze locked on his face, the sounds of the river below washing through her as she lay beneath his labouring body. She had never known anything so intimate nor so physically exciting, though the moment of her own release reminded her of the exhilaration of dancing before the court, its glorious freedom and the pleasure of applause.

  When Will finally cried out, shuddering with pleasure, Lucy stroked the damp hair back from his forehead and murmured, ‘I love you.’

  The truest words. And she meant them at first. Then she was no longer so sure. Did she love Will simply because he had made love to her? Maybe it was her body that loved him, or what they had done together, and her heart felt it must follow the body or be left behind. Suddenly she was in a maze, with the centre lost to her. Was that how love always felt, though?

  She got up quietly from the bed after he had finished, to clean herself and lock the chamber door, so her maid returning from supper could not disturb them at their play. Then they made love again, and this time Will taught her how to please him in other ways, his patience never-ending as she fumbled shyly, trying to follow his whispered instructions.

  When Lucy woke later in the night and reached out for his warmth, she found herself alone. Will Shakespeare had left without waking her, the only evidence that he had ever been in her bedchamber an unaccustomed soreness between her thighs and the sonnet he had given her, now tucked under her pillow.

  Five

  The River Thames, London, 22nd May 1586

  GOODLUCK STOOD AT the prow as the Soleil glided silently up the Thames, nearing the smoky huddle of roofs and towers that was London. The dark waters below reminded him of his long sojourn aboard Jensen’s barge; he was glad now of the sea-legs he had developed over those tedious months of sickness. They had certainly been tested over the past few days, sailing up the east coast, buffeted by spring winds, and rolling on the tidal swell as the Soleil attempted to avoid detection on its return to England. Goodluck had feared capture at Gravesend, where he secretly knew Walsingham had left instructions for every ship to be searched and its crew questioned. But luck had been on their side, and the port searchers, overwhelmed by the number of vessels passing through at one time, had not seen them slip away in the cloudy light. Now, granted the boon of a moonless night, the intrepid French captain had navigated the Thames almost to the outskirts of London, passing more than one port patrol in the darkness without being hailed.

  A rope over his shoulder, a sailor with a full beard jumped neatly ashore as the Soleil came to rest against the wooden jetty. Goodluck stood at the ship rail, his gaze searching the shadowy buildings ahead. But the quay was deserted, and if anyone was aboard the other boats moored along the quayside, they made no sound.

  As soon as the boat was tied up, the bearded sailor set the gangplank in place as silently as he could. The man tested it with his own weight, then grinned and gestured Goodluck to come across first.

  The narrow plank wobbled precariously beneath him, but did not fall.

  Safely ashore, Goodluck pressed two shillings into the man’s palm. It had been a difficult journey from France, and these sailors were risking their lives, sailing so far up the Thames with Catholics on board.

  The two priests still on deck hesitated, staring down at the murky swell of the Thames as it rose and fell beneath the gangway.

  Impatiently, the sailor snapped his fingers at them. ‘C’est pas dangereux. Allez, vite!’

  Ballard cursed under his breath, but hitched up his dark priest’s robes and trod gingerly across the heaving plank. Caught and steadied by Goodluck on the other side, he grinned. ‘I swear, it’s good to be back on honest English soil. I hate boats. My stomach is still pitching like a pregnant girl’s.’

  ‘Best not leave these shores again, then,’ Maude commented lightly, jumping down behind him with a bag slung over his shoulder. He was a tall man, of a skinny, awkward build and a cynical disposition. Although he purported to be a priest, Goodluck had never seen Maude wear robes. Indeed, he had never seen him in anything but the clothes he wore now: severe black hose below a shirt and sturdy doublet, his cloak once fine, now patched in several places. His eyes seemed to stare above sunken cheeks, telling of too many nights spent sleeping off the ale rather than on his knees. Maude seemed an unlikely companion to Ballard, a man whose fanatical belief in the Catholic faith was second only to his obsessive neatness. But then, all they needed to share was a desire to see Mary, Queen of Scots, on the throne of England, and her heretic cousin Elizabeth thrown down into hell where she belonged. And that prospect, Goodluck considered drily, did not seem to trouble either of these
men.

  ‘I shall not need to leave England again,’ Ballard reminded Maude sharply, ‘if our plan succeeds.’

  ‘Hush, not here,’ Goodluck said, and pulled his cap low over his face. ‘Let us walk into London and find Master Babington’s lodgings first. There we will be able to talk more freely.’

  They left the Thames, heading for the place near Aldgate where they had been told a man could climb across the city walls unseen. Once inside, they slipped through the dark streets, past Cornhill and the stocks, some of which were occupied by weary men struggling to sleep with their necks and limbs imprisoned, then past the Watch lolling in a shop doorway at Cheapside, who glanced up from their game of dice but did not bother to stop and question them. An empty bottle of ale lay on the step beside the Watch, a good indication of why they were so lax in their duties. Goodluck said nothing, relieved not to have been stopped, but made a careful note of the constables’ faces. Walsingham would be interested to know how slack the Watch had become.

  Goodluck kept his head low as he passed his own house, which stood in darkness, and hoped that Lucy was still at court. It had not been possible to let her know he was alive, and he felt the daily sting of his conscience for that deceit. But Walsingham had promised to keep Lucy provided for in his absence. He would have to trust his master’s promise and put aside all thoughts of Lucy until the conspirators were safe in the Tower.

  Turning south to avoid Ludgate, they trudged through a confusing series of narrow lanes and alleyways, then headed north again, up towards Holborn.

  Gloomily, a church bell tolled the hour.