His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘After what?’ Lucy asked her, feeling perplexed, then moaned deep in her throat as something cruel seemed to hook its claws into her womb and try to tear it out of her belly.

  Lucy shook, clutching the bed for support while the ripple of pain lasted. The tearing sensation moved through her slowly and excruciatingly, leaving her shocked and trembling, no longer able even to speak. The memory of Twist’s attack disappeared in that moment, leaving Lucy with nothing but the inner certainty of her own death.

  The woman dipped the cloth in a basin of water and dabbed her face with it again.

  ‘After the baby has been born,’ she explained in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Now lie still and let us tie your wrists to the bed. No, you’ll see, it will be better this way.’ Her brown eyes were wide and sorrowful. ‘The child is coming earlier than it should. You must prepare yourself to be strong.’

  Five

  IT WAS LATE at night when Elizabeth finally heard the sound she had been waiting for in the courtyard below the state apartments at Greenwich Palace. Too nervous to go to bed, she had been playing chequers with Lady Helena for the past hour, soothed a little by Anne’s voice as she sang to the lute. But time had dragged as she waited, wondering if she should have her ladies make her ready for bed, for it seemed unlikely that anyone would arrive so late at court.

  Jumping up, she strode to the window and looked down at the treacle-black ribbon of river between the palace walls and the north bank. There was a commotion in the yard below, shouts and running feet, but she could see only torches flaming in the darkness and a handful of round-bellied boats being tied up alongside the riverside gate.

  ‘Is it him? I cannot see. Oh, this is useless. I cannot bear it. Anne … No, Helena, run down and ask if it is indeed him.’

  Lady Helena pinned a cap over her shining red hair and had just gone to the door when they all heard the sound of hurrying feet on the stairs.

  Her lady-in-waiting hesitated, glancing back at Elizabeth. ‘Your Majesty, someone is coming.’

  ‘Never mind then, sit down again.’

  Elizabeth turned from the window and stood staring at the closed door in helpless frustration. She was shivering now, despite the thick tapestries on the wall and the fire still burning fiercely in the hearth.

  It had to be Robert. Who else could it be, travelling by boat from the east and with such attendance?

  She hurried back to the table and signalled Helena to join her. ‘Quick, pick up a piece. Pretend it is your turn to play. If it is indeed Robert, I refuse to let him see I was waiting for him.’

  A few seconds later, with barely a knock, the door was flung open and Robert stood there, flanked by yeomen of the guard, his clothes travel-stained, his boots muddied and worn, the look on his face both fierce and weary. He looked older, his face more lined than when he had left for war. Yet he seemed bolder too, more of a soldier, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword almost defiantly.

  He was waiting for permission to enter, Elizabeth realized with a shock. Robert was as unsure of his welcome as she was of his loyalty to her throne.

  She stood, her head high, and held out a jewelled hand. ‘My lord Leicester?’

  He came forward then and dropped to one knee before her, drawing her hand to his lips. ‘Your Majesty.’

  Elizabeth felt a flush of heat that she struggled to control. She barely glanced at her ladies and the guards at the door. ‘Leave us.’

  Once they were alone, she pulled her hand from his grasp and took a step back. The hurts of the past year returned to haunt her. ‘They call you King of England in the Low Countries,’ she said accusingly, ‘and your wife the second queen.’

  ‘No.’

  Robert stood too, shaking his head as she turned away. ‘They are fools. I never usurped your power there, nor your throne. And Lettice stayed at home in England, following your command not to accompany me abroad. Your spies will have told you as much.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded, but did not lower her guard.

  She went to stare down at the river, where his flotilla of boats was being unloaded. Dwarfing the rapid wherries used to carry passengers across the Thames, the last boat was being brought in to dock. The others bobbed up and down on the dark tide, already tethered to posts along the wharfside. Elizabeth watched as an army of liveried servants marched on and off the narrow gangplanks under a blaze of hand-held torches; trunks and boxes balanced on their shoulders, some carrying saddles and hooded falcons, others leading out sick-looking hunting dogs joined by a single rope, no doubt in poor spirits after their long sea journey. Ranged against the wall stood a handful of helmeted guards, leaning on their pikes in a desultory fashion as they checked that none of the earl’s valuable cargo went astray. In the final boat she could see horses on deck now, huddled together and pulling excitedly at their tethers.

  ‘Yet you travel like royalty,’ she remarked drily. ‘I thought some foreign prince had arrived at Greenwich, so many boats accompanied you.’

  ‘I had to ship my servants, and all my furniture and effects back from Flushing.’

  ‘Even your horses, Robert?’

  ‘I had no wish to sell my stable, yet could scarcely have left the horses abroad, since I have no intention of returning to the Low Countries unless commanded there by Your Majesty.’ When she said nothing, Robert came to stand beside her at the window, a note of relief in his voice. Perhaps he had feared she would do precisely that. ‘I must thank Your Majesty for sending Sir Francis Drake and his men to escort us home. It was heartwarming to see our own stout ships on the horizon and know we would soon be back on English soil.’

  ‘And your unfortunate nephew’s body?’

  Robert’s reply was steady enough, but Elizabeth could guess at the reined-in emotions beneath his calm exterior. He had loved his nephew like a son.

  ‘We brought Pip home with us, of course.’

  ‘And now?’

  He hesitated, then straightened and turned stiffly away from the window. ‘Sir Philip Sidney’s last mortal remains have been conveyed to Tower Wharf, at Walsingham’s suggestion. From there his coffin will be carried up to a safe resting-place until arrangements can be made for his burial and the discharge of his debts, which I understand to be considerable. His widow Frances is with child, and accompanies his body as far as her father’s house. Then she is to retire into the country to prepare for her confinement.’

  She did not bother to look round at him. She could see Robert reflected in the glazed window panes; the earl was watching her from the centre of the room now, a misty image floating against the darkness outside.

  ‘I fear for her life too,’ he continued, his voice becoming rough. ‘Frances has taken her husband’s death hard and may not survive the coming birth. It is a terrible business. I blame myself for Pip’s death. He was always impetuous and foolhardy in his courageousness, and should have been guarded more carefully. To have ridden into battle without full armour …’ Robert drew a harsh breath, coming sharply to the point. ‘This entire campaign in the Low Countries has been a disaster, Your Majesty. I cannot pretend otherwise.’

  ‘Yet you have not given up your title there, my lord,’ she remarked, not bothering to disguise the acidity in her voice. ‘Or should I call you “Supreme Governor”?’

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He hesitated, then came up behind her at the window. ‘Elizabeth.’

  His voice tugged at her, too close at hand, too intimate. She had feared never to hear his voice again. Yet now he was here in the room with her, she wished he had stayed in the Low Countries, for Elizabeth knew herself to be utterly weak where Robert was concerned. He was the one man in all the world who could bring her to ruin, for he was the one man she truly loved.

  Elizabeth turned to find Robert blocking her way. She decided to play it haughtily, raising her brows at his proximity.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘I cannot believe it’s only a year since I last saw the glory of your face. It felt more like
a lifetime when I was in the field of battle, calling out your name in the charge … “For England and Elizabeth!”’ Robert searched her face for any signs of encouragement, his gaze swiftly dropping to her mouth. ‘I’ve missed you so badly, Bess.’

  Trapped close against his chest, she could not help staring at Robert’s face too, noting the tiny changes time and war had wrought during his absence from court, his skin so much more deeply lined. Not that such changes made him less attractive to her. On the contrary, they made Robert more of a man in her eyes, and a noble soldier at that. His hair might be silver, his beard too, yet his eyes held the same dark charm she had never been able to resist.

  She felt a renewed hunger for Robert that threatened to destroy her composure. But she was still Queen and he was still married to another woman.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said unevenly, and tried to move past him. ‘I am no longer a child.’

  He seized her arm and Elizabeth swore at him with sudden indignation, struggling as she tried to slap his face. Then Robert was kissing her, crushing her against the stone wall, and she felt her body quicken into desire.

  ‘I have dreamt of this,’ he muttered against her mouth, and his hand moved down over her hip, beginning to lift her skirts. ‘Every night, alone in my tent on campaign. In my dreams you were like this, an angry queen to be conquered … or lying naked in my arms, my willing concubine.’

  She gasped and pushed him away with all her strength. ‘I should have you thrown in the Tower for this insolence. Men have been executed for less!’

  ‘Call your guards, then,’ Robert taunted her as she walked away. ‘I am your general. The country is still under threat. Would you lose me now, with the might of Spain almost on our doorstep?’

  She turned at that, staring. ‘You fear an invasion?’

  ‘Not yet. But it must come, and soon, if we cannot send a clear message to King Philip that England is not his to claim.’

  ‘Oh, brave words!’

  ‘Rumour has it he is preparing an invasion fleet.’ Robert went to the sideboard and poured them both a glass of red wine. He held one out to her with little attempt at courtesy, his direct gaze jangling her nerves. ‘Take it. You may need it once I am done. They say the best Spanish shipmasters have been ordered to build new and faster ships of war, and as quickly as possible. This is no empty threat but a real danger. Though every Englishman knows the true danger to England lies within our shores.’

  She stiffened, lowering the untouched glass of wine from her lips. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know it already,’ he muttered. ‘But will not act to prevent your own death, it seems.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘Your Scottish cousin will seize this throne from you if you do not remove her from existence,’ he told her bluntly. ‘All of Europe wonders at your reluctance to put an end to her treacherous life. She is shameless in her plotting. She has written to almost every European Catholic court to beg their help in obtaining her release, and it is rumoured that her letters have not been complimentary of the English or their queen.’

  Elizabeth felt sick. She put down the glass. So all of Europe was laughing at her? Yet even that humiliation did not make her decision any easier.

  ‘You know why I cannot order her destruction, Robert. I have argued this before and shall again, for it is the truth. Her life is sacred to God, as mine is. Tell me, what hell awaits me after death if I condemn such a neck to the axe?’

  ‘Better her vile neck than yours,’ he said roughly, then put down his glass and took her in his arms again. ‘Elizabeth, my love, look at me. I know why you will not take me back into your bed, and I thank you for the honour you have done me by putting this country’s safety in my charge, despite my marriage to Lettice. But accept my advice at least, which is more honest than anything else about me, and don’t let your scheming cousin kill you and usurp the English throne.’

  Elizabeth allowed him to kiss her for a moment, then shivered and shook her head. ‘Let me go, Robert. You are no adulterer.’

  ‘I thank heaven for it,’ he whispered against her throat, ‘though at times I wish I could unmarry myself and be in your good grace again.’

  Elizabeth pulled away from him, crossing the room to put some distance between them. She found it hard to think clearly when Robert was so close.

  ‘A Catholic came at me with a knife this year,’ she told him. ‘Now Walsingham has set men to watch my rooms constantly, and I can go nowhere without a guard of stout yeomen. Every grain of my food must be tasted before I am allowed to eat, and all my wine and ale too, for Lord Burghley fears one of Mary’s devout followers may try to poison me.’

  She smiled thinly, mocking herself for cowardice. ‘I was even too afraid to open parliament this year, in case some plot was hatched to kill me there.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘Then you must have seen what straits I am in. I may be a queen, but I am every bit as much in prison as my cousin Mary.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Yet what can I do but wait and hope God takes the decision from my hands?’

  Robert watched her in silence for a while. Then he went to the window and stared out at the dark. ‘You cannot hope for such a thing. All you can do is act. It is the kingly thing to do, and you know it. Your father would have had no hesitation.’

  ‘But my sister hesitated,’ she pointed out. ‘I was in the Tower and feared for my life. My sister chose not to act, and I only rule now because of her hesitation to take my life.’

  ‘And do you wish your cousin to say the same thing of you in a year’s time, Elizabeth, as she sits upon your throne and gloats upon your sisterly hesitation?’

  His voice was harsh, almost insulting, and Elizabeth found it hard to reply without equal anger. She loved Robert, and could not bear the thought of a life without him, but his arrogance always seemed to strike sparks off the tinderbox of her temper.

  ‘Get out!’ she exclaimed.

  Robert bowed at once, very stiff, his velvet, jewel-studded cap in his hand. ‘Your Majesty.’

  He reached the door in a few angry strides, where she stopped him.

  ‘There will be a banquet in your honour in the coming week,’ she told him, as coldly as though they had never kissed, as though they had no feelings for each other, ‘with a play, and dancing, and an hour of fireworks to celebrate your safe return from the Low Countries. You will not bring your wife to court for any of these festivities but will attend them as my personal escort. Is that clear?’

  He bowed again. ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ he said, and Elizabeth caught a flicker of some swiftly hidden emotion in his face. Triumph? Contempt?

  Still he lingered on the threshold, holding the door open. ‘Will I have the pleasure of hearing Lucy Morgan sing at the banquet, Your Majesty? I was told she was no longer at court.’

  Elizabeth frowned. ‘Lucy Morgan left court some time ago. I grew weary of her singing, and her reputation was sullied by some ugly rumours. You know I demand the highest chastity from my ladies,’ she said significantly, and raised her gaze to his face.

  ‘I have missed her voice this past year,’ Robert said lightly, looking back at her. ‘And Lucy has done, as I recall, no little service for your throne in the past. Now I am back from the Low Countries, perhaps it is also time to send for Lucy Morgan to return to court? She was always one of Pip’s favourites too, and her sweet voice would be welcome at his funeral.’

  His smile faltered as he turned away. ‘There may be difficult times ahead, Your Majesty, and music lightens even the darkest hour.’

  Six

  ‘LUCY, WAKE UP,’ a low voice said in her ear. ‘A letter has come for you.’

  Lucy opened her eyes reluctantly. In truth, she had not been asleep but lying in a heavy torpor under her sheepskin covers, as she had done most days since leaving the Parkers’ house. Her daybed was sunlit, for Goodluck had set it near his open front door, where she could see the passers-by and listen to the cries of the street traders.
But the sunlight was chilly, for it was early February and there was a light sprinkling of snow on the roofs opposite.

  ‘Here,’ Goodluck murmured, and held a cup to her lips. ‘Take some ale. Then you must eat or you will never recover your strength.’

  Lucy obeyed, sipping at the ale and then accepting a few mouthfuls of boiled white poultry. Afterwards, feeling less groggy, she made an effort to smile at him. ‘Thank you.’ She glanced at the letter on the side table. ‘For me?’

  ‘It came a few days back, but you were not well enough to read it.’

  She let him arrange her pillows so she could sit up and read the letter. It was from Cathy; she recognized the slanted, childish writing at once, for her friend had never learned to form her letters correctly. She broke the seal, reading through the few sparse lines in silence, then handed it to Goodluck.

  ‘She cannot come to stay,’ she remarked sadly. ‘I knew there must be something wrong when she did not reply to my last letter. That young husband of hers didn’t come back from the war. So now she is a widow, and the only one to care for her sick mother.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I shall never see Cathy again.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Goodluck said briskly, and sat down on the edge of her bed. He smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. ‘Cathy writes that her mother is very sick, which means the woman may likely die.’

  ‘Goodluck!’

  He grinned at her indignant expression. ‘Forgive me. I do not wish calamity upon the poor invalid, I merely state what is in Cathy’s letter.’

  ‘And if she dies, what of it?’

  ‘Then I expect her long-suffering daughter will be free to return to London as soon as she may afford to hire a cart to carry her,’ Goodluck commented wryly, handing her back the letter, ‘which she clearly wishes to do, judging by her postscript.’

  Lucy lowered her gaze again to Cathy’s postscript.