At a signal from the bishop, Lucy drew in a long breath, counted silently in her head, and launched into song. She had been given only days to learn the music chosen by the Queen, and had struggled at first with the Latin. Her greatest fear had been that, after so many months away from court, only able to sing for herself and never allowed to practise her craft as she had done before, she would not be able to hit the notes perfectly or would find her voice weak or wanting. Now, though, the nervousness she had felt earlier that morning drained away, leaving her in a state of absolute calm.
Clasping her hands before her chest, Lucy lifted her head high, and sang as though she had never been away from court. She thought of Sir Philip Sidney, so handsome and full of promise, a great soldier and scholar, a poet whose work had never failed to touch her heart. She remembered his charming smile, the way he had jousted with the other nobles to entertain the Queen on summer progresses, his shouts of triumph at his wins, his laughter and easy sportsmanship when he lost. The high, unaccompanied notes of her song haunted the ancient church like his presence, touching its sturdy rafters and beams, its stone flags and whitewashed walls, the spaces where the people stood, the ornate roodscreen behind which the priests waited to conduct the Mass.
Beyond the open door to St Paul’s, massed hordes of gentry and commoners lined the city streets, some there by decree, others simply hoping for a glimpse of the young man’s coffin as it passed that morning. Hundreds had stood outside the church in silence that morning as the Queen and her entourage had arrived, Lucy among them. Some had shouted the Queen’s blessing and showered her ladies with the fragile petals of spring flowers; others had knelt in respectful silence, heads bowed in prayer for the dead young man whose life they had come to celebrate, their caps held in their hands.
Her song finished, Lucy stepped back and stood to one side beside the screen, suddenly trembling. She felt sick and only managed not to faint by staring hard at one of the bright stands of candles nearest her, focusing on the golden, flickering flames and breathing in the sweet scent of the dried herbs strewn among the rushes.
Daring to look up later, while the bishop was intoning some message of hope from the high pulpit, she caught Lord Leicester’s gaze on her face.
Lord Leicester nodded, giving her the faintest of smiles, then looked back at Sir Philip’s coffin, his face once again grim.
After the coffin had been conveyed down into the crypt, the procession returned to Greenwich Palace by road and river, the soldiers’ banners flying in the icy February weather. It seemed hard to Lucy, a chill sunshine on her face, the signs of new growth in every field and on the river bank, that Sir Philip Sidney would never see another spring nor ever grace the court again with his dancing and poetry. But then she remembered Jack Parker, who had died through no fault of his own, but simply for having agreed to marry her and conceal her shame. And her son, born dead, his tiny waxen eyelids never opening to see her face. And Cathy’s young husband too, fallen in the struggle to secure the Low Countries – and Lucy wept, covering her face in her hands, for all the deaths and the misery of life.
The Queen summoned her that evening to the Privy Chamber at Greenwich. The room had emptied of courtiers except for the Queen’s ladies and her royal guards, now constantly in attendance at Walsingham’s command.
It was the first time Lucy had seen Queen Elizabeth face to face since leaving court, and she knew an instant of terror before entering the chamber. The Queen had sent her away on such hostile terms, Lucy could not quite believe she had been persuaded to allow her return.
With memories of the Tower looming darkly in her mind, Lucy sank to both knees before the Queen and bowed her head. ‘Your Majesty.’
‘I hear you were married without permission while away from my court,’ the Queen remarked coldly, ‘and are now a widow. That you should be known from now on as Mistress Parker.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
There was a long silence. The fire crackled at Lucy’s back, and a log popped loudly in the flames. Finally, the Queen clicked her fingers, signalling her to rise.
‘I do not like this name, Parker. It is a common one.’ There was a petulant note to the Queen’s voice. ‘And I do not like it that a woman must take her husband’s name in this slavish fashion. Lucy Morgan suited you well enough. Since your husband is dead and cannot call us to account for it, I shall know you still as Mistress Morgan. How others address you at court is your own affair.’
Lucy said nothing, but waited. She knew there must be more, or the Queen would not have summoned her.
‘I am curious about you, Mistress Morgan. You owe your return to court to Lord Leicester,’ Queen Elizabeth continued, her thin lips pursed as she examined Lucy’s gown with apparent disapproval. ‘His lordship argued most passionately on your behalf. Though I am told Sir Francis also took you under his wing on your departure from court. Is that true?’
Lucy hesitated, her gaze carefully lowered to the floor. Sir Francis had not instructed her to keep his arrangements for her marriage secret, so it seemed safe enough to comment. Besides, if she was to keep this new place at court, she must be prepared to abase herself before the Queen and tell the truth. It galled her, yet she must do it. The Queen would accept nothing less than her complete obedience. And she had no pride left to chafe her conscience, surely? Not after everything that had happened to her.
‘Yes, Your Majesty. I am most grateful to Sir Francis for his kind help, which I did not deserve.’
‘Indeed,’ the Queen replied drily. She tapped her fingers on the arm of her high-backed seat. ‘Well, it seems you have friends at court, and so may stay while your favour lasts. Only remember to keep yourself chaste this time, Mistress Morgan, and obedient to your betters. You may be a widow now and not to be watched as closely as a virgin, but I will have no light women in my service. Is that clear?’
Lucy curtsied. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Now go and seek some better gowns for yourself from the keeper of the royal wardrobe. You cannot come to court like that. And since I will need you for state occasions, a bedchamber and a servant have also been arranged for you.’ As Lucy bowed out of the Privy Chamber in a display of humility, the Queen called sharply after her. ‘You have been granted bouge of court again, Mistress Morgan. Do not be a fool this time and lose it through neglecting your honour.’
The next morning, having been woken by the now unfamiliar sounds of a great palace stirring in the dawn light, Lucy took herself to the chambers of the royal wardrobe to be measured for a gown. She was standing in her undershift, being presented with an array of court gowns discarded by Queen Elizabeth as worn too often or not flattering enough to her hair or figure, when there was a loud knock at the door and it began to open.
‘Go away!’ one of the women called, looking shocked at the intrusion.
A very young, curly-haired pageboy grinned round the door frame, ignoring cries of outrage from the other ladies present.
‘Is Mistress Morgan here?’ he asked in a high voice.
‘Yes.’ Lucy frowned, holding up a gown to conceal her semi-clad body. ‘What is it?”
Then the door opened fully to reveal Cathy standing there, flushed and smiling, still in her travelling gown and cap, her hem dirty from the road.
Lucy shrieked with joy and ran forward, forgetting to cover herself in front of the pageboy. ‘Cathy!’
They embraced fiercely, while the ladies pushed the page from the room and closed the heavy door against other passers-by.
Lucy was astonished but delighted to see her old friend. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your husband. You must miss him terribly. But how are you here? I thought you were nursing your mother?’
‘She passed away ten days ago,’ Cathy told her, and her smile was sad. ‘Just after I wrote to you last. I was so distressed after we buried her, I did not know what to do with myself. Then I received a letter and a purse of coins, bidding me to court as your maid, by order of Sir Franci
s Walsingham himself.’
Drawing back in shock, Lucy held her at arm’s length. She felt unsteady. ‘My maid?’ she repeated. ‘But no, Sir Francis must have made a mistake. You … you are an entertainer, not a servant.’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I was never a gifted singer, Lucy. Not like you. And now I cannot even dance any more. See?’ She lifted her skirt to reveal that one of her shoes was built higher than the other. ‘I broke my ankle falling from a roof in the autumn. My own silly fault, thinking I could mend the thatch as well as a man. But it healed poorly, for I was busy about the house and not able to let it rest. Now I walk with a limp, and they say I shall never dance again.’
‘Oh, my dearest.’ Lucy held her close. Her heart hurt at the thought of her lively, fair-haired Cathy unable to dance, she who had loved so much to shine at court. ‘But for you to be my servant! It does not seem right.’
‘I am a widow now, remember? Just as you are. You will not deny me a chance to earn my keep, surely?’ Cathy’s face was suddenly pale. ‘If you refuse my service, I will be forced to return to Norfolk and beg a crust at my father-in-law’s farm, where my son is being brought up.’
Lucy stared. ‘You left him behind?’
‘I could not bring a young child to court. Not as a servant,’ Cathy explained quietly. ‘He will be well fed and cared for on the farm, and whatever I earn will be kept safe to pay for his education.’
‘I’m not sure—’ Lucy began, but Cathy interrupted her, her voice catching on a sob.
‘Do not turn me away, Lucy, for the sake of our old friendship. I have no money left and no place else to go.’
‘Mistress Morgan, please,’ one of the tiring women said impatiently at their backs, holding up a dark velvet gown with a lacy bodice for Lucy to try. ‘We must hurry. There are other women to be measured this morning, and we have not yet come to an agreement on which gowns you are to be allowed from the royal wardrobe.’
‘Of course,’ Lucy told the woman swiftly. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
She turned to Cathy and squeezed her hands. ‘Since you are so very determined to stay, then I cannot tell you no. We shall make it work, the two of us together. Now will you not take off your cloak and help me into this gown? I fear I may be too broad in the hips for it, but the velvet is so fine, I would dearly love to wear it about the court. What do you think?’
Cathy managed a smile, beginning to unfasten her cloak. ‘I think Sir Francis Walsingham is a very wise man.’
Nine
Fotheringay Castle, Northamptonshire, 8 February 1587
IT WAS ALMOST dawn when Goodluck showed his papers at the castle lodge and was escorted with another group of waiting gentlemen through the castle to a chamber with no chairs but a good fire and some cups of spiced wine set out, to warm them in the bitter February weather.
Goodluck took a cup of wine and sipped at it, glancing covertly about the room.
One of the other men looked at him, frowning. ‘I do not think I know you, sir.’
Goodluck inclined his head politely, but did not give his name. ‘I am here on state business, sir. You must forgive me,’ he said, and moved to stand apart.
Nobody else spoke much after that. More gentlemen arrived under escort and soon the room was crowded, but awkwardly silent. Then an usher appeared at the door in livery and, after a brief announcement about the proceedings to come, led them in an orderly fashion to the Great Hall. There, wooden chairs had been set out in rows; these had been alloted to most of the gentlemen and nobles present. Those without a seat allocation were told to stand about the room wherever they felt most comfortable, but not to crowd too close either to the raised platform at the centre, or to the far door, which stood closed and was guarded by stout-faced yeomen.
Goodluck took up a position near the fire, and was glad of its heat at his back. The weather was damp that morning, and the wind had cut him to the quick as he had walked in the darkness before dawn from last night’s lodging-place to Fotheringay Castle.
He recognized a few faces among those seated nearest the dais. One or two seemed to glance at Goodluck with more than passing interest. He was disguised as a local gentleman that day, wearing a country suit and hat, and carrying a stout cane instead of his sword. But there had not been much he could do about his beard, presently regrown in its grey and sable splendour, and quite distinctive to friends and enemies alike.
Now that they were in the execution room itself, with its generous crackling fire and tapestry-hung walls, the assembled gentry seemed more cheerful. Men talked among themselves about the weather, or stared with frank curiosity at the raised platform that dominated the Great Hall. Some five feet high, it had been railed off on three sides from the spectators, for all the world as though for a wrestling match – except for the yards of black crêpe with which it had been hung. At one end stood a high-backed seat, presumably intended for the exiled queen, and several other seats for witnesses, set about the dais. In grim opposition to these more comfortable objects stood the block, rough and stained, where her head would soon be laid.
Standing to one side on the dais were the executioner and his assistant, both large men, their arms folded over the black gowns and white aprons of their trade. Today at least, Goodluck thought darkly, there would be no dragging out the traitor’s innards while she was still alive and begging for mercy. For royalty, the penalty was beheading; an easy death by comparison with that suffered by less exalted conspirators.
The guards on the door into the antechamber drew themselves up as it opened. Several sombre-looking men entered, accompanied by a small party of soldiers, and a priest holding a Bible, from which he was reading as he walked.
Behind them came Mary Stuart herself, holding herself with dignity in a black gown with a red velvet bodice, a white veil trailing down her back from her cap. Her face was ashen pale, and her eyes red from recent weeping, yet she seemed composed.
A muttering filled the room as Mary hesitated at the foot of the platform, her eyes on the block that awaited her. Then a soldier came forward, taking each arm, and firmly escorted the Queen up the steps to the dais.
Passing the low wooden block, Mary seemed to stumble but recovered herself, and was even smiling as she settled herself into the high-backed chair.
The death warrant was then read aloud to the Queen and the crowd, in case any believed the proceedings not to be legally conducted. Goodluck barely heard a word, his attention on the faces of the rapt assembly instead. If any rebel traitor was in the room that morning, he felt sure some flicker of despair would betray him now, at the death of his best hope for a Catholic England.
But although he saw pity and discomposure on many faces there, he found no outward signs of anger.
The Dean of Peterborough stood to address the Queen, asking her to accept ‘the comfortable promises of Almighty God to all penitent believing Christians’, but was rudely interrupted by Mary herself, who insisted in a strong French accent that she was a true Catholic and had no need of his English comforts. She had been raised at the French court, Goodluck recalled, and was still by all accounts a popular figure there – though none of her followers in Paris had ever stirred themselves to obtain her release.
‘Mr Dean!’ she exclaimed, when the priest ignored this shrill outburst and attempted to continue with his address. ‘I beg you not to trouble yourself with the salvation of my soul. You should know that I am settled in the ancient Catholic and Roman faith, and I mean to spend my blood today in its defence.’
Rising from her seat, her face flushed with sudden indignation, Mary dropped to her knees in the centre of the platform and began to pray loudly in Latin. Her servants at once joined in, kneeling around her as though to protect their mistress from interference. One of her women handed her a white crucifix which the Queen raised first to heaven and then kissed, praying ever more passionately in Latin, and weeping as she did so.
The Dean of Peterborough stared at Mary with undis
guised loathing, then stalked to the far end of the platform. There, the block waited starkly for her neck.
The dean spoke briefly with the executioner, his back turned, but the Scots Queen’s gaze had followed him – and lighted on the block.
More unnecessary cruelty, Goodluck noted. His bile rose. Did the officious bastard have to wave his triumph in her face? The dean had wished to remind Mary that she might have won that particular battle, but the end of the war was in sight.
Finishing her prayers, Mary spoke with each of her weeping servants in turn, then allowed the executioners to approach and kneel before her.
‘Madam,’ the older one asked, whose name Goodluck knew to be Bull, chief executioner at the Tower of London, ‘will you forgive us this discharge of our duty?’
‘Willingly,’ Mary replied lightly to the executioner’s traditional request, though her cheeks were damp and her lips trembled as she spoke. ‘I forgive you both with all my heart, for I hope this death will bring an end to the troubles of my life.’
Her expression now resolute, Mary raised her arms for the masked executioners to disrobe her.
As her black gown was slowly and respectfully removed, a petticoat of crimson satin was revealed beneath.
Several men in the front seats cried out, ‘For shame!’, while others frowned in open consternation, shaking their heads at this last defiant gesture. Goodluck smiled grimly. The rebel Queen knew well what the effect of such a last garment would be upon those reading of her death in months and years to come. For crimson was not only the colour of blood, but also of martyrdom. Her choice today would provide a rallying cry to every secret Catholic in the land, to rise up and die a martyr to their faith.
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