‘Wait here,’ he ordered her.
Goodluck pushed through a crowd of black-capped students arguing fiercely in the middle of the street, and came to within a few doors of the house Marlowe had entered. There he stopped; the windows on the first floor were unshuttered, due to the heat, and he did not wish to be seen from within. He stood flat against the wall and listened, but could hear nothing over the noise of the crowd.
The door opened and a beggar came out, limping, a wooden crutch under one arm. His face was swarthy, his hair long enough to touch his dirty collar, and when he called out a cheery greeting to a passing acquaintance, Goodluck realized that he was an Irishman.
Hurrying to catch him up, he put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Friend,’ he said with a ready smile, ‘I could not help hearing your voice there, for you speak with the self-same accent as my own dear mother, too long departed from this earth, God rest her soul.’
The beggar halted, squinting at him against the setting sun. ‘Your mother was Irish?’
‘Indeed she was, and I thank you for reminding me of her sweet face. But I see you have not the use of both legs.’ He fumbled in his purse for a coin. ‘Unless it gives offence, would you accept this small token in memory of my mother?’
The man’s eyes lit up. He took the coin, but cautiously, biting on it, then slipping it hurriedly into some pouch concealed under his tattered coat. ‘Thank you, sir, thank you. And may your mother’s soul rest in peace. From what part of Ireland did she come?’
‘From Dublin.’
‘Ah, it’s a beautiful city. Well, good day to you, sir, good day.’ And touching his cap, the beggar began to limp away, supported on his crutch. Goodluck fell into step beside him, which surprised the man, but his easy smile seemed to set him back at his ease. ‘Will you take a sup of ale with me, sir?’ the Irishman said. ‘There’s a tavern on the corner will serve me if I sit outside and make no fuss.’
‘Alas, I cannot, for I am to meet a man in this street. But so far I have not seen him. Perhaps you would know him? His name is Marlowe.’
The beggar looked at him hard. ‘Marlowe? You know Marlowe?’
Goodluck nodded, watching him. There was a moment’s silence. He felt himself begin to sweat, thinking he had baited the trap wrongly. Then the man shrugged, wiped a hand across his brow and gestured back down the street. ‘The house with the carved elephant above the door. You’ll find him within. I go there for alms sometimes, for I served the master of that house before I lost my leg in battle.’ He slapped the crutch. ‘If I had not been cut down, I would be there still. For I left many good men and friends behind.’
‘In Ireland?’
‘No, sir, in the Low Countries.’
Goodluck’s mind leapt ahead. ‘You served under Sir William Stanley?’
‘Aye.’
His heart was racing. ‘And that is Stanley’s house?’
‘One of them.’ The beggar’s eyes narrowed suspiciously on his face. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t,’ Goodluck said shortly, then nodded his head. ‘Good day to you.’
Returning swiftly to where he had left Lucy, Goodluck took her by the arm and steered her towards the network of tiny lanes and alleys which he knew would take them back to his house, only rather quicker without having to push through the crowds.
‘Whose house was that?’ she asked once they had traversed several lanes.
Goodluck glanced over his shoulder, but no one was following them. It felt safe enough to share what he had discovered. ‘It belongs to Sir William Stanley, though he is not at home at present. Nor will he be, once Walsingham learns of this house, for his estate should be forfeit to the crown. Indeed, I rather suspect Stanley will be occupied for some time with leading Spanish forces against the English.’
‘Sir William Stanley is the traitor you were watching abroad?’
‘The very man.’ Goodluck frowned, thinking back over what he had seen and heard. ‘The question is, why is Marlowe visiting one of Stanley’s houses while Stanley himself is far away on the other side of the sea? Marlowe and his men performed before Stanley and the garrison at Nieuwpoort. Did Stanley charge him with some errand once he was back in London?’ He shook his head. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘You think Marlowe is a traitor too?’
‘I think he has some questions to answer, certainly. And I must see Walsingham tonight. But first, I shall take you safely home.’
She handed him the key as they approached the house in Cheapside, and he unlocked the door. It was not often these days that he spent much time at home. He looked about the place in dismay while Lucy hung up her cloak and tidied her springing hair under the tight white cap. The fire had been recently lit, but had not warmed the stones. The house felt damp and unwelcoming. It needed to be lived in, not left to stand empty for months at a time.
‘When you marry again,’ he told her, ‘I will give you this house for your own. I will find somewhere else to live. This house needs a family. It needs you, Lucy.’
Lucy was staring. ‘When I marry again?’
‘Your last marriage was a fraud. Would you have your whole life a lie?’ He felt some long-repressed emotion begin to rise inside him and struggled against it, keeping his voice level. ‘Let Shakespeare go. Find yourself an honest bachelor instead and marry him. These sad looks do not suit you.’
‘You do not understand what is between us or you would not tell me to find another man,’ she whispered, standing very still before him. ‘I need William Shakespeare. I desire him.’
‘You desire him?’ He took his ward by the shoulders. ‘Do you know what the Latin word desirare signifies? It means to watch for a star in vain. We look for what we lack, and love comes hand in hand with looking. This man, Shakespeare, this adulterer … He is not what you lack.’
‘Then what is it I lack?’ Lucy lifted her gaze to his. ‘Goodluck?’
The look in her eyes almost undid him.
Four
Palace of Whitehall, London, September 1588
‘MORE HOT WATER, Your Majesty?’
Reluctantly, Elizabeth opened her eyes. Helena was standing beside the tub with a pitcher of steaming hot water, ready to reheat her bath. It was surprising to her that not more of her people took baths, for they were a most pleasant way to keep the body clean. She had drifted away in the steamy warmth of her bath, remembering the magnificent celebrations laid on last week by Robert, the young Earl of Essex. She had looked down on his pageant from a high window here at Whitehall, clapping her hands in delight at the scurrilous verses Essex had penned for the event, casting doubt on Parma’s manhood in the wake of England’s famous victory.
‘Your stepson becomes a most excellent courtier,’ she had told Leicester, who had been by her side every night of those victorious celebrations. Then added slyly, ‘And so handsome. One would almost swear he was your son, not Walter Devereux’s.’
She smiled now, recalling Leicester’s swift sidelong glance, his lack of a denial. It was well known that he and his wife Lettice had been intimate during her first marriage to the unpleasant Walter, Earl of Essex. And the boy’s name was Robert, after all.
Coincidence, or a covert nod to his true parentage?
Either way, she thought the young Robert, Earl of Essex, a most fetching young man, and very like his stepfather in looks, even if his disposition was inclined to be somewhat wild and impetuous. But as some had murmured about the court, in dangerous times like these, warlike temperaments were more in demand than the flowery and poetic natures who seemed to populate her halls.
‘Your Majesty?’ Helena prompted her kindly.
Elizabeth found she had closed her eyes again. So tired! It had been another long day in council. It seemed winning a war involved almost as much paperwork and discussion as waging it. She had given strict instructions for the soldiers to be paid off and dispersed at once, and all warships retired as soon as the council was sure no further Spanish
incursions were anticipated. But this, of course, had excited furious comment from those warmongers who were keen to see troops marching up and down the land for the next twelvemonth, their upkeep and training costs eating into her slender reserves of money.
No, the war was won, and the soldiers must all go home or England would soon be bankrupt. It was as simple as that.
Besides, Lord Leicester had taken himself off to the healing waters at Buxton a few days after victory had been declared, saying he needed to rest. If Robert felt it safe to abandon the troops and their fortifications at Tilbury, then why should she not send his men home?
She nodded to Helena. ‘Pour on,’ she agreed, pulling her feet back from the steaming water now filling the bath, then murmured, ‘and add more rosewater. The scent is so delicate, it reminds me of my younger days.’
Her lady-in-waiting returned with the rosewater, then gently soaped Elizabeth’s neck and back with a soft, perfumed cloth.
Elizabeth stared up at the stately portrait of Leicester in armour which hung on her wall, carefully positioned so she could see her favourite from her bed at night. Robert had been handsome in his youth as well, though perhaps more graceful than his stepson, with a certain presence at court that young Essex lacked. Now he was grey-haired and a little stout, his health uncertain, as his last letter had indicated. But whenever their eyes met, she saw the man he had been and was herself a young girl again, her heart fluttering. With Essex, although he was charming and attentive, there was always some reserve on her part, perhaps a fear that he might find her … too old.
‘I shall order a new portrait of myself, Helena. It shall be very regal, and strike fear into the hearts of our enemies.’
‘Is it over, then? This war with Spain?’
‘For now.’ Elizabeth put that difficult question aside; she did not wish to consider the possibility of further strikes against her country. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet scent of rosewater. ‘Tell me, what do you think of young Robert, Earl of Essex?’
Helena hesitated, slowly soaping her shoulders in the rising steam. ‘Lord Essex has a goodly face. And they say he is clever, and might make a good statesman when he is older. But he is a little rash and impulsive for my tastes, Your Majesty.’
‘Loyal though?’
‘I would hope so, Your Majesty. He is always at your knee. You cannot fear disloyalty from that quarter, surely?’
‘No, but like so many of these young bucks at court, Essex is full of ambition. And though he is charming, he is, as you say, rather too headstrong. He does not yet possess Leicester’s political skill, nor his restraint in the face of my displeasure.’
Elizabeth lay back in her bath, closing her eyes as she thought of the two men side by side at court, one young and wilful, the other entirely her servant – if she disregarded his unfortunate marriage.
‘I wish Robert would take the boy more in hand, teach his namesake how a nobleman should behave to his queen.’
‘No doubt he will, Your Majesty, when his lordship returns from his travels next month.’
There was an abrupt knock at the door to the bedchamber. Helena glanced round, surprised.
Elizabeth sat up, a touch exasperated by the interruption, the cooling bathwater slopping over the sides. Was she never to be left alone? But no one would knock this late unless the matter was important. ‘Put the screen round, then see who it is.’
Helena did as she was bade, dragging the tall wooden screen around the bathtub. Elizabeth stared through the narrow gaps in the screen but could see nothing of any use, the room too dim with the shutters closed and curtains drawn against the evening light. She stared instead at the mahogany screen, thinking how very fine it was. The three generous sections were decorated with excellent latticework traced in gold and carvings of naked mermaids and dolphins sensuously riding the waves; a coronation gift from some foreign prince, she could not remember which.
After a whispered conference at the door, Helena returned, looking almost fearful as she came round the screen. ‘Your Majesty, it is Lord Burghley. He says he must speak with you at once on a matter of grave urgency.’
‘What, are the Spanish back and burning Cornwall again?’
‘Your Majesty, will you permit me to dry you and call the other ladies back in so you can be properly robed?’ Helena’s smile was strained. ‘The bathwater will be cold soon anyway.’
While the women came in and dressed her, Elizabeth stood silently, examining her hands. In her youth, the pale beauty of her hands had been famous throughout Europe.
‘Such long elegant fingers!’ the Spanish ambassador had exclaimed once, watching her play the virginals.
Now her skin was discoloured, her nails brittle. Her women rubbed in cream every morning to smooth out the slackening skin on the backs of her hands and around her wrists, while delicate gloves hid them from visiting dignitaries. But with every year that passed, she saw the signs of her ageing and despaired.
‘We will wait with you, Your Majesty,’ Lady Mary Herbert assured her, settling a lace nightcap on her head.
‘No,’ Elizabeth said quickly. Some premonition of horror crept over her and she shuddered, waving her women away. ‘There, I am ready. Leave me, all of you. I would speak with his lordship alone.’
Leaning on his cane, Cecil came in and bowed low, his face gaunt, a sombre expression darkening his eyes.
Elizabeth stood to receive him in her furred night robe. She knew it must be bad news, and she could not bear to sit for bad news.
‘Your Majesty, you must forgive me for being the bearer of evil tidings, but …’ Lord Burghley hesitated, not quite able to meet her eyes. ‘Perhaps you might prefer to sit, Your Majesty? I fear this news concerns his lordship, the Earl of Leicester.’
‘Robert?’
She faltered, taking a step back towards the bed as though to deny him.
What did Cecil mean, evil tidings? What could have happened to Robert? An attack on the road north perhaps, some concealed enemy taking him and his entourage unawares? Or a tumble from his horse? He always had ridden too wildly, even now …
Elizabeth saw his face. It was the worst news imaginable. She halted, gripping her hands together tightly. She would stay on her feet to hear it.
‘Speak on, Cecil. I am neither tired nor in my dotage, I do not need to sit. What is the matter?’
‘It is my sad duty to inform you, Your Majesty, that his lordship, the Earl of Leicester, is dead. His body was found by his servants early this morning, at a house near Oxford where he had broken his journey north, having been taken ill on the road.’
She stared, unable to speak.
He continued doggedly, compassion in his eyes, ‘Do not fear that it was poison, Your Majesty. I wondered that myself until I read the doctor’s report which accompanied the news of his death. It would seem to have been his lordship’s old malady, the fever and shaking, that struck him down. I fear his weeks at Tilbury, camped among the fly-ridden marshes there, may have exposed him to further harm on that score. I am very sorry indeed, Your Majesty, for I know that you and he … that his lordship …’
‘Robert,’ she managed in a whisper, then laid a finger on her lips as if to silence him. She refused to hear more of this news.
‘Should I fetch your ladies, Your Majesty?’
Mute, her body numb with icy shock, she shook her head, and saw Lord Burghley take a cautious step towards her.
‘I cannot disguise that I did not always agree with his lordship,’ Cecil continued, watching her closely as though he feared she might collapse, ‘but no one could doubt Leicester’s loyalty to his country. Nor his loyalty to you, Your Majesty. And his handling of our recent defences against the Spanish was masterful and inspiring. His death is a great loss to the court, and indeed to England.’
Empty words. But well intended, she had no doubt. Elizabeth found her voice again in the silence that followed. Miraculously, it did not shake.
‘I thank you for b
ringing me this news. Would you leave me now, my lord?’
She followed Lord Burghley to the door, and as soon as he was safely outside, shut it behind him and turned the key in the lock. There was some urgent knocking from outside, then raised voices. Helena spoke softly through the door, offering comfort, but she closed her ears. It did not matter. None of it mattered any more.
Alone and unobserved at last, Elizabeth tottered towards the high curtained bed, but sank to the floor before she reached it, blind and deaf to everything but the terrible grief racking her body.
‘Robert!’ she cried in a strange, high-pitched voice, rocking back and forth like a child, her face hidden in her hands. ‘Why have you forsaken me? Robin, ah Robin!’
Five
HER FACE VEILED, Lucy held the difficult pose as long as possible after the strains of music had died away, her arms lifted wide in a gesture of triumph, her gaze on the Queen. Her lavish costume of cloth of gold with a vast overarching ruff and wing-like sleeves was meant to signify an angel, while the lords and ladies posed about her were white-robed shepherds, Magi in exotic cloaks and turbans, and cherubim or lesser angels with golden trumpets set to their lips.
‘Bravo!’ cried the Earl of Essex, who had been kneeling by the Queen’s side throughout the performance. Now he came gracefully to his feet, glancing about the assembled court in the Palace of Whitehall, and clapped his hands in a clear signal for applause.
The court stood silent, looking at the Queen expectantly.
Elizabeth sighed, but said nothing.
It was the first time the Earl of Essex had arranged the Queen’s traditional Christmastide pageant without his stepfather’s assistance. Perhaps it had not met with Her Majesty’s approval.
‘The tableau is very fine. It reminds me of another pageant, another Christmastide …’ the Queen murmured, looking straight at Lucy. Her voice tailed off into silence.
‘Your Majesty?’
Helena offered her a jewel-studded goblet and the Queen took it absentmindedly, though she barely sipped at the wine before handing it back.
Her Last Assassin Page 6
