Queen Elizabeth straightened on her cushioned seat and turned to look at the earl in some consternation, as though suddenly remembering where she was. Behind her elaborate headdress, a rich red backcloth glittered with gold thread, embroidered with a lion rampant. Next to such finery, the Queen’s face seemed whiter and more paper-thin than ever.
‘You arranged all this yourself, Robert?’
‘I did, Your Majesty.’
‘You have done well.’ Elizabeth set her hands together briskly, and the rest of the court followed, their applause rising to the rafters of the high-ceilinged hall. Her smile seemed to be for his lordship alone. ‘I am pleased, my lord.’
Lucy was able to move at last, turning with the other performers to bow before the Queen.
For a moment she had feared the Queen might be returning to that state of despair and apathy that had haunted the court in the aftermath of Leicester’s death. For after hearing the news, the Queen had locked herself in her bedchamber for several days, weeping as violently as a woman widowed, and had refused to respond.
Eventually Lord Burghley had ordered the door broken. They had found Queen Elizabeth inside, lying pale on her bed, staring at nothing. For days afterwards she had not spoken, in a trance of despair over her favourite’s death. Yet she had rallied at last, taken proper food, and sat stony-faced with her councillors to discuss the funeral arrangements.
The crisis had been over.
Yet even now it seemed to Lucy that Her Majesty sometimes mistook the earl’s passionate young stepson for Leicester, for the two Roberts had been very alike. So alike, many believed Leicester to be his natural father, though none would have dared stir Essex to wrath by suggesting this calumny aloud, not least because it would make him a bastard.
The musicians had begun to play again, a light and lively tune that soon had even the Queen tapping her foot.
‘Your Majesty!’ The Earl of Essex approached the Queen, his hand outstretched, his smile teasing. ‘Would you do me the very great honour of partnering me in this dance?’
With a pearl in his ear, Essex looked rakish and even more like Leicester than ever, Lucy thought, watching the Queen return the young man’s smile.
Even Elizabeth seemed younger when she was with him, her cheeks suddenly flushed, her eyes sparkling. He lifted her lightly by the waist and whirled her round, smiling into her face.
Slipping into the shadows behind the raised dais, Lucy looked about the Great Hall. As she had suspected, the entire court was watching them too, from behind fans and raised hands, with a curiosity to equal her own.
Was Essex the Queen’s new favourite?
He was wild, to be sure, and not always respectful towards Her Majesty. But there could be no doubt of her liking for Robert Devereux. The only question was to what degree Elizabeth liked him. For a marriage could not be ruled out, even at her advanced age. And it was clearly in the earl’s head too, his hands familiar on her waist, his smile just the wrong side of intimate.
‘Lucy!’
She turned, frowning at the unexpected summons. Her heart leapt and she struggled not to respond too openly, suddenly glad of the veil.
William Shakespeare was leaning against the wall by the arched east doorway, his arms folded, his smile enigmatic.
In an unhurried fashion, she wandered across the hall, nodding her head to Lord Burghley and several other courtiers on her way, and swept past Shakespeare without a word.
Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting were expected to maintain strict chastity, never allowing themselves to be alone with a man. If she was seen with Shakespeare …
Her heart thudded sickly, but she kept herself steady and upright, listening to the applause from the hall as the dance came to an end.
His face alive with a similar tension, Will followed her along the narrow corridor and into a deserted cold store that overlooked the river. As soon as she had closed the door quietly behind them, he threw back the heavy veil and took her in his arms.
‘My sweet Luce,’ Will murmured fervently, and kissed her on the mouth. The room was cold and she shivered; he stroked the delicate silken sleeves and back of her gown, pulling her close against his furred jacket. ‘Forgive me, I know this meeting could be dangerous for you. But I could not bear for us to be apart a moment longer.’
Lucy looked into that dark, intense gaze and felt her mouth curve most unwillingly into a smile.
Master William Shakespeare.
He was handsome, and still so young. And he was becoming quite renowned for his skill at the playhouse. She had seen his name in the street on playhouse bills, and heard him mentioned at court as a promising new poet.
Lucy’s smile faded as his hand cupped her breast in a possessive gesture. A shocked tingle ran through her, and she gasped, biting her lip. Her belly ached for his more intimate touch, not caring for the consequences.
Yet she must care. Her liberty could be at stake.
‘Will!’ she managed in a strangled voice, placing her hands flat on his chest.
‘My love?’
‘Not here,’ she whispered urgently. His heart was beating too rapidly under her fingertips; she looked into his face and knew they would be in mortal danger if she could not stop this madness. ‘We might be discovered.’
His voice was low in her ear. ‘Explain to me how I can let you go. You are so beautiful tonight, Lucy. You are the apple, you are temptation itself. I came in search of my mistress, and have found this exotic creature in her place, all gold and glittering.’
Will stroked her cheek, then placed a soft kiss on her lips. She should be cold and chastise the unwary playwright for pursuing her so openly. Her reputation at court was as fragile as a widow as it had been as a maid. She was watched less carefully, it was true, but even the suggestion that she had taken a lover could ruin her.
Yet how to push him away?
At times like this, his warmth charmed her like a summer’s day. And the intelligence in his gaze spoke to her of love, and reason, and the agony of this enforced separation.
She recalled another time when William Shakespeare had appeared unexpectedly at court, kissing her in a small, dank room not unlike this one. How young and naive she had been then, and how ready to believe him free of worldly shackles. Even now she knew the truth, that he was a married man with three young children and a home far away in the country, she could not seem to shake this desire.
Lucy laid her forehead against his chest, listening to the erratic heartbeat beneath. ‘This love …’
‘I know, I know,’ Will agreed when her voice faltered. He stroked a hand down her back, his warm touch making her shiver with pleasure. ‘It is foolish and ill-advised. Yet here we are again.’
‘The Queen suffers with grief over Leicester’s death. She is in no mood for a deception like this. A widow and a married man meeting secretly.’
‘A singer and a player.’
‘A lady of the court and …’
Again she hesitated, and he whispered in her ear, ‘A lewd and undisciplined country bumpkin?’
Lucy smiled then, looking into his face. ‘You are hardly that, Master Shakespeare,’ she told him, emphasizing his name. ‘They have begun to talk of you at court these days.’
His eyes widened slightly. ‘They do?’
‘You are no longer an unknown,’ she assured him, and felt a stab of pride at how rapidly he had risen to prominence.
‘Lucy,’ he murmured, and she raised her arms in a flurry of silken gold, linking them about his neck, surrendering herself to his mouth, even if it was for only the briefest of moments.
His lips nuzzled her throat, then dropped lower to the swell of her breasts above her glittering bodice. Oh, this was dangerous indeed, she thought, her eyes closing on a wave of desire. His kisses were like a physician’s honeyed syrup, drugging her into forgetfulness.
‘Damn this costume.’ He tugged impatiently on her bodice. ‘I love your ruff. But this gown is too tight for a lover�
�s embrace. What are you meant to be? A star?’
She shook her head, gurgling with laughter at his expression. ‘I am an angel.’
‘Where are your wings?’
Lucy stepped back and lifted her arms to either side, so he could see the gossamer-thin material hang down in its many shimmering folds, and he smiled. ‘Of course.’ His hands reached for her again. ‘I must remove your wings, alas, for you are too naughty to be angelic. But there will be pleasure in the act, I assure you. Come, my sweet, let me show you.’
‘You should not be here,’ she told him, taking the opportunity to retire to a safer distance, ‘and you know it.’
His gaze followed her across the room, but his arms dropped. She had the impression he had known what she would say before even reaching for her.
‘So you grow tired of me at last, my sweet mistress. I wondered when it would come.’
Lucy shook her head. She hated the bitterness in his voice. If only she could be free to kiss him back, to be his lover, his wife. If he had not been married, they could have been together.
‘I could never be tired of you,’ she whispered.
‘But you have found another lover.’
Her smile hurt. ‘Fool.’
‘I am love’s fool, yes,’ he agreed simply. She saw the pain in his eyes and could not bear it. ‘And yours too, if only you would have me.’
‘You have a wife.’
Will closed his eyes. He covered his face with his hands as though ashamed. For a long moment there was silence in the small room. From the Great Hall came the strains of music. She stood still and thought of them dancing, the lords and ladies of the court, and the Queen with them, pretending to be happy though all the world knew she was still grieving for Lord Leicester.
‘Must we go through this argument again?’ His voice was muffled. ‘I thought it resolved.’
‘It can never be resolved while your wife still lives.’
Will’s hands dropped from his face. He stared at her, and she feared he was only half in jest when he demanded, ‘You do not mean me to do away with Anne, surely?’
Lucy turned to the door and he caught her, his hand almost rough on her arm. She drew a sharp breath, but did not shake him off. His touch was a bittersweet pain that jarred through her. She hugged it to herself like a secret. Never again, never again, never again.
‘Speak sense for once, Will. Our affair must end.’ She looked down at his hand on her arm, willing him to release her. ‘I love you. And I hope you love me. But we can never be together as man and wife, and we should not be together as lovers. Your wife and children deserve more than a few days of your company every summer.’
His face was sombre, brooding. ‘I know it. Do you not think I know it?’
‘Let me go.’
He released her, but reluctantly, his gaze still locked on hers. ‘This was inevitable, I suppose.’ His smile was grim. ‘I always knew you would refuse me again one day.’
Lucy opened the door and he followed her into the corridor, close on her heels.
‘Then why endanger me by coming to court?’ she asked him, keeping her voice low, though the courtiers were still dancing in the Great Hall and nobody could hear them. The walls and high painted ceilings of the palace rang with the haunting notes of pipes and hautboys, the compulsive beat of the tabor. ‘Why pursue me here?’
‘I could not help myself,’ he admitted. ‘And I still had hope.’
They were nearly at the doorway into the Great Hall. It had grown dark outside the narrow windows and freshly lit torches smoked in their sconces, the air about them suddenly acrid.
‘There is no more hope to be had,’ she told him flatly, and tried hard to believe it herself. ‘Hope is dead.’
But telling her heart not to love him was like telling it not to beat. The death of love could not come to pass just by the willing of it, and they both knew it.
‘Are you sure of that, my love?’ Will asked softly, and traced the back of his fingers down her cheek.
‘No,’ she whispered, staring into his eyes.
His smile was crooked. ‘I did not think so,’ he murmured, then bent his head to kiss her.
She did not resist but leaned into the kiss. Her body burned sweetly against his. They should part. She did not want this to be farewell though. Not yet. Oh please, not yet.
His arm came about her waist. ‘I know this tune,’ he muttered. ‘I have danced it on the boards many times. French, is it not?’
She nodded, enjoying the warmth of his body against hers, the masculine scent she had missed.
‘Then let us dance it like the French, my lady. Hand in hand, and face to face.’
She looked up at him then, suddenly breathless, stunned by such a shocking suggestion. ‘Dance together? In front of the court?’
He laughed, his eyes appreciative. ‘Indeed, that would take some courage on our part. No, I mean we should dance here in the corridor. With none to see us but the shadows.’
Dance in the corridor? Out of sight of the rest of the court?
Lucy smiled and shook her head. ‘Madness.’
‘But a pleasant madness.’ Seemingly undeterred by her refusal, Will took a step back and bowed very formally, then held out his hand to her. ‘My lady?’
She hesitated, glancing up and down the empty corridor. What harm could there be in such a jest?
‘I thank you, my lord,’ she murmured, and curtseyed to the ground with her skirts spread wide, as though accepting an invitation from a great dignitary. ‘It would be my honour.’
‘Ah, your honour …’
He was laughing, mocking her. But she did not chide him for it. Her hand felt snug in his. Will pulled her gently forward, and they began to dance, rising on to tiptoe as they swung about, circling each other like wary animals, their eyes locked, breath catching. In a crowded room, this was an entertaining and complicated dance. Alone together in a narrow space, it was breathtakingly intimate. Dangerous, even.
There was not room for a full turn, except where they stood, and Will miscalculated the time, lifting her slightly too early for the leap.
There was a pause as they waited for the distant musicians to catch up. His hands gripped her waist tightly, a few inches below her glittering bodice. His gaze was sombre, intent on her face. For a few seconds, Lucy hung above him there in her golden gown, looking down with laughter in her face. She wondered why it was she always doubted his intentions when he was not there, yet forgot her doubts as soon as they were together again.
Could this be a trick her heart played on her mind?
Or was William Shakespeare a magician, conjuring her to fall in love with him anew whenever they met? Certainly he knew how to woo her with words.
‘My heavenly star,’ he whispered, lowering her towards him. Their mouths brushed, then he was kissing her compulsively, still holding her by the waist, her feet not quite touching the stone floor.
Her body hummed with a sensation she recognized. Heat flooded her face, and she clutched at his shoulders, kissing him back, uncaring what he would think of such a response. Will groaned, then abruptly lurched forward, still holding her against him, and she felt the cold stone wall press into her back.
‘Lucy,’ he muttered, tugging at her bodice to release her breasts. They spilled into his hands, and she moaned, eager for love. ‘God, I want you.’
She kissed his throat, touching him wildly, her hands shaking on his body, deaf to everything but the rush of blood in her ears. Her womb ached with need, her desire for him much sharper than it had ever been before. Sharper and less easily put aside by the voice of caution. It was as though the needs of her body now overrode the warnings in her head. The danger was quite forgotten until a sudden noise behind them reminded her where they were.
‘Forgive my intrusion,’ a man said in a cold, amused voice. ‘I did not know this was a bedchamber.’
Will drew back, hurriedly dragging her bodice back up. He swore under his breath
as his fingers faltered over his own clothing, his cheeks flushed. ‘No,’ he told her urgently when Lucy tried to see over his shoulder. ‘Say nothing. Lower your head. Do not look at him.’
But it was too late. The man had recognized her.
‘Mistress Morgan?’
It was Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton. She did not know him well, for he was still young and fresh-come to court from university. But it was clear that he knew her.
Her heart thundered violently as she considered how she had been discovered with a man, kissing him so lewdly, letting him touch her, make love to her. What might Wriothesley do with this dangerous information? It was not unknown for ladies of the court to be imprisoned in the Tower of London for lack of chastity. And their admirers with them, sometimes for many years.
She was no longer the Queen’s favourite. The Earl of Southampton could ruin her with a few well-placed words in Her Majesty’s hearing.
‘Ah, it is indeed Lucy Morgan.’ The earl inclined his head so slightly, it was clearly intended as an insult. Then he looked Will over, his eyes narrowed. ‘But who is this gentleman? I know him not.’
The music had long since finished in the Great Hall, and they could hear the buzz of conversation instead, the courtiers beginning to disperse for the night. At any moment, some of those within the hall might come pouring out into this narrow corridor and find her in the forbidden company of men.
There was a breathless silence as Lucy stared from Wriothesley to Shakespeare, still unsure what to do. His lordship had not called for the guards, at least. Nor did he seem angry, though she sensed a certain distaste in his tone.
Perhaps they might yet escape censure.
Lucy gathered her wits. ‘My l-lord Southampton,’ she stammered, dropping to the floor in a respectful curtsey, her head bowed. ‘Pray forgive my ill manners. This is Master William Shakespeare.’
Wriothesley’s brows rose steeply. ‘The player?’
Straightening from his bow, his velvet cap in hand, Will stared at the young nobleman. The flush in his cheeks had begun to recede. ‘You have heard of me, my lord?’
Her Last Assassin Page 7
