His Dark Lady (13 page)

‘You forget yourself, Lord Leicester!’

‘Forgive me.’ Robert dropped to one knee again and bowed his head. ‘Your Majesty.’

An unexpected show of deference. Humility, even. Mollified by this, Elizabeth settled back in her chair and tried to regain some composure. So her one-time favourite had not come here tonight in a spirit of sulky defiance. She listened to the spitting crackle of logs in the fireplace, and heard the guards being changed in the antechamber. For a few moments there was the scrape of feet on the stairs, followed by a rumble of male voices through the wall. What was that smell? Logs smouldering or horse dung on his boots? Even now, elevated to an earl, he still smelt of the stable.

‘Tell me how Mendoza does,’ she ordered him. ‘And stand up. You look ridiculous down there.’

Stiffly, Robert straightened. There was humiliation in his face. Good, let him learn his lesson well. She signalled him to draw up a stool, watching as he lowered himself to it, for all the world like a small boy.

‘Sit yourself down and speak to me of this damn Spanish ambassador. We will talk of your affairs later. For now, the only matter that properly concerns me and England is Spain. That, and the miracle of my toothache vanishing.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ he murmured. A sudden twinkle in his eye. ‘Except that you will not need me to hold your hand against the pain.’

A tacit reminder of how close they had been in the past. Perhaps not as humbled as she’d thought. Or the saucy knave considered himself a forgiven man, and was heading straight back to where they had left off.

‘Spain?’

Robert smiled at the tart reply. He spoke of the investigation against the ambassador while she watched him, noting the shadows like bruises under his eyes, a new tension about his mouth. So fatherhood had not served him as well as he had supposed. Perhaps his wife was neither obedient nor malleable, and for ever irked his
heart
out, demanding to be back at court. Such were the rumours she had heard. But to hear his dissatisfaction with Lettice from Robert’s own lips, that would be gratifying indeed. Not that she was likely to wring any such confession from him. But it was a happy thought to entertain.

He stirred from his stool, rising to stoke the fire. I did not tell you to stand, she thought irritably, staring at the back of his grey head, but said nothing.

‘We cannot arrest him, of course. Not the Spanish ambassador.’

‘But we can humiliate him. Mendoza will be expelled from court and escorted to Dover by a troop of soldiers. He and his men will be put on a boat for Spain. His disgrace will be assured on his return there.’

‘There will be a war with Spain. King Philip only waits for such an excuse. You understand, Your Majesty?’

‘I am not a fool.’

Robert smiled, coming back to his stool. He settled there drily, glancing up at her as if to say, ‘Yes, I am your dog.’ She knew such humility would not last. But it was a start.

‘Indeed you are not, Your Majesty.’

‘I have wanted to avoid war, yes. Struggled and fought for years to avoid it,’ Elizabeth admitted. ‘But conflict with Spain is unavoidable. I see that now. I am reconciled to it. What bothers me is that our shores are not yet proof against invasion.’

He nodded sombrely. ‘It is a problem.’

Elizabeth played with her ruby ring. She frowned, watching the dark-red gemstone flash in the firelight. ‘They tell me Spain has many great warships, and to spare. We have our own fleet, yes, but what if they should fail? England must be able to defend herself against the invading Spanish. There must be some way for those along the coast to give the alarm if even one enemy ship should be sighted. And if they land before the army can reach them, what then? Every town and village between London and the south coast must be defended by stout burghers ready to die for England. Aye, and their sons too.’ She looked at him. ‘Though how such a thing can ever be achieved, given the weakly state of our coffers, the Lord only knows.’

‘Do you wish me to put these issues before the Council, Your Majesty?’

‘Not yet,’ she decided. ‘Let us dispose of Mendoza first. Philip will bluster, no doubt, and we can deal with that. Then it will come to war.’ She hesitated, glancing at him. ‘Perhaps I should not leave the city this summer?’

‘And risk the plague?’ He shook his head urgently. ‘Let me counsel you against such a dangerous course. England needs her queen safe and well. There are other matters first, before Spain, that need our attention. The Catholic cause grows stronger every month. Priests trained to avoid our searches are coming over in droves from France and the Low Countries. This threat is not an idle one. Each priest that enters England will convert others to their cause, sow the seeds of rebellion among the Catholics already here, and drag us closer to an open and bloody war against our own people.’

Her mouth twitched. She remembered only too well the burnings of Protestants that had taken place in market towns throughout England during her sister Mary’s reign. She did not wish to make an enemy of the common people as her sister had done, yet how else to control these Catholics? They were like a disease spreading through a healthy body and destroying it before her eyes. Left to thrive and multiply, the Catholics would bring England to her knees, and not in prayer.

‘I will not have us brought to civil war.’

‘You may have no choice in the matter, Your Majesty. But there will be a war, even if it does not come yet. Spain is not afraid to engage us in conflict. It only waits to make its position stronger. Meanwhile, the greatest threat still lies at home.’

‘Meaning?’

Her sharp question brought his wandering gaze back to her face. ‘Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. You hold the most important piece in this game, yet you hesitate to use it against your enemies.’

Elizabeth stiffened. ‘My cousin is a queen anointed, as I am. To execute her would be to condone the disposal of a prince from her throne.’

‘Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, to execute Queen Mary would be to make England safe from the nearest of these Catholic plots.’

Elizabeth stared into the fire, which was dying now. The heat of
the
red-gold embers seemed to mock her chilled body. ‘She is my cousin, Robert.’

He nodded without speaking, then stood abruptly. He swung the cloak from his own shoulders and laid it about her own. ‘The room grows cold. Shall I call for more fuel?’

‘No, I must get to bed and sleep.’ She looked up at him, still leaning over her. His face was haggard, wearing his years heavily. ‘But what of you?’

‘I shall retire soon, Your Majesty.’

‘I meant, how are you? You are so often from court these days.’ Elizabeth hesitated, then forced the difficult words out, her smile thin. ‘Marriage and a comfortable home in the country suits you better than bouge of court, perhaps?’

He was surprised. Then wary. ‘Not at all, Your Majesty. I am content to serve you and England as Your Majesty decrees. If I am away too often, I pray you forgive the duties of … of a new father.’

She waved him to sit down again on his stool. Robert complied, the silence between them awkward. He looked once more like a schoolboy in fear of a reprimand from the schoolmaster, crouched on the stool in his fine silver doublet, playing with the hilt of his sword, his face averted.

‘I have heard of this child,’ she managed, then cleared her throat. ‘You call him the Noble Imp?’

Robert looked up eagerly at this. There was a new brightness to his eyes that no talk of Spain and the execution of princes could have put there. Elizabeth thought of a hound’s head going up at its master’s whistle, and almost smiled.

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘And,’ she ventured, ‘the mother does well?’

‘In good health, Your Majesty. The child, too. Little Lord Denbigh will make a fine boy and a good servant to Your Majesty.’

Her eyes met his, and she saw him break. His face changed, just for an instant, and she almost put out a hand to him, so clear was the pain on his face.

‘Robert?’

He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled. His feathered red-velvet cap fell to the floor. ‘Forgive me. I beg you to forgive me.’

She did not move, could not speak. She had never seen him so broken. All her anger evaporated, leaving nothing but a terrible sadness in its place.

‘Y … your Majesty, it was wrong of me to marry Lettice w … without your consent …’ His stammering lurched to a halt. ‘Elizabeth … please.’

He looked up, and his eyes met hers at last, bloodshot. His words were half-excuse, half-apology. ‘She gave me a son,’ he whispered.

Her hands were shaking. She laid them in her lap, not looking at him any longer.

He was crying. God in heaven, he was crying like a boy! Elizabeth tried to think of the last time she had wept so passionately, and could not remember. There was only a chill numbness inside where womanly tears had once been. That was the price of kingship.

Robert came to his knees before her, and laid his head in her lap like a supplicant, nudging her hands.

For a moment Elizabeth said nothing.

Then she placed a hand on his head and stroked his silver-streaked hair. ‘I know,’ she murmured gently. ‘I always knew she would.’

Ten

WE ARE BETRAYED
. Meet me under the sign of the wool merchants, River Lane, sundown
.

Goodluck tucked the coded note back inside his jacket and peered out into the rain. The needle-thin alley in which he had taken up position was opposite the entrance to the old, high-gabled wool merchants’ building. The sky was gloomy, the sun on the point of dropping below the horizon. Most of the wool workers had gone home for the day, only the turnkeys left behind to lock the shutters and secure the gates for the night, shadowy figures moving occasionally in the interior. Rain had been falling heavily, and the mud-riven streets were all but deserted now, only a few determined souls braving the sluice of open ditches to reach their single-storey makeshift dwellings along the waterside. This close to the river, mud slides were common in bad weather, the bankside lanes too treacherous to attempt at night.

Receiving the note that morning, Goodluck had recognized the hand at once. The thick slanted flourishes belonged to Sos, the little Greek with whom he had been working since returning to London.

The code was good. Even their new pass sign had been sketched on one corner of the note, leaving him in no doubt that it was genuine.

We are betrayed
.

For the first time since returning to English shores, Goodluck experienced a flicker of fear. The Catholics were not this organized.
Or
never had been before. This was something new. It felt personal, aimed solely at him and his men, as though he himself had been identified as a target.

Up at the east end of the lane, a handful of rain-sodden men wearing the Queen’s livery gathered under the hunched, mossed column of an ancient stone cross, sunk so far into the mud at an angle that it looked more like a milestone. One of the men was giving orders, pointing the others towards the nearest buildings.

Gloomily, the bell of a nearby church began to toll the hour. Through a darkened haze of rain, Goodluck saw a familiar cloaked figure approaching from the west end.

It was Sos.

The short, wiry Greek was staggering through the muddy sluice as though drunk. His hands were held out before him, his face hidden by the deep cowl of his hooded cloak.

For a moment, Goodluck hesitated, fearing a trap.

Then the Greek’s voice, muffled but still recognizable, called out, ‘Goodluck!’

Goodluck stepped out of the alleyway to greet him, but the laughter died on his lips when he saw that his friend’s wrists had been bound together with frayed rope. Below the drenched hood, Sos’s face was contorted with pain. There was blood on his lips, and the whites of his eyes were showing.

‘Sos!’

Gargling blood as he struggled to speak, Sos plunged forward, just missing Goodluck’s outstretched arms and falling face-first into the mud. That was when Goodluck saw the black-handled knife between his friend’s shoulder blades, buried up to the hilt.

There were shouts from the top of the lane. The Queen’s men must have seen Sos fall. Goodluck saw three running towards him, pikes held out at a threatening angle.

Goodluck turned away at once and slipped through the open gateway to the wool merchants’ warehouse. It was dark inside, only one man in sight, keys in hand, preparing to lock the gate.

‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’

Ignoring the man’s shouts, Goodluck ran through the warehouse, keeping low behind stacks of untreated wool as he made for the light on the waterside.

Near the back of the warehouse, a row of high-sided wooden vats rose out of the darkness, blocking his way. Goodluck threaded a path between them, choking and covering his mouth with his sleeve. The acrid stench of the wool treatment stung his throat and eyes.

He grieved for the Greek, but there was nothing he could have done. The wound had been mortal.

He heard shouts behind him in the warehouse. Crouching lower, Goodluck hurried towards the gloomy patch of light coming from the waterside door.