The Queen's Secret (24 page)

Robert made an angry noise under his breath but said nothing in his defence. He walked a few steps behind their awkward little party, Elizabeth leading, Walsingham attempting to keep up, and the Moorish girl fumbling with the train as though she had never carried such a thing in her life. Never before had Elizabeth missed her wise old friend and councillor William Cecil so much. He would have known how to advise her. She wished he had been able to stay the whole three weeks in Warwickshire, but it had seemed churlish to refuse her treasurer a few days’ leave when his wife was unwell.

‘When will Cecil return?’ she asked, her voice a little petulant even though she knew he had only just left. ‘I miss him when he is not at court.’

‘I believe Lord Burghley plans to return here soon with his son, whom you are knighting on Monday next,’ Walsingham murmured, smiling as they passed out of the shady arcade into the covered walkway along the top of the Privy Garden. ‘The Council
will
have to manage without him until then. It is not too difficult for us to reach decisions in his absence, I believe, Your Majesty. But I must applaud the skill of your gardeners, my lord Leicester. Such glorious scents! Such a harmony of colours!’

Such unlikely compliments, Elizabeth thought cattily, but she paused to clap her hands as though in agreement.

Two butterflies flew past her head in a flickering dance, and she stared longingly after them.

‘Robert, it is true. You have surpassed yourself here at Kenilworth. This is a garden of the senses indeed and I shall walk here with my ladies every morning at dawn.’

They had reached the water’s edge, the walkway cool and shaded now as evening fell across the lake, her ladies trailing behind in a whispering rustle of taffeta and silk. A small, rugged-looking fellow with a thin moustache stepped forward, dragging off his cap and giving her a shaky bow.

‘Your barge awaits, Your Majesty, if it please you.’

Elizabeth pulled her heavy skirts to her ankles and stepped into the rocking barge, shaking off Robert’s steadying hand at her elbow. ‘Lucy Morgan, you will travel with us and sing us across the water.’

Leaning back in the barge and settling her skirts about her, Elizabeth patted the huge velvet cushions at her side. She saw one or two of her noblewomen shoot disgusted looks at Lucy from under their chaste white caps. Elizabeth almost smiled, knowing how much it must gall these lofty bitches to see a nobody, a mere court entertainer, granted such distinction by the Queen. But her sternest look was reserved for her favourite.

‘Help the girl aboard, Robert. And you may come too. For you will only get yourself into trouble if I leave you alone.’

Twenty-six

THE GREAT HALL
had been decked with light for tonight’s feast, its dark corners illuminated by what seemed like a thousand table-top candles and torches thrust into high sconces. Their massed flames glittered between the tapestries, reflecting off the vast leaded windows as though Christmastide had come half a year early. Despite the lack of a fire, it was suffocatingly hot. So hot, indeed, that country dignitaries and their wives who had stupidly chosen fur-trimmed gowns and mantles for this grand occasion were now wilting at the lower tables, fanning their flushed faces in a sea of waving, ring-encrusted hands. Servants hovered among them, pouring sack and Rhenish wine and serving lavishly dressed dishes of wild boar, baked lark, partridge and quail. At the top table, two men were elaborately carving a roast swan for Queen Elizabeth’s own plate. Just as a page boy came to the Queen’s side, bearing a vast silver salt cellar shaped like a galleon in full sail, a parcel of live wrens was released from the swan and flew up into the rafters with a great flutter of wings, to deafening applause from the courtiers.

Lucy Morgan was singing again, and everyone was supposed to be listening. But of course nobody was. They were watching the Queen instead, for all day a mischievous rumour had been making the rounds that Leicester had offered for the Queen and she had refused him, or else that the Queen was pregnant by the earl and still would not have him to husband.

As delicately as possible, given her hunger, Lettice mopped up the last of the goose fat swimming on her platter with a fragrant wedge torn from the manchet bread. Then she too lifted her head to stare across at the Queen’s table.

Robert had seated himself at Elizabeth’s right side, as was his custom at these public affairs. He still loved to push his suit as royal consort, despite a lack of any official status. Splendid in a jewelled doublet of red and gold, his broad sleeves puffed out like a peacock’s tail, Robert was watching the Queen pick at her food with spindly white fingers. Lettice thought she looked more like a spider than a woman, barely eating anything, her white-painted face a mask of disdain. Robert began to talk, his head bent to whisper in her ear. Elizabeth, however, made no indication that she was listening. Rather, her gaze was fixed on her new court favourite, whose high, soaring voice was beginning to make Lettice’s head hurt.

This feast was supposed to be a celebration, not a wake, Lettice thought. Could they not have cheerful songs to accompany such an occasion, instead of all these dirges, laments and tedious madrigals?

Elizabeth had turned her head at last, responding sharply to something Robert had said. It was clearly not what she had wished to hear. Robert sat back, a sulky look on his weathered face, and stabbed at the remains of his goose meat as though it were Elizabeth’s own heart.

For a moment, Lettice imagined herself there beside him – seated in Elizabeth’s high-backed and ornately carved seat, Robert adoring her as his wife and queen, the mistress of Kenilworth and England. At the daring of such a vision, the room began to spin. Yet still Lettice continued to stare, her mouth slightly open, the dripping bread forgotten in her hand. Branches of flickering candles on the tables dazzled her, like sunlight glimpsed at noon through a high window, until she had to squeeze her eyes shut.

‘Are you quite well, my lady Essex?’ a solicitous voice asked at her side. ‘You do not seem yourself.’

Recovering her senses, Lettice turned and managed a curt nod. With no little effort, she forced herself to smile and unclench her
fists.
She must be careful, for it was Robert’s sister at her elbow. Sharp-eyed Lady Mary Sidney, who saw everything and said nothing. Poor bitch, marked for life by the pox that had struck her down while she nursed Elizabeth back from the brink of death, and for what? Barely a word of thanks from her royal mistress for the loss of her good looks. Yet still she served the Queen, and still she was faithful. These Dudleys, Lettice thought, suddenly angry, never knew when to stop begging and shivering like whipped curs at the foot of the throne.

‘A moment of dizziness, Lady Mary, that is all. I must have taken too much sun again today. It has been a hot summer.’

‘And a mercy we are not in London during this heat,’ Mary Sidney agreed smoothly, and signalled a servant to refill their wine cups.

Lettice muttered some banal agreement, and turned back to her perusal of Robert and Elizabeth.

Lucy Morgan had finished her song at last and everyone was applauding while the wretched girl attempted a curtsey, her black hair so coarse and unmanageable it looked like a wild pony’s. Lettice watched Lucy with a sudden dislike. The child was growing uncomfortably close to the Queen; it had been short-sighted of Robert to use her as a messenger the other night. If Lucy chose to tell the Queen that they were exchanging messages, even if most of them were in code, their lives could be in danger.

She frowned, glancing at Mary. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, my brother is looking well this summer.’ Lady Mary was also watching the Queen’s table, an indulgent smile on her pockmarked face. ‘This heat suits him, and the outdoor life. He was always a tremendous horseman, even as a young boy. That is one of the interests he and Her Majesty have always shared, of course, their love of hunting and riding.’ She sipped reflectively at her wine. ‘You do not care much for horses, I believe, my lady Essex?’

‘I cannot be blamed for that this summer. Not even the hardiest of our ladies have managed this progress entirely on horseback. I cannot even recall when we left London, it was so many weeks ago.’

‘This past week at Kenilworth has proved a comfortable rest from travelling,’ Mary agreed, though her eyes still searched
Lettice’s
face. The woman would find no incriminating evidence there, however closely she looked. Yet her careful voice continued to probe. ‘We move next to your own house at Chartley, is that not the case? You’ll be glad to be home again, I’m sure, among your own people.’

‘I am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed,’ Lettice admitted grudgingly. ‘Though it will be hard, entertaining the Queen and court. Chartley is a fine country seat, but it cannot compare with the size and splendour of Kenilworth.’

‘Does Lord Essex plan to return from Ireland in time for the Queen’s visit?’

‘No,’ Lettice replied shortly. ‘My husband will not be home this summer.’

‘I see.’ Mary Sidney glanced again at her brother, who was still speaking to the Queen. There was a stubborn, passionate look on Robert’s face that Lettice recognized only too well, and the Queen’s head was turned away while her long white fingers drummed the table. It seemed today’s rumours might hold an element of truth, for Robert was clearly not in favour tonight. But Mary had not finished with her meddling. ‘The earl’s long absences must be difficult for you to bear. If I can be of any assistance, you have only to ask.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Lettice pretended a gratitude she did not feel. She only just managed not to bare her teeth at the woman’s patronizing interference. ‘You are very kind, but I have every confidence in my steward’s ability to manage the Queen’s visit, even without my husband.’

Mary smiled, but Lettice knew she was annoyed at the rejection of her offer. Not that she cared a straw if Mary Sidney’s nose was pushed out of joint. Mary had no influence whatsoever over her brother, and Robert was all Lettice cared about.

Those at the Queen’s table had risen, and Lettice realized belatedly that music for dancing had begun. All eyes had turned once more to the Queen as Robert led her with slow ceremony to the newly cleared space before the unlit fireplace. Massetti, the charming young Italian, scraped back his chair to make room for the Queen’s jewelled gown, bowing low as she brushed past him with a laugh and a rapid exchange in his own language. Servants
had
hurriedly pushed back emptied tables and benches, and were now sweeping away the rushes soiled by grease and spilt food. The local gentry of Warwickshire stood about the torchlit walls to watch their queen and Leicester, clapping and laughing as though they had never seen a dance before, their faces bright with wine and heat.

Then the Queen said something and Robert half turned to glance over his shoulder. The rhythm of his footsteps faltered.

What had they seen?

A bearded and barrel-chested man appeared at the side of the dancers, the gold chain and other badges of office proclaiming him a man of some standing in the County of Warwickshire. It was clear from his bearing and the amused glances of those about him that he had taken too much drink and was making a nuisance of himself.

Staggering forward, the local drunkard watched the Queen and Robert dance for a few minutes more, a look almost of disgust on his red-cheeked face.

Then he seemed to throw off his restraint, unable to contain his impatience any longer, and called out slurringly to Robert, ‘My lord Leicester!’

Heads turned across the hall, astonished at the man’s insolence.

The man ignored their gasps, continuing loudly, ‘You summoned me here tonight, my lord, and I must come as a good servant of the crown. But I shall not wear the suit of blue livery you so kindly sent me, my lord. No, not even if it means a spell in the Tower of London!’

The music had come to an abrupt halt, Robert waving the pipers to silence with an angry gesture.

‘Arden,’ he addressed the man stiffly, ‘you may be Sheriff of Warwickshire, but you hold that office only through the good grace of the Queen, your sovereign. How dare you interrupt her entertainments in this manner?’ Robert took a step away from the Queen, whom he had been protecting with his body. His question echoed Lettice’s thought. ‘Have you run mad?’

‘No, my lord,’ the sheriff replied ebulliently, his hand moving to his sword-hilt in response, ‘I have come to my good senses. I will not accept the blue livery you sent over for me to wear
tonight,
nor will any of the men serving under me in Warwick.’

‘What’s wrong, Arden?’ one of the courtiers called out lazily from a side table. ‘Is blue not your colour? Would green suit you better, perchance?’

The great hall, held silent and astonished by the exchange so far, burst into ripples of nervous laughter. One of Arden’s young followers stepped hurriedly forward and whispered in his ear, knocking the drunkard’s hand away from his sword-hilt. If the fool had drawn, he would have found himself under sentence to lose his head, for to draw a sword in the Queen’s presence except in her protection was an act of treason and punishable by death.