The Queen's Secret (28 page)

The light around them had grown stronger, almost blinding now as it winked off the white marble fountain at the centre of the Privy Garden. It was indeed late, and unseemly for a young maid like herself to be standing about in only a cloak, with her hair all undressed and her face untended. Yet long after the Queen had swept away down the herb-scented path towards her ladies-in-waiting, Lucy found she still could not move, her legs unsteady and her whole body shaking as if with a fever.

Carry Lord Robert’s messages direct to the Queen instead of to the Countess of Essex?

She felt sick and it hurt her chest to breathe. She had had no choice but to agree; Elizabeth was the Queen and Lucy was nothing, a mere servant of the court.

How could she obey both, and yet betray neither?

Twenty-nine

BEAR-BAITING WAS HORRIBLE
, and Lucy wished she had not stayed to see it. The Queen called out to the castle steward to allow the dogs into the arena, and after that no sound could be heard but the barking and yelping of the hounds and the furious roaring of bears. From her position at the side of the dais, Lucy could see how the bears had been chained to stakes that ran down the centre of the tiltyard so they could not escape. At the signal from the steward, the slavering hounds were let loose on them. The dogs leapt up at the bears, and were knocked back by blows from their great paws. The tethered animals roared at their attackers, rearing up on their hind legs, almost twice the height of a man. Cuffed dogs flew backwards from the posts, yelping in pain, some of them bleeding, others quicker and able to rush in under a bear’s paws, attacking an undefended hind leg with their vicious jaws. The crowd called out and stamped their feet, some of them having bet on particular bears. Through all this, the bear-tamers stood at a distance, their sticks ready to strike any bear that seemed to be flagging, their hoarse voices exhorting the animals to ‘Fight! Fight!’

Lucy covered her face with her hands. She felt sorry for the poor bears, unable to escape their attackers. Some of them even had their claws filed down so they could not fight off the dogs properly.

The Italian and his bear were not there, she noticed with an odd
sense
of relief. But perhaps because his animal was a dancing bear, a performer, it was not forced to fight. It would not have been fair to see a dancing bear torn to pieces by these half-starved hounds, however frightening the bear had seemed when it charged her in the outer court.

Lucy pushed to the back of the crowd, her hands clapped over her ears, and waited there until the bear-baiting seemed to be over.

The sun beat down on her head. It was intolerably hot in the white, sandy enclosure of the tiltyard; no wonder the Queen and her chief courtiers had chosen to watch today’s entertainments from beneath the cool shade of a canopy.

Three of the bears lay dead on the sandy ground, still chained to their stakes. A few others looked badly hurt; their owners stood over them, shouting and striking them with sticks, attempting to get them back on their feet. One brownish bear seemed to have survived with only a few crimson gashes to its vast belly. Several dogs lay dead or dying near where it had been staked and Lucy witnessed a heated altercation between the bear’s master and the furious owner of one of the dogs. He seemed to be claiming that the bear’s claws had not been properly clipped before the contest.

Belatedly, Lucy realized that the Queen had already risen and left the arena. Now the crowd of commoners had begun to follow the court back inside the castle walls and Lucy found herself being jostled forward by the force of people pressing towards the tiltyard gate. She cried out, trying to fight her way back to the safety of the dais, but no one was listening.

Then a hand plucked at her sleeve, dragging her aside out of the crush of people.

‘Lucy!’

It was the Countess of Essex, her pretty face flushed and nervous. She drew Lucy against the wall of the tiltyard and whispered in her ear. To Lucy’s surprise, Lady Essex spoke with a frank, soft-voiced intimacy – as though they were sisters or close friends, not noblewoman and servant.

‘Will you come with me tonight, Lucy?’ The countess’s smile seemed forced, her gaze restless. ‘I have a plan, if you are willing
to
help me. Bring a hooded cloak for me and tell the guards I am your friend. They would let a servant out of the inner court. But I dare not walk out alone, not so late at night, not beyond the state apartments. If I were to be caught—’

‘Go with you?’ Lucy repeated stupidly, still in a daze. She looked about, suddenly afraid again, but no one was listening; they were standing alone under the wall of the tiltyard, the passing crowd too noisy to overhear their whispers. ‘To meet Lord Leicester, you mean?’

The countess nodded, watching her. ‘And wait for me in the stables until we have …’ She hesitated. ‘Until we are finished.’

‘Wait on my own?’

‘It will not be above an hour, I swear it.’ She squeezed Lucy’s hand, her muttered words frantic. ‘Please, say you will help me. I cannot do this alone.’ Her gaze searched the crowd as though looking for someone in particular. ‘They watch us every minute of every day. Even to speak to you like this is dangerous.’

‘Perhaps you should not visit his lordship then,’ Lucy dared to suggest, and saw a flash of anger in the countess’s eyes, swiftly hidden. She thought of the Queen’s request that she should spy on these two lovers, and knew she could not go through with it, could not betray them. But perhaps she could steer them away from the danger of discovery. She might not be the only one the Queen had asked to watch and listen. ‘You could write a letter. A letter without any names would be safe enough.’

‘No, I must see him. I must speak to Robert
in person
.’

‘But the danger—’

‘You do not understand!’ The countess looked half insane, her cheeks suddenly blotchy with heat. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I have no choice in the matter. Not any longer. I have received a letter from my husband in Ireland. It was delivered to me only a few moments ago. The courier brought sealed letters from Lord Essex for the Queen and some of her councillors too. I’m afraid what may be in them. I must speak to Lord Leicester tonight, and somewhere we cannot be overheard.’

Lucy felt almost sorry for the lady, seeing the genuine fear in her face. Although she could not condone what Lady Essex had done, she knew such arrangements were common at court. And
his
lordship was a handsome man, and charming too. The countess must be very much in love with Lord Leicester, to countenance committing the sin of adultery. Though perhaps it had not gone so far yet between them?

‘Please, will you help me?’ Lady Essex begged her once more, and Lucy, looking into the woman’s flushed, terrified face, could see no way out.

Reluctantly, she nodded, and agreed to meet her ladyship on the stairs below the state apartments later that night, with a hooded cloak. Lady Essex would bring a bribe for the guard, in case that should prove necessary.

When the countess had gone, Lucy stood a moment in the heat of the afternoon sun. Her hands were trembling. She wished she had not agreed to something so dangerous. Leaving the inner court at midnight, waiting alone in the dark stables, no one there to protect her. Goodluck would be furious if he knew the risk she was about to take. But seeing Lady Essex so very afraid, how could she have refused?

She turned back towards the gate, and bumped into a boy. He had the freckled, sunburned face of a commoner, and a triangular patch on his tunic where the cheap material had torn and been mended. But what caught her attention were his eyes. They were red-rimmed and damp, and from the streak of dirt along his cheek she guessed he had been trying to wipe away tears.

‘What’s the matter?’ Lucy asked gently. The boy tried to run past her, but she caught him by the shoulders and turned him to face her. ‘Hey, not so fast! What is it? Are you lost?’

He stared up at her without speaking, his dark eyes still swimming, his lip trembling, and she knew he was trying to decide whether or not to trust her.

‘What’s your name, little brother?’

‘I’m not your brother,’ he managed in a whisper, wrenching free of her hands.

She realized then that he could have run away at any second, but stayed to stare at her, taking in the richly dark skin of her hands and face, her coarse black hair. She watched, half expecting to see fear or distrust in his face – that was the usual reaction from commoners who had never seen a Moor – but instead the
boy
looked her over in unconcealed admiration, his dark eyes intent and his tears forgotten.

‘But my name is Will,’ he continued, and a slight flush entered his cheeks. ‘Will Shakespeare.’

‘Well, Master Shakespeare, my name is Lucy Morgan. And please don’t run away, I’d like to talk to you for a moment. If you don’t mind, of course. But what are you doing wandering about here on your own? Do you live in the village, perhaps?’

He shook his head. His accent was countrified, but not as thickly rural as she had imagined it would be. Perhaps the boy came from a good family. Though a family, she thought, glancing at his patched tunic, that had fallen on hard times. ‘My father brought me here to see the Queen. We live in Stratford.’

‘Is Stratford a long way from here?’

‘Far enough. We left before dawn, but it still took most of the morning to get here. We have a good cart, but the horse is slow.’ He was frowning now, his head on one side. ‘Do you not know Warwickshire?’

‘Not a bit,’ she admitted cheerfully. ‘I am from London.’

‘London?’

There was a touch of awe in his tone, which amused her, and a little longing too. No doubt life in Warwickshire could be dull at times for a boy with a restless mind. His gaze dropped over her once again. Daringly, he touched her hand, brushing her knuckles and up towards her wrist.

‘So why do you have black skin?’

‘Because my parents were Moors,’ she explained carefully. ‘They came from a burning hot country called Africa, many thousands of miles away over the sea. That is why I have dark skin. But I was born in London.’

He thought about that for a moment, then his face cleared. ‘So you are English. I heard one of the men say you are a dancer,’ he added, thrusting his hands behind his back and not meeting her eyes. ‘Is that true?’

‘I dance and sing for the Queen, little brother.’ She smiled as Will’s dark gaze lifted to her face again, a certain resentment in his eyes. ‘Sorry, I forgot. We are not brother and sister. But you said you came here today with your father? Have you lost him?’

His head jerked in a nod. ‘There were so many people …’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll help you find him. What does he look like?’ She smiled down at him, holding out her hand. ‘Like you, only taller?’ Will slipped his hand into hers and she shivered, feeling the cool skin of his palm against hers. ‘How can you be cold in this heat? Come on, let’s try down towards the Brays. Where did you last see him?’

They found Will’s father searching for his son through the narrow, smoky alleys, stooping to question an old woman sitting at the entrance to a makeshift dwelling. Master Shakespeare was a broad-shouldered man, muscular where his son was still thin as a birch twig. His clothes spoke of some prominence in society, though they were too plain for him to be gentry. Lucy caught the same restlessness on his face as on his son’s and a sharp intelligence about his eyes and mouth.

‘Father!’

The man straightened as they rounded the corner, and Lucy saw relief flash across his face at the sight of his son, and a touch of anger too. He held out his arms and Will ran into them.

‘Where have you been the past two hours?’ his father demanded, and held him out at arm’s length. He looked over the boy’s head at Lucy, taking in her appearance with one swift assessing stare. ‘I’ve been half mad with worry, boy. I ought to take a rod to you for this new piece of idiocy. Master Lunt took the cart down the road to see if you’d started for home without us. He’s been gone a while too. We’ll have to hope he comes back, or we’ll be walking home to Stratford. And who’s this with you?’

‘This is Lucy Morgan,’ Will stammered. ‘One of the Queen’s own ladies. She’s from London and lives at the court. She found me in the tiltyard and helped me look for you. I … I was lost.’

‘One of the Queen’s ladies, eh? It seems I owe you my thanks, Mistress Morgan.’

Master Shakespeare seemed a polite and well-spoken citizen. She was glad for Will’s sake that his father’s anger appeared more bluff than anything else, as she did not like the idea that the boy might be beaten.

‘Lucy, please,’ she corrected him, smiling. ‘And your son has
given
me honour I don’t deserve. I’m only a court entertainer, not a lady.’

‘Well, whatever you are,’ he said, and she saw his eyes move cautiously over her face again, ‘I thank you for finding my errant son and bringing him back to me. Be a shame to lose the boy now, after the cost of feeding and clothing him for eleven summers.’

Will blushed and protested under his breath, as though embarrassed to have his age mentioned.