The Queen's Secret (44 page)

She could not help but laugh at his serious tone, the boy was in such earnest. ‘If I am an angel, Will, I must be a fallen one. Fallen from grace with Her Majesty.’

Gingerly, she put a hand to her temple and felt a weeping gash, her fingertips reddened with fresh blood as she drew them away. She must have reopened the wound from her fall.

‘The Queen struck me for disobedience, Will,’ she whispered, staring down at her fingers. ‘I deserved that punishment. I expect I shall be whipped too and turned away from the court. Perhaps even imprisoned. But I could not speak the truth without condemning someone else. Do you understand?’

Will’s face was solemn. ‘I saw what happened, mistress. But I could not hear what the Queen said.’

She gave a little sob. ‘It was not my fault. I did not ask to carry those messages, nor to help her ladyship …’ She pulled herself up short, seeing his frown. ‘No matter. What’s done is done. All I can do now is bear whatever punishment I am given as best I can.’

The boy nodded. Over their heads a bright firework popped with an almighty crack. Lucy shrank nervously from the sound, hands clamped over her ears.

Will tugged at her sleeve. ‘If you are afraid, let’s go back into the outer court,’ he suggested, raising his voice above the sound of another cannon shot, fired over the lake. The boy’s eyes glistened as he stared at the smoke drifting above the mock-battle. Then he turned back to her with resolution in his voice. ‘Follow me. I know a short cut.’

She jumped up and ran after him as he ducked below the arms of the crowd and began to thread a path away from the lake.

‘No, wait,’ she said breathlessly, catching up with the lad. ‘I need to find my friend, Master Goodluck. Do you know him? He’s one of the players from London, a great fellow with a beard.’

Will frowned and shook his head.

A moment later, Lucy saw Master Twist through the crowd, his head turning from side to side as though he too were searching for someone. Perhaps Goodluck? She called his name but her cry was lost in a great thundering volley of charges in the water battle.
Hurriedly
signalling Will to follow, she pushed sideways through the massed crowd of people, ignoring their angry protests and sharp pinches, until she came to Master Twist’s side.

‘Master Twist,’ she gasped. She saw his surprised look, the way his gaze moved straight to the gash on her forehead. She did not explain the wound but nonetheless felt herself blush with shame. It was as though she had been publicly marked for her disobedience to the Queen. ‘I’ve been looking for Goodluck. Is he not with you?’

‘We’ve been looking for him too. No one’s seen him for some hours. We’re getting worried.’

She stared, hearing the undisguised concern in Twist’s voice. ‘What do you mean? You think something’s happened to Goodluck?’

‘Sos saw him leaving the castle by the north gate. Some of the Italian performers packed up and left this morning, and Goodluck must have decided to follow their trail.’ He frowned heavily. ‘That was in the mid-afternoon. The Queen’s hunting party went out at five and was back by eight. We expected Goodluck to follow the hunt back in, for they must have taken the same road, but he never returned.’

Her stomach wrenched with sudden fear. Not returned? The possibility that her guardian was dead flew across her mind like a frightened bird, and she stilled it, unable to think such a thought without collapsing. There could be a thousand other reasons why he had not been seen.

‘Then we must find him,’ she said decisively.

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do,’ Twist said, a dry note in his voice, and again his gaze lifted to the cut on her temple. ‘That looks bad. How did you—?’

‘It’s not important.’

‘Well, we must begin a search. Goodluck may be dead, or our acrobatic friends may have taken him prisoner, but we need to be sure either way. We’ve been watching both the north and south gates since Goodluck left, and none of the Italians have returned. So if they have him, they must have taken him to some safe place outside the castle walls, perhaps to interrogate him.’

Will interrupted them, his high voice as yet unbroken. ‘What
about
the Brays? Father and I came that way tonight. There are many good hiding places there.’

Twist looked down at him, his brows raised, as though only just registering the presence of the boy. ‘Yes, that’s an excellent thought,’ he agreed, rather too readily, and Lucy sensed that Twist was trying to get rid of them. ‘Why don’t you and Lucy start your search out in the Brays? Only be careful and keep your wits about you. These men are dangerous. I will follow on when I can. First, I need to find Walsingham’s man. His master must hear of Goodluck’s disappearance, and tonight.’

Leaving him, Lucy elbowed her way through the crowd with young Will at her back. In the heaving press of flesh about them, she felt his fingers clutching at her skirts, uncertain, anchoring himself to her. They passed through the gate unchallenged – even the guards seemed absorbed by the sea-battle out on the lake, with its fire-monsters and galleons and vast, dancing lights – and hurried across the half-empty outer court. Most of those living in tents there had gone outside to watch the battle on the mere, and those in the great buildings above the court were no doubt watching from the windows on the other side. Soon, though, the battle would be over, and the excited crowds would return to swell the outer court and the smoky alleys of the Brays. Once that happened, their chances of finding Goodluck would be reduced almost to nil.

As they drew level with the tall, elegant buildings of the state apartments, every window glittering with candlelight in anticipation of the court’s return, Lucy began to feel nervous, her stomach unsettled.

As she hesitated, a doubt stirring in her heart, Will gestured impatiently towards the Brays. ‘Mistress, we need to find Master Goodluck. That’s what the other man said.’

‘John Twist,’ she muttered. ‘Yes, I know what he said.’

She stood hesitantly, gazing about herself in the darkness of the outer court. What should she do?

If only she had Goodluck to advise her …

The ancient gate to the tiltyard and the Brays stood ahead of them, its narrow entrance barely a cart’s width in size. To their right stood the new, brightly lit royal apartments. To her left she
could
see the wide-open double doors to Leicester’s enormous stables, and outside it, dozens of horses, muddy and exhausted from the hunt, still being rubbed down and watered by the stable boys.

Tom
.

Due in part to Leicester’s abrupt summons to the music room, she and Tom had parted on poor terms, their argument of the other night still not forgotten. But what other choice did she have but to ask for Tom’s help in finding Goodluck? Her guardian was the man they needed tonight, she sensed that instinctively. Yet she and Will could not hope to find him on their own. Besides, if there was some plot in hand to murder the Queen of England and she did nothing to forestall it, she would be little better than an assassin herself.

That thought chilled her, and she seized Will’s warm hand. ‘Come, young Master Shakespeare,’ she said boldly, hoping fervently that she was not mistaken in her trust, ‘I know a friend who will help us find him.’

The men stared to see a woman entering the stables, and a young black woman at that. Several turned and stopped their work to look her up and down, one of them making a ribald comment that left Will flushed and angry, ready to do battle on her account. She hushed him, and asked in a clear voice where she could find Tom.

This request silenced the laughter, and one of the older men pointed them further down to the right. ‘He’ll be with the Queen’s own horses,’ he volunteered in a thick Warwickshire accent, but his eyes were not friendly. ‘Who’s the lad?’

Lucy ignored him, but gripped Will’s hand more tightly. ‘This way,’ she murmured, with more confidence than she felt.

‘He’s not
her
son, that’s for sure,’ one of the others called out, and the laughter started again, louder now.

Will said nothing, seeing the tension in her face, but as soon as they were out of earshot he whispered fiercely, ‘How dare they! If I was a year older …’

She smiled, and shook her head. Then her face brightened, for she had seen Tom. Yet still she hung back, for Tom was holding
his
cap in his hand, speaking respectfully to a portly man in a rust-red doublet, clearly his master. The man moved on and paused before them, staring from Lucy to Will as if he would stop and question their presence there. Lucy swept him a low curtsey and the man seemed to think better of it, nodding as he passed. Perhaps the extravagant gold and white court gown had changed his mind.

Tom straightened from his work, frowning. ‘Lucy?’ He glanced at the boy, then back at her. His eyes focused on the cut on her forehead. ‘Is something wrong?’

Much to her shame, at this innocent enquiry she burst into tears, quite unable to speak. There was the briefest of hesitations, then his strong arms closed about her, his voice in her ear, deep and familiar, offering her comfort. She dropped Will’s hand and embraced Tom, so relieved to see him that her whole body was trembling.

‘How did you hurt yourself?’ he asked, pulling back to look again at the cut.

‘I angered the Queen. She hit me.’

He was silent, and she could feel his tension. ‘You did not sing well enough to please her?’

She closed her eyes. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Hush, it doesn’t matter. Listen, Master Goodluck is missing. You remember what I told you, that he was here to keep the Queen safe? I think the conspirators may have taken him. The same men who killed that steward of Leicester’s.’

‘What?’

‘I think Master Goodluck may have discovered what they are planning.’ She hung on his sleeve, pleading with him. ‘Tom, I would not ask if I did not need your help. I’m so afraid. His life may be in danger.’

She had half expected him to argue with her, to persuade her not to be so foolish and to wait for Goodluck to reappear. Instead, Tom reached for his jacket, which lay on a heap of straw. Beneath it was a sheathed dagger. He threw the jacket aside and shoved the dagger into his belt, his face hard.

‘We’d best hurry.’ Tom ruffled Will’s hair as he passed, and earned a hesitant smile from the boy. ‘Where shall we look for him first, then?’

Forty-seven

LETTICE LAY IN
a near-stupor, too hot for the thick, richly embroidered covers they had given her, her eyelids barely able to stay open for more than a few seconds at a time. Some kind of summer storm was raging in the darkness outside her window, but she did not have enough energy to rise from her bed and stagger across to look out at the sky. Instead, she lay in a sweat-drenched, mumbling slumber and listened, wondering how long it would be before she died. Or perhaps she was already dead, and this was hell. From beyond the thick walls of the castle, she heard terrible cracks of thunder, accompanied by lightning that seared the back of her eyeballs with white light, and sometimes the whole room shook as though Kenilworth Castle were under attack.

The physician had come to visit her just after dawn. It had been a long night of cramping, and the bleeding had been severe. She remembered his visit clearly, for he alone had understood her ailment. The women had clucked about her stained bed, and offered herbal remedies and warm spiced wine, and even prayed over her – as though God would wish to keep such a wretched creature alive. But the physician had come and shooed them out, like hens.

He had stood in silence, his finger at her throat, as though the over-rapid beat of her heart could reveal the true extent of her evil. Then he asked two or three questions, which she answered
from
between numb lips, eager now for death to take her. Reaching into his medicine chest, he withdrew a narrow vial of some greenish liquid and forced her to drink it. The taste was horrible, but she swallowed every last drop, hoping it might hasten her death. He raised her bloodstained shift, groped between her legs, and said the baby was gone.

With a grim face, the physician called for the women to return. He demanded that they change the bedding and put down fresh rushes around her mattress, and burn a sweet-scented candle to freshen the air. And since then she had slept more comfortably, and the pain had slowly eased.

Now she just felt limp and sleepy, her eyelids leaden. Heat burned in her cheeks as though she still had a fever.

The door creaked open, and she saw the torches outside in the corridor through the sudden gap. Someone came in and shut the door with a quiet hand, then hesitated before approaching the mattress where she lay, still uncovered, too hot and exhausted to move.

Was she to be murdered in her bed?

The thought of her death did not alarm, though she felt a pang of remorse, knowing she would never see her pretty, soft-cheeked children again. But perhaps, with her passing, they might be allowed to bury her shame with her body, and live to marry well and be useful to the throne. Besides, it was better she should die now than live defamed and in exile, far from the English court.