Her Last Assassin (38 page)

‘Yes, my lord.’

Essex sat down behind his desk. He looked heavy-lidded, his face drawn, as though he had not slept much in recent days. ‘So now to you. What news do you have for me? You have been out of the Tower since June, yet I have had few enough reports of your progress.’

‘I have been watching Don Antonio as you requested, in the guise of a servant,’ Goodluck told him, and shrugged. ‘I have seen nothing but a Portuguese nobleman going about his daily business. Foreign letters sometimes arrive, secretly or via couriers, and I take pains to find and read them where possible. But there is never anything suspicious or written in any code that I can discern.’ He paused. ‘His son, Don Manuel, is another case, however.’

The earl’s gaze narrowed on his face. ‘You suspect Don Manuel to be a traitor?’

‘He has received a few visitors at night lately. Foreigners, possibly Spaniards. I have not been able to overhear their conversations. But I did find a note once, signed by him and then torn up, the pieces discarded when he was called away suddenly. I was able to reconstruct part of the note before he returned, and there was some mention of a bribe. And initials which could have been a reference to King Philip.’

‘If his father were to die, Don Manuel would presumably inherit his mantle as next in line to the throne of Portugal.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Goodluck frowned. ‘But it may be that Don Manuel is prepared to forgo that honour if King Philip offers a lucrative enough inducement to relinquish that right for ever to the Spanish.’

‘Or perhaps the King hopes to recruit Don Manuel to his feud against Queen Elizabeth.’ Essex leaned back in his chair with a grim expression. ‘He would make an excellent rallying point for traitors and dissidents in this country, for the Queen refuses to believe ill of his father.’

‘Rightly so, I believe.’

‘The Queen does not understand the danger in which she stands. She allows these secret enemies into the country, then hampers my efforts to have them watched.’ Essex glanced at him, his face suddenly shuttered, as though realizing the disloyal nature of what he had just said. ‘You will not repeat what is said here to any man, you understand? And after tonight, you will return to your post and watch Don Manuel more closely. I want to know everyone he speaks to, and what is said. And keep copies of any letters you intercept. I did not have you released from the Tower to waste my time with half a story.’

Boldly, Goodluck replied, ‘I shall continue to serve you with all loyalty, my lord. But you told me on my release that Mistress Morgan would also be freed if I performed my duties to your satisfaction.’

Essex said nothing, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of impatience.

Goodluck continued, refusing to be silenced, ‘I am concerned for Lucy’s health now that the cold weather is here, for I have heard she has not been well in recent weeks. Nor have I been permitted to visit her, even though it was my own reckless behaviour that brought her to such a cruel fate.’ He hesitated. ‘I will always be deeply grateful for your mercy towards me, my lord. But you have the Queen’s ear. Is there no way you can also arrange for Lucy’s release?’

‘It was not mercy, Master Goodluck, as I am sure you have guessed. I needed your services. But the Queen has no such need of Lucy’s services. And she is still angry about her wantonness in lying with you while unmarried.’

‘That was my fault. I persuaded her.’

The earl smiled drily. ‘And I have no doubt she was willing to be persuaded.’

‘My lord—’

‘Listen, it was not my mercy which brought about your release. It was a trade agreed between myself and your lovely Mistress Morgan. Your release in return for some information which interested me greatly.’

Goodluck stared. ‘Information?’

‘Its nature need not concern either of us now. The situation was resolved. Yet although the Queen agreed to your release on my request, as a man who could still be useful in this war against Spain, she would not hear of allowing Lucy Morgan to go free.’

Essex looked at him with some degree of pity, then added, ‘I have informed the Queen that Mistress Morgan’s health is suffering in the chill confines of the Tower, and have arranged for one of her former servants to wait upon her there, so she is not alone in her sickness. But I fear Her Majesty will not countenance your lady’s release. She is too angry over Lucy’s betrayal of her trust.’

There was silence in the warm book-lined study. The fire crackled cheerily in the grate. Goodluck stared at it dumbly. So Lucy had traded information with Lord Essex to obtain his release. He had no idea what she had known that could be of such value to Essex that he would go against the Queen’s orders and release him after he had served only ten days in the Tower. Though they had been the longest days of his life, he reminded himself, spent staring at the sky through a narrow iron grating in his cell and wondering where Lucy was being held, if she was safe.

At least she had been spared the pain and humiliation of a flogging. He had borne that punishment gladly for her. It was only flesh and blood, after all. The human spirit was not destroyed by such physical trials, though it could be crushed by the withholding of love, light and liberty for too long a period of time.

Her Majesty will not countenance your lady’s release.

His lust and impatience to enjoy her body before they could be properly wed had brought his beloved to a small, dank cell in the Tower of London. And Lucy would almost certainly die there if he could not find a way to have her released.

‘However,’ the earl continued speculatively, ‘perhaps if you could prove your worth to the Queen … If you were to perform some great service to her throne, Her Majesty might find it within herself to forgive your transgression and consent to Mistress Morgan’s release – and to your marriage.’

Goodluck scrutinized the Portuguese letter again. His attention was arrested by a phrase that seemed oddly convoluted. He frowned, reading on, the florid hand yielding up its secrets with difficulty. Something about the gift of a costly ring from the King’s own hand, sent as a gesture of good will, and had it been received yet by the proper person?

A gold and diamond ring.

‘Perform some service to her throne?’ he repeated, rolling up the letter again.

His lordship meant some
further
service, surely?

‘You mentioned an interview with this man d’Avila that you wished me to hear, my lord?’

He removed his cloak and draped it over his arm. His heart was beating fast, for some parts at least of the puzzle that had nagged at him ever since Marlowe’s murder were beginning to fall into place.

‘Then I will need ink and paper if I am to translate the letter he was bearing.’

In a threadbare suit and patched hose, Gomez d’Avila looked like a man at the end of his resources. His face was turned away from Goodluck’s vantage point for most of the interview, but he could see the coarse dark louse-ridden hair that d’Avila scratched at nervously while he spoke, and the scrawny neck painted with designs that Goodluck had seen before on the bodies of Arabs.

‘I swear to you, my good lord, I am merely a courier,’ he was telling Essex, via the translator, a man whose impatience and tendency to leave out half of what Gomez said marked him out as unreliable. ‘I was asked to bring this letter to England, a letter which contains nothing but negotiations of commerce between two gentlemen, and to wait for a reply. That is all I know. I swear this on my life. On my mother’s life. Read the letter, I beg of you, my lord. It is an innocent letter.’

He waved his hands as though performing a spell to make his guilt disappear. ‘Innocent.’

His hoarse whining tones were oddly familiar. Goodluck put his eye more closely to the spyhole, studying the man intently.

Of course!

In Nieuwpoort, Goodluck had known him as Juan. A quiet man, Juan had served in some minor capacity on Stanley’s staff, speaking nothing but fluent Spanish in public. Indeed, Goodluck had never suspected that he might in truth be Portuguese.

‘And to whom were you bearing this letter?’

‘I … I cannot recall at the moment, my lord. All these questions … It has gone out of my head.’

‘I need a name.’

‘It will come back to me. But I swear, no one important. An English merchant looking to buy some jewels. Some pearls, that is all. You will see from the letter.’

‘His abode?’

A helpless shrug. ‘Somewhere in London.’

‘You recall neither this man’s name nor his place of residence, yet you were to have delivered a letter to him?’

Gomez nodded, as if this was a perfectly credible story. ‘Forgive me. My memory is not so good. I will tell you both when I remember them, my lord.’

‘Who gave you the letter to bring to England?’

‘Ah,
si, si
!’ The man nodded sagely when the translator had finished relaying this question to him. ‘I have forgotten his name also. But he was a very wealthy man in Flanders. A merchant. He gave me the letter on the docks.’

Essex made a brief note on the paper in front of him. ‘What was your original purpose in sailing to Sandwich?’

‘To visit England, my lord.’

‘For what reason?’

Gomez spread his hands wide. His translator worked pithily, picking out the gist of his explanation from among Gomez’s excessive and unlikely compliments. ‘I came because I desired to see your great and beautiful land for myself.’ He nodded at Essex’s incredulous look. ‘But how can you doubt it, my lord? Portugal is a dry land. Where I come from, the soil is parched and nothing grows there. England enjoys the rain all year round. So many green fields. All the little white sheep. What other reason could there be?’

‘Master Gomez, England is at war with Spain, and therefore with Portugal, which is currently under the rule of the Spanish King,’ Essex pointed out drily. ‘What in God’s name made you think a voyage to the land of your enemy, just to see its natural beauty, was a good idea?’

‘Now that I have been arrested,’ Gomez conceded glumly, ‘I can see my mistake.’

Essex looked at him for a long moment in silence. ‘So you did not in fact run this errand on behalf of His Majesty King Philip of Spain?’

This was too close to an insult for d’Avila. He stood up, knocking his chair over and swearing a violent oath in Portuguese, as though outraged to have been accused of such a crime. ‘I have answered your questions most faithfully, my lord, and the hour is late. Why must you continue to hold me against my will?’

‘If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.’ Essex also rose to his feet. ‘Meanwhile, you are required to spend a little more time with us at Her Majesty’s pleasure, while we verify your documents and the contents of the letter found in your possession.’

The interview having been brought to a close, Essex bade his guards keep watch over Gomez d’Avila, and stepped outside to speak with Goodluck.

They walked a little way down the corridor, their voices lowered.

‘Any thoughts, Master Goodluck? The fellow is lying, certainly. But for whom is that letter intended, and who wrote it?’ Essex glanced at the sheet in Goodluck’s hand. His eyes grew keen. ‘You have already translated it? Good work. What does it tell us?’

‘On the surface, exactly what Senhor Gomez told you. It appears to be an inconsequential letter in Portuguese, addressed to “Your Worship”. It promises information on the price of a gold and diamond ring, and some pearls, that had previously been mentioned in discussions between the two men, and then enquires about the reader’s requirements for “musk and amber”, which the writer of the letter is now ready to buy.’

Essex looked disappointed. ‘Nothing more?’

‘It is the wording that must be attended to, my lord, not the words themselves.’ Goodluck smiled, and read aloud from his translation: ‘“But before I resolve myself on this matter, I wish to be advised of the price of the musk and amber you are selling. If it please you to be my partner in this business, we shall make good profit.”’

‘Musk and amber?’

Goodluck mused a moment. ‘Pearls are precious jewels.’

‘And one of the Queen’s chosen symbols.’

‘And musk and amber might be found in a doctor’s medicine chest.’

‘Senhor Lopez?’

‘My instinct leads me in that direction, yes. But you could not arrest the doctor on such scanty evidence. The thread in this letter is tenuous at best. As it was intended to be, to confuse any who might read this without possessing the key to these code words.’

‘I am constantly in the dark over this business of Lopez. And the Queen protects him. She favours him, despite our warnings.’ His jaw clenched. ‘I wish to God I could wrest this simpering doctor from her side and consign him to the Tower. Lopez would soon bleat when faced with the rack.’

Goodluck thought of Lucy, imprisoned in the Tower through no fault of her own. It was hard to stay silent.

He studied the letter again. If he could find a Spanish plot among all this, a coherent plot with a gallows at the end of it, he might yet be able to obtain Lucy’s release.

The gold and diamond ring.

He had seen such a ring before, first on Marlowe’s finger at Deptford and then on the hand of his murderer. Though Ingram Frizer was not to be charged with the playwright’s murder, he had heard. No, for the man had killed Marlowe, it was claimed, in self-defence.

Self-defence!

He dwelt on the memory of that costly ring. A bribe from King Philip himself?

Lopez would soon bleat when faced with the rack.

‘Give me a few hours,’ he told Essex, ‘then have this man Gomez conveyed to the Tower.’

‘Your plan?’

‘I shall install myself in a cell there, and be submitted to the rack by one of your torturers. When Gomez is brought in, he will recognize me at once, for I knew him briefly in Nieuwpoort. I will be introduced to him as a fellow Spanish spy and traitor, and this will help him to trust me.’ He paused. ‘Once we are left alone together, I will get his story from him.’

‘It could take days to gain his trust.’

‘Let us hope not. I will ride back to Essex House with the information as soon as I have it.’