Her Last Assassin (47 page)

Goodluck looked at her over the rim of his wine cup. ‘What was the information you offered Lord Essex?’

She stared at him, thrown off guard by the sudden question.

‘In exchange for my freedom?’ he continued, watching her closely. ‘Do not bother to lie, Lucy. I know you too well to be taken in.’

She hesitated. ‘I cannot tell you,’ she said in the end.

‘Why not?’ His gaze narrowed on her face, and she had the suspicion that Goodluck was angry. But at least his anger did not seem to be directed at her. Not that it ever had been. ‘Was it about William Shakespeare?’

Did he know everything?

‘Yes,’ Lucy admitted, and felt her shoulders drop with the relief of not having to conceal it any longer.

‘You betrayed him to save me from imprisonment?’

‘Information was the only thing I had of any worth. And even then I was not sure it would be enough. But it was.’

The flicker of something unfathomable passed across his face. Then he nodded. ‘Thank you, Lucy. I know how much it must have cost you.’

She put a hand on the windowsill. Her sickness increased. It was not just the strong scent of the wine. She was sweating even in these wintry palace draughts. The room was spinning, the secretary’s face alight with avid curiosity as he looked up from his documents. No doubt the young man hoped she would faint and give him something to gossip about later. What a stroke of luck if the Queen’s disgraced lady-in-waiting, the Ethiopian whore they called Lucy Morgan, should come to the palace large with the child of her sin, and pass out on the floor of his antechamber.

‘Did … Did Will suffer for it?’ Her guilt was almost unbearable. ‘I swear I did not want that. I just wanted to obtain your release from the Tower.’

Goodluck put down his cup and took her hand. ‘Breathe,’ he told her, and stroked her palm. ‘You will only make yourself unwell like this. I do not know if Shakespeare suffered by your information. But I will always be grateful to you for volunteering it so bravely to Lord Essex, for your letter bought not only my freedom but our marriage. And when I finally get you home to Oxfordshire, and our child is born away from this city, safely and in good health, then it will have bought my happiness too.’

Someone had come to the door while they were talking. Lucy looked round, her heart beating rapidly. It was Lady Helena.

‘Her Majesty will see you now.’

Goodluck removed his cap. He smoothed down his bushy hair and beard, tidied his clothes. Then glanced at Lucy, suddenly uncertain. She gave him an unsmiling nod.

Courage, my love.

Though it was late, the Queen had not yet been prepared for bed. She was still in her magnificent court gown, the broad skirts a shining swathe of cloth of gold, her sleeves russet velvet seeded with pearls. Had there been a banquet tonight for some visiting foreign dignitary, earmarked to be dazzled by England’s wealth and grandeur?

No doubt Her Majesty had been kept busy with state business after supper, Lucy thought. Hence the weary secretary outside, picking through the stack of papers she had signed. If Elizabeth had taken after her father Henry, those papers might have been composed of death warrants, seizure of lands, confiscation of goods. And their own death warrants would have been among the documents. Thankfully, it was more likely to be petty matters: import and export, land division, and release of yet more funds for expeditions, secret campaigns and seafaring offensives against Spain.

Her ulcerated leg must have been paining her, for Queen Elizabeth had chosen to be seated to receive them. She sat upright, gripping the arms of her high-backed chair as though in pain. Her face was whitened with paint, her ruff a perfect halo slipped down about her neck. All her ladies appeared to have been dismissed for this interview, except for faithful Helena, who stood a few steps behind the Queen’s seat, not meeting Lucy’s eyes.

The Queen turned her head, surveying them both in silence as they came into the chamber and fell to their knees before her. Something like resentment flickered in her eyes at the sight of Lucy’s heavily rounded body.

Despite the lustrous cloth of gold, and those chaste seed pearls that matched the colour of her skin, Elizabeth looked old.

Lucy gazed back at her with sudden pity, an emotion she had not felt for the Queen since she had been a young girl, newly brought into her service.

But it seemed the Queen felt little pity for her.

‘Even you,’ she muttered, her lips twitching with disgust as she examined Lucy’s belly. ‘Mistress Morgan, who was once so proud to remain a virgin by my side. Now everyone can see the mark of lasciviousness upon you.’ Helena leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. The Queen sighed and nodded. ‘But you are Mistress Goodluck now. I had forgotten you were to be married to your seducer. And this is he. Stand up, Master Goodluck, so I may look upon you properly.’

Goodluck stood, bowing his head in deference. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’

‘That remains to be seen,’ she said drily.

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘Lord Essex has sent me …’ The Queen glanced at Helena, who handed her a paper. She unrolled it laboriously and read for a moment, frowning. ‘Yes, your family were disgraced under my royal sister. Is that not so? Your father executed for heresy, your lands confiscated and given to … Catholics.’ She sighed, reading on, then handed the roll back to Helena. ‘Master Goodluck, I am told by his lordship the Earl of Essex that, despite your lecherous nights with my lady-in-waiting, you have done good service to our throne. He informs me that by your bravery and skilled understanding, certain other men’s sins and intrigues have been brought to light that might have endangered our life. What do you have to say to that, sir?’

‘I have done nothing but my duty to Your Majesty and to England,’ he said clearly, ‘and would do so again tomorrow.’

‘A good reply,’ she said approvingly.

Of course it was a good reply, Lucy thought proudly, watching them together. Goodluck was a man in a court of boys and fools, and now her husband.

Elizabeth extended one of her hands, still thin and pale, jewelled. Goodluck knelt before her and bent his head, kissing it.

‘I am Your Majesty’s servant,’ he said deeply, and Lucy heard complete obedience in his voice.

‘You are a younger son, I understand.’

Goodluck hesitated, then nodded cautiously. ‘I am indeed, Your Majesty. My brother, Julius Goodluck, is the head of our family.’

‘At Lord Essex’s suggestion,’ Elizabeth announced, not looking at Lucy but at her husband, ‘your original estate will be returned to your family. However, your lands have been granted to you alone, Master Goodluck, and not to your older brother. If he has any grievance with this, he may approach the Privy Council for compensation.’

Goodluck was staring up at her, still on his knees. For a moment he could not speak. Then he managed a hoarse ‘I thank you, Your Majesty.’

‘Save your thanks for Lord Essex,’ the Queen countered sharply, ‘at whose suggestion all this has been arranged. May you endeavour to deserve these honours, Master Goodluck, and live out the rest of your days in allegiance to this throne.’

It seemed their business was concluded. Queen Elizabeth looked past him at Lucy. Her eyes became suddenly misty. She drew an unsteady breath, and her fingers tapped on the arms of her chair in a long-familiar gesture.

The Queen raised her hand in the air. ‘A blessing on your union,’ she said, ‘and on your child.’ Then she dismissed them with an abrupt gesture. ‘That is enough. Out, out!’

Taking Lucy’s hand, Goodluck led her to the door, still bowing to the Queen. Outside the door, ignoring the secretary’s angry stare, he kissed her as passionately as though they had only that moment been married.

‘My lands restored,’ he said in her ear, ‘you my wife and carrying my child. What have I done to deserve such joy?’

Lucy smiled. ‘Take me home, Goodluck.’

Epilogue

Greenway Manor, Oxfordshire, January 1594

W
EARILY
, G
OODLUCK LAID
down the letter he had received from a man he knew at court – he had learned not to call them spies, for that word distressed his sister-in-law – and looked out of the window. So Lopez had been arrested at last, and committed to the Tower. Poor foolish man, thinking he could keep King Philip happy without ever doing his bidding, yet still escape detection. His possession of the diamond ring sent from Spain would be enough on its own to convict him, but Essex was apparently leaving nothing to chance. He wanted Lopez tortured until he confessed. The Queen was having none of it, of course. She did not believe the charges against her old Portuguese doctor either. But Essex would win in the end. Queen Elizabeth would eventually concede that a confession of some sort was required, and then Topcliffe would be called to work his dreadful trade.

The busy world of London and the court seemed so far away here. It had been snowing again in the night, and even the old barn had been obscured, a white shape where a row of tiny indented paw-prints showed the cat had been climbing after robins. Twice Goodluck and the servants had been out in the night with the dogs, chasing off a fox who kept coming for their hens. Snow had gleamed like daylight across the valley, muffling their footsteps across the yard, the icy wind freezing his nethers under a too-short nightshirt.

Then just as he was settling back to sleep, Lucy had woken him again, complaining of pains.

‘The child is coming,’ she had whispered. ‘Rouse Cathy. She will know what to do.’

He had shrugged back into his coat, still damp with snow, and woken Cathy. She had run down to the kitchen for hot water, her son James staring up from his bed with wide eyes.

‘What is happening, Master Goodluck?’

‘Nothing to make you fret. Go back to sleep, boy.’

He had woken the servants, then gone back to find Lucy kneeling beside the bed, not praying but moaning and gripping the coverlet in her fists as the pains strengthened.

‘Have young John Sky ride for the midwife,’ she whispered, sucking in her breath as another spasm rippled across her belly, ‘and send Thomas over to your brother’s farm. Agnes wishes to be here for the birth.’

It had been hard, leaving his wife in Cathy’s care while she was in such pain. But he was a man, and men were not wanted at a birth. So Goodluck had called for some ham and ale for breakfast, then spent a few solitary hours pacing restlessly before a smoking fire in his study, waiting for the other women to arrive.

The midwife was bustled straight up to their bedchamber, the door closing sharply, but not before he had heard his wife’s moaning cry. His hands clenched into fists, he had stood silent in the hall below, listening in case her cries worsened – or stopped altogether.

Then his brother and sister-in-law arrived. Agnes kissed him and went straight upstairs, her arms full of linen for the new baby, a gift. Behind her ran his young niece Eloise, carrying copper pans and other implements, as though they had been preparing for this event ever since he had come home to Oxfordshire, accompanied by a wife big with child.

His brother Julius, leaning heavily on a cane, laughed at his expression. ‘Come, Little Brother. Let us go into your study and wait where it is warm. We can do nothing in this business. It’s best that we leave this to the women.’

‘But Lucy is in such terrible pain. She may need me.’

‘Birth pains are always bad, but they are soon forgotten once the babe is born and is seen to be healthy. Women have amazingly adaptable memories. You will see.’ Julius limped painstakingly into the study and eased himself into a seat beside the fire. ‘What is this you have been reading, Faithful? Some news from London? Forgive me if it is a private letter, but you left it lying here on the seat.’

Goodluck could not seem to gather his thoughts. He forced himself to sit on the high-backed settle opposite his brother, though his impulse was to run upstairs and demand to see his wife, to know how she was faring.

‘Yes, it is news of Senhor Lopez,’ he muttered. ‘The court doctor I was telling you about.’

‘The Portuguese Poisoner?’

Goodluck smiled, allowing himself to be distracted for a moment. ‘I suspect Lopez had no intention to poison his mistress. He should have brought the letters he received, and the bribes, straight to the Privy Council. Instead, he acted out of fear. No doubt he thought he would not be believed if he went to the council, not being English. Yet he did not wish to offend the Spanish King either, for Philip has a long hand that stretches even to the English court.’

‘Good God.’

‘Indeed.’ Goodluck took the letter from Julius’s hand and rolled it up. He would read it again later. ‘Lopez tried to be clever, to play a double game, as spies are known to do when necessary. So he replied to the King’s letters as far as he could without committing himself to any action, appearing to be on the side of the Portuguese rebels while doing nothing for them.’

‘But what did they stand to gain, these Portuguese rebels?’

‘Who knows? Certainly I do not. Perhaps they were offered lands in Portugal if they helped Philip dispose of Queen Elizabeth, and power as minor officials there. I imagine there was some promise of a place at Philip’s court for Dr Lopez if he succeeded.’