The Queen's Secret (13 page)

Lucy, standing in the hot sun at the very edge of the Queen’s canopy, where Leicester had ordered her to wait over an hour before, was relieved when he finally re-emerged from the buildings behind her. She was beginning to feel a little faint, but revived at the sight of him striding towards her. He had promised that she would sing before the Queen and assembled courtiers that afternoon, and though the very thought of such an honour left her belly cramped with terror, nonetheless she would not shy away from this opportunity.

Her only wish was that Master Goodluck, who had also
slipped
away before the play began, would return before she had to sing.

‘Lucy Morgan!’

Leicester came towards her and she curtseyed very low in response. Knowing her gown to be a little shabby, she blushed, wishing she could hide. Anything to avoid those dark clever eyes.

‘Are you ready to sing for the Queen?’

‘As much as I will ever be,’ she said boldly, keeping her chin high.

Leicester smiled at her bravado, but she could see that something was troubling him. He drew her aside a little way and spoke softly in her ear, holding her hands. ‘If I give you a letter, Lucy, will you carry it to the Countess of Essex? Privately, without a word to anyone?’

Lucy stiffened. This was some courtly intrigue of the kind Goodluck had often warned her about. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered, and pulled her hands free of his.

‘There is no danger,’ he promised her.

She flushed. ‘Then why not give it to her yourself?’

Leicester hesitated, and glanced cautiously at the sleeping Queen. Then he whispered, ‘We are watched on all sides, Lucy. My heart is breaking for this lady, who is so unhappily married. Let me at least write my love to her, and learn whether she feels the same. I know you are not a cruel girl. Will you do me this favour?’

Lucy did not know what to say. Leicester stared into her eyes and she bit her lip, not wanting to deny him anything.

‘Lucy?’ he coaxed her gently.

‘Yes,’ she agreed at last. ‘But only if you promise it is nothing treasonous.’

He nodded soberly and laid a hand across his heart. ‘I promise you most faithfully, Lucy Morgan, that it shall be a love letter and nothing else. I will bring it to you in a few days.’

The players finished their dumbshow and bowed. But they did not disperse. Instead, they looked towards the canopy where the Queen still slept, her head on her hand, snoring quietly. Then they looked at Leicester questioningly, and Lucy realized for the first time how much power he wielded at court.

Leicester gestured to one of the women at the Queen’s side. ‘Wake her.’

‘Your Majesty?’ the young woman whispered, her pretty face flushed with the heat.

The Queen snorted, jerking awake. Her flaming red wig was slightly askew.

‘Your slippers, Your Majesty.’

Lucy, watching from beyond the deep green shade of the canopy, saw a look of intense suspicion on the Queen’s face as the young woman knelt before her, holding out a pair of extravagant silver-toed slippers.

‘Where is the Countess of Essex?’

‘She has returned to the royal apartments, Your Majesty. Lady Essex was taken sick with a headache. She said the sunlight—’

‘Oh, enough.’ The Queen looked about her, aware of the court waiting. Impatiently, she accepted a cup of wine from a bowing servant and waved at the young woman before her, still on her knees. ‘Just put my slippers on, Helena. My feet ache.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

With careful hands, the lady-in-waiting eased off the Queen’s riding boots and replaced them with the silver-toed slippers.

‘Have the players finished?’

The girl nodded and bore the riding boots away, curtseying low before the Queen as she retreated. Elizabeth sighed and gave the signal for applause. The rustic players bowed reverently before her, then trailed off through the archway, carrying their props.

‘Well, what next?’

Robert stepped forward under the canopy, bowing and flourishing his cap. The Queen turned her attention to him at once, oddly girlish, her small eyes widening.

‘Lord Robert?’

‘The Moorish girl is to sing for you, Your Majesty.’

He beckoned Lucy forward, then took several steps backwards, leaving her alone in front of the seated Queen.

‘Ah yes, your young blackbird. Well, she is indeed a handsome girl,’ the Queen observed, looking Lucy over. Her voice
sharpened.
‘And of a marriageable age. Do you ever dream of getting a husband, child?’

Lucy blushed, confused by this intimate and unexpected question. ‘No, Your Majesty.’

‘Never?’

Lucy swallowed. She felt the eyes of the court upon her and was suddenly unsure what kind of answer she was required to make. ‘I … I have never turned my mind to marriage, Your Majesty.’

The Queen seemed pleased enough with this reply. She nodded, sitting back with a long sigh. ‘But you like to sing, child?’

‘I do, Your Majesty.’

Lucy curtseyed as low as she was able, feeling awkward, all arms and legs like a giant spider. Her gown might be clean and serviceable, but she knew it to be plain compared to that of the Queen’s ladies – whose stares of amused inspection she could feel on the back of her neck.

‘I enjoyed listening to your song as we returned from church this morning. You have a sweet, engaging voice. When I was your age I was often to be found singing, though my sister Mary strongly disapproved and would rather I occupied myself with prayer, especially on the Lord’s Day.’ She suddenly frowned, leaning forward in her carved chair again as though to see Lucy better. ‘What is your birth, child?’

‘My parents were Moorish, Your Majesty. But I am a Christian, born and baptized here in England.’

‘And your name?’

‘Lucy Morgan, Your Majesty.’

‘That is a good Christian name. Tell me about your parents.’

‘They are dead, Your Majesty. My father was the leader of his tribe in … in Africa, I think. When the slaving ships came, they raided our village and took my parents captive. My father died of a fever on the long sea journey. My mother was brought to England with her master, but she … she got sick and died in London a few days after I was born.’ Lucy’s voice wavered and fell away before the searching look in the Queen’s face. ‘I know nothing else, Your Majesty.’

‘If your mother died in childbirth, who told you this fantastical tale of slave ships and fevers?’

‘My guardian told me, Your Majesty.’

The Queen waited in silence, her long jewelled fingers tapping the arms of her high-backed seat, as though expecting to hear more. Nervously, Lucy glanced back at Leicester; he merely nodded at her to go on.

‘My guardian took my mother in when she was sick, and later paid for my baptism and education. His name is Master Goodluck and he lives in London.’

The Queen raised her eyebrows. ‘This man was “good luck” for you, certainly,’ she quipped, and those nobles within earshot laughed heartily, a few even clapping their hands at the jest. ‘He must be a true Samaritan indeed, to have taken in a sick woman with child and brought up her orphaned babe after she died.’

Lucy met the Queen’s gaze frankly, not quite able to believe her own daring. ‘Master Goodluck is the best man I know, Your Majesty.’

One of the younger ladies-in-waiting snorted with laughter behind her fan. The Queen shifted in her seat, her pale, heavily ringed hands curled like claws about the ends of the chair arms. She turned her gaze back to Lucy.

‘So your father was the leader of his people? That would make him a king, as my own father was.’ She stared across at her broodingly. ‘Could his throne pass from father to daughter? Or only from father to son?’

Lucy hesitated. Goodluck had spoken about her mother on only a couple of occasions since her childhood, and she had known almost nothing about her father. She could not even be sure that her parents had come from Africa. She stood a moment with her too-long arms hanging loose by her sides, eyes scrunched up against the sun, trying to imagine that hot, distant country.

‘I cannot say with any certainty, Your Majesty. Perhaps only from father to son.’

The Queen settled back on her tall wooden seat, silver-toed slippers glittering as they caught the light. Far from being angered by Lucy’s awkward replies, she seemed curious and amused.

‘I have had enough of rustic plays this afternoon. Shall we hear you sing instead, Lucy Morgan?’

‘If it please Your Majesty, yes.’

Lucy sank into another deep curtsey. The heavy silence before a song, once so daunting to her, now felt like a cooling shadow she could step into. She had come on progress to entertain the Queen and her court, and in all the past weeks this was the first time she had been allowed to sing solo. There was no reason to be afraid. She would not hit a wrong note today, nor forget her words in a childish panic. This was why she had been born. What was it Leicester had called her?

Blackbird
.

Calming an unsteady heart, Lucy clasped her hands before her chest – as she had been taught to do by Mistress Hibbert – and drew breath to sing.

Fourteen

ELIZABETH SMILED. ONCE
again Robert had brought her a prize worth having at court. She liked this girl’s spirit and her respectfulness, and even the innocence which shone from her dark eyes and clean black skin. What use were these shameless young women who were meant to attend her in chastity and obedience night and day, yet could think of nothing but their next sexual conquest? Better to have a true innocent like Lucy Morgan at her side, for at least a virgin would hold her mistress’s interests close to her heart, and not be forever panting after some young man with more bulge in his hose than was decent.

The inner court had fallen silent. A refreshing wind threaded the grasses while the people waited for the song, leaning against walls in the blinding sunshine or propped up on their elbows on the grass. There was the briefest of pauses. Then, in her simple gown and chaste white cap, Lucy Morgan opened her mouth and began to sing.

Ah, Robin, gentle Robin
.

Tell me how your leman doth

And thou shalt know of mine
.

My lady is unkind, I wis
.

Alas! Why is she so
?

She loveth another better than me

And yet she will say no
.

Ah, Robin, gentle Robin
.

Tell me how your leman doth

And thou shalt know of mine
.

I cannot think such doubleness

For I find women true
.

In faith my lady loveth me well
,

She will change for no new
.

Ah, Robin
…

Elizabeth glanced across at her courtiers, surprised by their unaccustomed stillness as they listened to the sweetness of Lucy’s voice. Then she looked back at Lucy, and for a moment she too forgot her pain at Robert’s disloyalty, the sting of his faithless indiscretion temporarily soothed by this beautiful songbird.

Ah, Robin, indeed.

Then the song finished and Robert was suddenly there, kneeling before her like a knight errant, his hand resting on his sword-hilt in a grand gesture, as though about to draw his blade and battle monsters for her.

‘Your Majesty, please accept this gift of a curiosity and forgive my negligence at leaving your side earlier. My business took longer than intended.’

When she did not reply, his gaze touched awkwardly on Lucy, who stood still before the assembled courtiers. Her graceful hands hung loose by her sides as she waited, drinking in the long silence that followed her song.

Robert spoke. ‘Does my new find please you, Your Majesty?’

‘It does indeed.’

‘Will you hear another song from young Lucy Morgan, Your Majesty?’ he asked, glancing again at Lucy, who stood silent and unmoving in the midst of all this colour and heat. ‘Or would you rather witness the strangeness of a troupe of green crabs disguised as Florentine acrobats?’

‘No crabs, I pray you. Let us go inside, where it’s cooler, and hear more of this child’s heavenly singing while we take lunch,’ Elizabeth declared. She saw her ladies’ faces lighten with relief.

It was too hot, in truth, to be outside, even in the shade. Nor
did
she think the temperature would drop until the weather had broken in a storm. Even the breeze from the lake was too warm to be refreshing. No wonder Lettice had gone to bed with a headache. Despite the shade from the canopy and the coolness of the grass underfoot, she herself felt a little faint, the last notes of Lucy’s song still ringing in her ears, high and plaintive.

Nonetheless, she managed a sunny smile for Robert as he stood, gallantly holding out a hand to help her rise. ‘And you must have a refreshing glass of wine, my lord Leicester. All this rushing about has left you flushed.’

Robert bowed, his eyes lowered. ‘I am your humble servant, Your Majesty.’

Fifteen