The Queen's Secret (14 page)

GOODLUCK ADJUSTED THE
black skullcap on his head, forced a little more stoop into his walk, and rapped feebly on the door of Walsingham’s secretary. The door opened and Goodluck spoke at once, feeling for the man’s shoulder with one trembling hand.

‘Your master. I must see … your master. The augurs …’

Walsingham’s man looked down on him with obvious distaste. His lip curled and he held a handkerchief to his nose, leaving Goodluck to wonder if he had applied the duckweed oil too liberally. But the man, who no doubt had seen many odd characters at his master’s door over the years, showed neither surprise nor disbelief at this request, merely turning to consult a black ledger lying open on the table.

‘Do you have an appointment? What is your name?’

‘My name is Malchance. I come bearing a message from … from John Dee, the Queen’s astrologer. The omens are bad, very bad. Saturn and the Moon are coming into conjunction in the third quadrant. I must be allowed to speak to your master at once.’

‘Master Walsingham is much occupied with writing a letter this afternoon,’ the man began with a weary air. Suddenly he stopped short, his face intent as he turned his head towards a tiny creaking noise from within.

Over his shoulder, Goodluck saw that the ornate wooden door behind him – presumably to Walsingham’s private rooms – had opened a bare crack.

The man nodded as though someone had spoken. He dipped a pen in the inkwell and scratched briefly in the ledger. ‘You may go through. My master is expecting you.’

Walsingham was at the window, its plain wooden shutter thrown open, gazing down into the courtyard below. An ethereal voice floated up through the sunlight; it was Lucy, singing a solo for the court. Both men listened in silence for a moment.

‘So the Queen has a new plaything. Let’s hope she doesn’t tire too quickly of this one.’ Walsingham closed the shutter and pulled the bar across to secure it. He turned, and smiled at Goodluck’s unlikely appearance. ‘An astrologer. Whatever next?’

‘A Catholic?’

Walsingham seemed to recoil at the suggestion. He shook his head and sat behind his small walnut desk, indicating with a nod that Goodluck should take a seat opposite. ‘You have a strong stomach for this work, Goodluck. But not strong enough for that, surely? I received your note. The wording was surprisingly abstruse. It took me a while to follow you correctly.’ He rearranged the papers on his desk; Goodluck’s note had been written in a code not used between them for many years, but clearly Walsingham had managed to decipher it. ‘I take it the man you sought is here?’

‘Quite openly, it seems, posing as a travelling entertainer.’

‘A knife act?’

‘He has a dancing bear. Though it should be a knife act, I agree.’ Goodluck allowed himself a quick grin. ‘As you’ve told me in the past, the best assassins play to their strengths.’

‘Indeed.’ Walsingham glanced at the flagon of ale on the desk. ‘I’m afraid I cannot offer you refreshments. These are for a young friend, even now on his way to visit me.’

Goodluck was surprised but schooled his expression not to show it. ‘A young friend, sir?’

‘A Florentine Italian, one of these younger sons of minor nobility who must make their own way in the world. I doubt that you would know him. His name is Petruccio Massetti, and he was working at the embassy in Paris when I was there in ’seventy-two. I believe he was a junior secretary. He had a fine hand, as I recall, and a gift for languages.’

‘And now he comes to visit you in England?’

‘His purse is a little light, he tells me, and he hopes England may make it heavy again. You must understand, I owe Massetti a great debt of gratitude. He helped smuggle my wife and daughter out of Paris when those murdering Catholics began to drag the Protestant families out into the street – men, women and children alike – and massacre them in the most bloody fashion imaginable.’ Walsingham sighed, then looked across at Goodluck with a twisted smile. ‘Massetti comes bearing fresh information against our exiled Catholics in Italy, or so his letter claims, and I am glad to hear him out. A young man of great daring and initiative, and with his heart in the right place.’

‘So I have come at a bad time. Should I leave?’

‘No, for I would like you to listen to his news and give me your opinion afterwards.’ Walsingham regarded Goodluck’s outlandish outfit for a moment. ‘But out of sight. A man never talks easily before witnesses, in particular those who look and smell as unpleasant as you do. Come, there is a place here with a spyhole. You shouldn’t have long to wait.’ He stood and pressed a panel above the carved stone mantel; a low door opened in the wall, revealing a dark recess beyond. He gestured for Goodluck to enter. ‘A novelty, isn’t it? Leicester never ceases to amaze me with his attention to detail.’

Bending lower than his hunchbacked astrologer would have attempted, Goodluck slipped into the recess and stood a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. The door was closed behind him and for a moment he felt a sense of rising panic at being incarcerated in the dark, cramped space. Uneasily, he recalled an unpleasant night in a Provençal safe house where he had been required to kneel for some twelve hours in an underground cell somewhat smaller than this hole. He closed his eyes and silently recited a few lines from Dante’s
Inferno
. The Italian verses steadied him; after another minute, the queasiness subsided and he was able to turn in the narrow space, locate the spyhole – its sharp pinhole the only source of light – and put an eye to it.

And not a moment too soon. He heard the muted tones of Walsingham’s man in the outer office, then the door opened and
Walsingham
stood to greet the Italian, his stern black figure entirely blocking Goodluck’s view.

Goodluck wondered why Walsingham should wish him to overhear this conversation. Perhaps, accustomed as he was to listening for the holes in every man’s story, he did not quite trust his young Italian friend, his ‘great debt’ notwithstanding. What other reason could there be for asking Goodluck’s opinion of the youth?

‘Massetti, my dear young man,’ Walsingham was saying in perfect Italian. ‘I’m so pleased to see you again. I was not able to send out a letter to thank you properly after those dreadful days in Paris. There was such chaos on the streets and we were held under close arrest for our own safety until the bloodshed had ceased.’ He turned, still obscuring Goodluck’s line of sight. ‘Please, sit down. May I offer you a drink? It’s not what you will be used to in Italy but it’s good English ale, very refreshing in the heat.’

There was a chink of glasses, then Walsingham sat down behind his desk and at last Goodluck had a clear view of the visitor’s face.

He was a handsome young man, with a trustworthy face and nut-brown eyes that smiled openly up at his host. He certainly did not have the careful, covert air of an intriguer, nor the shadowy look that dogged those who had tumbled in over their head. Goodluck studied him at length, seeing nothing in Massetti’s face but honesty and the warmth of an old friendship renewed.

Was this all he was intended to see? Goodluck settled his back into the recess, and prepared to listen. Only time would tell.

Sixteen

DUSK WAS FALLING
as Lucy made her way across the tiltyard and through the Gallery Tower at the southern end, her throat hoarse from singing. She paused outside the tower gateway and slipped on her wooden pattens, the clogs she wore to protect her best shoes from the earthen mess of the Brays. Then, composing herself again, she struck out across the makeshift camp, unsure of her direction. In the morning it had taken only a few moments to pick her way through the tents and rough wooden huts towards the castle proper. Now though, with the sun’s rays failing and half the camp cast into shadow, she had little idea how to reach the quiet sanctuary of her room.

The narrow smoky lanes between makeshift dwellings thronged with life, despite the late hour on a Sunday, for it was here that the vast crowd of commoners that accompanied the Queen on her progress had been allowed to set up camp for the duration of their stay. She saw jugglers and theatricals practising their craft, and acrobats tumbling or climbing on each other’s shoulders, much to the amusement of a small crowd of children who had gathered to watch. A scrawny performing dog in a frilled ruff ran past her at the turn of a corner, barking violently, its barefoot owner pursuing it with rude shouts and whistles.

Lucy felt out of place in her new silk gown, procured by Leicester earlier that morning so she would not disgrace the
Queen’s
presence with her tatty make-do skirts. Lucy did not wish to put herself above her fellows but if his lordship expected her to dress so finely, with this heavy gold chain about her neck and rings on her fingers, she would soon be in danger as she crossed the Brays every night and morning.

‘Hey!’

She glanced back over her shoulder, half expecting to see one of the London entertainers, perhaps another lost soul looking for their lodgings.

But the shout had not been directed at her.

A dark-robed man walking a little ahead of her had also turned at the shout. He retraced his steps, passing her as he did so. She could not see his face – it was too deeply in shadow, and a black cloth had been wound about his chin and drawn up almost to the nose – but she caught the glint of dark eyes and looked hurriedly away. There was something about those eyes which unsettled her, a troubling intensity that spoke of the zealot. She had known men like that in London, living and working in the diseased honeycomb of streets near the river.

The hooded man disappeared into a heavily stained and patched tent set back from the rest, a few hundred yards along the lane. Lucy heard a hubbub of furious, unintelligible conversation as the flap fell shut behind him.

She gazed at the tent, her curiosity sparking, and suddenly recalled the Italian and his angry bear. He too had worn long dark robes and had a fanatical look to his eyes. Nor could it be denied that the oddly striped material of the tent, and the green and red ribbons trailing from its central pole, suggested a foreign owner. And whoever lived in the tent was burning some kind of sweet herb, for a little aromatic smoke escaped from the tent flap as it opened and closed.

Were these more Italians? Friends of the bear-tamer, perhaps?

Years of listening through the floorboards to Master Goodluck’s stories of adventures overseas gave her the courage to creep a little closer. She knew she ought to mind her own business, but there was no one about in this quiet corner to catch her spying. The entrance to the tent was closed, the dying sun lit up the sloping roof and Lucy stood safe in its shadow, listening to the
men
inside. The language they spoke did not seem to be French, of which she knew a few common phrases, but the discussion sounded urgent, that much she could tell.

Beware Italians
…

Was that not what Master Goodluck had warned her?

Her instincts told her there was something wrong, that she should fetch someone – one of the guards on the Gallery Tower gate, perhaps, or even Master Goodluck himself. Yet what accusation would she bring against them? She knew no law against being a foreigner.

The sweet smell of smoke from the tent grew stronger. It was seeping out of the tent flap now, thick and heady, leaving her faint. Inside, the men had fallen silent, though she could hear one voice still, intoning a string of foreign words in a hushed, priest-like tone that dropped to a hoarse whisper.

It sounded almost as if they were celebrating Mass, and not a good Protestant one. There was certainly a law against
that
.

Jumping at the dangerousness of such an idea, Lucy hurried away from the tent and began to pick her way back down the lane, telling herself not to be such a fool. Sheer tiredness must have turned her brain tonight, and now the sun had almost fallen below the earthen walls of the Brays. If she did not find her lodging soon, she would be searching for it in the dark.

Suddenly, there was another shout behind her, sharper this time, and Lucy turned to see two men in the entrance to the tent, staring after her through the rising smoke. Both were dressed in dark hooded robes, and she knew from the way the shorter man held himself that he was the one she had seen entering the tent.

Horrified, Lucy picked up her skirts and hurried away without looking where she was going. She tripped over a pile of sticks left at the side of the lane, stumbled back to her feet, and looked anxiously about for someone to call to for help. But everyone seemed to have melted back into their dwellings now the sun had almost gone.

The two men were following her; she heard their footsteps in the gloom behind her.

They must know she had no chance of escape. The tents and wooden huts in this part of the camp were so densely packed, she
would
not be able to turn off until she reached the wall at the far end – by which time they would easily have caught up with her.

Suddenly, she spotted a narrow opening between two tents and darted through it. Jumping over a still-smouldering bonfire, she headed into the dark. For a moment she felt safer and slowed to look back over her shoulder, but the sight of two hooded figures also vaulting the gap between the tents sent a chill to her heart.