The Queen's Secret (2 page)

‘Best get some sleep now, child. There’ll be no stopping again till past noon.’

The open cart rumbled on in the sunshine, mile after mile taking them further away from London and the familiar mud-thick stench of the Thames. Lucy tried not to doze off, watching the trees pass overhead and delighting in the sun on her face. But eventually she too fell asleep, her knees relaxing, her head nodding on to her chest. Her dreams were confused, filled with grinning cartmen chasing her down green country lanes which seemed to go on for ever. In her dream, someone was calling out behind her, reaching out to grab her shoulder.

She woke to urgent cries, finding herself slumped sideways in the cart, her cap askew, her skirts soiled with straw.

‘The Queen! Look, child, it’s the Queen!’

The whole cart was in uproar. Even the sour-faced widow had struggled to her feet, calling excitedly to the snoring laundress on her other side to wake up, that the Queen’s party was bearing down on them and would soon be passing the cart.

Lucy stretched out her limbs, stiff with the tingling cramp of sleeping too long in one position, and immediately felt a very real and pressing need to relieve herself. Except there was nowhere to do so but publicly, in a little tarred quarter-barrel assigned for such needs and then emptied over the side of the cart in full view of the driver and his mate, a thought which dismayed her.

Then she realized belatedly what the others were shouting and lurched to her feet, as eager as everyone else to catch a glimpse of the Queen.

‘Look!’ someone cried as the first outriders of the Queen’s guard came into view, though all she could see was a cloud of dust
rising
on the road behind them, and the coarse linen hood of the woman in front of her.

The wagon swayed perilously and Lucy was thrown against its rough wooden side, banging her knee. The driver swore an oath she had not heard since her childhood on the streets of London, and called for the ‘idiot women’ to sit down again before they upset the cart. But none of them paid the man any attention.

The guards came first in their leather jerkins, buckles and mail-coats flashing in the sun. Then she saw the familiar figure of the Earl of Leicester cantering ahead of the royal party, his swift gaze examining the faces of those in each cart he passed. It was almost as if he were looking for someone, Lucy thought curiously, except for the casual turn of that dark head, one gloved fist resting arrogantly on his hip, reins held seemingly slack in the other. She had seen him at court often enough – though he had never noticed her, Lucy was sure of it. And why should he? The earl’s feathered cap was pitched at an angle, and he seemed to be controlling the animal with just his knees and booted feet, unconcerned by the speed at which he was travelling.

Reaching the party of foot soldiers, the earl pulled the animal up and spoke softly to them for a moment, then wheeled his sweating black stallion about and rode back towards the Queen.

Lucy turned her head and craned to see the royal entourage as it passed their cart. Her view was impeded by the guards riding in strict formation beside the Queen, their horses almost nose to tail. At first, all she could see was a frilled white-gold canopy supported by four outriders, then the young guard nearest her fell back a pace or two, fumbling with his reins as the horse shied, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of the Queen herself.

Perched on a white horse, Queen Elizabeth sat pale and straight-backed under an elaborate headdress, her glorious red hair coiled high with pearls, a vast ivory ruff fanning out like angel wings on either side of her head. Her face was set, but her eyes seemed fixed on the Earl of Leicester’s figure as he saluted her briefly, threw a laughing comment towards one of her immaculately groomed ladies, then brought his dancing stallion round to the rear of the column where the chief courtiers rode.

‘God save Her Majesty!’ Lucy called out impulsively, if rather too late, as the white-gold canopy swayed out of sight.

The Queen’s horse moved on, and Lucy was left feeling a little foolish, leaning out over the side of the cart, gritty dust in her face, with nothing to see but the liveried rumps of the guards’ horses.

But someone had heard her. The Earl of Leicester had dropped to a more sedate trot beside one of the courtiers in the Queen’s train, a stately old man with a grizzled beard and a heavily ornate gold chain about his neck. Now he paused in his conversation, a courteous smile still on his face, and turned his head in the direction of that shout, swift and alert, like a hound questing for a hare.

His dark eyes found her, and Lucy, forgetting for the briefest of moments to lower her gaze before his as a servant should do, smiled back at the earl.

‘Oh now, look you. He’s a proper one for the ladies, he is!’ The seamstress nodded at Leicester’s departing back, then chuckled as her stout companion gasped and nudged her in the ribs. ‘These Dudleys. Always one hand on the crown and the other on my lady’s crotch. Young Robin Dudley was Master of the Horse when I first came to court. Now he’s Lord Robert, if you please, master of the Queen – and father to her children.’

Lucy sat down again in the rocking cart, shocked and staring, appalled by the woman’s story. ‘Queen Elizabeth has
children
by the Earl of Leicester?’

‘Two, so they say,’ the seamstress confided, not even bothering to lower her voice, ‘and both hidden away safe in the country where the Scots Queen may not find them and murder the poor babes in their beds.’

‘Stop peddling your filth to this foolish child, Mistress Cubbon, or I’ll report you to the chief steward for speaking treason against the Queen.’ The widow shook her head in disgust, her face stiff under the plain black hood as she turned to Lucy. ‘Girl, don’t endanger yourself by listening to this woman’s nonsense. I know her type – little better than a common drunk, for all her skill with a needle. Everyone knows our queen is a chaste, God-fearing virgin and will remain so until her wedding night. And the Earl of
Leicester
is a wise and sober gentleman of the court, who has not so much as looked at another lady since his own poor wife died.’

‘Aye, and by whose hand did his poor wife die?’ the seamstress snorted. But she shrugged uneasily at the widow’s furious glare and looked away. ‘Well, well, that was long ago. And it may all be nonsense, after all. God save Her Majesty and preserve his lordship.’

Lucy said nothing after this, fearing what might come of such a dangerous conversation, and the women’s talk soon died away to bitter murmurs, lost in the creaking sway and judder of the cart.

Desperate now to relieve herself, she sat for the next few miles in an uncomfortable silence, head bowed in her neat white cap, attempting to suck an evil-looking splinter out of her finger. She had decided it was probably best not to mention that the Earl of Leicester had winked at her.

One

Kenilworth Castle, Warwickshire, Wednesday 6 July, 1575

EVERY EVENING SINCE
his arrival, Walsingham had come down from his rooms in Caesar’s Tower to take his customary walk along the water’s edge before retiring. He tended to keep early hours in the country, and until the court came to Kenilworth the Queen’s chief secretary had no reason to change his routine. Three days he had been in residence, having excused himself early from the progress through Oxfordshire and travelled on ahead to check that security was in place for the Queen’s arrival at Kenilworth.

The sundial on the mereside wall was in full shadow by the time Walsingham appeared on the third evening, descending from the Italian elegance of the keep’s arcade into what would be the Queen’s Privy Garden for the duration of her stay. The hem of his cloak brushed the clipped box hedges as he moved slowly between the formal beds, pausing to examine a particularly exotic-looking musk rose entwined with eglantine, or crush fragrant lavender between his fingertips.

Stretched out on his belly along the gnarled branch of an oak, concealed by a riot of lusty green foliage, Goodluck watched Master Walsingham approach, and smiled.

His target was laughably unprotected, considering he was one
of
the most powerful and influential men in England. His elevated status was not obvious at a glance. Walsingham wore a simple black skullcap and plain ruff, having dined alone that evening, and had brought no company with him. True, there were two guards down at the Watergate and probably half a dozen yawning at their posts beyond the archway into Caesar’s Tower. But nobody within earshot.

It was growing dark, the sun’s heat had long gone and the cool shadows were lengthening. The gardens would soon be closed.

If Goodluck were to drop down on him now, clap one hand over his mouth and slide a stiletto blade between his ribs, Walsingham would be dead within seconds, and no one any the wiser until the man’s body was found in the morning.

Walsingham passed beneath him, humming gently under his breath, adjusting the expensive lace at his wrist. He was so close Goodluck could see the fine gold ring on his finger, and a few grey hairs sprinkled among the black at his temple.

Holding his breath, he swung himself soundlessly down from the oak branch, hung there a second, eyeing the distance to the ground, then dropped. Straightening from his crouch, Goodluck waited for Walsingham’s leisurely tread to take him round the corner and behind a massive yew hedge that divided the garden from the castle walls.

Then he followed Walsingham into shadow, silent-footed and intent.

But just as Goodluck came up behind him, poised to spring, Walsingham suddenly whirled about and seized his right arm, twisting it painfully behind his back.

Something cold flashed at his throat. Goodluck focused on the thin blade pressing hard against his skin; there would be a prick-mark there in the morning.

‘In general, a man talks more easily without a dagger to his throat,’ he said conversationally, and smiled down at the blade. ‘Of Florentine design. I know the Italian who makes these. Lightweight, but deadly once you have the knack of them. An excellent assassin’s weapon, to be cunningly concealed up a sleeve or down the side of a boot.’

‘Well, if you will creep up on people …’

The slender blade was withdrawn and once more concealed in Walsingham’s generous sleeve.

Goodluck rubbed his neck with a rueful smile. ‘I had forgotten your reputation.’ Respectfully, he swept him a bow. ‘Sir.’

‘And I had forgotten your odd sense of humour,’ Walsingham replied testily.

With one accord, they moved further into the shadow of the yew hedge, Walsingham almost invisible against the thickening dusk in his sombre black suit and cloak. Cautious as ever, he had not used Goodluck’s name.

‘I received your note,’ he murmured. ‘Though your news was slender. Has the code been compromised again?’

‘I suspect it must have been. There was an incident when I landed at Dover.’ Goodluck shrugged off the memory. ‘So we move on.’

‘Indeed.’

‘The castle is being watched, sir.’

‘I expected no less.’

Walsingham had lowered his voice until it was a mere thread of sound, barely audible above the wingbeats of a flock of geese passing overhead. They both fell silent for a moment, watching the white geese disappear into the dusk.

‘You’ve seen those who watch? You know who they are?’

Reluctantly, Goodluck shook his head.

‘Then why risk meeting like this?’ Walsingham sounded impatient. ‘Secrecy is everything. Is it money you want? Because my man in London is the person to see.’

‘No, sir.’

Goodluck turned his head and listened, holding up a hand for silence, not much caring if Walsingham found this impertinent. But the sound he had heard was only two of the guards patrolling the entrances to Caesar’s Tower; he caught the quiet scrape of a weapon, then a muttered word, and boots going heavily back up the steps. He waited another moment, but there was nothing except a warm, fragrant wind shivering over the knot garden and rustling the yew hedge.

‘I came to give you information, sir. Something I did not wish to put in a letter.’

Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

‘Following your orders, I posed as a Catholic and stuck close to the Lorenzo family for almost a year. One night, just after Easter Sunday, a man came secretly to their house. From the way he was treated, I would guess him to be one of the old blood, born of an important family but perhaps not a nobleman. I was not privy to everything that passed between him and Lorenzo, but it was common knowledge the man was in search of money.’

Walsingham frowned, apparently mesmerized by a tiny periwinkle growing wild in the sandy verges of the path. ‘To what end?’

‘That I was unable to discover. But it’s my belief he was seeking Catholic funds for a fresh attempt on the Queen’s life.’

Now he had the attention of the Queen’s secretary. ‘His name?’

‘They used no names, which aroused my suspicions at once. But afterwards I heard several mentions of a man they called the “Bear”. From what they said, I would guess him to be the assassin they wished to hire. Unfortunately, the man arrived hooded at Lorenzo’s, stayed only one night, and left before I was able to get a proper look at him. I remained with the family another fortnight, hoping to glean some useful information from Lorenzo or one of his more zealous followers. You know how these devout, old-family Catholics love to boast of their plans to put a monarch of the true faith back on the throne of England. But no one was talking. Indeed, the more I probed, the more suspicious they became, however much I clowned and acted the fool. I was forced to leave rather abruptly in the end,’ Goodluck smiled grimly, ‘having outstayed my welcome in Pisa.’