The Queen's Secret (6 page)

She tried to turn, to see who was behind her, but at that moment the crowd made a great push for the gate, and everyone staggered forward in the darkness.

Trying not to fall, Lucy grabbed at the woman in front, who, cradling a baby against her exposed breast, dirty yellow hair loose under her cap, half turned to scream abuse at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy managed, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Here – come this way.’

She felt someone seize her hand, and allowed herself to be jerked sideways out of the crowd and through the row of guards with their menacing pikes. To her relief, it was the young man who had rescued her before. He pulled her aside to a quiet space
against
the wall where a dying torch guttered in a bracket above them.

‘Are you well, mistress?’ he asked, watching her as though afraid she might faint.

Too breathless to speak, she straightened her gown and nodded.

‘Follow me then,’ he instructed her, ‘and this time, let us try not to get separated. I must go back to the stables, but I can take you as far as the outer court at least. There’ll be fireworks over the lake soon, and musicians, and more of this mummery. Perhaps you’ll see one of your friends from the court there, and be able to discover where you’re to sleep tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, but the young man was already threading a path along the wall behind the guards.

Lucy caught up with him as they entered the outer court, the last of the Queen’s entourage clattering through the archway on their horses. At least here the way was torchlit and the grumbling crowd from the tiltyard was being held back at pike-point. But she heard one of the guards shout that no one else would be allowed into the castle tonight, and for everyone without a bed to go back to the camp at the Brays. She wondered what would happen if she could not find any of the other entertainers, and tried not to consider the grim likelihood that she would have to sleep rough in that den of thieves beyond the outer walls, with no protection and none of her possessions.

Lucy flattened herself against the wall to allow a body of guards through the gate, and the young man followed suit, though he was clearly impatient to be let through.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, boldly enough, though she struggled to hold his gaze when the young man turned to look down at her.

‘Tom.’

‘A short name.’

He smiled then, his teeth very white and strong. ‘Thomas Black. Yes, a Christian name, though my parents were both Moors. They were on a slave ship from Morocco that was captured by the English. They chose to convert on landing at Falmouth, and my father accepted the English name of Black.’ He
studied
her, through long black lashes that hid his expression. ‘It was either that or face execution.’

‘Are you …’ She hesitated, not wishing to offend him. ‘Are you a slave, then?’

‘I was born a slave,’ he agreed, calmly enough. ‘And sold as one when I grew old enough to work. But Lord Leicester gave me my freedom when I came into his service. He will have no slaves in his household. He is a great man.’

‘My parents were Africans too. At least, that is what I was told as a child. But I know nothing for sure.’

He nodded, his face sombre again. ‘You are like me, little sister. Not meant to be here.’

Lucy looked away, unsure how to respond to such a remark. Her mother had been a runaway slave, it was true, but Master Goodluck had always told Lucy to call herself ‘a free Englishwoman’, if anyone asked. She had been born in London, just as Goodluck had been. England was her home. She belonged nowhere else.

Then Tom was pulling on her hand again and they were in the outer courtyard, lost at once in a riot of noise and chaos, smoke billowing from a fresh-lit fire to their left, people passing back and forth on foot and on horseback, stinking heaps of muck everywhere so that she had to pull up her skirts and walk with little hops to avoid soiling her gown.

Tom was staring ahead with a frown in his eyes.

‘I will have to leave you here,’ he said reluctantly, turning to study her face. A lone firework cracked overhead in the darkness, probably set off by accident, and a great ‘Ahhh!’ went up from the crowd around them as everyone craned their necks to see the streamers of crackling red light. ‘They’ll be looking for me at the stables. Will you be safe on your own?’

‘Of course,’ she said doubtfully.

But she did not want him to go. The fear she had felt when the guards grabbed her began to return, and she felt her lips go numb with it.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Tom said, touching her shoulder.

‘I’m not,’ she lied, and knew by his expression that she had not convinced him.

She searched the crowds for a recognizable face, then caught a glimpse of little fair-haired Catherine from Norfolk, one of the Queen’s tumblers. She waved, relieved at the sight of her familiar white cap and gown. ‘Catherine! Over here!’

As the girl began to head in her direction, Lucy dropped Tom a hurried curtsey.

‘My friend will show me where I am to sleep tonight. Thank you again for your help, sir.’

‘Tom,’ he reminded her, still frowning, but Lucy turned away with only the slightest nod of her head.

Linking an arm about Catherine’s waist, she walked away, telling her friend all the things she had seen. She did not want Tom to know how much she was beginning to like him.

Six

AMID CHEERS FROM
the crowd, and accompanied by a gang of fluting, green-hosed musicians on hautboys, shawms and cornets, Elizabeth had ridden through the narrow gateway and on to the long wooden bridge beyond. The air was thick with smoke from flaming torches. A series of paired posts awaited her at every few steps, each post crowned with rare and colourful birds in cages, luxurious flowers and fruits of the season – a cornucopia of natural and strange delights which Robert pointed out for her to admire.

Yet always his eyes scanned the way ahead, sharp and watchful, as though something in the air alerted him to danger.

Catching his mood, Elizabeth stared up at the shadowy rise of new buildings alongside Kenilworth’s ancient keep, stretching above the old walls with vast candlelit mullion windows and elegant stonework.

Why would Robert be concerned for her safety here, in his own stronghold, his home territory of Warwickshire? Well, one jealous faction or another was always plotting against her crown; she would not shut herself away like a scared old woman. No, she would ride it out, as her father would have done, and see the perpetrators hung, drawn and quartered for their treason.

Orders were called out hoarsely within the walls. The guards along the battlements crashed arms in a salute. Shadowy flags and
pennants
flew from the high towers, and the crowd cheered once more as she entered the final gate.

The passage into the castle proper was short but gloomy, lit only by the guttering flames of torches set into the wall at intervals, and then she was out in the warm evening air again, surrounded by the crowd, their cheers almost deafening her, some pressing so close that her ladies-in-waiting found themselves hemmed in, one uttering a sharp cry of alarm at the crush.

Everywhere inside the walls was chaos. Only a narrow path ahead had been kept clear for their procession by Robert’s men, the sight of their blue livery and gold badges reassuring in the gloom.

When they finally reached the wooden drawbridge into the inner court, Robert threw her horse’s reins to a servant and came round to help her dismount. His dark gaze searched her face, then his hands lingered on her waist longer than was necessary as she slipped down from the saddle.

‘I can see you’re tired,’ Robert murmured, his words intended for her ears alone. ‘But I haven’t forgotten our arrangement. Midnight?’

There was an intimacy to his smile that made Elizabeth itch to slap his handsome face as she remembered his whispered conversation with Lettice that afternoon.

How far had it gone, this dalliance with her married cousin?

‘I am not tired,’ Elizabeth snapped. She waited until his arms had dropped away before addressing the surrounding courtiers, her voice coldly formal.

‘However, the hour is late,’ she announced, summoning her ladies with a turn of her head. ‘It is the Lord’s day tomorrow and we rise early for Mass. Bring torches, and show us and our ladies to the royal apartments.’

‘But you will miss the fireworks …’ Robert began, his voice perplexed and not a little irritated. Then he must have caught the unyielding expression on her face. He smiled and swept her an elegant bow instead. ‘I am yours to command, Your Majesty.’

The torches were brought forward, illuminating the darkness of the inner court. To one side, the old keep glowered over them, and to the other, fantastically lit with candles, the large windows of
Robert’s
new building glittered out across the court, inviting them to enter. Lifting her skirts, conscious that the jewel-encrusted gown was overlong and more suited to riding than walking, Elizabeth made her way through the unruly crowd outside the tower.

Strange faces pressed in on her in the torchlight, their cheers too loud, almost forced.

Roses and lilies were thrown from the crowd. She had not taken more than a few steps when a cannon began to fire over the lake, the booming thud making Elizabeth jerk with its first explosion. Then the sky erupted with fireworks, vast streamers of fire high above the water, reds, oranges, yellows, blinding in their magnificence. The crowd cried out around them, and her ladies paused to look up, clapping their hands excitedly.

For a moment Elizabeth was alone, unsure where she was or who was at her elbow. An old panic flared inside her.

‘Hold my hand, Your Majesty,’ Robert murmured in that easy, familiar way he had.

It was almost like the first days of her reign, Robert’s knowledge and experience on hand to bolster her nervous faltering as she groped her way towards monarchy. But she was no longer that young woman ruling over a court of eyes in the shadows, needing her friend’s counsel and companionship at every step.

Chin held high, she ignored his gesture and swept on towards the safety of her apartments, smiling and nodding at the crowd on either side.

‘God bless the
Virgin
Queen!’ someone shouted with mocking emphasis. The crowd laughed, some a little uneasily, others with undisguised scorn.

Elizabeth bit her lip fiercely, but shook her head at Robert’s hasty, furious gesture. The commoners would have their jokes, just as they had joked about her father’s tendency to dispatch his wives when they displeased him, and about her sister’s ‘pregnancies’ that had always come to nothing. Yet the vulgar joke still stung, and she looked at the crowd of people more carefully, searching for open disloyalty, for those who would dare laugh in her face.

‘Majesty.’ Robert’s hand came under her arm as he guided her into an echoing passageway beneath an ornate stone entrance. He was angry, she could hear it in his voice. ‘I am sorry. My men will—’

‘Your men will do nothing. It was
nothing
.’

Waving away his help, she began to ascend the staircase. Robert led the way, feathered cap in hand, his expression unreadable in the flickering light thrown by bracketed torches set into the walls. Once again she remembered entering the Tower of London via the damp, gloomy portal of Traitors’ Gate, and once again she fixed her eyes straight ahead, gripping the jewelled skirt of her gown in one locked fist so that it would not drag against the floor.

The heavy wooden door at the head of the stairs stood open. Servants in blue livery bowed almost double on either side as she entered. Her ladies scampered behind them in a rustle of silk and taffeta, Lettice hidden somewhere among them. The richly furnished rooms of the state apartments, lit by a mass of candles reflected in the glass of each tall window, stretched like a glittering prison in front of her. Elizabeth strode to the window and stripped off her gloves, resting her palms on the smooth curved stone. Behind her, her ladies-in-waiting exclaimed in delight as they explored what would be their home for the next three weeks.

‘I have made some alterations since your last visit to Kenilworth, Your Majesty. Your own rooms are still on this floor, but your ladies will sleep below you in very comfortable apartments.’ Several of her ladies giggled behind her back, and Elizabeth guessed that Robert must be smiling at them in his charming way, those dark eyes shining. ‘If there is anything amiss, or if that which you desire is not to hand, I or any of my household will be glad to serve you.’

‘We thank you, my lord Leicester. Now you and your servants may leave us.’

She did not glance back over her shoulder as Robert bowed and removed himself without another word.

Her knees almost gave way at the sound of the door closing behind him, but she stayed erect, grasping the stone windowsill with her bare hands. It was like some ancient shrine at which she
must
pray for more strength, for greater patience, as the brilliant cascade of fireworks continued to flash over the lake.

I shall not bend. I am a queen. I shall not share him with another woman
.