The Queen's Secret (10 page)

But Elizabeth had seen the rolled-up papers in his hand.
Walsingham
would not come to her so late at night if it was not a matter of great importance. She sighed, then threw the door wide for him and turned away to her chair, too fatigued to stand any longer. Her eyes stung as though she had been staring too long into the heart of a fire.

‘Say what you’ve come to say, old friend. I’m tired but not yet ready for my bed. As my father would have said, there’ll be time enough for sleep when I’m dead.’

Walsingham’s smile was dry as he closed the door and limped towards her. ‘Your death, Majesty, is the very matter about which I have come.’

Ten

IT WAS THE
unaccustomed sound of birdsong that woke Lucy early, not the bells. Bells she heard constantly in London. Her own modest dwelling stood next to old St Mary’s, and the black-barred gate down to its crypt terrified her whenever she passed it after nightfall. The church itself had a low crumbling tower with a bell which rang out solemn and rich on the hour. On Sundays and holy feast days, it might be heard to peal all morning, from dawn to afternoon, and sometimes even beyond, with the consequence that she could sleep right through the bells when not summoned to court. There were birds in London too, of course, especially in the grand gardens of the palaces. But birdsong this loud and relentless was alien to her.

Lucy groaned and hid her face in the hard, narrow bolster that passed for her pillow. Had every bird in Warwickshire come to perch on her window ledge?

Rising about an hour later, when the sun was higher, she dressed hurriedly and smoothed her hair back with pins, fastening a white pleated hood over it as she had been shown. At home, she would not have bothered with a hood or cap, for being unmarried she was permitted to wear her hair loose unless at church. She had missed the service this morning, but she knew from experience that it would not do to admit that. The court servants and performers were expected to attend Mass at dawn, long before the court itself was awake. For someone like her,
dark-skinned
and ‘heathen’ in her looks, as old Mistress Hibbert loved to point out, the last thing she needed was an accusation of godlessness. So if any should ask why she had not come to church that morning, with her demure white hood in place she could at least pretend to have been there, hidden in the crush at the back.

Lucy emptied her privy bucket out of the narrow window at the back. One of the girls with whom she was sharing the room – long gone, presumably breakfasted and churched by now – had shown her where to empty it, and then told her how to reach the inner court in case she got lost again. The path was easy enough to find by daylight, she had assured Lucy, though she warned her not to attempt it alone after dusk.

She made her way through the smoky, crowded alleyways of the Brays to the tiltyard gate. The guard on duty remembered her from the night before, and as she passed along the dusty tiltyard, skirts raised out of the dirt, Lucy found the place humming with activity. Just as they had done the night before, acrobats practised their tumbles on the rough ground, dogs ran barking between the tents within the outer walls, and she could see her own people returning from the village church.

Worried that she might be seen and her absence at church remarked upon, Lucy made her way hurriedly across the outer court, head down. She was walking so swiftly that she collided with someone and staggered backwards, strong hands catching her before she fell.

‘Pardon, mistress!’

It was Tom, her rescuer from the night before. Lucy looked up into his face, shocked to find him so close. His hands were still supporting her, one arm about her waist. She pulled away at once, righting her gown.

Had the others spotted her?

Tom took up the fallen reins of the white horse he had been leading, settling the animal with a muttered word, stroking his hand down its milky neck.

Lucy’s hood was askew, her face hot. Quickly she turned her back on the entertainers coming from the gatehouse and tidied her hair, trying not to look at him.

‘Thank you.’

‘You never told me your name last night.’

‘Lucy,’ she managed. ‘Lucy Morgan.’

‘Lucy Morgan,’ he repeated slowly and bowed, as though he was a lord and she a lady of the court.

Behind him, the horse stamped impatiently and nudged his shoulder, as though wondering what the hold-up was.

‘I ought to go,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I woke too late for church and missed Mass. The others will be wondering where I am.’

‘I didn’t think they had any Moors at court,’ Tom continued. ‘You must be a novelty with your beautiful black skin and eyes. The Queen keeps you to amuse herself, perhaps. I see you wear their court gowns too, and they suit you.’ His gaze travelled down over her throat and chest, exposed by the low-cut bodice. She did not find the touch of his gaze unpleasant. ‘Do they treat you well, these English lords and ladies?’

Lucy hesitated, unwilling to say anything disloyal about the Queen and her court.

Then the reply died on her lips as a violent roar erupted behind them.

Lucy turned, and saw the bear from last night reared up on its hind legs. Taller than any man there, it clawed at the air with vast hairy paws, its mouth open wide.

Something must have upset the creature – possibly the sound of its owner arguing with the guards on the gate.

The bear-tamer jerked impatiently on the bear’s chain, trying to bring the beast back down to the ground. But the bear lunged forward, taking him by surprise. The man’s grip on the chain must have loosened, for suddenly the animal was free.

Too terrified to scream, Lucy stood rooted to the spot as the huge creature lumbered across the outer court towards her, its heavy chain trailing uselessly behind it.

While the guards stood gaping, the crowd scattered before its path, women and children screaming in fear, men shouting for a pike or a loaded musket as they ran. Even the horses tied up outside the stable whinnied and reared up in terror at the bear’s approach.

‘Get behind me!’

Dropping the horse’s reins, Tom pulled Lucy into the shelter
of
his body and shouted into the face of the oncoming bear.

He planted his legs broadly, arms spread out wide to each side, as though trying to make himself the same size as the bear. Now he stood his ground.

Sure that Tom must be killed or maimed, and herself soon after, Lucy hid her face in her hands and prayed.

She burned with shame that she had not gone to hear Mass that morning, not walked to church with the others as she ought to have done and purified her soul of sin. If she died now, in this unconfessed state, the gates of heaven would be closed to her for ever.

Yet the worst did not happen. Nothing happened.

When the bear’s hideous grunting stopped and silence followed, Lucy peeped out from between her fingers, shaking, barely able to understand that she was still alive.

The black bear had come to a halt only a few feet from Tom and herself. As she watched in disbelief, it sank back on to its haunches. The animal’s mouth yawned wide again and it gave a deep moan.

Within seconds, its long-robed owner came panting up and snatched at the bear’s chain, winding it several times about his wrist before berating the animal loudly in his own tongue, whacking its haunches with his stick until Lucy felt almost sorry for the poor beast. Only once he had finished beating the creature did he pay anyone else any attention. He waved away the men armed with muskets, pikes and hard-twigged besoms who had come running up on all sides, eager to destroy the brute.

‘No, no!’ The bear-tamer stared angrily round at the men surrounding them, his eyes wild. ‘No kill bear. No kill.’

There was some commotion at the arched entrance to the stables behind them. Lucy turned with the others, catching her breath as she saw the Earl of Leicester striding towards them, splendid in his rich red doublet and hose, cloak thrown back over his shoulder.

‘What’s all this?’

The crowd of men fell back at his voice, lowering their weapons. Some threw them down and pulled off their Sunday caps, bowing before their lord. Others muttered beneath their
breath
as they turned away, clearly disappointed to have lost the opportunity to bait and kill the bear. The long-robed foreigner stayed where he was, looking neither at Leicester nor at Tom but keeping his bear still with a stick held across its huge front legs.

‘Tom?’

Tom turned and bowed. ‘My lord, it’s nothing. I’m sorry you were disturbed. This man’s bear got loose.’

‘Was anybody hurt?’

‘No one, my lord.’

Leicester nodded, surprisingly casual with his servant, and his glance flicked to Lucy. His dark eyes narrowed on her face for a moment. ‘Who are you?’

Tom had retrieved the fallen reins of the horse and was comforting the unsettled animal. He did not look up from his task. ‘This is Lucy Morgan, my lord,’ he said, his voice a little muffled.

Leicester looked from one to the other of them, then gave a lazy grin, clapping Tom on the shoulder. She wondered if he remembered winking at her on the road as the Queen’s procession left London. It was unlikely, Lucy told herself, keeping her expression carefully neutral, her eyes lowered. Over a month had passed since that day. Why should a great lord like Leicester remember her?

‘Is that the way the wind blows? Well, like attracts like. As no doubt this bear would prefer to have a mate and not be kept on a chain like a disobedient cur. What say you, man?’

Leicester turned his head to regard the man with the bear, his tone less friendly. ‘Will your animal be kept chained or must we take this matter before the captain of the guards? He’ll know of some place where it can be placed under lock and key. And you with it.’

The bear-tamer’s head was bowed, not looking Leicester in the face. ‘No, lord. She will be good now. You see.’

‘
She
?’

‘
Sì
lord. Female. Females easier to control.’

Leicester threw back his head and laughed freely. ‘By all that’s holy, that has never been my experience. Perhaps a female bear may be more docile than a woman. They could not be more
fierce,
for sure.’ He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. ‘Go, take your naughty bear away and keep her chained up from now on. If the beast is allowed to escape again, she will be served to the Queen and her court at high table. Is that clear?’

‘
Sì
, lord.’

‘Hold a moment there,’ Leicester commanded him as the man made his bow. ‘You are Italian?’

The man smiled. ‘
Sì
, lord.’

‘And you have the necessary papers to be travelling in England?’

The Italian looked confused, then hurt. ‘
Sì, sì
, great lord. My bear, she is famous. Best bear in all Italy!’

‘Very well.’

When the bear-tamer had shuffled away, bowing and dragging his bear after him on her clanking chain, Leicester turned to Lucy again. This time he was smiling, one gloved fist resting lightly on his hip.

‘Now, Lucy Morgan, I recall how sweetly you sang at court this Easter, and how the Queen delighted to hear your voice. Will you sing for her again today?’

Her heart hammered and she stared at him like a fool, unsure at first how to reply. ‘I … I sing with the other ladies. Never alone, my lord.’

‘You sang alone at Easter.’

‘Yes, my lord. But I took Peggy’s part that day.’ She hoped she would not be forced to explain why she was never allowed to sing at the front of the troupe. ‘She was sick of a fever and could not come to court.’

‘And how is Peggy now?’

Her cheeks grew hot. ‘She had to leave court, my lord.’

His smile was wry, understanding. ‘I see. Yet you are still at the back. Such a pretty voice too. You should be heard by the whole court, not buried in the chorus.’

‘But truly, my lord, I am not permitted to sing alone, only with the others. Mistress Hibbert says—’

‘Ah, stiff-necked Mistress Hibbert. Well, that sharp-tongued old crow is not here to spoil our sport. This is my castle and I say you shall sing for Her Majesty. The Queen is forever collecting
curiosities.
And you are a perfect curiosity. You may be just the thing I need.’

Leicester looked her up and down with a shrewd smile. ‘Yes, you must walk to church behind the Queen’s horse this morning. Mass for the Queen begins in an hour, and I want you among her ladies. Here.’ He removed a gold chain from his neck and stepped forward to place it about her own. Lucy bowed her head, feeling the chain weigh heavily about her throat, finer than anything she had ever worn before. ‘Now you look more the part. Be especially attentive to the Queen. Smile when she laughs, stay mum when she frowns, follow her every mood like a mirror. And be sure to sing for her on the way back to the castle. She loves a pretty song thrush.’

Lucy curtseyed, but awkwardly, dazzled by the sun, his splendour and the costly gold chain about her neck.

Leicester came closer, his arm on her elbow, his low voice in her ear. ‘You were very brave, you know, facing down that bear. Brave or foolish. Most girls at court would have screamed and fainted, or run away. You did none of those things. How much of that was stupidity and how much courage?’ He paused, searching her face, his close scrutiny unnerving. ‘Courage is a rare quality in a woman, Lucy Morgan. Can you be that brave at the Queen’s side?’