His Dark Lady (21 page)

Exasperated, Elizabeth threw down Mary’s infuriating letter of complaint and consoled herself with a sugared almond instead. Yet even that was a mistake. Her skin prickled at the taste as she remembered Robert feeding her sugared almonds once, in the intimacy of her bedchamber.

‘Has Robert returned from Wanstead yet? I have written to him twice, demanding his immediate return, and still he does not come.’ Angrily, she pushed the dish of nuts aside and stood up. ‘Am I no longer Queen? Am I some dairymaid to have my orders flouted? To be mocked by men who would rather visit their wives than travel with my court in progress?’

Walsingham excused himself with some muttered comment she did not catch, and Cecil, Lord Burghley, was left to placate her. ‘Your Majesty, I believe his lordship returned to court last night.’

Her heart jolted at the news that Robert was here at the palace of Nonsuch. Elizabeth drew breath to steady herself, willing her blood to remain cool. If she wished to be treated as a queen, she must act like one.

She walked to the windows of the Privy Chamber and looked down at the green lawns of Nonsuch. Peacocks strode to and fro across the grass like miniature blue emperors. One bird screeched in the sunshine. Seconds later another answered its call. Wild and imperious creatures, she thought, and gazed past them at the soft red climbing roses entwined with holly bushes and privet along the edges of the lawns, the rows of strawberry beds with their luscious fruit, then the elegantly arched gateway into the formal gardens beyond.

Why had he not come to visit her yet? The question snagged like a thorn, would not let go.

‘I wish to see Robert at once,’ she said with control, though she knew there was little point hiding her feelings from Cecil. Her most trusted councillor had known her too long to be deceived. ‘Send for him.’

Cecil bowed and withdrew without comment.

She did not have to wait long, though by the time Robert came cap in hand to her door, Elizabeth was seated in the high-backed chair that stood below the heavily ornate mantel, her hands folded sedately in her lap. Above her head the Tudor rose design sprawled across the ceiling in testimony to her family’s power and magnificence. If she liked anything about Nonsuch Palace it had to be its extravagance, the knowledge that it had been built in great style by her father, not sparing his purse but spending lavishly, the sheer expense of the place intimidating to those who walked there.

Head bent, Robert sank to one knee before her. ‘Your Majesty.’

His hair might be silvered, but he still looked much younger than she did, Elizabeth realized with a sudden touch of irritation.

‘You ignored my letters,’ she said petulantly.

‘I came as soon as I could, Your Majesty. I apologize for having kept you waiting.’ He hesitated, then added unwillingly, ‘My son was unwell.’

‘I see.’

His son by
her
!

She asked stiffly, ‘Your son is recovered, I trust?’

‘Not quite,’ he admitted, and did not meet her gaze. ‘But I am told his health has much improved, Your Majesty.’

He had left his home at Wanstead before his beloved child was fully recovered, she realized with a shock. Her hands could no longer lie idle in her lap, but gripped the arms of her chair in a sudden burst of triumph. He had ignored both his wife’s command and his son’s illness, and returned to court in deference to her will. Pleasure throbbed through her, and she smiled down at him, magnanimous in victory.

‘I hope your son regains his strength soon,’ she told him kindly. ‘If he falls ill again, you must seek advice from one of my own royal physicians, here at court. There are none better in the land.’

‘I thank you, Your Majesty.’ Robert smiled and bowed his head, but she sensed that he was still concerned over his son’s health. She had never been a mother, so could not be sure how it must feel to fear for a child’s life. Yet she had often fretted when Robert was away from her side, and so could understand how sharp the sting must be when one’s own flesh and blood was in danger.

He stood at her gesture and seemed to set the matter aside, his voice brisk. ‘Cecil tells me there has been another letter received from our Scottish prisoner.’

Wearily, she indicated Mary’s letter on the table. ‘My cousin is fast becoming the bane of my life.’

Robert read the wretched letter in silence, then laid it aside. He thought for a moment, fretting his lower lip between his teeth. ‘All these letters and complaints mean nothing when we cannot be sure what is truth and what is the imagination of a desperate woman. Forgive me for speaking plainly, Your Majesty, but it seems to me that someone more trustworthy than her jailor must review Her Highness’s circumstances in person, and make a full report to the Council.’

‘I heartily agree.’

‘Do you wish me to go up there and speak with her myself, Your Majesty?’ Robert asked directly, and looked at her.

Elizabeth froze, staring back at him. Again, her knuckles gripped the carved arms of her chair until the skin whitened.

Was he truly aware of what he was suggesting? That the most powerful man in her kingdom should leave court and meet with her greatest enemy?

‘Go yourself?’ she repeated slowly, and for a space pretended to give the idea serious thought. ‘Mary is our royal guest, detained at my pleasure and for her own security. These tales of sickness and squalor do not sit well with her position. Certainly someone should go and view her conditions on the crown’s behalf. A man of rank whom my cousin will respect and confide in. But I am not sure that I can spare you for the task, Robert.’

Her heart struggled like an animal in a trap. All her instincts screamed at her not to allow him within a foot of her beautiful cousin, who by all accounts had captivated almost every man she had ever spoken with. Not only did Robert belong solely to
her
, to Elizabeth Tudor and not that Scots pretender, but if Mary Stuart were ever to ally herself with the Earl of Leicester, already too frighteningly close to Elizabeth in power, England itself might be at risk.

Robert’s thin smile cut her, and she stared. He had known before offering what her response would be. He had been playing with her, mocking her weakness. How dared he?

He did not argue but bowed his head. ‘As you wish, Your Majesty. Should I appoint someone else to go in my stead?’

‘No, you must remain at court in case I need you. I shall instruct Cecil to make the arrangements,’ Elizabeth insisted, and experienced a small jolt of satisfaction at seeing his brows contract. Always she had been able to play him off against Cecil. The fear that she trusted the older statesman more than Robert was a stick Elizabeth liked to poke him with whenever he angered or frustrated her. Like an irascible old bear, Robert might growl and show his claws from time to time. But underneath that show of rage he was impotent. She was his queen, and there was nothing he could do to prevent her from tormenting him.

Except marry and get with child another woman behind your back
, her mind jeered at her.

Silly old fool, she told herself fiercely. This man does not love you. You may be the Queen, but he loves the she-wolf who lies with him at Wanstead, and who has given him a son and heir to raise.

He came to kneel at her side. ‘What next, though?’ he asked softly, and carried her hand to his lips, no longer one of her sombre Privy Councillors, but plain Robert again, her horseman, her dark-eyed gypsy. ‘Her constant complaints about jailors and ailments are a distraction from her true activities, nothing more. What will you do if Mary will not drop these plots against your throne?’

‘She is alone. She cannot succeed in her treason.’

‘Mary has a following of stout-hearted traitors, do not believe otherwise. I have seen Catholics tortured who have refused to give up her secret plans. I have spoken to men who have sworn with their dying breath to honour Mary Stuart above you, their rightful queen, so the Roman faith might come again to England.’

Elizabeth looked down into his face. ‘You think me wrong to keep her alive?’

‘I think you are merciful beyond your cousin’s deserving.’

‘If one day it proves to be God’s will and in England’s interests that my royal cousin Mary should die, then I hope to act with the fortitude of a prince in ordering her execution. Until that day, I shall continue not to act.’ She thought his expression betrayed impatience and frustration. ‘I would remind you, Robert, that it is also princely to be merciful.’

‘Then may you live not to regret your mercy,’ Robert murmured, and she smiled at the warning in his voice.

‘Don’t fret, Robert. I am safe enough from Mary’s childish plots.’ Elizabeth played her fingers along his jaw and cheek, delighting in his presence back at her side. ‘It is good to see you at court again, though I have still not forgiven you for refusing to come back as soon as I commanded it.’ She looked down at him through her lashes. ‘Fetch wine. And the chessboard. Now we are alone together, let us play a game.’

Eighteen

LUCY WALKED A
few steps behind Her Majesty, holding her book and ostrich-feather fan. Two of the Queen’s white dogs ran past, knocking Lucy aside as they bit and snarled at each other. A young page came dashing after the dogs with an upraised birch switch, lashing out at their thin flanks as he scolded them. Queen Elizabeth laughed at their antics and turned to Lord Leicester, who was walking beside her, his head bowed in thought. ‘You see that? No manners at all. Those curs are like my English nobles. They need a whipping to teach them obedience.’

Leicester was staring at the dogs, seemingly distracted. ‘Which nobles are those, Your Majesty?’

‘I leave the names to my sombre Walsingham. He is an expert in these dark matters. Though sometimes he shows me letters, signed by names that pain me. Names of great men whom I have trusted, that now turn their gaze and their allegiance to my cousin Mary.’ The Queen grimaced, her back very stiff. ‘What is the world coming to, Robert? My authority flouted, my nobles in secret dispute over the throne. And now we hear that Prince William of Orange has been murdered. Is royal blood no longer sacrosanct in Europe?’

Leicester did not answer, his head still bowed.

‘What, do you find my company so tedious?’ Queen Elizabeth snapped her fingers furiously. ‘No, pray keep your head low, I shall find it easier to strike off!’

Leicester looked up then, and stared at the Queen as though he
had
indeed just woken from sleep. ‘I beg pardon, Your Majesty. I was thinking of …’

He glanced over his shoulder at Lucy. With compassion, she saw that Leicester’s eyes were bloodshot, as though he had not slept well. Lucy knew at once that he was still concerned for his son’s health, which, by all accounts, was not much improved since Leicester’s hasty return to court.

‘I crave Your Majesty’s forgiveness for my poor wits. Pray do not disturb yourself over this recent murder of the Prince of Orange. Such a heinous act cannot happen here. Your subjects love and honour you as their rightful queen. There is not a man in England who would not die to protect you.’

‘So you say,’ Queen Elizabeth murmured drily, yet seemed mollified.

‘Your dogs do not obey you,’ he continued more smoothly. ‘If you will permit me to take their training in hand myself, Your Majesty, they will soon be walking behind you as pretty and docile as Mistress Morgan.’

The Queen turned to look at Lucy in an unfriendly way. She glanced at her other ladies, walking some distance behind, then sniffed loudly, her lips pursed. ‘Lucy,’ she remarked coldly, ‘I had forgotten you were still there. You walk so quietly … like one of Walsingham’s
spies
. Tell me, have you learned the steps to that new Italian dance yet?’

Lucy hesitated. ‘Not yet, Your Majesty.’

‘Then you must do so at once. Give those things to one of the other ladies to carry, for it seems none of
them
have anything to do but look pale and bored today, either.’

Lucy stood bewildered, unsure what she had done to displease the Queen. She glanced at Lord Leicester and then wished she hadn’t, for he winked at her behind the Queen’s back, and might have made her grin if she had not been quite so apprehensive.

Queen Elizabeth glared at her furiously, her small dark eyes narrowed against the sun. ‘Back to the palace with you, Lucy Morgan, and without delay. I do not spend a fortune each year to keep you at court so you can look “pretty and docile”. I wish the Italian ambassador to see you dance after dinner tomorrow. I have promised that he will be amazed at your skills. Go now and make sure of it.’

Lucy curtsied low and hurried away.

She had not gone more than ten paces through the gardens towards the palace when she stopped, hearing her name being whispered hoarsely from behind a hedge.

‘Mistress Morgan!’

A young boy in ragged clothes was peering at her round the hedge with eyes as bright as a magpie’s.

She glanced over her shoulder, but the Queen and her entourage had already moved on into the formal gardens. There was nobody else about.

Lucy looked at the ragged boy. He was holding out a folded piece of paper. Her heart began to beat hard. Was it a message from Master Goodluck at last?