His Dark Lady (40 page)

‘Don’t say his name,’ she hissed.

‘I’d rather hear you say mine.’ He scratched what sounded like the point of a dagger down the door. ‘Think about it, Lucy. This can be a rape or you can give yourself freely. But your door will open next time I come calling, and on that you have my word.’

His footsteps retreated along the street. The wax-dipped spill burned to the end and went out, smoking gently. Lucy stared long into the darkness, listening for John Twist to come back. But he didn’t. Nonetheless, she sat with her back against the door for the rest of the night, barefoot and wearing nothing but her nightshift, dagger cradled in her lap. When the first light of dawn began to creep between cracks in the door, she shifted uncomfortably, realizing that she had fallen asleep.

She crawled to her feet, stiff and aching, and was on her way back up the stairs when there was another knock at the door.

Lucy stared at it. What now? she thought wearily. The knock came again, quiet and discreet. It did not sound like Jack Twist’s hand behind it. Nor, though, did it sound like Will Shakespeare’s light, confident rap.

She crept into the kitchen and listened, standing a few inches away from the door. Nothing. The knock was repeated, this time a little louder.

‘Who is it? What do you want?’ she demanded, feet set apart. Better to sound shrill than uncertain.

Perhaps Twist had paid one of his cronies to trick her into opening the door. Well, she had been a fool last night, but she would not be one again.

‘I bring a message from a Master Goodluck,’ a man whispered through the door. He sounded nervous. ‘It is a private message. For a Lucy Morgan.’

Lucy put her eye to one of the cracks in the door. It was a tall, pale-looking man she did not recognize, his cheek scarred and his cap pulled down, broad shoulders swathed in a dark cloak as though he did not wish to be seen on the street.

Who was this now? And bearing another message from her dead guardian? She shivered, cold and exhausted, more ready for her bed than to fend off another attacker. Yet surely if this was one of Twist’s men, he would have come up with a different approach. That line about Goodluck had served well enough in the night, but in the chill light of dawn …

Over the stranger’s shoulder she caught glimpses of early risers on their way to the market or down to the river, some with covered baskets over their arms, others pulling handcarts laden with goods to sell. The sun was rising and the city of London, always busiest in the mornings, was beginning to stir itself.

‘I’m Lucy Morgan.’ She tightened her grip on the dagger. ‘Did John Twist tell you to come here?’

‘I don’t know a John Twist.’

‘What is your message, then?’

‘I told you, it’s a private message. I don’t wish to give it on the street for anyone to hear. Will you open the door?’

‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘Speak now, or go away.’

The man stood silent for a moment, as though undecided. Then
he
shuffled closer to the door, so she could no longer see his face.

‘Very well. Master Goodluck wants you to know that … that he is not dead,’ he whispered hoarsely through the crack. ‘Last night he was in the Tower under the care of Master Topcliffe. He says you will know what to do with this information.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I have delivered my message as promised, mistress. I bid you good day,’ he finished, and she heard him turn away.

Lucy stood for a long while in front of the closed door after he had gone, not quite able to believe what she had heard. Her scalp prickled, and her body felt as though it had been struck by lightning, still shuddering from the blow.

Goodluck was still alive and in the Tower?

Could this be another of Master Twist’s tricks? He could be trying to lure her out of the house. Yet it was daylight now. Even such a villain as Twist would hardly dare to snatch her in the street. Slowly she turned from the door, frowning as she puzzled it out. Perhaps if Twist planned to sneak inside when she was safely out of the house and hide himself upstairs …

Fool!

Spinning on her heel, she threw the dagger point-first into the door and watched it quiver.

Twist had lied that terrible day at Nonsuch when he had told her Master Goodluck was dead, and she, like an idiot, had believed him.

Master Goodluck is not dead, she thought. Wonder burst inside her as she realized the truth. He is not dead!

Running upstairs, Lucy lifted her nightshift over her head and dragged a low-cut court gown from the chest at the end of her bed. Shaking out the creases, she dressed herself as quickly as she could and tweaked her bodice until her breasts showed prettily over the top. Then she tidied her wayward hair and pinned it up under a French hood with lace trim. She hesitated over the remaining pieces of her jewellery, before choosing a sapphire pin and a gold chain Lord Leicester had given her, slipping them both into her purse. She did not know what horrors might await her at the Tower, but it would be foolish to arrive there empty-handed.

Much to her relief, Twist was not in the street when she finally ventured outside. She had brought the dagger, but kept it hidden
under
a cloth in the small basket hooked over her arm, walking nonchalantly down the sunlit street as though on her way to buy food. Several of her neighbours turned to stare as she passed in her old court gown, for she had worn only plain gowns and sombre caps since coming to live at Goodluck’s house. She did not look at them but gazed straight ahead, wishing she could have afforded to keep her maidservant when she had left court.

Not that she could have taken her maid on this particular walk, Lucy thought drily. Still, it stung to know how little her neighbours thought of her.

She had intended to walk down to the banks of the Thames and buy herself a passage to the Tower from one of the skippers moored up there. But when she reached the end of the street, she hesitated, looking down at the flash of sunlight on the river, then instinctively turned left instead, heading away from the water and towards Seething Lane. She had heard Goodluck mention that address often enough.

Seething Lane.

The name had always made her shiver as a young girl; it sounded like a pot boiling over on the hearth or a cat with its back arched. But it was where Sir Francis Walsingham lived when not at court, the house where he met and spoke privately with his spies. If any man alive knew why Goodluck was in the Tower, and how to get him out, it would be Sir Francis. Though if Goodluck had somehow betrayed the Queen – a treachery of which she did not believe her guardian to be capable – there would be no saving him from the gallows.

It seemed to be her court gown which persuaded Walsingham’s new secretary to admit Lucy to his study – or perhaps the low bodice, for he was a younger man than the one Lucy remembered from court, and gazed at her curiously when she asked to see Sir Francis Walsingham. The room into which she was shown was plainly furnished but clearly that of a wealthy and sophisticated man. She trod softly about it, admiring his shelf of gilt-edged, calf-bound books, a carved oak chest and a large portrait above the ornate fireplace of Walsingham’s daughter Frances, whose secret marriage to Sir Philip Sidney had angered the Queen for many months. ‘Mistress Morgan?’

She turned from her contemplation of the portrait and sank into a curtsy, seeing Sir Francis Walsingham on the threshold. Sombre in his customary black, a single diamond star pinned to his chest, winking like an eye, Walsingham looked across at her in mild surprise. No doubt he did not often find lone women in his private chambers. Words failed her for a moment. Why had she come to such a great man over what might be nothing more than a cruel trick?

Then Lucy gathered herself. Speak up, she thought sternly. This is no time to stare and gape like a witless fool. Goodluck’s life was at stake. Besides, Walsingham had told her once that he would help her if ever she needed it. Well, now was his chance to prove he had meant it. She had asked little enough of him before now.

‘Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Sir Francis,’ she began, picking her words carefully. ‘A man came to my door today. He brought word that Master Goodluck is not dead, as I had been told, but is in the Tower. I thought you might be able to advise me whether or not …’

She faltered, suddenly fearing he would tell her it was not true and that Goodluck was indeed dead.

Walsingham went to his desk, frowning delicately. He walked more slowly than she remembered. But then he was getting older – as was she. It seemed another age since she had first stood before him in the castle at Kenilworth, a child frightened by the Queen’s great spymaster himself.

‘Master Goodluck? Certainly he is not dead. I apologize that it was necessary for you to believe that. But in the Tower? That is news to me.’ He bent to search through the scattered papers there. ‘It’s good to see you again, Lucy. I have often thought of you since you left court. I trust you have not given up hope of returning to your position. The Queen’s favour is fickle, and it may be that she will miss your voice soon and command you back.’

Be forgiven by the Queen? Lucy said nothing, not wishing to offend such an important man, though she found him difficult to understand. Why had it been necessary for her to think Goodluck was dead? And there was more chance of her sprouting wings than returning to court. The Queen’s dislike of her had been growing for years, and there were many young women at court with strong
voices
and feet light enough to enthrall Queen Elizabeth. The only reason Lucy had lasted so long among her ladies was that visiting ambassadors were often charmed by the novelty of her black skin and hair.

‘Here we are,’ he muttered, extracting a sheet and glancing over it, ‘a list of those to be released in the event of their arrest this week. Master Goodluck. He is clearly named. Yet you say he is in the Tower?’

She nodded. ‘Could this be the work of Master Twist, sir? He is no friend to Master Goodluck these days.’

‘So Goodluck told me.’ Walsingham raised his uncomfortably direct gaze to her face. ‘It could be that his other suspicions were well-founded, and our Master Twist will prove himself no friend to the Queen, either.’ He unclipped the ornate glass lid of his inkwell and dipped his quill. With a few careful strokes, he scratched out a note, stamped it with his seal ring, and handed it to her. ‘This will free Master Goodluck from the Tower. Do you know where he is being kept?’

Lucy curtsied, accepting the note with relief. ‘I believe a Master Topcliffe has care of him.’

Walsingham looked grim. ‘Then God speed you to the Tower, child. I pray your guardian still lives.’

The Tower was only a short walk from Walsingham’s home. Due to the crowds milling about as they waited for an execution, though, it was almost noon before she managed to deliver his note. The day was hot and there was no shade under the grey-white stone walls of the outer defences. Lucy waited a little away from the gate, her gaze on the entrance to the guardroom. She was in a frenzy of impatience but knew better than to draw attention to herself by asking for them to hurry. Being there on her own was dangerous enough. The liveried Tower guards stared down at her on their patrols about the battlements. Two or three jeered openly as they passed, their contempt undisguised.

She ignored them as best she could, tightening her grip on the basket and bending her head to avoid unfriendly looks from passers-by. A poor woman staggered away from the Tower holding out her husband’s bloodstained rags, shrieking, ‘Dead! Dead!’ The noonday
sun
beat down on the entrance yard, its glare bouncing off the high white tower above until Lucy had to cover her face with her hands, suddenly dizzy. Trying not to consider what she would do if Goodluck was already dead, she listened to the gulls screaming overhead, and the shouts from the river traders selling fresh eels and whelks from handcarts outside the Tower gates.

Eventually, the captain came to the gate and beckoned her over. ‘This way, mistress,’ he said, not unkindly, and drew her aside so they could speak more privately. The captain’s neatly trimmed beard was grey, but he had the look of a younger man, not much given to idleness. Lucy took an instant liking to him and curtsied, managing a smile. ‘I’ve given orders for your man to be brought up from the cells. You can be thankful Master Topcliffe was not with him long, for he had many suspected traitors under his charge last night. You may take him away, but you’ll need a cart.’

She stared, not understanding. ‘Sir?’

‘You won’t find him as you left him, so to speak,’ the captain told her, his manner restrained. ‘Did you bring a cart? I can call for one to carry your man home, but it won’t come cheap. Can you pay?’

Lucy showed him the sapphire pin and he stared at it, surprised.

‘It won’t cost that much. Here,’ he said, and handed her two shillings from his own pouch. ‘I’ll not have you pay the cart-man twenty times his hire. You have an honest face. Pay me back when you can.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered.

Lucy did not have to wait long before an old cart-man with a pipe in his mouth pulled up at the gate. He listened to her directions without seeming to hear them, then pocketed his two shillings fare without a word. He was just relighting his pipe when the gate opened to reveal Master Goodluck, barely conscious, being dragged across the threshold by two guards.

Goodluck was barefoot and wore no shirt nor cap, his hose stained so badly it looked as though he had soiled himself. But it was his chest and belly which caught Lucy’s horrified attention first. Scored with shiny red burns, his torso looked as though he had leaned against a brazier. His face too was bruised and battered, his bottom lip split, his forehead and nose scaly with dried blood.

She resisted the urge to shriek his name, remembering the woman
she
had seen sobbing in the yard. Instead, she pointed to the cart and watched in silence as the guards grunted, heaving and pushing him up there with little attempt at gentleness.

His eyes closed as though dead, Goodluck lay sprawled on a pile of rotten old sacking that stank of fish. Lucy bent over him and felt for a pulse. He had not moved, but he was still alive. Just.