His Dark Lady (4 page)

LUCY MORGAN SLIPPED
out of the Cross Keys Inn unnoticed, her hood drawn so far over her face she almost collided with a band of watermen in the street outside. Dressed in leather aprons, the watermen called after her, but Lucy ignored their less-than-polite suggestions. She was more concerned that the expected meeting with her guardian had not gone as planned. Fearing he must be dead, she had been delighted to receive a letter from Master Goodluck recently, still very much alive and suggesting a discreet rendezvous at the Cross Keys Inn that afternoon.

So why had he failed to make their appointment?

Lifting her skirts to sidestep a steaming pile of horse shit, Lucy hurried down the narrow street towards the main thoroughfare. She wished she had taken a litter or brought a manservant with her. But she could not have trusted a companion to keep his mouth shut, and the Queen’s displeasure was a more chilling prospect than a few insolent watermen.

That young player on the stage had stared at her so hard, she had felt quite uncomfortable. He must be a country boy, new to London’s theatres. She knew most of the regular players in the capital, but could not recall ever meeting that particular one before.

Yet there had been something familiar about the young man’s eyes. His face tugged at her memory. Where did she know him from?

She put it aside. It would come back to her. For now she had more pressing matters to consider.

Lucy paused, waiting for a heavily laden cart to trundle past through the mud and stinking debris of the street.

She ought not to fret that Master Goodluck had not met her as arranged, but to rejoice instead that he was still on this earth. He was one of Sir Francis Walsingham’s most experienced spies, and no fool. With all the recent arrests, Lucy was sure he must be up to his neck in Catholic intrigue; perhaps he had been unable to make their meeting. Though she feared that one day he would push his much vaunted ‘good luck’ too far, ending up dead or in prison himself.

‘Lucy!’

The hoarse whisper turned her head, then there was a gloved hand on her arm.

‘Master Goodluck!’

‘Don’t look at me and don’t say a word.’ His deep and familiar voice echoed off the walls of the alley. ‘Down here.’

Glancing about to make sure she was not observed, Lucy raised her skirts out of the filth and followed Goodluck down the narrow alleyway. The ancient wattle walls were crumbling to dust in places, and the lane was so tight a squeeze it was not possible for two to walk abreast. Her nose wrinkled. She could not see what was underfoot, but could guess from the stink of urine.

Once out of view, Goodluck turned to embrace her, kissing her roughly on both cheeks. ‘Lucy.’

‘Goodluck.’

‘I can’t believe it’s been three years. All that time in a stinking Roman prison the memory of your face was what kept me sane. It’s good to see you.’ He smiled, showing his teeth in the darkness. ‘Fine court lady or not, I am glad your skill with coded messages has not deserted you.’

‘I had a good teacher.’

A wry laugh. For all his tales of prison, he was in a fine mood, she thought, and smiled back at him. Goodluck threw back his hood. His keen gaze searched hers. ‘You found the bag?’

Lucy nodded. ‘And brought it as requested,’ she replied, drawing the heavy purse out from where she had hidden it as best she could beneath the folds of her cloak. She handed it to Goodluck. ‘Come, what’s all this about? I’ve never seen so much money in my life. Are you in trouble again?’

‘No more than I’m used to.’ He weighed the purse in his hand, and she saw relief on his face. ‘Thank you, Lucy. I could not have trusted anyone else with this. Most would have cut my throat and taken the money for themselves.’

She fingered the sharp little dagger hanging from her belt. ‘I was tempted.’

‘My throat’s somewhat hard to find these days,’ he told her ruefully, and smoothed down the vast beard that stretched almost to his chest. She could see grey hairs among the dark ones, and noticed the deepening of wrinkles at his eyes. ‘And I’m sorry if you soiled your finery retrieving it.’

‘Only you could choose a chimney breast as a hiding-place for your gold. I ruined my gown,’ she told him, frowning with mock anger. ‘And that is not your only sin. Why didn’t you meet me at the inn today, as arranged?’

‘I’m sorry about that. When I arrived, the entrance to the courtyard was being watched – whether for me or someone else, I couldn’t tell. But it wasn’t worth the risk of being seen, and I hoped to catch you coming out instead.’

Lucy thought back to the pale-faced woman screaming from the gallery, the man slumped in his seat, covered in blood. ‘A man was murdered at the play. I didn’t see what it was about. I left before people started asking questions.’

‘I wonder who it was.’

‘Whoever it was, may God have mercy on his soul.’

‘Indeed. Though I’ll be spared little enough mercy when it’s my turn to meet my Maker, I fear.’

‘Don’t talk like that. You know I hate it,’ she told him disapprovingly. ‘Besides, you’re hardly in your dotage. You’re not even old enough yet to be—’

There was some commotion out on the street, and Goodluck laid a finger on her lips.

Raised voices echoed back along the alleyway. They listened for a moment. But it was only a merchant in the street, arguing with a man and his wife over some unpaid debt.

‘Now listen,’ Goodluck said urgently, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. ‘I had intended to meet Master Twist at the Curtain playhouse tonight and give him this gold. But I’ve been unable to get
anywhere
near the place. My face is too well-known, and I can’t risk alerting anyone to my return yet. There are agents on every corner between here and Bishopsgate.’

‘Walsingham’s men?’

Goodluck shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing to fear from that quarter. No, these are Catholic agents who would pay well for news of my presence in London.’ With a grin, he indicated his bruised face. ‘I had a recent disagreement with a drunken Spaniard. It’s a long story, but at least he will not be carrying any more tales to his masters.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Goodluck!’

‘Some of his Catholic friends saw me arrested for his murder shortly afterwards. So they won’t take kindly to my wandering the streets of London as a free man while Signor Fernandez is stiffening in his shroud.’

‘When was this “disagreement”?’

‘Four days ago on Bankside.’ Goodluck rubbed his bruised face, grimacing at the pain. ‘We needed to search his lodgings, and Fernandez came back unexpectedly. Took out one of my men on the door below. I hadn’t intended to kill him, but the fool drew his sword and insisted on making it a fight. I called on Walsingham’s help after I was thrown in the Clink, and he arranged for my release. But for all our Catholic friends know, I’m still locked up there and awaiting trial for murder.’

‘You want me to give the gold to Master Twist?’

He nodded, and handed her a roll of parchment. ‘Along with this letter.’

‘Will it be dangerous?’

‘I’d not send you if it was dangerous. It’s only me they’re looking for, and I’d trust John Twist with my life.’ Master Goodluck shook his head at her expression. ‘Come, would I risk my own ward’s life? You’ve known John since you were a small child. The man used to bounce you on his knee, for pity’s sake. You are as safe with Twist as you are with me.’

Lucy raised her brows, smiling faintly. ‘Is that supposed to comfort me?’

‘Rascal!’ Goodluck laughed, and pinched her chin. ‘It’s a sad truth, and not something I am proud of, but I often think I taught
you
too well. You trust no one, Lucy. Not even those whom you must trust.’

She thought of the endless intrigues at court, the plots within plots, the secret affairs and political wrangling.

‘There is no other way to live at court. Once, the intrigues hardly touched me. Now I am too close to Her Majesty. Everyone thinks I have her ear.’

‘Don’t you?’

She shook her head. ‘The Queen has grown cold towards me. Some days I fear …’

‘That the Queen will cast you off?’

Lucy hesitated. ‘That she looks for an excuse to do so, perhaps.’

‘Then we must not give her any reason to doubt you.’ He drew down his hood again. ‘Back to Whitehall with you before your absence from the Queen’s side is noted, and be sure not to be seen when you visit Twist.’ Goodluck paused. ‘Whatever you do, Lucy, keep that letter safe. You are in some danger while you carry it.’

She stared at him. ‘You said it was not dangerous.’

‘Just keep the letter close until you hand it over to John Twist. You will not be searched, for you will never be suspected of carrying anything.’

Goodluck’s face was unreadable in the shadow of his hood, but she heard an odd note in his voice.

‘Besides,’ he added drily, ‘if you find yourself in difficulties, you have only to mention Walsingham’s name and you will be restored safely to court.’

‘Only by the Queen’s men.’

‘So try not to get tangled up with any of those tricky Catholics. You promise to be careful?’

‘I promise.’

‘Good girl.’ Master Goodluck kissed her on the cheek, his face suddenly distant. It was like being five years old again, dismissed after one of his fleeting visits with a pat on the head and a new peg doll. ‘Now we must go our separate ways. I will contact you again once you have seen Twist.’

Then Goodluck was gone, squeezing out of the alleyway into the crowded street beyond.

Lucy stood a moment, feeling the weight of the bag in her hand.
Then
she hooked it on to her belt beside her little dagger, folded the letter for John Twist twice over until it would fit in her leather pocket, and wrapped her cloak carefully across both.

She shied away from the idea of meeting Master Twist. It felt like a step back into the cruel and dangerous world she had left behind at Kenilworth eight years before.

But Goodluck would never have asked her to run this errand for him if it was not of vital importance. She remembered John Twist’s dry wit and ready smile, the narrow pointed beard that he loved to keep oiled, the way his blue eyes had always watched her with love and concern, and comforted herself with the thought that she had known him since she was a child. What danger could there be in seeing an old friend again?

Three

THE KNOCK AT
his door was so soft that Will almost missed it. He had been writing furiously all evening, hoping to get the fifth act of
The Troublesome Reign of King John
copied out in his best hand before the candle stub flickered out and left him with nothing but firelight to work by. He raised his head and frowned at the closed door as the knock came again. This interruption could cost him dear. If the good copy was not finished by morning, Burbage would not pay him, and he could lose his lodging.

‘Yes?’ he demanded, flinging open the door.

A tall man in his late twenties stood outside on the London street, hooded and cloaked, his travelling boots stained with mud.

‘Now what kind of welcome is that?’ the man asked. ‘For a weary Warwickshire lad, far from home?’

Will stared, amazed. ‘Cousin Richard?’

‘Hush, man, not so loud. Do you want all the city’s eyes on us?’ Richard Arden peered into Will’s room. ‘Are you alone in there? May I come in a while, maybe take a drink with you? I’ve only just arrived in town. Not even had a chance to wet my whistle yet.’

‘Of course.’

While his cousin prowled about, his lean face watchful, even suspicious, Will hurriedly locked the door and pulled the ragged curtain across that kept out the worst of the draughts.

‘It’s only a poor room, as you see,’ Will commented, feeling the need to apologize for his lack of housekeeping skills. He indicated
the
good chair to Richard Arden, acutely aware how poor his home must seem compared with the comfortable and spacious houses of his wealthier relations. ‘But it’s all I can afford on my wages from the playhouse. I send most of my money home to Anne.’

‘Aye,’ Richard agreed with a sigh, removing his damp cloak and hanging it before the charcoal brazier. ‘You always were a good lad, Will. But your wife misses you sorely.’

‘You’ve seen Anne? Spoken with her?’

‘Five days ago, just before I left Warwickshire. No, don’t look like that. Your wife was in good health when I left, both her and the child.’

‘Thank God,’ Will muttered. He poured a generous drink of ale for them both, handing the cup to his cousin with hands that were not quite steady. ‘When I saw you on the doorstep, I thought …’

Richard Arden sat down. ‘I’m sorry if I alarmed you. But Anne is well enough, and your baby daughter thrives.’

‘Then why have you come to London?’ Will realized too late how rude that must have sounded, and corrected himself, his smile dry. ‘Forgive me, but I recall you saying only thieves and whoremasters would soil themselves in the filth of this city.’

‘Did I say that?’ Richard snorted, then took a long draught of ale. ‘Aye, well, times change. And we must change with them.’

‘So what can I do for you, cousin?’