His Dark Lady (46 page)

Goodluck jerked the dagger back with a grunt. Twist’s sword arm was crushed between them, helpless. His left hand clawed at Goodluck instead, gripping his throat and trying unsuccessfully to throttle him with one hand. For a few seconds they were joined together by a dagger’s length, face to face, both staring the other down.

‘I enjoyed your pretty Lucy,’ Twist told him deliberately, and watched to see Goodluck stiffen. He laughed into Goodluck’s face, his breath a foul stench, and disengaged with a jolting wrench.

Taking himself a few steps back to free his sword arm, Twist jumped up on a fallen trunk and taunted him again. ‘These virgins do like to tease a man with their looks and smiles that mean nothing, so I decided to teach her a lesson. Lucy squealed like a sow beneath me. Did she not tell you? I could see how much she was loving every thrust, though, so I just gave it to her harder.’

Even knowing that the bastard was lying did nothing to alleviate
Goodluck’s
rage. He threw his dagger at Twist, then hurled himself after it. In the careering madness of his charge, he felt a sudden flash of pain as Twist’s sword glanced off his belly, the blade spinning to one side. With a roar, Goodluck knocked the slighter man to the ground and crouched, straddling his body. He began to throttle Twist, not daring to slacken his grip. The contest was about brute strength now. Goodluck knew he had the edge on Twist there.

‘You think I’d let you live after you tried to rape her? Yes, Lucy told me.’ His hold on Twist’s throat tightened, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh, squeezing the life out of the man. ‘You’re a treacherous dog and you deserve to die.’

Twist gasped something, his blue eyes bulging with hatred and fear, and writhed beneath him as he fought for breath. A few seconds later, Goodluck felt a terrible bubbling pain in his forearm, followed by a debilitating weakness that left his right arm useless. As soon as his grip loosened, Twist rolled with him across the leafy floor, knocking him away and staggering to his feet. Gasping and doubled over, Twist clutched a bloodied knife in his hand. It was Goodluck’s own dagger, which he must have groped for during their struggle.

Twist began to advance unsteadily on Goodluck, but stopped at the sound of voices just below them.

‘Time to fly, old friend. Kiss Lucy for me, would you?’ Twist’s voice was hoarse, a vile rasp of sound, his throat dark red and bruised from Goodluck’s hands. He bent to retrieve his sword. ‘Unless I see her first, that is.’

Then Twist was gone, a dark shadow weaving between the trees.

Goodluck struggled bitterly to his knees, arm hanging useless by his side as he waited for the captain and his men to reach him. He cursed himself for a fool and a coward.

Unless I see her first
…

His first impulse was to hunt his old friend down and make sure of his death this time. Twist’s secret allegiance to the Roman faith had been uncovered, his friends scattered and all his hopes of a Catholic England destroyed; Goodluck knew he would be burning for revenge by the time he reached the city. Yet he could not pursue Twist back to London himself. He must make his report to
Walsingham
with all urgency before any more of these traitors slipped away.

Goodluck forced himself to remain calm. Lucy would be well enough hidden in London to escape notice. The net was closing in, and soon even Twist would be in the Tower with his fellow conspirators. It was only a matter of time.

Nineteen

‘THEN THE PLOT
is over?’ Elizabeth demanded thankfully. ‘There is nothing more to fear?’

‘We cannot be sure of that until we have them all in custody, Your Majesty.’

Sir Francis Walsingham was smiling nonetheless, a rare enough sight to make her feel more comfortable. There were dark marks under his eyes, however, as though he had not slept for several nights. Walsingham was a good servant, she thought with a sudden flush of pleasure, putting aside the uncomfortable question of what she would do when he grew too old to serve. They were all getting old these days, her servants from the old days. She and they would age together and fear nothing, God willing.

‘However,’ he continued, ‘we do have the leaders Babington and Ballard in the Tower, and Robert Barnwell is taken, too.’

‘Robert Barnwell? You say that as though I ought to know the name.’

‘He is the villain who tried to attack you at Richmond.’

‘Oh, him. Yes, I remember the man now. So he has been caught at last? About time too. I was beginning to think you had lost your touch.’

Elizabeth was sitting up in bed at Whitehall, propped up on pillows, her hands resting in front of her on the stiff gold-embroidered coverlet. About her shoulders had been hung a silk, burgundy-coloured robe with ermine trim. Her scalp of shorn,
patchy
hair had been hidden beneath an elaborate lace cap – there had been no time to fetch and arrange one of her bedchamber wigs. Beside the heavily curtained tester bed stood Helena and Anne, more simply adorned in plain white nightshifts and caps, and various other of her ladies were now gathering near the door, most still in their nightgowns too.

It was very early morning, the sky a cool blushing pink over her gardens, and at first Elizabeth had feared some terrible calamity must have overtaken the country when Walsingham had knocked at such an hour. A Spanish army has landed on the south coast, she had thought on a wave of panic, wrenching herself from sleep as Walsingham knocked at the outer doors, demanding to see her. Then she had realized the plotters had been taken. Good news, not bad. Some had been seized at the ports, slyly trying to escape England and the Queen’s justice, but some had been arrested in a wood near Uxendon Hall, home to a wealthy family of Catholics whose name would be for ever anathema to her now.

Walsingham’s own agents had been involved, he had told her proudly, and Elizabeth had smiled, not much caring who was responsible, but merely thanking God that she had been spared from another plot against her life.

‘What will happen to Robert Barnwell and these others, and to this Babington boy who dared to dream up this plot against me?’ she demanded, and looked up at Helena. ‘Since I am awake, Helena, I might as well break my fast. See to it, would you? And bring a cup of ale for me, and wine for Sir Francis if he wishes.’

‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ Walsingham said politely, and bowed as Helena went about her business.

‘Well?’ Elizabeth turned to him. ‘How will they be punished for this wickedness?’

‘If found guilty of conspiring against Your Majesty, each man will suffer a traitor’s death. He will be hanged, drawn and quartered before the crowd.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘But these public executioners are too lenient, are they not? They let the men hang until they are dead, or almost dead. And where is the use in that as a deterrent? Drawing and quartering can mean little to a dead man. The crowd see that, and those among them who would rebel against my throne feel no
particular
concern that theirs will be a hideous death if they too follow Mary.’

‘I fear Mary’s followers think of nothing but her release and enthronement. I have questioned many of these Catholic conspirators over the years, and their thoughts do not dwell on their punishment, but rather on the rewards if they should succeed.’ Walsingham looked on wearily as Helena served Elizabeth a cup of ale, then placed a trencher of cold meats and sugared rolls on the table beside her bed. ‘They are besotted with your cousin. Like lovers, they burn to see Mary in your place and to worship her there.’

‘Let them burn in truth, then. Set up stakes in the marketplaces and let them be consumed by flames.’ Elizabeth sipped at the ale and recoiled. ‘What is this vile tasteless pap, Helena? Ale brewed from acorns? I don’t care if it was a gift. Take it away at once and fetch me something more piquant.’

‘Burn the traitors, Your Majesty?’ Walsingham appeared horrified. ‘It is not within the law to do so.’

‘These Mary-worshippers are Catholics, are they not? Burn them then, and have done with it. I will not have these villains hanged by the neck until they are dead, and so miss the punishment of their drawing and quartering. Where there is such villainy, there can be no mercy.’

‘Of course,’ Walsingham murmured, and bowed. ‘But I feel it unlikely that the courts will order these men to be burned. There is no precedent for it. Not in cases of treason.’

‘Very well. Then they must hang only for a moment, to stretch their necks, then be cut down alive to face the executioner’s knife.’

‘Your Majesty, the crowd may take it in poor part if the traitors’ deaths are too violent, too openly vengeful.’ Walsingham hesitated, as though sensing her irritable mood and not wishing to provoke her into anger. ‘I understand why you should demand a bloody death for each of these men. Indeed, they would not have spared your own life if their plot had succeeded. But you are a queen, and as such you should at least consider clemency in victory. Some of these conspirators are young, and others are of gentle birth. It can be too much to see and smell a man’s innards pulled out on the scaffold while he is still alive and begging Your Majesty’s forgiveness.’

Elizabeth shook her head stubbornly, picking at her meat without much of an appetite. ‘No, I will have them cut down alive. It is within the law to demand this, is it not?’

‘Indeed it is, Your Majesty.’

‘Then pass on my order to the executioners. There is to be no merciful hanging to the death for these men. I will have a powerful example made of them, so that the people will see the agony of such a death and fear to rebel themselves.’ She glared at him when he still did not move to obey her. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

Walsingham was looking troubled, but he bent his head nonetheless. ‘Perfectly clear, Your Majesty. There is to be no mercy shown.’

Now that the matter of the traitors’ deaths was settled, Elizabeth felt too restless to lie in bed any longer. She signalled to Anne to bring her slippers to the bedside. The day was growing brighter now and the bloom-rich summer gardens were calling her.

‘We are done here, then. I thank you for your diligence in this matter, Sir Francis. Your efforts to protect my throne will not go unrewarded. But look at this rosy-fingered dawn. Quite Homeric in its beauty, do you not think? I shall venture out into the gardens today, now there is no longer any danger, and see how my new rose beds go.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Walsingham as Anne folded back the heavy gold bedclothes and Helena bent to help her out of bed. ‘I am safe to go out again, you said?’

Walsingham’s smile was thin and his dark gaze did not meet hers. Her spymaster was angry with her for not following his advice, Elizabeth realized. Well, she was queen here, and Walsingham was her servant. Her father would not have stood for such interference, and nor should she. She was no longer an inexperienced young woman who needed advice at every turn. It was for her to give the orders in England now, and for Walsingham – and the rest of her Privy Council – to follow them without question.

‘You will never be entirely safe until your cousin Mary is dead,’ Walsingham told her, then bowed when he saw her stiffen angrily at the mention of that name. ‘But yes, Your Majesty, if you take your guards with you, I do not see the harm in returning to your customary habits. It will show the people you are not afraid, and that can do nothing but good.’

Twenty

Seething Lane, London, August 1586

LUCY SHOOK HER
head. ‘I will not marry a stranger.’

‘My love, my sweet, you must,’ Will said, clasping her hand. His dark eyes entreated her. It hurt to be so close to him and know they would never be married. ‘Besides, Jack Parker is no stranger. You have met him in my company, you know him.’

‘I will not marry him,’ she said stubbornly.

‘You have been given a chance to return to court after the baby is born next year. But if the Queen discovers you gave birth to a child out of wedlock, there will be no return. You know how strictly Her Majesty governs the women at court. Sir Francis has said he will protect you from the Queen, and I believe him. He is an honourable man. But to prevent scandal, we have all agreed that you must be married – and today.’