Her Last Assassin (26 page)

She remembered how Lord Essex had looked at her coldly before bidding her goodnight. ‘He does not hold me in much regard, I think.’

‘That his lordship does not,’ Goodluck agreed wryly. ‘But at least my lord Essex understood tonight why you – and my coded message – had to be rescued from young Southampton. My exposure could risk the Queen’s life.’

So that was why he had come to court, working in the Queen’s household like a common servant. He had not told her as much at their meeting, merely shaking his head at her questions with his customary air of mystery. But she had known him all her life, and ought to have realized. Why else would Goodluck have trimmed his famous beard so neatly, except in some vain attempt to disguise himself?

‘There is another plot against Her Majesty’s life?’

Goodluck nodded, then took her hands. He frowned, rubbing them between his. ‘In God’s name, you are so cold. Where are your gloves?’

‘I’m not sure. I must have left them in … in that room with Southampton.’

‘Then let me warm them for you.’ He brought her fingers up to his chest, pushing them beneath the liveried jacket to keep warm. She could hear the beat of his heart, deep and steady.

She raised her eyes shyly to his. ‘Thank you, Goodluck.’

‘Do not thank me, for this is my fault. I should never have sent that message and risked your safety like this. In God’s name though, how I itched to kill that arrogant young fool for daring to speak to you with so little courtesy, to lay his violent hands on you.’ His eyes darkened with fury. ‘And these are the noblemen who run our country. Braggarts and fools.’

‘Forget him, Goodluck. There is no harm done. Southampton is a fool, yes, and a braggart. But he did not lay his hands on me.’

Not this time, she thought fiercely, remembering how the young earl had struck her across the face at their first meeting.

As though reading her mind, Goodluck stroked her face with the back of his hand where the earl’s blow had caught her.

‘You are my dearest love,’ he muttered, watching her, ‘and the only woman I truly care about. I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you.’

His hand was so warm against her cheek. She felt the shock of that touch run through her, her lips suddenly tingling as she gazed up at him. Goodluck was one of the few men she knew who was taller than her. She had never thought of it before, but if she were to stand on her toes, their mouths would be almost on the same level.

In her mind’s eye, Lucy saw herself placing her hands on his shoulders and her mouth on his, and kissing him.

Desire coiled in her belly, sharp and pleasurable at the same time, an unfamiliar ache that was quite unlike her feelings for Will. Suddenly she could not breathe, but stood staring at him through the darkness, lips parted, eyes wide.

Kiss Goodluck?

She had never thought of her guardian in such terms before, and now could not quite believe her own naivety. For as she examined her turbulent feelings, it became clear that she loved Goodluck, not in filial affection for her guardian as she had thought all these years, but as a woman loves a man.

‘Goodluck,’ she whispered, then took a quick step back, shaking her head, scared to reveal her thoughts.

What if she were to kiss him and Goodluck pushed her away, shocked at her wantonness? She knew he was no cold-blooded celibate but a man who enjoyed a woman’s company. To her knowledge though, Goodluck was not a frequenter of Southwark’s many disreputable houses of Venus. He would certainly be shocked to know what she was thinking.

Her guardian had always treated her as a daughter, even his bear hugs fatherly, deliberately averting his eyes when she so much as showed an ankle.

‘Lucy?’ His voice was husky. ‘What is it?’

‘I …’ She was lost for an answer.

‘Come here.’

To her dismay, Goodluck enfolded her in his arms.

‘Do not be afraid,’ he murmured, frowning at her expression, no doubt surprised by how she trembled. He stroked her back, his hand slow and reassuring, unaware of how his touch inflamed her desire to have him love her.

‘The danger is past. It is not like you to lack courage.’

She studied him, thinking how much younger he looked with his beard trimmed.

He was right. It was not like her to lack courage.

‘I love you,’ she murmured in a sudden moment of daring, and raised herself on tiptoe to press her lips to his.

For a moment, Goodluck stood immobile, cold and stiff under her tentative kiss. She felt sure he would push her away. Then his arms tightened about her and he gave a muffled groan.

‘Lucy,’ he managed hoarsely.

He drew her closer, his mouth moving hard and compulsively against hers. The kiss deepened until she was breathless. Then Goodluck turned her in one swift movement so Lucy had her back to the wall, with him pressing urgently against her.

His hand crept up to her neck, holding her gently while his mouth explored hers. His kisses surprised her but were welcome. She was no innocent virgin, and could feel desire in the body which pushed so hard against her.

Goodluck wanted her too!

Boldly, she let her tongue stroke along his lips, and heard him groan again.

He drew back a little to look into her face. ‘We should not do this. I am your guardian, dearest. It is not right.’

‘You do not want me?’

‘Of course I want you.’ His voice hardened, a flick of self-loathing in his words. ‘But I shall not take you. You are like a daughter to me, Lucy. It is not so many years since I was your guardian. It would be a betrayal of trust to give in to this desire and lie with you.’

She ran a slow hand down his body and felt him respond, his eyes very dark as she stared into them. ‘And if I tell you how much I want you too, Goodluck? Would it still be a betrayal?’

‘It is too dangerous, Lucy. You are one of the Queen’s ladies. You do not know what you are asking.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I have not been the Queen’s chaste maid since I was a child. I have been Shakespeare’s secret lover these past years, as well you know, and been married and widowed in that time too. Oh, I may not be as
experienced
as you in the bedchamber,’ she said deliberately, laughing at the flash in his eyes, ‘but I have learned something of the nature of desire, and I desire you, Goodluck, whatever danger may come from it.’

Goodluck had listened with a strained expression as though he could not quite believe what he was hearing. She wondered if he thought her wanton, inviting herself so freely into his bed. But he did not reject her as she feared and half expected.

Instead, he cupped her face, his palm warm against her cheek. ‘Well, then,’ he told her huskily, ‘I shall attempt not to disappoint you, my dearest. But not here, and not tonight. There are too many who might see us together and report you to the Queen.’

Nonetheless, he kissed her fiercely before releasing her, his lips scorching her mouth and throat. She clung to him, kissing him back, breathing him in, wishing they could be private that night, and every night. That they could lie together like man and wife for the rest of their lives. Her heart stuttered and raced as she imagined them in bed together, incredulous that she had never before realized the depth of her love for this man. Her love and her desire.

Goodluck rested his cheek against hers, breathing hard, and she knew he was fighting for control.

In that instant she could not conceive what she had ever seen in William Shakespeare. For Will was nothing to this man. He was a shadow compared to Goodluck’s warmth, light, solidity, love.

‘I am lodged at the top of the old west tower,’ he murmured in her ear, his arm about her waist. ‘Come to my chamber late on Sunday evening, my love, if you have not changed your mind by then. We shall be private there.’

Two

D
AWN BROKE DARK
and bitter cold to the ringing of bells at Greenwich Palace. Soon the whole place was awake, courtiers being dressed for Mass by firelight in their tapestry-hung chambers, servants running to and fro in the narrow corridors, intent on their tasks. Outside, a wind from the north-east whistled through the icy courtyards and open spaces of the palace, bringing snow with it. Serving men in livery stamped their feet and blew on their cupped hands as they went about their duties, the women wrapped in shawls and thick woollen cloaks, only their red noses and chapped lips visible.

Goodluck heaved the empty barrel on to his shoulder, trudging up the cellar steps and along the towpath to a narrow jetty where two rivermen were loading their skiff.

‘Is that the last?’ one of the rivermen demanded, his leather cap tied under his chin to prevent the wind from whisking it away.

When Goodluck assented, the man threw the barrel aboard as though it weighed nothing. He turned to his raw-faced fellow on the bank, calling, ‘That’s us done, Master Penn. Cast her off!’

The river was partially frozen at that point, and the heavily laden boat, sitting low in the water now, would not budge. To break free of the bank, the two men were forced to smash the ice with long sticks, showering themselves with flecks of slush. The thin ice gave way easily, and so they made their way across to the other bank, white with snow and swathed in early mists, shouting and smashing as they went.

Goodluck watched them for a moment, then returned to the small courtyard that housed the cellar steps and adjoined the kitchen. The icy path was treacherous, pitted with footprints, and he had to take care with his footing.

As he entered the courtyard, it began to snow again.

Goodluck shivered, clapping his gloved hands together for warmth. Despite the heavy snowfall, he was not permitted to wear a cloak over his livery. His boots were stout enough, but afforded little protection against the cold. Yet he had not heard any of those who laboured in the palaces complain about their treatment. Indeed they seemed proud to do it, and often spoke of the Queen with simple reverence, as though she were more saint than woman.

Apart from the rigours of the snow, Goodluck himself had found no hardship in the duties he was expected to perform while posing as a member of the palace staff. It was good work, decently paid, and there was honour in serving the Queen and her household.

One day I shall be too old to work, he reminded himself. Then what?

In his youth, when he had chosen the dubious trade of spy, foolishly welcoming death in the service of his country, he had not thought to last so long. But the honour of an early death had not been his. Now he looked ahead to his later years with some trepidation, for work was thin for an old spy, and those who lived too long found themselves on the streets, begging for alms with the other dregs and drifters. He could work in the theatres, it was true, but when so many had remained closed for months after the riots and the scourge of the plague, it seemed a precarious trade for a man who needed daily bread and shelter to survive.

Now that he had been given a breathing space to reconsider, Goodluck knew he must put Lucy off with some lie when she came to him today. He loved her more than his own life, and once that would have seemed enough to him. For he was nothing. A shadow set to watch other shadows. What could he offer her except old age and poverty?

Goodluck stopped dead, seeing a cloaked figure ahead of him in the snowy courtyard.

He ducked out of sight behind a cart as the man turned, glancing over his shoulder, perhaps to check that he was not observed. He crouched and peered through the iced wheel spokes, then saw the man’s face and drew a sharp breath.

It was Kit Marlowe, whom he had thought abroad.

Goodluck watched as Kit descended the short flight of steps into the palace kitchens, then followed hurriedly after. His heart had begun to thud, his senses suddenly alert.

What would young Kit Marlowe be doing at Greenwich Palace on a frozen Sunday, except visiting a fellow spy and conspirator while most decent folk were in church?

He had always had his doubts about this young man, instinctively distrusting him. Marlowe had lied to him on board ship from the Low Countries, certainly, and then had spoken to someone at one of the treacherous Stanley’s houses on arrival in London. His lordship the Earl of Essex trusted him, but Essex was young too, and nowhere near as canny as Walsingham had been. It was easy for a man to play both sides in this game, but more difficult for any to be sure where his true allegiances lay.

Following Marlowe through the dim-lit maze of corridors, Goodluck kept as close as he dared. He waited impatiently at each corner to avoid being seen, shivering in the bitter wind that whistled through the narrow stone-walled hallways. Perhaps Marlowe’s contact at court would turn out to be the very man they sought, the traitor at the heart of the Queen’s household?

Marlowe stopped before a low door and knocked three times quickly, then twice slowly.

The door was jerked open to reveal Essex himself, the fashionable earl at odds with such dingy surroundings, even clad in sober black and silver for Sunday. He did not appear surprised to see Kit Marlowe, but stood aside with an abrupt gesture, beckoning the young man inside.