Her Last Assassin (41 page)

The man hesitated, still frowning, then nodded.

‘And now you have come to these ungodly shores, the English have arrested you, just as they did me?’

Again, Gomez nodded, but said nothing.

‘Do you see what they have done to me?’ Goodluck indicated his bloodied chest. ‘I was charged by Stanley to bring a secret message from him to a gentleman in England, for the señor knew I spoke a little of his filthy tongue. But I was arrested at Sandwich and charged with conspiring with the Queen’s enemies, and then they tortured me. Nor is my ordeal over. Tomorrow I shall be returned to their man Topcliffe, who will all but squeeze the life out of me with his torturing ways before I am taken to be executed.’

His companion stayed silent, but there was sympathy in his face. Goodluck spoke of more trivial matters after that. The poor food he had been served, more like pig slops than pottage, the cruelty of the English guards, and the stench of human ordure about the place. Eventually Gomez began to relax, even passing a few comments himself.

‘So what is your sin, señor?’ Goodluck asked casually. ‘Or is it merely the taint of foreign blood that makes you a criminal? For I recall from my days in Nieuwpoort that you are not Spanish, but Portuguese. These English would hang a man for not speaking their tongue!’

Gomez muttered, ‘I was to have carried a letter from Flanders to a man here, but I was arrested at the docks. There is nothing else to tell.’

‘May the holy Virgin spare you from their interrogator Topcliffe, then. For I have been tortured and scourged, and if I say nothing upon the rack, Topcliffe says I shall be pressed inside a box loaded with spikes. When the lid of this box is shut upon me, the spikes will pierce my skin all over my body. And if it does not pierce my heart and pop my eyeballs out, I shall be dragged behind a cart to their Tyburn Hill, and there strung aloft. But even then my suffering will not be at an end, for I shall be cut down while still alive, then quartered by the executioner, my heart dragged still beating out of my chest, and my severed head stuck on a pike for all men to jeer at.’

Gomez listened to this horrific description of what lay ahead of him. ‘It was a fearsome chamber,’ he agreed, and there was sweat on his forehead now. ‘That evil man …’

‘Topcliffe,’ Goodluck supplied helpfully. He spat on the floor in a venomous manner. ‘He is the Protestant Queen’s chief interrogator. They say Topcliffe hates us Catholics so much, he takes the greatest pleasure in his work and makes us suffer more than other men. Some even say …’ He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No, I cannot speak of it. It is too horrible.’

‘W-what?’ Gomez stammered. ‘Tell me what this horror is, for the love of God.’

‘They say he inflicts unnatural practices on Catholics,’ he whispered, looking up and meeting Gomez’s horrified gaze with mock shame. ‘Male or female, it makes no odds to him. So far he has not touched me in that way. I swear to you, if he does that tomorrow, I will beg the fiend for death rather than commit a sin against God.’

The man was terrified in earnest now. ‘And you say that if we betray our masters … he will not …’

‘So they claim.’ Goodluck shrugged. ‘But I have nothing more to tell, so my case is hopeless. You should save yourself the worst, though. There is no shame in begging for mercy. But come, let us pray together.’

His companion nodded slowly, and raised a hand to cross himself, trembling. ‘Christ have pity on my soul.’

Goodluck hushed him as a guard passed close by their door, his face suddenly apprehensive. Then he bent his head. ‘Dear Lord in heaven, if I had known I was going to my death when I bore that letter to Senhor Lopez, I swear that—’

‘Senhor Lopez?’ his companion repeated, startled into betraying himself by the mention of this name. ‘But that is the very man … That is to say, I was to bear a message to Lopez too.’

‘Your letter?’

‘No, I was to speak the message to him.’ The spy shook his head, putting a finger to his lips. ‘It was safer that way.’

‘Discharge your message before you die. Speak it to me, and I will take it to my grave. Otherwise you will never rest in peace!’

‘I cannot!’

They were whispering urgently now. Goodluck gripped his shoulder hard. ‘Be a man, Gomez. Do not allow these English to frighten you. Discharge your message before you are tortured, and I swear, your heart will be lighter for it.’

‘The message … The message was from Tinoco.’ Gomez was now sweating profusely. He ran a hand over his forehead, his eyes unfocused. ‘If by any chance you survive this terrible place, and I die, will you deliver this message to Senhor Lopez for me?’

‘Yes.’ Goodluck crossed himself again and spat on the ground between them. ‘I swear it.’

‘I … I was to tell Lopez that it is all arranged. That Tinoco has been ordered by our master to bring fifty thousand crowns secretly into England, to be handed over to Lopez as a reward when the deed is done.’

‘The deed?’

Gomez gave him a significant look. ‘The
deed
. You know.’

Some leap of faith had to be made if he was not to reveal himself. ‘You mean the murder of the Queen?’

The spy nodded, lowering his voice. ‘Lopez has been reluctant to fulfil his mission, as you must know. But now he has accepted the King’s bribe, all shall be well.’

‘A bribe?’

‘A very fine ring, cunningly wrought of gold and diamonds, taken from King Philip’s own finger. What man would refuse such a lavish gift, especially if followed by fifty thousand crowns when the Queen is dead?’

‘Friend, I shall carry your message to the noble Lopez if I survive. But this plan will never succeed. Even if the doctor is willing to be bribed, how are fifty thousand crowns to be brought into the country without the English finding it as soon as Tinoco lands?’

‘Tinoco is to write to the Queen from Brussels, offering her Spanish secrets which he is willing to sell, and thus be granted safe passage into Dover. It is a perfect plan. The English Queen is a fool surrounded by fools. She is always greedy for secrets, and will readily grant Tinoco what he desires. Once he has arrived at court, Lopez will poison the Queen, and when the church bells toll to announce her death, Tinoco will hand over the fifty thousand crowns’ reward as arranged.’

He smiled at Goodluck, unaware that he had just betrayed himself and his fellow plotters. ‘And thus the mighty Queen of England will meet her death, not from a vast Spanish army of invasion but at the hands of a few stout Portuguese.’

‘A work of genius indeed,’ Goodluck murmured appreciatively, then stood and limped to the cell door. He hammered on it with his fist. ‘Open this door, in the name of the Queen!’

Four

‘
M
AGNIFIQUE
!
’
THE
F
RENCH
ambassador exclaimed, clapping his hands as he watched Elizabeth leap into the air for a fifth time, to be caught round the waist by Lord Essex and lowered gently to the floor. ‘Your Majesty, I have never seen La Volta performed with such skill and daring. Your Majesty enjoys the grace and strength of a young girl, I swear it!’

The music came to an end, and Elizabeth finished triumphantly before the ambassador, her forehead damp with a fine sheen of perspiration. Her legs ached cruelly and she was short of breath, but she was determined to show no indication of infirmity in front of her courtiers. Besides, she hated to miss her regular dancing practice. It was one of the few pleasures left to her these days.

‘I thank you, monsieur,’ she told him, and graciously held out her hand so the ambassador could kiss it. ‘This is your first visit to Whitehall, is it not? How do you find the palace?’

‘Like its beautiful owner, Whitehall is
magnifique
, quite
magnifique
!’ The ambassador flashed his oily smile at her again, bowing. ‘If a trifle cold in the evenings.’

‘London is always cold this late in the year, but a little dancing will soon warm you up.’

On the advice of her doctors, she had kept to her bed for the past sennight over some trifling sickness, but had returned to her duties that morning with unusual vigour.

‘There will be more dancing after the banquet tonight, and you will dance the Saltarella with me. That should test your mettle, for I am told we dance it faster here than in France these days.’

He bowed very low. ‘I am all gratitude for your generous attentions, Your Majesty.’

A dry cough behind her made Elizabeth turn.

She gave a little frown at the sight of Robert Cecil in the doorway to her dancing chamber, his narrow face disapproving. She knew Cecil had not wanted her to rise that morning but to remain in bed, cosseted and wrapped up like a sick hound at the fireside. But the chill November sunlight had beckoned to her as soon as the shutters were drawn back, and she had demanded her court gown and ruff instead of her day robe, determined to walk out among her courtiers again.

It was not for her privy councillors to insist that she was too unwell to face the court.

‘Cecil?’ She held out a hand, seeing the rolled-up document he was carrying. ‘More bad news, by the look of your long face?’

Burghley’s sombre son glanced past her at the musicians, maids and ladies gossiping comfortably among themselves under the tall sunlit windows, and the ambassador at her shoulder, his inquisitive face eager for some tittle-tattle to send back to the French court.

‘There is some business that has been left to one side during your sickness and now demands your attention. But it is of a delicate nature.’ Cecil hesitated. ‘If we could converse in private, Your Majesty?’

Elizabeth sighed. Tiresome youth. Always trying to spoil her good humour, and rather too often succeeding. If only he was more like his father, moderate even in his dislikes.

‘You here again, Cecil?’

Robbie had come up behind her while Cecil was talking, and now placed his hand outrageously on her hip. Just as if she were his wife. Or his mistress.

The thought made her light-headed.

‘What, are we finished for the morning already?’ Robbie sounded annoyed.

‘Some business of state I must attend to,’ she told him soothingly. ‘You should take an interest, Robbie. You are a member of the Privy Council now.’

‘I have not forgotten your generosity in that quarter. But there is still La Gavotte to practise, Your Majesty,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘The kissing dance.’

She smiled, then hid her smile behind her fan when Cecil turned his cool gaze in her direction.

‘Shall we retire into the next chamber, Your Majesty?’ he suggested. ‘Or dismiss the dancers?’

‘Let the musicians keep playing. I will return to dance when this business is concluded. You are a cloud darkening my sunny morning, Cecil, but if there is some business that will not wait …’ She clicked her fingers. ‘My lord Essex, you will accompany me. And two of my ladies.’

Cecil bowed as she swept towards the door. But she caught his look of acute dislike thrown at the nobleman following in her wake.

So the two boys still squabbled over her royal favour, did they? The thought both amused and irritated her. As long as they could learn to pull together in time of war, as Leicester and Burghley had finally done, all would be well.

And yet England was at war, and still they fought.

The white-haired Lord Burghley was waiting in the next chamber, leaning on his cane rather than occupying the only chair in the place, his black velvet cap on the table. ‘Your Majesty,’ the elder statesman said as she entered, bowing with difficulty, and she waved him to sit down.

‘Your son has ruined my hour of dancing, Lord Burghley,’ she told him curtly. ‘What do you say to that?’

‘It is a matter of great urgency,’ he replied, surprising her with his stern tone.

What was this? Not more conspiracies?

So it was not simply a matter of signing a document and returning to her dancing practice, she thought, and regretted giving away the only seat. She admitted to a little fatigue, and some stiffness in her legs after those high leaps in La Volta. But she did not consider herself old enough to require such props as a cane or seat. For now, her own two feet would sustain her.

Elizabeth stood, tapping her foot impatiently as the door was closed behind them and her ladies sank to the floor near the fireplace, one taking up a book and reading quietly to the other. Helena, looking more tired than ever these days, and Lady Mary, whose gift for poetry could delight even the dour Cecil on occasion, it was said.

‘Speak,’ she urged Cecil, and held out her hand again for the document he was clasping so tightly. ‘Come, let me have this bad news. I am eager to return to my dancing practice.’

Essex had come to her side. Now he stood with his arms folded, like a man about to be accused of a crime.

‘What is it?’ she demanded.

With a grim expression, Cecil handed over the paper. She unrolled it and glanced down at the contents. A warrant for the arrest and detention of a Portuguese Jew. Her temper rose when she saw the familiar name on the warrant.

Rodriguez Lopez.