Her Last Assassin (46 page)

The door was thrown open at last. Master Goodluck stood there on the threshold, cloaked and capped, his beard more silvered than ever, but his eyes bright and intent on her face.

‘Lucy, my love.’ He opened his arms and she stood up, gasping, then stumbled towards him. He caught her before she fell. ‘Your ordeal is over. We are to be married.’

She stared. What had he said to her?

‘
Married?
’

‘Here in the Tower chapel. It is true, I swear on my life.’ He put a hand to the hard swell of her belly, his touch oddly gentle for such a large man. ‘I do not wish to hurry you, my love. But the priest and witnesses are waiting for us below in the chapel of St Peter, and the place is very cold indeed. I will help you down the stairway, you need not fear that you will slip.’

She saw Cathy staring too and wondered vaguely if this was a trick. But why would Goodluck trick her? She could not think. Everything was topsy-turvy.

He put a finger under her chin, raising her bewildered face to his. ‘Look at me, Lucy. We shall be married this very day. Then I am taking you home with me to Oxfordshire.’

‘But Her Majesty—’

‘Calm yourself,’ he told her, and pulled off one of her gloves to kiss her hand. His beard tickled her cold knuckles. ‘It was the Queen herself who signed the papers for your release.’

Inexplicably, Lucy began to cry.

‘Hold me,’ she whispered, and paid no attention to Mistress Hall’s cluck of disapproval when he finally took her in his arms. ‘I am so tired. Please hold me.’

She lay against his chest, limp and exhausted by the months she had spent in that place, mostly alone, mostly in fear for her life, and hardly ever knowing where Goodluck was, whether he was alive or not, whether he still loved her. Now he was there, and she could scarcely believe it.

Two guards entered and spoke to Mistress Hall. Two more people to witness her tears. She buried her face deeper in his chest and listened to his heart.

‘I thought you would not come. That this was the end for me.’

‘Forgive me,’ he said deeply, then hesitated. She knew he could not speak freely before the others. ‘I had things to do. You know my calling.’

‘I know, I did not doubt
you
. I doubted myself.’

‘I believed in you, Lucy. I knew you would be strong. Indeed, it was only that knowledge which allowed me to go about my business.’

He shook his cloak back to hide her from the others, the thick material flecked with wet from the snow, and drew her aside to the tiny alcove space where she slept.

It was not much in the way of privacy, but at least she was shielded from their curious gazes by his broad back.

‘You are frozen!’

She heard the anger in his voice. Goodluck looked about at the ugly bare walls of the cell, the narrow window which let in the draught, then at the modest glow of the fire, almost burned out now.

‘This place is barbaric. No woman in your condition should be kept a prisoner here. Come, I know you are not strong, but you must allow me to help you down the stairs to the chapel, and then on to Oxfordshire as fast as we can.’ He took her bare hand and began to rub it between his own, warming her skin. ‘It is a wonder you are not dead from the cold in this godforsaken place, you and the babe too!’

‘Are you angry with me, Goodluck?’

‘Angry with you?’ It was his turn to stare, uncomprehending. ‘Over what?’

Deliberately, she drew his hand back to her hard belly, and laid it there, pressing down. At that moment, the babe within kicked. She saw his gaze widen in shock, then fly to her face, startled by the presence of another being between them.

‘The child,’ she whispered. ‘Are you angry that I kept it a secret all these months? That I did not tell even you, though you are the father?’

Goodluck closed his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head. When he opened them again, there was a hint of laughter in his face. ‘My dearest love, I know I am the father. There was never any thought in my head otherwise. Though I admit, when I first learned that you were with child, I was angry with you for not telling me as soon as you knew yourself.’

He stroked her swollen belly, and the child kicked again, provoking one of his broad smiles. The room was suddenly warmer. She basked in his presence, his smile. She had never thought to see that smile again, nor be held in his arms like this, nor listen to his deep voice that always struck at the chord of her heart.

‘But then I thought of how you are, Lucy. Of how you have always been. I thought of your pride and stubbornness. And I understood.’

‘You forgive me?’

He kissed her, and she felt a sudden, fierce desire beat beneath her skin with a wildness that was almost uncontainable.

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ he murmured against her mouth, then drew back to gaze at her sombrely. ‘How could there be something to forgive? You were alone here, Lucy, and made your choices as you thought best. I would have done the same in your position.’

‘You are a man. You could never be in my position. But I should have told you. Only I could not trust that you wouldn’t … I thought it might lead to more grief.’

‘Let us have no more grief,’ he said flatly. ‘Surely we have taken our fill of grief. It is time for fate to release us so we can live out our days in peace.’

‘Amen.’

He thought for a moment. He held her hands, his head bent. ‘When I heard you were with child, Lucy, I was overjoyed. All my life I have considered myself unworthy to be a father. Then, when you and I first lay together, I began to think … I dared to hope that we might have a child together.’

‘You wanted a child?’

‘A child from our love. And son or daughter, it will be loved.’

She smiled, drawing strength from his words. ‘Yes, it will be loved.’

‘Come then, now that we have agreed that, and let us be married before God and the witnesses below.’ His smile was weary, but it was self-mocking. He had been released from captivity, but he too had been alone. He had wandered in the darkness and doubted her love. ‘Unless you do not wish to be my wife. You have had ample time to think, up here in your cold tower room. Perhaps you have grown to enjoy solitude. Perhaps I am no longer the man for you.’

‘Don’t,’ she managed, choking. ‘Please don’t.’

Goodluck let his cloak drop away. The glow of the firelight intruded, and the stares of the others, watching. They were no longer alone.

‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘But I had to be sure. Now that I am, are you ready to be married, my love?’

‘My things …’

‘Cathy will pack them for you while we descend to the chapel.’

She glanced at her friend, and Cathy nodded her consent. She was smiling now, but Lucy could see she had been crying.

Cathy too had suffered from the life they led at court. She had been forced to lie and betray, though it was not in her nature to be so cruel. She was not even free to be with her son, James, who was growing up in Norfolk. She had not seen the boy for years.

Lucy put a hand to her belly. She would not be separated from this child, even if it meant her disgrace. Even if it meant her death.

‘Then I am ready.’

Outside, snow had fallen white across the grass and pathways that threaded the confines of the Tower walls. The wind from the river was still blowing sharply, like a knife under her skirts as she raised them, stepping carefully through the snow. Though only late afternoon, it was already darkening to dusk, the November sky heavy with more snow.

Goodluck led her across to the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, where they knelt on the cold flagstones to speak their vows. The chapel was long and narrow, a row of fluted columns supporting the roof. The remnants of daylight poured through high windows. God’s light, falling upon their shoulders. She spoke quietly, affirming her faith, her hand in Goodluck’s. His voice echoed hers. In the shadowy side aisle, she caught an occasional glimpse of priests moving about their business, lighting glimmering banks of candles against the winter’s dark.

They were not alone for their strange wedding. Cathy came to kneel behind her during the final prayers, and kissed her affectionately on the cheek when Lucy rose from her knees, now Mistress Goodluck.

‘I shall miss you,’ she told Lucy, and this time did not bother to conceal her tears.

‘Come and live with us in Oxfordshire,’ Lucy insisted. She knew that loneliness in her friend’s eyes. She had tasted it too often herself, waking in the night to cry alone and silently. There was no remedy for that pain, but love and good company could hold the shadows at bay for a little while at least. ‘No one will force you to stay at court, not any more. Walsingham appointed you and he is long dead. Ask formal leave to depart, then bring James and come to us. Not as a servant, but as my friend and companion. You will be made welcome there.’

They embraced for a long moment outside the chapel, the snow falling around them.

Cathy asked, ‘Are you sure?’ but she was smiling.

‘Goodluck will give you the directions.’ She kissed her oldest friend, then let her go. ‘I will not rest happy until I see you and James in Oxfordshire, Cathy. Do not fail me.’

‘I shall not,’ she promised.

An odd shuffling figure at the back, hiding behind one of the Tower guards during the ceremony itself, turned out to have been Jensen, the barge woman. She pressed a clay pipe into Goodluck’s hand after the service, took off her cap to Lucy, then disappeared into the whitish dark, shambling back towards the river.

Wearily, Lucy accepted the nods and winks of some of the Tower servants and guards. Men who would have taken her to the block if a death warrant had arrived. They had meant her no harm. It was only duty.

The snow continued to fall, gently whitening the cruel grey towers around the walled enclosure. Lucy began to shiver, her teeth chattering. Someone put a cloak about her shoulders. She gripped its folds tightly, wondering if they would even manage the long journey into Oxfordshire, for if there was another day of snow the roads might become unpassable. Mistress Hall had been looking after her gloves while Lucy said her vows, but had vanished.

Summoned at last from her supper, her jailor handed her gloves back with a thin smile.

‘I wish you well, mistress,’ was all she said before sweeping out, stiff-backed and broad-skirted, towards her quarters.

Soon Master Goodluck was the only one she had not spoken to. It was late and she was cold. The sky was almost black, no stars burning yet. Lucy turned to look at him. Her husband.

There was joy in her heart. But such weariness too, she could barely stand now that it was all over. Her body felt heavy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, as though she could have lain down in the snow and slept in its frozen stillness for the rest of eternity.

Goodluck kissed her on the forehead, as if she were a child again. ‘You look tired,’ he said simply, and took her hand. ‘Not long now. One more task, and then I can take you home.’

‘One more task?’

‘The Queen is at Whitehall. She has sent for us, and we must obey her summons before we can leave London.’ He nodded towards the river. ‘Jensen is waiting to take us on her barge. But we must hurry, for the tide will soon be against us.’

As they approached Whitehall by river, with all the long windows of that great palace illuminated by torches, Lucy began to feel less brave. She had told herself it was necessary to face the Queen again, to beg forgiveness for her acts of wantonness, and to thank Elizabeth for releasing them both from the Tower. But now that the moment was at hand, Lucy could almost wish herself back in her cell again.

‘Have courage, my love,’ Goodluck told her. ‘You must have faced worse than this over the years.’

‘True,’ Lucy agreed.

Yet still she shivered in Goodluck’s arms and could not seem to take comfort from his whispered encouragement. The day was like a strange dream that was shifting slowly into nightmare. She had not thought to return to court ever again. Yet here were the jetty and the water steps, the choppy water making her sick, and there was the intimidating expanse of the Palace of Whitehall, unseen pennants flapping on the towers high above the river.

Goodluck helped her ashore first, then stopped to exchange some muttered words with Jensen. Lucy looked ahead, her hard belly aching. She rubbed it absentmindedly.

Liveried servants were waiting for them in the palace gateway, flaming torches keeping the dark at bay.

She had not thought to see Goodluck again either, let alone become his wife. Yet here he was by her side, and she bore his name now. They had spoken their vows before God and their child would be born in wedlock. Born legitimate, wanted by both its father and mother.

Whatever Queen Elizabeth intended to do or say to them, she could not change her mind and take away their marriage. It was done now.

The steward led them through the long torchlit corridors Lucy had trodden once as a lady-in-waiting. It seemed so long ago now, as though another Lucy Morgan had served the Queen, a younger woman she no longer knew, a woman who lived in fear. She saw faces in doorways and through arches, watching them curiously as they passed. Most she recognized. Others were new.

The court was like that, she thought, meeting their eyes in silence. Constantly renewing itself. Throwing up new courtiers to dance attendance on the Queen, still sweet and young, come fresh to the whispering and the intrigues. The old ones were washed away in the dark stretches of the night, dismissed or imprisoned, anywhere their lost reputations would not cause a stench.

The old Lucy had feared everyone. Suspected everyone. But the long silences of her Tower cell had brought her to a new understanding of the court. Now she knew the only person to fear in this place was the Queen. For although Her Majesty had signed her release papers and agreed to her marriage to Goodluck, that did not mean she had finished with Lucy. All it meant was that someone had been persuasive. But who?

She asked Goodluck this question, and he looked at her grimly. ‘Lord Essex.’

Essex had been her champion?

They arrived at an antechamber and an uninterested secretary, intent on his paperwork, instructed them to wait. A servant came to offer red wine. Lucy refused, but Goodluck accepted a cup with thanks. The wine was from the southern regions of France and darkly fragrant. It made Lucy feel queasy, sensitive to such smells in her condition. They stood slightly apart, waiting to be admitted into the Queen’s presence. Someone opened a door elsewhere, and a sharp wind blew through the room, rustling the secretary’s papers and filling out the tapestries which hung about the walls.