His Dark Lady by Victoria Lamb

of her unmarried ladies appeared late to their duties, breathless, their hair untidy or their gowns awry, they would be immediately questioned under suspicion of ungodly behaviour. Lucy shuddered at the thought of undergoing any such rigorous examination herself, especially if she was ever brought before the Queen’s stern spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. She had known Sir Francis since her earliest days in the Queen’s service, and had not yet earned his disapproval. Yet Walsingham still had the power to terrify her with a single look.
    The play had begun. In the gallery, the musicians were playing some soft Italian air. The bearded players strode to and fro, speaking their lines in a stilted fashion and flourishing their swords. A young boy stepped out from behind the wooden screen at the back of the hall, dressed in a long gown, and began to sing.
    ‘Signorina,’ came a discreet whisper beside her. It was Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador. He searched her face as she turned towards him. ‘You do not smile tonight, Signorina Morgan. Does it displease you, the subject of this play?’
    Mendoza. A man to avoid, if the rumours were true. She forced a smile. ‘No, Signor Mendoza. The play does not offend me. I do not even know what it is about.’
    The Spanish ambassador smiled in return, though he must have thought her a simpleton. His dark hair glistened with oil. He took her hand and kissed it in an exaggerated way, his head bent. ‘It is about love, Signorina Morgan. It is a play about lovers.’
    Lucy waited a decent interval before pulling her hand away. Horrid man. But she must hide her distaste for him. That was how the courtly game was played. ‘Then the play cannot offend me, sir. There is no better subject for a play than love.’
    ‘You would not prefer a history, or a biblical tale?’
    ‘Not at court, sir. This is too intimate a space for such epic subjects. But we must be quiet.’ People had turned to stare at their whispered conversation. Her skin crawled. She did not want to be thought his ‘special friend’. Or worse, his accomplice. Lucy laid a finger on her lips and moved a little away from him. ‘The song is finishing and we will spoil the tale by talking.’
    He shrugged and turned to watch the play. Lucy saw Sir Francis Walsingham watching her from the doorway and schooled her expression to reveal nothing. There had been rumours flying about the court in recent weeks that the Spanish ambassador had exceeded his authority and the Queen was not pleased. Little surprise that Mendoza should have turned to her. She too was an outsider, never quite accepted at court. But she had been careful not to smile too long at him, nor too warmly. Even a smile could be misinterpreted as conspiracy when directed at such a man.
    Lucy heard Will’s voice. That soft Warwickshire burr. He had stepped out from behind the screen, swaggering slightly, wrapped in a long fur-trimmed cloak he had gathered up and thrown over his arm, no trick of her imagining, but as real and solid as when she’d touched his hand in the garden.
    It was strange to see Will as a player. She remembered him as a boy, that serious face set above a lanky body and thin legs. He had been as brave as any man twice his age, and intelligent too. Sharp eyes, and a sharper mind behind them. Now there was a neat pointed beard on the once-hairless chin, his chest and shoulders were broadening out, and his boy’s high pitch had deepened. All in all, a man.
    He had not lost his accent, though his voice was less countrified than the one he had used in the garden. Did Will Shakespeare fear to be mocked for his true self, for the green meadows and hills of Warwickshire that lay behind each word? The sound of his voice brought back Tom’s face, his kiss, the way he had touched her one night in Lord Leicester’s stables. If she had lain with Tom then, as he had asked …
    Her eyes were suddenly wet. Lucy lifted a hand to dry them. No one must see her