His Dark Lady by Victoria Lamb Page A

cry. She bent her head as though she had something in her eye, some irritating speck of dust. Not memories of a love she would rather forget.
    Will was courting the young boy in a woman’s hood and gown, kneeling to declare himself. But his eyes lifted to hers. Locked with them. Made his intentions known. For a guilty moment, she allowed herself to imagine Will Shakespeare touching her, and felt a sharp thrill that pierced her to the belly.
    At once she was hot with shame. Tom had died to protect her. Now was she imagining another man in his place?
    All her life she had heard women described by men as faithless, and had been determined not to prove so herself. Yet a young man had touched her hand tonight, and already she was dreaming herself in bed with him, her past love forgotten in the time it had taken for a man to whisper her name in the dark.
    ‘Signorina?’
    The scene had finished and the court was applauding the players. Mendoza was whispering to her again, his dark eyes keen on her face.
    ‘You do not look well, Signorina Morgan. Allow me to have wine fetched.’
    The Queen’s voice broke across his whisper, shrill and demanding. Her toothache still paining her, no doubt. ‘What is it? Is something amiss, Lucy?’
    Danger prickled under her skin. ‘Nothing, Your Majesty, I am merely a little warm.’ She curtsied very low, not rising until she felt it was safe to do so. ‘The room is so close.’
    Elizabeth was not easily satisfied, of course. But she seemed to let it go, her eyes darting from Lucy’s face to Mendoza’s. ‘Signor Mendoza, come and speak to me. Not to my ladies. Tell me what you think of this play. These lovers seem too young and unruly, too ready to ignore their parents. It displeases me. This scene takes place in Italy, we are to believe. Tell me, would such a free courtship be permitted in Spain?’
    The Queen fell into rambling Spanish. The ambassador moved swiftly to her side, bowing and complimenting Elizabeth on her command of his language with many eloquent gestures. He was a player himself, Lucy thought drily. The theatricals stood frozen, glancing uncertainly at each other. They could not continue without the Queen’s permission. The court held its breath and watched to see what would happen, some turning to consider Walsingham, who was still blocking the doorway, others looking for Leicester, who seemed to have drawn a little way off with the Captain of the Queen’s Guards.
    Her Majesty waved Mendoza silent with an impatient hand. ‘Yes, but when a rule has been laid down, and it is wilfully broken, what would the punishment be in Spain?’
    ‘It would depend, Majesty, on whomever had made the rule.’
    ‘If it was …’ Elizabeth hesitated, and there seemed to be cunning behind her words, and malice too, her small dark eyes narrowed on the ambassador’s face, ‘… the King of Spain, let’s say, who had made this rule, and it was broken, what then would be the punishment?’
    Mendoza must have felt the trap tighten about him, for he looked uneasily around the court. His gaze lighted on Walsingham first, at the door, then moved slowly through the assembled courtiers until he had found both Lord Burghley and Lord Leicester. He hesitated. ‘I am not sure what the punishment would be, Your Majesty.’
    ‘Death, perhaps?’
    A bead of sweat rolled slowly down the ambassador’s face. ‘It would …’ He cleared his throat and began again. ‘The severity of the punishment must depend on the severity of the crime, surely?’
    Elizabeth pretended to ponder this. ‘You believe so?’
    ‘A great prince is always merciful, Your Majesty.’
    She nodded, and played thoughtfully with her ostrich-feather fan. ‘You think exile would be the answer, then, rather than imprisonment and execution? Dismissal from court?’
    He knew he was in deep now. The fear on his face could not be hidden from the court, and nor could his guilt. Lucy looked from the Queen’s easy cruelty, playing