His Dark Lady by Victoria Lamb Page B

with him as a cat plays with a mouse before she deals the final crushing blow, to Mendoza’s tense, sweat-riven face, and almost felt sorry for the man. But she too was afraid. For whatever the Queen’s spies had found out about Mendoza, for Elizabeth to destroy the Spanish ambassador in so public a manner could mean only one thing. She intended war with Spain.
    Mendoza broke. He bowed stiffly, pretending to be in pain and clutching at his stomach. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I would not offend you but I am taken ill. May I crave your leave to depart?’
    Elizabeth’s lips tightened to a thin line. But she did not deny his request. Her hand cupped her jaw, rubbed at it rhythmically. Toothache again? ‘You may leave us, Signor Mendoza. Only do not stray far from your rooms. Sir Francis Walsingham has some small matter he would speak to you about when you are in better health.’
    Still bowing, Mendoza walked backwards from her presence, only straightening when he reached the door, which was still blocked by Walsingham’s dark figure.
    The two men looked at each other, one in fury and terror, the other calmly and with intent. Then Mendoza pushed past with a muttered apology, and Walsingham turned to watch him go. The Spanish ambassador’s two swarthy servants hurried after their master, bowing to the Queen and the court as they left, one losing his cap in his hurry to escape.
    Walsingham looked up at the Queen on the dais. He did not smile, yet Lucy knew that he was satisfied – perhaps even amused – by Mendoza’s reaction. Elizabeth gave the slightest of nods, and Walsingham bowed deeply, then left the chamber himself.
    Lord Burghley struck the floor with his cane. Another player. ‘Let the play continue!’
    The courtiers, who had been holding their breath throughout this fascinating exchange, began to shift and whisper among themselves, a noise like the Thames rising at flood time along the banks. Accompanied by this agitated hiss of voices, the players sprang into movement, like living statues released from a spell. The scene was hurriedly changed, and Lucy found herself looking at Will Shakespeare on his knees in a dark cell, pretending to weep as he cradled the head of his ‘dead’ lover on his lap – though the boy twitched and rolled an eye at the audience, so that even Elizabeth laughed, the pathos of the scene ruined.
    After the play was done, and while the players were still bowing under the court’s applause, the Queen summoned Lucy with a crooked finger.
    ‘Deliver this to Lord Leicester after the court has dispersed,’ Elizabeth whispered behind her fan, leaning over to hand Lucy a folded slip of paper. There was a slight flush on her white-painted cheeks and she seemed excited. ‘Discreetly.’
    ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
    The players were still bowing. Lucy met Will’s intent gaze as he straightened, and looked quickly away. She did not want Elizabeth to sense an intrigue where there was none. She had known Will once, and loved him like a little brother. Now that he was grown to a man, there was no longer any room in her heart for him. Not if she wished to continue in the service of the Virgin Queen.
    ‘Enough!’ Elizabeth barked, and the court fell instantly silent, watching her.
    The Queen rose from her throne, gripped Lucy’s shoulder, and began to make her way down from the dais. The court fell to its knees before her in a rustle of silk, heads respectfully bowed. Elizabeth swayed slowly to the door, an odd grimace on her face, her narrow lips drawn back from her teeth, and Lucy knew that her mistress was in pain. Not only her old foe, toothache, but now a terrible ulcer on her leg.
    Her ulcer pained Elizabeth more and more these days, and there seemed little her physicians could do to alleviate her suffering. Still, she liked to try and dance most evenings, gamely attempting the volta and the galliard. Lucy did not enjoy watching. It felt cruel.
    At the door, Elizabeth released Lucy’s