come back to me with any more of these wild conspiracies until you have harder evidence. This is not one of our own, but the Spanish ambassador we are talking about. We cannot accuse Mendoza on the strength of a single coded letter and the ravings of a lunatic. We must be certain of his guilt first. We must be sure beyond all doubt. Do I make myself clear?’
Cecil bowed and removed himself from the room. She looked at Walsingham. He said nothing but reached for the incriminating letter, his grey head bent.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, sir?’
‘Edward Arden,’ he murmured, ‘is not guilty of conspiring with his son-in-law to assassinate you, Your Majesty.’
‘So release him.’
‘It is not that simple, Your Majesty. He is guilty of … other crimes. He is a Catholic and a supporter of Catholics. This is not mere rumour, but cold truth. They have found a Catholic priest in hiding at one of the Arden houses, and various documents suggesting links with Catholics abroad. Arden is a dangerous man, and I have long wished for an excuse …’ Walsingham smiled and made a gesture with his hand, ‘…to squeeze and question him.’
‘You want my permission to torture Master Arden?’
‘To torture him, yes. But also to execute him for treason. And any of his family who may reasonably be suspected too. Including the young man who would have killed you if he’d had the chance.’
‘The women too?’
‘Why not, if they are guilty?’ Walsingham shrugged, and tucked the letter inside his severe black coat. ‘The creature who tried to assassinate you at Kenilworth was female, and no weaker than a man for that task.’
‘True, but these country wives may have had no knowledge of their husbands’ treachery. I would not have them go to the gallows if their complicity cannot be established.’ Elizabeth mused. ‘Well, do what you must. You have always made your own path anyway. I shall not refuse to support your actions if whatever you do is done for the good of England.’ She shivered. The fire was getting low. ‘Now I am tired. Send in my women as you go.’
Once her court ladies had come rustling into the Privy Chamber, bearing fresh wine and chivvying the servants to make up the fire, Elizabeth looked about their cheerful faces searchingly.
‘Is Lucy Morgan in attendance yet?’
The ring of women parted, and Lucy came forward, sinking to her knees in a rustle of silk, her head bent, her coarse black hair teased and combed back with chaste white ribbons.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was sick.’
Elizabeth regarded her broodingly. The memory of that dreadful night at Kenilworth eight years before still weighed on her heart. She had grown to find Lucy’s dark beauty tiresome, and distrusted the way the younger courtiers constantly complimented the African singer and followed her about the court.
But it was true that she owed Lucy her life for her part in thwarting the Italian plotters that night. Perhaps she had been hasty in her recent snubbing of the young singer, favouring other court entertainers and refusing to allow Lucy any new gowns from the royal wardrobe. Lucy Morgan had not shown herself wanton with any of the young men, after all. To be admired was not to be wanton, or else she herself would stand accused of that failing ten times over.
She gestured for Lucy to rise. ‘You are fully recovered?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty, I thank you.’
‘Why were you sick? Have you spoken to a physician?’
She eyed the girl’s belly. Still flat, her breasts small and high. No outward sign of a pregnancy. Yet the suspicion that Lucy was lying about her sickness would not be shaken off.
‘It was nothing serious, Your Majesty. A fever that lasted the night, with some sickness when I woke. But it soon passed.’ Lucy hesitated. ‘I must have eaten some meat that was not fresh, Your Grace.’
Elizabeth settled back in her favourite chair and waved Lucy Morgan into the centre of the room. ‘If you are
Cecil bowed and removed himself from the room. She looked at Walsingham. He said nothing but reached for the incriminating letter, his grey head bent.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, sir?’
‘Edward Arden,’ he murmured, ‘is not guilty of conspiring with his son-in-law to assassinate you, Your Majesty.’
‘So release him.’
‘It is not that simple, Your Majesty. He is guilty of … other crimes. He is a Catholic and a supporter of Catholics. This is not mere rumour, but cold truth. They have found a Catholic priest in hiding at one of the Arden houses, and various documents suggesting links with Catholics abroad. Arden is a dangerous man, and I have long wished for an excuse …’ Walsingham smiled and made a gesture with his hand, ‘…to squeeze and question him.’
‘You want my permission to torture Master Arden?’
‘To torture him, yes. But also to execute him for treason. And any of his family who may reasonably be suspected too. Including the young man who would have killed you if he’d had the chance.’
‘The women too?’
‘Why not, if they are guilty?’ Walsingham shrugged, and tucked the letter inside his severe black coat. ‘The creature who tried to assassinate you at Kenilworth was female, and no weaker than a man for that task.’
‘True, but these country wives may have had no knowledge of their husbands’ treachery. I would not have them go to the gallows if their complicity cannot be established.’ Elizabeth mused. ‘Well, do what you must. You have always made your own path anyway. I shall not refuse to support your actions if whatever you do is done for the good of England.’ She shivered. The fire was getting low. ‘Now I am tired. Send in my women as you go.’
Once her court ladies had come rustling into the Privy Chamber, bearing fresh wine and chivvying the servants to make up the fire, Elizabeth looked about their cheerful faces searchingly.
‘Is Lucy Morgan in attendance yet?’
The ring of women parted, and Lucy came forward, sinking to her knees in a rustle of silk, her head bent, her coarse black hair teased and combed back with chaste white ribbons.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was sick.’
Elizabeth regarded her broodingly. The memory of that dreadful night at Kenilworth eight years before still weighed on her heart. She had grown to find Lucy’s dark beauty tiresome, and distrusted the way the younger courtiers constantly complimented the African singer and followed her about the court.
But it was true that she owed Lucy her life for her part in thwarting the Italian plotters that night. Perhaps she had been hasty in her recent snubbing of the young singer, favouring other court entertainers and refusing to allow Lucy any new gowns from the royal wardrobe. Lucy Morgan had not shown herself wanton with any of the young men, after all. To be admired was not to be wanton, or else she herself would stand accused of that failing ten times over.
She gestured for Lucy to rise. ‘You are fully recovered?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty, I thank you.’
‘Why were you sick? Have you spoken to a physician?’
She eyed the girl’s belly. Still flat, her breasts small and high. No outward sign of a pregnancy. Yet the suspicion that Lucy was lying about her sickness would not be shaken off.
‘It was nothing serious, Your Majesty. A fever that lasted the night, with some sickness when I woke. But it soon passed.’ Lucy hesitated. ‘I must have eaten some meat that was not fresh, Your Grace.’
Elizabeth settled back in her favourite chair and waved Lucy Morgan into the centre of the room. ‘If you are
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