indeed recovered from your sickness, Lucy Morgan, then you can earn your keep and sing for us.’
Elizabeth played with the jewelled rings on her white fingers, turning them round and round. She remembered Edward Arden’s outburst at Kenilworth. She had reprimanded the staunchly Catholic Arden in front of the court and his Warwickshire peers, as she recalled, even threatening him with a public whipping if he persisted with his drunken abuse.
Was that when he and his mad son-in-law had first devised the idea of conspiring against her?
‘Give us some sweet country song,’ she muttered as Lucy took up her position. ‘Something we have not heard in a long while.’
‘“Robin, Oh Robin”?’ Lucy suggested.
Elizabeth looked at her from under lowered lids. The black girl was sharper than she liked people to think. Or did everyone at court know which way Elizabeth’s mind swung today? Oh yes, sometimes she would pout and think of the Duc d’Anjou. Sometimes she even wore the jewelled frog he had left her as a parting gift, or wrote him poignant letters which Cecil wisely refused to send. But her heart belonged to Robert. It might as well belong to a stone, of course. But she was a woman as well as a queen. She could not help her foolishness.
‘A good choice,’ she agreed drily, and took a sip of wine. ‘Come, then, Lucy Morgan. Entertain me.’
Five
THE NARROW LANE outside the Curtain Theatre was noisy and chaotic, crowded with playgoers and street sellers. Lucy was jostled on all sides and wished she’d thought to bring her maid Mary with her. Then at least she could have sent the girl for help if there was trouble.
Two coarse-voiced beggars arguing near the theatre entrance collided with her painfully. One called out a curse, making a grab for her arm.
Lucy staggered on and kept walking, her head down, face hidden by her hooded cloak. She could not afford to draw even the slightest attention to herself, not while carrying out Goodluck’s errand. Such men would cut her throat for a ring, let alone a bag of gold.
It was a chilly November afternoon. A brazier glowed at the back door to the theatre, putting out a feeble heat. Lucy stood across the lane, waiting for her chance. Players came and went, unchallenged by the scarred man on the door, but she did not see Master Twist among them.
At last, the scarred man moved away to speak to one of the older whores plying their trade among the playgoers. Despite his disfigurement, the woman greeted him cheerfully enough. Leaning against the wall of the theatre, she dragged her revealing bodice even lower, her toothless smile inviting.
Lucy hurried across the lane and slipped through the unguarded doorway.
Backstage was no quieter than the street, crowded with players practising their cues or complaining about their ill-fitting costumes. But at least the narrow passageway behind the stage was dark and concealing, the infrequent windows so small as to admit almost no light at all. Wall lanterns had been hung at intervals so that players could read their cue sheets, but their light was inadequate, leaving deep pools of shadow through which Lucy was able to pass almost unnoticed.
‘Now, mistress?’ a voice at last hailed her. ‘What are you doing back here?’
She turned. It was not Master Twist but someone she had never seen before. Balding and a little corpulent, his leather jerkin straining over his belly, he had the air of a man used to getting his own way. She guessed at once that he must be one of those in charge of the daily running of the theatre. She had known several such men as a child, growing up among players and theatricals. When she did not immediately reply, he stroked his beard, looking her up and down impudently.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Lucy knew a moment of trepidation, then stuck her chin out. If she could deal with the daily insolence of courtiers who believed her dark skin meant she would be happy to act the whore for them, then she could
Elizabeth played with the jewelled rings on her white fingers, turning them round and round. She remembered Edward Arden’s outburst at Kenilworth. She had reprimanded the staunchly Catholic Arden in front of the court and his Warwickshire peers, as she recalled, even threatening him with a public whipping if he persisted with his drunken abuse.
Was that when he and his mad son-in-law had first devised the idea of conspiring against her?
‘Give us some sweet country song,’ she muttered as Lucy took up her position. ‘Something we have not heard in a long while.’
‘“Robin, Oh Robin”?’ Lucy suggested.
Elizabeth looked at her from under lowered lids. The black girl was sharper than she liked people to think. Or did everyone at court know which way Elizabeth’s mind swung today? Oh yes, sometimes she would pout and think of the Duc d’Anjou. Sometimes she even wore the jewelled frog he had left her as a parting gift, or wrote him poignant letters which Cecil wisely refused to send. But her heart belonged to Robert. It might as well belong to a stone, of course. But she was a woman as well as a queen. She could not help her foolishness.
‘A good choice,’ she agreed drily, and took a sip of wine. ‘Come, then, Lucy Morgan. Entertain me.’
Five
THE NARROW LANE outside the Curtain Theatre was noisy and chaotic, crowded with playgoers and street sellers. Lucy was jostled on all sides and wished she’d thought to bring her maid Mary with her. Then at least she could have sent the girl for help if there was trouble.
Two coarse-voiced beggars arguing near the theatre entrance collided with her painfully. One called out a curse, making a grab for her arm.
Lucy staggered on and kept walking, her head down, face hidden by her hooded cloak. She could not afford to draw even the slightest attention to herself, not while carrying out Goodluck’s errand. Such men would cut her throat for a ring, let alone a bag of gold.
It was a chilly November afternoon. A brazier glowed at the back door to the theatre, putting out a feeble heat. Lucy stood across the lane, waiting for her chance. Players came and went, unchallenged by the scarred man on the door, but she did not see Master Twist among them.
At last, the scarred man moved away to speak to one of the older whores plying their trade among the playgoers. Despite his disfigurement, the woman greeted him cheerfully enough. Leaning against the wall of the theatre, she dragged her revealing bodice even lower, her toothless smile inviting.
Lucy hurried across the lane and slipped through the unguarded doorway.
Backstage was no quieter than the street, crowded with players practising their cues or complaining about their ill-fitting costumes. But at least the narrow passageway behind the stage was dark and concealing, the infrequent windows so small as to admit almost no light at all. Wall lanterns had been hung at intervals so that players could read their cue sheets, but their light was inadequate, leaving deep pools of shadow through which Lucy was able to pass almost unnoticed.
‘Now, mistress?’ a voice at last hailed her. ‘What are you doing back here?’
She turned. It was not Master Twist but someone she had never seen before. Balding and a little corpulent, his leather jerkin straining over his belly, he had the air of a man used to getting his own way. She guessed at once that he must be one of those in charge of the daily running of the theatre. She had known several such men as a child, growing up among players and theatricals. When she did not immediately reply, he stroked his beard, looking her up and down impudently.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Lucy knew a moment of trepidation, then stuck her chin out. If she could deal with the daily insolence of courtiers who believed her dark skin meant she would be happy to act the whore for them, then she could
Similar Books
