His Dark Lady by Victoria Lamb Page B

certainly handle a common man of the theatre.
    She put back her hood and looked him in the eye. ‘I’m looking for Master John Twist,’ she said briefly, giving no further explanation. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
    The man turned his head and shouted hoarsely down the passageway, ‘Twist! How many times have I told you not to bring your whores backstage?’
    A dark, crookbacked figure disengaged itself from the shadows at the far end of the corridor and began limping towards them. She stared. Could this be Master Twist? She had known him since childhood, and he had always been in good health, tall and sturdily built.
    ‘Get rid of her, Twist,’ the man added impatiently. ‘The show’s about to start. You can tup her in the interval if you must. And leave some for me this time, will you?’ He leered at her as he turned away. ‘She’s a tasty piece.’
    He disappeared back along the corridor. Lucy gazed at the crookback’s face. This was indeed her old friend.
    ‘Goodluck sent me,’ she whispered, seeing his look of surprised recognition. ‘Is it safe to talk here? I have something for you.’
    Taking her by the elbow, John Twist steered her into a low-ceilinged, unlit corridor that seemed to lead even deeper into the inner workings of the theatre. Safely away from the curious eyes of the other players, he embraced her roughly, then held her at arm’s length, searching her face.
    ‘Lucy,’ Twist muttered, his lips thinning as he looked her up and down, no doubt taking in the costly court gown under her cloak.
    She examined him too, not caring if he thought her rude. Twist looked older than she remembered, his face toughened and wrinkled, his hair coarser and streaked with grey. That was no surprise, of course; she herself was no longer the soft-faced child she had been during that summer at Kenilworth, though the court had saved her from the worst ravages of city life. And Twist must be in his late thirties by now, almost past his prime. Yet he still possessed the sharp self-assurance she remembered, his blue eyes watching her narrowly without giving anything away.
    ‘What’s this about Goodluck?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I thought for sure he was …’
    ‘Dead?’
    ‘Never coming back, perhaps. It must be several years since I’ve heard his name.’ Twist smiled down at her grimly. ‘But it seems the man has nine lives.’
    ‘Yes, and is going through them rapidly,’ she agreed.
    ‘I’m glad to hear he is alive and well.’ He hesitated. ‘What are you looking at? The hump? Never mind that, it’s for the play. I’m still the same Twist underneath.’ He squeezed her hand in reassurance. ‘But you said … You have a message for me?’
    ‘Here,’ Lucy said, glancing cautiously about herself before handing over the purse and letter that Goodluck had given her. ‘He wants to meet you. It’s urgent.’
    ‘With Goodluck, it’s always urgent.’
    Twist took the purse with a slight smile. He shook it, raised his eyebrows at the weight, then clipped the purse on to his own belt and carefully arranged the folds of his costume over it.
    He grinned at her expression. ‘I had better hope no one grapples me too firmly on the stage, for I shall have no chance to put this away before my part.’
    There was a sudden burst of muffled applause and a drumming roar close by. The walls and wooden frames around them shook as though the theatre was being besieged. Lucy jerked at the noise and gave a little cry, her nerves already stretched. Belatedly, she realized it was only the performance starting. The enthusiastic playgoers in the gallery seats must be stamping their feet on the wooden boards, the noise reverberating through the theatre like a thunderstorm.
    Twist did not seem to have noticed. He was staring down at Goodluck’s letter, a frown on his face. He did not break the seal to open it, but weighed the parchment thoughtfully in his hand.
    ‘I have to go soon or I shall miss my cue.