SIR FRANCIS ENTERED the queen’s privy chamber without undue ceremony, knowing he was expected. Elizabeth was reading in her chair by the window overlooking the river where she got the best light. She folded the book over her finger as her secretary of state entered and bowed.
“So, did you get it out of her, Francis?”
“It would seem, madam, that unbeknownst either to myself or my lady wife the girl arrived at court unchaste. She lost her virginity to an itinerant player at Scadbury last summer. A sadly motherless girl with no female supervision in the first impulsive flush of womanhood.” He opened his hands in a What will you? gesture. “I can assure you that nothing untoward has happened in her time at court. A little harmless flirtation, perhaps, but nothing more than that.”
Elizabeth turned her head to look out at the river. She made no response for a moment, as she remembered her own youthful indiscretion with the admiral. Even at this great distance she could still relive that heady, belly-deep surge of excitement when Seymour had touched her, when he’d wake her in the dawn, tickling, slapping, playfully seeming always, but even as an untried girl of fourteen, she had known it was not at all playful. And she had not tried very hard to turn him away.
“You are certain nothing has occurred with any gentlemen of the court?”
“Believe me, madam, I would know it.”
“Yes, of course you would, Francis.” She knew her secretary’s methods. She turned her gaze away from the river, back to Walsingham. “So, what do you suggest be done with her? She cannot remain after such a deception. I insist upon absolute honesty and chastity in my ladies. She must be banished from court.”
“Yes, of course, madam.” Sir Francis bowed his acknowledgment of the justice of the edict. “But if I might venture to suggest a way in which her banishment might be turned to good use?”
Elizabeth smiled, but her tone had an acid edge to it. “You see an opportunity in everything, Francis.”
“I certainly make it my business to try, madam.”
“What have you in mind? Pour wine, will you? And for yourself if you wish it.” She waved towards a flagon on a sideboard against the far wall. “And then take a seat.”
Francis obliged, pouring the golden wine into the delicate crystal goblets, bringing one to his queen and taking his own to a low chair across from her. He sipped, then set the glass on the table beside him.
“I am suggesting that you send Rosamund to your cousin Mary. As a gesture of goodwill. Her entourage is sadly diminished and another lady would bring a breath of fresh air, fresh companionship, for them all.”
“My cousin would hardly trust a companion from my court,” the queen pointed out, frowning over her glass.
“This one she might, madam. Rosamund will have little difficulty convincing Scots Mary that she has been sent away from your court in disgrace, since it is only the truth. But she will offer the reason for her banishment that she was discovered practicing the Catholic religion in secret. I venture to think that Mary will find the prospect of a persecuted convert irresistible.”
Elizabeth regarded him with interest. “Perhaps so. But by no means certain.”
“I think she will if Rosamund makes it clear that serving Mary was her idea, that she is a sympathetic Catholic, forced to hide her true sentiments, desperate to find herself in like-minded religious company free to practice her religion in the manner of her convictions.”
“You think Rosamund capable of such a deception?” The queen’s interest sharpened. “She has an extraordinary memory and considerable talent at reproduction, I grant you, but she is so young, so naive, almost a simpleton. If she were not, she would not find herself in her present disgrace.”
“Madam, she is a Walsingham.” Francis took the scent of his wine again.
Elizabeth shook her head. “You are a rogue of the first water, Francis. You will force the girl to toe the family line, just like her brother.”
“Oh, I do not force Thomas, madam. The work suits him. And I think it likely that it will suit his sister. Her wits make up for what she lacks in experience.”
“You are confident of that?”
His curt nod was answer enough.
“And you will use her to gain information while she is part of my cousin’s retinue?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Then I have no objection. But she must depart the palace immediately. I do not wish to see her again.”
Francis rose and bowed. “It will be done, madam.” He backed to the door and let himself out.
Rosamund had finished the wine in the flagon, which on an empty belly made her feel a little muzzy. She knelt on the window seat, pressing her forehead against the diamond panes, gazing out at the river where the barges and skiffs plied their oars with such freedom. The chamber was stuffy and after a moment she opened the casement, leaning on her folded arms to look down into the garden just below. She could hear the murmur of voices as people strolled along the path beneath the window, and her attention was suddenly seized by the sight of Agathe and the chevalier walking arm in arm across the sweep of lawn beyond the path. They were heads together deep in a conversation that looked to be absorbing them completely. She thought Arnaud looked angry, and Agathe once or twice placed a hand on his arm as if to placate or soothe him. Once he unceremoniously pushed the hand away.
Rosamund, despite her own misery, was intrigued. What were they talking about? They continued walking towards the path below her open casement and she drew back a little, not wanting to be seen if they should look up. She had no wish to show herself in her present disgraced imprisonment to anyone she knew. They reached the path below her window and she heard Agathe’s voice for a moment quite clearly. “I do not think you can blame me, Arnaud. I did what you asked. I encouraged her, I taught her how to play, it is not my fault if she used the lessons on someone else.”
Rosamund leaned out farther but she couldn’t make out Arnaud’s response. It was in French and too swift for her to follow, but his tone was unmistakable. He was very angry. She withdrew into the chamber, momentarily diverted from her own troubles, but not for many minutes. The key turned in the lock behind her and her heart began its erratic thumping again. She stood up, facing the door.
Sir Francis came in, followed by two men in the crimson livery of the queen’s personal guard. They stood at either side of the door.
“You will go with these men. They will escort you to your dorter, where you will pack your belongings. Your trunk will be collected later and taken to Seething Lane, where you will stay until you begin your journey.”
“My journey where?”
“That will be explained to you when I deem it necessary.” He stood aside, gesturing that she should go with the guards.
Rosamund obeyed in silence, moving past him into the corridor. The guards fell in beside her and the long walk began. Rosamund felt the curious stares of those they passed. She was obviously under guard, even though neither of her escorts laid a hand upon her. She walked with her head high, eyes straight ahead, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. She heard the whispered buzz rising like swarming bees and knew that the story would be on everyone’s lips within half an hour, if it wasn’t already.
They turned a corner leading to the dorter and her step faltered. Will Creighton and two other courtiers were coming towards them along the corridor, laughing at something. The laughter died on Will’s face when he saw her, his eyes darting between her liveried escorts. The color drained from his cheeks and he took a step towards her, his hand outstretched.
Rosamund shook her head at him and moved one hand in an unmistakable gesture of rejection. Her eyes were fierce as they fixed upon him, trying to burn her silent message into his brain. He looked astounded, bewildered, then stepped back as she and her guards passed down the corridor.
It took all her willpower to keep from one last look over her shoulder as he walked away from her. Her way lay far from here now, far from the world that was still his. Their paths would probably never cross again. It was right, it was sensible and practical, to salvage something from this catastrophe. There was no reason to ruin Will’s chances for advancement, yet the thought of Will continuing his life as if nothing had happened while she faced whatever drear future they had planned for her filled her with a dark resentment that she despised, but could for the moment do nothing to alleviate.
She packed her belongings in the trunk under the watchful if bored eyes of her escort and looked around, making sure she had forgotten nothing. One thing she would not regret would be this wretched space with its lumpy, prickly, flea-ridden mattress, and its vile, vindictive inhabitants. May the evil eye fall on them all. On which silent curse, Rosamund shook the dust of Whitehall Palace from her feet and stalked past her guards.
She was escorted to the stables, where Thomas, black-faced as before, waited with Jenny and his own horse. “You can consider yourself fortunate Sir Francis has you in charge,” he said, almost throwing her into the saddle. “If you were left to me, you’d be regretting the day you were born.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Rosamund muttered, reflecting that at least she had one reason to be thankful for her cousin’s protection. As they rode to Seething Lane, her mind focused miserably on the upcoming meeting with Lady Walsingham. What would she have been told? Presumably the truth. What would she think of the girl she had taken into her house with such kindness and generosity?
Would she see only monumental ingratitude? Would she cast her former protégée aside as a wanton? Beyond the pale, a waste of all her efforts? Beside the prospect of Ursula’s disappointment, Thomas’s barely controlled rage was nothing to bear.
At Seething Lane, Thomas told her curtly to go inside. He was not to accompany her. She dismounted without his assistance, handing him Jenny’s reins, then, full of trepidation she knocked on the door.
It was opened almost immediately by the familiar Mortlake, who held the door for her. She stepped into the hall, with its wonderfully familiar scents of beeswax and lavender.
“Lady Walsingham is in her parlor. You’re to go to her there,” Mortlake said behind her.
She nodded, took a deep breath, and went to the parlor, where she had so often freely entered at will. Now the door was closed and she knocked, tentatively.
“Come in, Rosamund.” Ursula’s voice was soft and pleasant as always, but her eyes were grave as she regarded Rosamund, who, after opening the door, curtsied, then stood silent in the doorway.
Ursula beckoned. “Close the door.” Rosamund did so.
“Come and sit down. You look as if you’ve had a very difficult day.”
At the note of sympathy Rosamund was afraid she would burst into tears. It was the first kind word anyone had spoken to her since she had left Will that morning, which seemed to have happened in another lifetime. She sat down on a low stool in front of Lady Walsingham.
“Well, what a pickle you seem to find yourself in,” Ursula said matter-of-factly. “You shall tell me the whole shortly. First, when did you last eat?”
“This morning, at breakfast, madam.”
“Good God, have they kept you all day without food?” Ursula reached for the bell and rang it vigorously. When a servant answered, she gave order for bread, meat, and wine to be brought immediately. Then she leaned forward, tilting Rosamund’s chin on her forefinger. “Poor child. It is a den of thieves, I did try to warn you.”
“Oh, madam, you did,” Rosamund exclaimed, horrified that Ursula should blame herself for any of this disaster. “I couldn’t quite believe in how truly, truly horrible the women can be. It was all my own fault. I was stupid and I should have known better. I am so very sorry to have let you down. I must seem so ungrateful, but I am not, I am so grateful to you for all your kindness.” She seized Ursula’s hand in a fervent clasp. “You must believe me.”
“Oh, I do, my dear. I know what traps are there for the innocent and unwary.” She sighed, patting Rosamund’s hand. “Now you shall eat and drink, and then, when you feel refreshed, you had better tell me the whole, because I do not believe that my husband has done so.”
The servant had laid a cold roast fowl, a loaf of bread, and a flagon of wine on the table and Ursula gestured to Rosamund. “Go to, child. Go to. You will feel better directly.”
Will Creighton forced himself to go through the day as if nothing had happened to disrupt his usual easygoing nonchalance. The morning’s scandal was on every tongue, the disgrace of the newest maid of honor a delicious morsel to be savored, chewed over, speculation as to the identity of the lover a delightful topic. His anxiety for Rosamund was sometimes greater than the fear for himself, and sometimes took second place.
Part of him wanted to leave the palace, flee to his lodgings and bury his head, as if that would keep him safe from the chamberlain’s knock, and the order of court banishment. Would the queen order him to the Tower? However often he told himself he was too insignificant for such draconian measures, he couldn’t convince himself. But then he would see that urgent movement of Rosamund’s hand, her eyes burning their message into his head, and he would want to weep for her selflessness, for her courage. No one knew her fate, except for the simple fact of banishment.
Will agonized over possibilities. Had she been sent home, back to Scadbury? Had her family cast her out, a disgrace to the name? Where would she go? Where could she go?
As the day wore on and there was no hand on his shoulder, no harsh summons, he began to allow himself to hope, and he comforted himself with the thought that as long as he could stay above the scandal, keep his position and his freedom, then he could perhaps at some point be of service to her.
Yet it seemed impossible that she had withstood interrogation by Sir Francis Walsingham. Had she managed a convincing lie? It seemed unlikely, but as the hours passed and he remained unmolested, his hope grew into conviction. By the evening, when the queen appeared in the Great Hall and seemed perfectly good-humored, willing to be pleased by dancing and music, he knew that Rosamund had stayed true.
He saw Joan Davenport standing alone and threaded his way through the lines of dance to her side. She looked up with a pathetically eager smile as he bowed.
“I give you good even, Mistress Davenport.”
“Master Creighton.” She curtsied, blushing.
“Will you join the dance?” He offered his hand and she took it instantly.
He led her to the floor, to join the couples in the vigorous movements of the galliard, and for a few measures the lively triple tempo offered no opportunity for conversation, but finally he was able to comment casually, “I daresay the queen’s ladies have been agog with the scandal concerning Mistress Walsingham.”
“Oh, such excitement, Master Creighton, as you wouldn’t believe.” Joan was slightly out of breath with the dance, but more than ready for gossip. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “ ’Tis said the queen has banished her from court for life. She’s to be imprisoned somewhere, not in the Tower, but some other prison, for deceiving the queen. I always knew there was something not quite honest about her.”
Will felt his hackles rise, but he kept his voice cool as he said, “What made you think that?”
Joan tossed her head. “Oh, she was a sly one, disappearing from the dorter before anyone was awake, and then pretending she’d gone for a walk, when it was clear as daylight she’d been up to something . . . meeting some man, I’m sure. And she thought she was better than any of us because the queen favored her for her drawing and penmanship. ’Tis good riddance, if you ask me. We all think so.”
Will closed his lips firmly on a heated response, saying instead as casually as before, “So no one knows where she’s gone?”
“Only that Sir Francis Walsingham, her cousin, had a hand in her removal.” Joan put her hands on her hips, performing the quick series of hopping steps demanded by the dance.
Will decided he’d better leave well enough alone now. He had no wish to draw attention to himself with undue curiosity about the fate of an ordinary maid of honor. If Rosamund had protected him, then he couldn’t risk undoing her good work. But nothing could reassure him as to Rosamund’s fate, and as soon as he could, he left Joan and went to find friends in whose company he could slip into the burgundy waters of Lethe.
He caught sight of Thomas Walsingham late in the evening, looking morose, his mouth set in a thin line, his eyes hard. Walsingham beckoned him with an imperative gesture. Will instantly felt queasy. If Walsingham had heard of his sister’s clandestine afternoon at the theatre, dressed as a page in Will Creighton’s company, he would draw the inevitable conclusions. Will made his way over to him.
“You wanted me, Walsingham?”
“Aye. Where’s Babington this evening?”
Will reported directly to Thomas Walsingham in this affair of Scots Mary, and Will felt a wave of relief at this straightforward question.
“He told me he was going into the country for a few days. His father had a bad turn and summoned him. A summons Babington can ill afford to ignore without cutting off the purse strings.”
Thomas nodded. “If he’s gone more than two days, you’re to go after him. Impress upon him the urgency of returning to London. He needs to be here when Ballard returns from France and I’ve been told to expect the good father within the week.” With a curt nod, Thomas turned and walked off.
Will decided he’d had sufficient scares for one day. He returned to his lodgings and drank until oblivion claimed him.
Thomas was in a foul mood that evening. If he’d been permitted to vent his fury at his sister’s perfidy, and he considered it nothing less than a betrayal of him and everything he had done for her throughout her short life, he would by now have recovered some of his habitual insouciance at life’s vagaries, but he had been balked from exacting the vengeance he considered his just due, and as soon as he’d passed on his instructions to Creighton, he left the court.
As he stalked down the corridor to the side door that would provide the shortest access to the mews and his horse, Chevalier de Vaugiras rounded a corner ahead. The two men stopped, hands automatically going to their sword hilts. Thomas felt a jolt of savage satisfaction at the prospect of taking his anger out on such a worthy target. He had half slid his sword from its sheath before he remembered that it was treason to draw a sword under the same roof as the queen.
The chevalier saw Thomas’s hand drop from the weapon and a thin smile flickered across his mouth. He continued walking forward.
“We will have our meeting, de Vaugiras.” Thomas spoke through barely opened lips. “But I’ll not commit treason under her majesty’s roof . . . you’re not worth it.” Deliberately he spat on the ground at the chevalier’s feet, then shouldered him aside and continued on his way.
Arnaud, white-faced, stood very still for several minutes. He breathed slowly until he had mastered himself. It had been a day of reverses, but when one door closed, another always opened. The time would come. He walked on following the sounds of music and revelry emanating from the great hall.
Thomas mounted his horse in the mews and with a vicious slash of the whip set him at a canter out into the street. He rode beyond the city walls to a district called Norton Folgate, in the liberty of Shoreditch. It was close to the theatres, and its rooming houses, tenements, and mean cottages offered the kind of cheap lodging affordable for theatre folk, the playmakers and actors, the apprentice actors and the managers.
He stopped outside a rooming house set just off Hog Lane and still sitting his horse looked up at a first-floor window. A light burned despite the late hour. Kit was up then.
Thomas dismounted, tethered his horse to a post at the door, and picked up a handful of stones from the dusty lane. He hurled them at the window in a satisfying scattershot and within seconds the window was flung open and Kit leaned out.
“Who’s so rudely disturbing the muse?” he demanded in the thick but jovial voice that Thomas recognized as indication that the playmaker was more than two sheets to the wind.
“Let me in, you drunken sot,” he called up. “I’ve need of brandy and your company, my friend.”
“Oh, ho, so that’s the way the wind blows.” Kit’s muffled laughter faded, then the narrow front door squeaked open on unoiled hinges and Marlowe peered out, blinking in mock bemusement. “Why, if ’tis not the most honorable Master Walsingham who deigns to grace my humble abode. Is it a tumble in the sheets you’ve come for, a little ride-a-cock-horse, then?”
“Hold your tongue, you foulmouthed loon.” Thomas pushed past him and stormed up the stairs into the single chamber where Kit wrote, and occasionally slept, and even more occasionally ate. A half-eaten loaf of stale bread stood on the table with a moldering piece of cheese; beside it two empty flagons of wine lay on their sides, two more upon the floor. An overfull chamber pot half-hidden beneath the narrow cot lent its aroma to the general stink.
Thomas looked at Kit as he lounged in the doorway. His hair was a tangled mess, his eyes bloodshot and sunken in his thin cheeks, his countenance bearing an almost febrile flush. “Are you ill, man?” For a moment something other than his own concerns penetrated his anger.
“Not a bit of it.” Kit passed a hand through the air in a nonchalant gesture. “But I have penned some goodly lines, Thomas. You shall hear them.” He went to the rickety table, took up a sheet of parchment, and began to declaim:
Now hast though but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come.
Despite himself, Thomas was riveted. “That does not come from your Tamburlaine,” he stated with conviction.
“No . . . no, of course it does not.” Kit picked up an empty flagon and tipped it up with a mournful air. “Damn it to hell!” He hurled it to the floor. “It comes from my play I shall call Faustus. I have it in mind to write of the devil.” He flung up a hand and cried, “The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.”
He laughed, a drunkard’s laugh, reckless and causeless. “Looking at you, Tom, dear Tom, I would say the devil is already amongst us. You have a look as black as any I have seen this side of hell.”
Thomas hurled his hat to the floor and with an oath reached for Kit. He pushed up his face and kissed him with a roughness that left them both breathless. Then they fell together to the cot in a violent tangle of limbs, oaths mingling with words of desire as their clothes fell to the floor and the white bodies twisted and turned, above and beneath, in the lustful sharing that brought them to the furthest edge of pleasure. And when it was over, Thomas felt purged of rage by the acts of love, and Kit, still drunk, lay on his back, one hand over his eyes, and murmured further lines from his Faustus.