Free Her Last Assassin by Victoria Lamb Page B

reached it, blind and deaf to everything but the terrible grief racking her body.
    ‘Robert!’ she cried in a strange, high-pitched voice, rocking back and forth like a child, her face hidden in her hands. ‘Why have you forsaken me? Robin, ah Robin!’

Five

    H ER FACE VEILED , Lucy held the difficult pose as long as possible after the strains of music had died away, her arms lifted wide in a gesture of triumph, her gaze on the Queen. Her lavish costume of cloth of gold with a vast overarching ruff and wing-like sleeves was meant to signify an angel, while the lords and ladies posed about her were white-robed shepherds, Magi in exotic cloaks and turbans, and cherubim or lesser angels with golden trumpets set to their lips.
    ‘Bravo!’ cried the Earl of Essex, who had been kneeling by the Queen’s side throughout the performance. Now he came gracefully to his feet, glancing about the assembled court in the Palace of Whitehall, and clapped his hands in a clear signal for applause.
    The court stood silent, looking at the Queen expectantly.
    Elizabeth sighed, but said nothing.
    It was the first time the Earl of Essex had arranged the Queen’s traditional Christmastide pageant without his stepfather’s assistance. Perhaps it had not met with Her Majesty’s approval.
    ‘The tableau is very fine. It reminds me of another pageant, another Christmastide …’ the Queen murmured, looking straight at Lucy. Her voice tailed off into silence.
    ‘Your Majesty?’
    Helena offered her a jewel-studded goblet and the Queen took it absentmindedly, though she barely sipped at the wine before handing it back.
    Queen Elizabeth straightened on her cushioned seat and turned to look at the earl in some consternation, as though suddenly remembering where she was. Behind her elaborate headdress, a rich red backcloth glittered with gold thread, embroidered with a lion rampant. Next to such finery, the Queen’s face seemed whiter and more paper-thin than ever.
    ‘You arranged all this yourself, Robert?’
    ‘I did, Your Majesty.’
    ‘You have done well.’ Elizabeth set her hands together briskly, and the rest of the court followed, their applause rising to the rafters of the high-ceilinged hall. Her smile seemed to be for his lordship alone. ‘I am pleased, my lord.’
    Lucy was able to move at last, turning with the other performers to bow before the Queen.
    For a moment she had feared the Queen might be returning to that state of despair and apathy that had haunted the court in the aftermath of Leicester’s death. For after hearing the news, the Queen had locked herself in her bedchamber for several days, weeping as violently as a woman widowed, and had refused to respond.
    Eventually Lord Burghley had ordered the door broken. They had found Queen Elizabeth inside, lying pale on her bed, staring at nothing. For days afterwards she had not spoken, in a trance of despair over her favourite’s death. Yet she had rallied at last, taken proper food, and sat stony-faced with her councillors to discuss the funeral arrangements.
    The crisis had been over.
    Yet even now it seemed to Lucy that Her Majesty sometimes mistook the earl’s passionate young stepson for Leicester, for the two Roberts had been very alike. So alike, many believed Leicester to be his natural father, though none would have dared stir Essex to wrath by suggesting this calumny aloud, not least because it would make him a bastard.
    The musicians had begun to play again, a light and lively tune that soon had even the Queen tapping her foot.
    ‘Your Majesty!’ The Earl of Essex approached the Queen, his hand outstretched, his smile teasing. ‘Would you do me the very great honour of partnering me in this dance?’
    With a pearl in his ear, Essex looked rakish and even more like Leicester than ever, Lucy thought, watching the Queen return the young man’s smile.
    Even Elizabeth seemed younger when she was with him, her cheeks suddenly flushed, her eyes sparkling. He