Free His Dark Lady by Victoria Lamb

friend, but there is nothing I can tell you. I am not the fount of anti-Catholic information you think me.’ Goodluck drank deep from his tankard, pretending disinterest. With a shrug, he set to eating his supper again. ‘Though it’s true that sometimes I hear certain things as I go about the city. If you wish me to keep my ears open …’
    ‘Let’s just say, you would be serving your country well if you did so.’
    Goodluck smiled, and wiped his mouth. ‘In that case, Master Parry, you may consider it done.’
    ‘I am glad.’ Parry rose, pulling his cloak about him. He tossed a few coins on to the table; one rolled across and fell on the floor at Goodluck’s feet. Parry jerked his head at Marlowe, like a man summoning his hound. ‘That should cover what we ordered. When the girl comes back, you can tell her we went elsewhere. The ale tastes like gnats’ piss here, anyway.’
    Once the two men had gone, Goodluck bent slowly and picked up the fallen coin. It was a ha’penny.
    Frowning, he turned the small coin over in his hand and stared down at the Queen’s head before throwing it back on to the table.
    What was Parry up to? Despite his patriotic enquiries, it was clear he was not interested in Queen Elizabeth’s fate, nor indeed that of England itself. Philip of Spain had ‘very gallantly’ offered the Queen marriage, had he? Now there was a man who could happily live once more in a Spanish England, as the suffering English had done under Mary’s reign.
    Was it possible that Parry, for all his weaknesses and underhand dealings, could be the traitorous mastermind Goodluck was seeking? The man who had helped fuel the assassination plot at Kenilworth in ’seventy-five and was even now engaged in drawing a secret force against the Queen from within her own court?
    The round-faced serving maid arrived with the unwanted drinks and stared in dismay at the empty chairs. Goodluck explained the situation to her delicately, handing over the money and leaving out the remark about ‘gnats’ piss’. If there was one sure-fire way to get your ale liberally laced with urine, it was to complain to the landlord that it already was.
    The door swung open and Twist came in at last, wrapped in a dripping cloak and looking half-drowned from the violent downpour lashing the city.
    Goodluck waved him over with a sense of relief. ‘Here,’ he said, shaking hands with his old friend. ‘I have a table, and drinks already served. Do you want to eat?’
    ‘I’ve already eaten,’ Twist said, and embraced him. ‘By our Lady, it’s good to see you.’
    ‘And you.’
    ‘I don’t much like this tempest, though. Did you bring it with you from the Continent?’ Twist unwrapped himself gingerly. He was wet underneath the cloak as well. ‘Look at that. I’m soaked through. But here I am complaining about the weather, when you have been several years in a Roman prison. How are you?’
    ‘Older and fatter, for all my captivity.’
    Twist laughed, and leaned back in his chair. ‘It comes to us all in the end.’
    ‘Now don’t go wishing the end on me. I’ve a few years left in me.’
    ‘Amen to that.’ Twist took a swallow of ale without any sign of disgust. ‘This ale is good. Just what I need to take the theatre dust out of my mouth.’
    ‘You’re playing at the Curtain, is that right?’
    ‘For my sins, yes. One show today, another two tomorrow. Sometimes we play at court. No, don’t look so hungry to return. The crowds are huge on a good afternoon and the money is useful, but working in the theatre these days is enough to kill a man. Our masters work us too hard. And then the city fathers accuse players of loose morals, and of keeping a whore in every house between here and Spitalfields.’ Twist laughed. He shook out his sleeves, rearranging the frayed lace cuffs. ‘I ask you, when am I supposed to sleep, let alone fuck?’
    ‘I haven’t had the pleasure myself since returning to London. Though I hear the rate