The Noble Assassin. Christie Dickason

what to take with me. I examine worn cuffs and finger torn lace ruffs. One pair of heeled shoes, in which I had once danced before the whole court, had been mended twice and the leather of the toes rubbed nearly through.

      I imagine the aghast astonishment of my former protégés, the poets, artists and musicians who had once received my generous patronage.

      Or worse: no longer being of use to them, I might have turned invisible.

      The thought of being pitied makes me hot. My skin burns as if I have a rising ague.

      ‘Poor thing!’ I could hear a woman whisper it, the Rutland girl, or one of the acid-tongued Howards. ‘She may have risen to become a countess, but look where it got her.’

      ‘An invalid husband, mended shoes . . .’ says another voice.

      And the constant search for someone to loan us more money.

      My skin has grown thinner, I think as I stitch a loose strip of gold sequins back onto the front panel of a petticoat.

      ‘If I brush this carefully, it will serve, don’t you think?’ says Agnes, holding up a hat of Muscovite beaver fur.

      I nod as I bite off the thread.

      Once, I would not have cared. But now, unprotected by the love of my queen or my poet, I feel an urgent need for at least one new gown to face both my enemies and my friends who remain at Whitehall.

      ‘You too must have a new gown,’ I tell Agnes. ‘Madam.’ She curtsies and tries not to look too pleased, but the severe planes of her face rearrange themselves into something like a smile. Though her husband had been a knight, his estate was sold to pay old debts and she now depends on me for survival.

      I glance at the patched soles of her shoes where she kneels by a chest. I need a pair of new shoes, I think. We both need new shoes.

      So much for my ‘learned and masculine soul’, once praised by Master Jonson. But, as I have said, we are impure creatures. Only saints and demons can be entirely consistent.

      Then Agnes shakes her head. She knows most of my secrets, good and bad. ‘Where will you find the money, madam?’

      ‘Watch me,’ I say.

      I fetch one of Edward’s old doublets that I had filched from his chambers. He has not worn it since his exile from court by the Old Queen for his entanglement in the Essex rebellion, seven years after our marriage – when he was old enough to know better. He would never miss it now.

      I pull my little knife from where it hangs on a ribbon under my skirt.

      I begin to cut off the jewelled buttons on the front of the doublet.

      At least, this is not your foolish head, I think as I slice off the first button with my knife. You had a lucky escape from the scaffold. Though the fine of five thousand pounds imposed by the Queen had begun our ruin. And his exile had made it impossible for him to acquire all the money he’d borrowed to pay back the fine.

      I give the button to Agnes, who sets it carefully on the table.

      I saved us once before . . . with my ride to Berwick . . . I slice off another button.

      I shall have to do it again . . .

      Another button off.

      Whether you want me to, or not.

      This one jumps from my fingers and rolls away under my bed. Without losing a fraction of her lean, straight-backed dignity, Agnes sinks to the floor in a pool of skirts, presses her head to the side of the bed and extends her arm into the dark space beneath.

      I cut off another button. ‘I have it!’ cries Agnes in triumph. She unfolds upwards, puts the escaped button beside the others on the table, shakes her skirts and begins to pick dust kittens from her sleeve.

      ‘Thirteen,’ I count. We look down at the glittering line of small golden baskets, woven from gold wire, each set with a diamond.

      ‘Lucky thirteen,’ she says. ‘If you believe such things.’

      One button buys me rich golden taffeta a little darker than my hair and the making of it into a court gown in the latest style, with a soft farthingale and embroidered sleeves. Two more buttons buy a gown for Agnes, and new saddlebags for me, along with a new side-saddle to replace the old one that is stained with sweat, patched, and has a girth as crumpled and limp as an old stocking. The other ten, I put into a purse against the expenses of London.

      Losing your position at court . . . I tighten the cord around the neck of the purse . . . means losing all the means by which money can be made. You no longer receive fees for granting licences, patents, monopolies. You might lose all the rights formerly granted to you – the income from harbour fees and taxes on imported goods. You lose the gifts of gratitude given in exchange for favours, like access to the Queen, or a kind word spoken into a powerful ear, or finding a position for a young female cousin as a lady-in-waiting, or placing a young son as a groom in a noble house. You can no longer grant favours for favours in return.

      I tie the purse around my waist and tilt my Italian glass to be certain that my petticoats hide the bulge.

      Voilà! No purse.

      A week later, while my maid Annie, assisted by my chamberer, makes piles of clean linens and matches stockings, I start to pack a few books into my travelling chest. To Lucy Russell, Countess of Bedford, begins one of them. To the Countess of Bedford, begins another. And, To My Golden Mistress . . .

      The only verses I truly value have been written but not yet published.

      To the Most Esteemed . . . I snap the book closed and return it to the cupboard.

      A poor woman cannot serve as patron to poets and playwrights. A poor woman is not called ‘the Morning Star’ or ‘Brightest star in the Firmament’ in exchange for putting food on a poet’s table.

      But poverty means more than merely losing the flattery of your protégés. Or even scrimping to buy feed for your horses or the lack of fashionable gowns. It means hopelessness. It blocks the means by which you can hope to prosper and progress. Poverty closes doors. It stitches up your pockets so that no money can enter them. It dulls your senses and your wits with constant grinding need.

      I know that I should be grateful. Compared to a beggar, I am rich.

      I know that the soul should rise above such worldly concerns. It should console you for lack of material goods by a richness of the mind and hope for the Next Life. But in truth, I have never met an artist or poet who did not tell me that poverty crowds out the imagination and dulls the action of the wits with its endless round of the petty problems of daily survival. I share their conclusion.

      On the other hand, I think as I brush the feathers on my beaver hat, if you’re poor, no one marries you for your money. I try on the hat and assess my reflection in my glass.

      Plausible, though not impressive. If I squint, I can ignore the tracks of Time on my face. Praise God, my hair still keeps its original bright red-gold.

      I set the hat on top of my folded winter cloak.

      My route is not yet clearly mapped, but I know where I am headed. I can take the first step.

      To London.

      I will let the whispers and raised eyebrows in Whitehall roll off me like water off wax.

      And then . . . when I have found Elizabeth and brought her back, and we are close again . . . The excuses and closed doors that drove me away from court will be retracted and opened again. And I will forgive, or not, as I decide. Lucy Russell, born a Harington, is not finished yet.

      When I am ready, I go to Edward’s chambers. He looks up from his brooding examination of his fire, startled to see me there. His old nurse pauses in her folding and smoothing of a shirt to glare at me.

      ‘I leave for London tomorrow,’ I say. ‘All is arranged. I will send back word how the house and gardens have been