The Noble Assassin. Christie Dickason

the new Danish-born Queen Anne had been married to the King of Scotland, Scotland became her country. Now she was moving again willy-nilly with her husband-King to yet another of his strange kingdoms and another strange tongue. Queen or not, she was a mortal woman with mortal fears and must surely be wondering what, and whom, this new foreign country would bring her.

      If I had my way, it would bring me. Before any other English woman, I would be the first to make her feel welcome in her new country. I would be the first in her thoughts and in her royal gratitude. The first to receive her favour.

      My thoughts drummed in my head with the beat of the horse’s hoofs.

      Edward pretended not to know what I did. If he had seen me at this moment, he would have paled like a slab of dead fish and railed yet again against the day he let his aunt Warwick persuade him to marry me, my modest bloodline redeemed only by the size of my dowry. But now that he had spent my money, the Third Earl needed me to succeed in this venture as much as I did myself.

      When I had been married at thirteen and become Countess of Bedford, I was not fool enough to hope to love a man so much older, with a noble title, no self-control and an empty purse. But secure in my innocence, youthful confidence and the protecting glow of my dowry, I had never imagined that our chief bond would grow to be rage, at circumstances and each other.

      Though I had fought him at the beginning of our marriage, when we still lived at Bedford House in London and were still received at court, my husband’s scorn had burrowed into my head and replaced my childhood nimbleness of mind with a sluggish anger. In the pit of my stomach, I soon began to carry a heavy worm of resentment and guilt.

      I could write verse well enough to be admitted, as an equal, to the company of poets, wits and literary men at court, known as the ‘wits, lords and sermoneers’. Among our other games, we competed to write ‘news’ in set rhythms and poetic forms. But my paper and ink were too costly, Edward said, even before his own stupidity had cost us everything. Why did I imagine that I could write like a man?

      From the first days of our short time at court, he ridiculed my early gestures of patronage. ‘Why waste money that we don’t have on playing patron to cormorant poets and playwrights?’ he asked. Surely, I must know that they wrote their flattering lies only to earn a free meal at my expense!

      And of what use were my languages? We couldn’t afford to entertain anyone, English or otherwise. My closest friend at that time, and fellow poet, Cecilia Bulstrode was no better than a whore. Our former acquaintances of good repute would sneer at our growing poverty. I should concern myself with beds and linens, not the houses that contained them. What other wife created uproar and muddy disorder by building pools and fountains, or wasted money on infant trees when she had not yet produced an infant heir?

      Then his actions put a stop to our life at court, to my literary life and to all my hopes of becoming a patron. After his folly, we could no longer afford even to buy my books, nor strings for my lute and my virginal, nor trees for my gardens. No matter how distant and faint, my singing gave him megrims.

      Because of his treason against the Old Queen, which might have cost him his stupid head, I was trapped with him in exile from court and all that I loved best. Exiled from the place where I was valued, where my skills and education had purpose and employ. The worm of resentment gnawed. The rich life in my head was going quiet. I was losing myself, spoiling from the core like a pear.

      I was already twenty-two years old. The new queen just arrived in Berwick was my chance for escape.

      ‘Why would she favour you when she has all the nobility of England to choose from?’ my husband had asked when I told him what I meant to do.

      I dared not tell him. The avid rumours circulating in London, which had reached me in letters, even in exile from court at our country seat at Chenies in Buckinghamshire, where we then lived. I had heard the same from my dear, faithful friend Henry Goodyear, from the incorrigible gossip Master Chamberlain, and from my friend Cecilia Bulstrode, who collected a terrifying amount of pillow-talk. All three wrote the same vital news. The new queen was said above all else to love drinking, music and dance.

      I kissed their letters in a passion of intent. Tenderly, I refolded them, to trap in the folds their promise of escape from Chenies. All my skills that my husband disregarded would serve me at last.

      My father had educated me like a boy in the Ancient philosophies and languages, including Greek, Latin and a little Hebrew. I spoke French and could write passable verse in both Latin and English. But I also had been taught the female skills. I sang, danced, played the lute and plucked out not-bad original tunes. I could stitch well enough. Like either sex, I could tipple with the best, having learned young (and to the outrage of my mother) how to drink from court poets, musicians, artists and playwrights.

      Even my lowly birth, so disparaged by my husband, would soon be put right. My father, a mere knight, a sweet, gentle man, had just been appointed guardian to the King’s young daughter, the Princess Elizabeth Stuart. A baronetcy was sure to follow soon.

      In short, I would make the perfect companion for a lively young foreign queen who loved to drink, dance and sing – if I could get to her before she chose another.

      In truth, my husband could not lose in permitting me to ride for Berwick. If I succeeded in my aim, I might restore both our fortunes. If I broke my neck in the attempt, I would set him free to seek a wealthier wife. And if I failed, I would give him the pleasure of punishing me with his disappointment for the rest of my life.

       . . . worth the pain . . . worth the pain . . .

      A new time had begun for England with the death of the sour Old Queen and the naming of King James VI of Scotland as her heir. A new time had begun for me, Lucy Russell, the young Countess of Bedford. The new king would not hate my husband, like the Old Queen, for having been fool enough to entangle himself in the Essex rebellion against her. If I succeeded, I would entreat the Queen to ask the new king to end our exile from court. He might even forgive my husband the Old Queen’s punishing fine.

      But I knew that good fortune is not a reliable gift for the deserving. You have to see where it lies and ride towards it. The future will find you, no matter what you do. Why not take a hand in shaping it?

       . . . upon Tweed, upon Tweed . . .

      We crested a hill, broke briefly out of the tunnel of trees, plunged down again, taking the downward slope at a reckless speed.

      Two sets of hoofs drummed and flung up divots of mud. A single armed groom, Kit Hawkins, rode with me. Like me, he was still young enough to delight in the brutal challenge of our shared journey north.

      My knee had set solidly around the saddle horn in a constant blaze of pain. I would scream if I could not straighten it.

      Just a little longer . . .

      You promised the same an hour ago! shrieked my muscles and bones.

      Just another mile, I coaxed, as I had been coaxing myself for most of the day. Then you and the horse can rest . . . for a short time. Less than half a mile now to the next inn . . . a quarter of a mile . . . then a little water for the horse – but not too much. A short rest, no eating for either of us yet or the galloping pace would cramp our bellies as hard as rocks. Then just one more hour of riding, to our arranged stop for the night and the next day’s change of horse.

      And then . . . My thoughts escaped from my grip . . . I would dismount, straighten my leg if it would obey . . . lie down . . . sleep for the night on a soft, soft bed. Sleep . . . lying still, flat on my back . . . on tender down pillows . . . quite, quite still. Not moving a single sinew. Heaven could never offer such pure bliss as that.

      I felt a jolt, something amiss, too quick for me to grasp. The horse buckled under me. Still flying forward, I detached from the saddle and felt the horse’s neck under my cheek and breast. Sliding.

      His poor ears! I thought wildly. I somersaulted over his head.

      Don’t step on me!

      The world rushed past me, upside down.