Kissing Shakespeare (11 page)

“What if I can’t pull it off? Jennet’s gorgeous. She’s always hitting on him, but has Will even noticed? He treats her like a friend. If she can’t tempt him, I don’t stand a chance.” Without warning, I felt on the verge of tears.
Idiot! Don’t cry
.

“Olivia.” Stephen gently pressed my hand. “Have you looked at yourself in a glass lately?” My lips were trembling a little, so I didn’t answer.

“Do not look down; look at me,” he said. “You are lovely. Beautiful.”

I didn’t want to raise my head, because I knew my tears would overflow. But Stephen forced me to by cupping my chin with his hand. “No. I’m ordinary looking, Stephen. Maybe your idea of beauty is different from mine.” I blinked, and the tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn’t even know why I was crying.

“Do not cry, Olivia,” he said, rubbing his thumbs across my face. Of course, that just made the tears flow faster.

Get a grip, for God’s sake
. I didn’t speak for a minute. Stephen produced a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to me. I blotted my face and finally felt enough in control to go on.

“Besides, we may not even have a problem. I just heard Will tell Thomas that he was too ‘cowardly’ to … martyr himself. And he didn’t seem at all interested in the priestly life. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about.”

“If that were so, we—you—would not be here. I brought you here for a reason.”

“I’m never alone with Will, even to speak to him. What do you expect me to do? Sneak into his chamber after everyone’s gone to bed?”

“If necessary. But I believe the coming days will afford you more opportunity. Tomorrow is Easter, a feast day with much celebrating. Mayhap you could lure him away for a time.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, that should be easy,” I said, giving him back his handkerchief.

“Enough of this for now,” he said. “Come, let’s walk.”

We headed back to the path toward the front of the house. Rounding the corner, I noticed a stable boy holding the reins of a couple of horses. As we walked under the keep and into the garth, Jennet and a man I’d never seen before were walking toward us from the outer courtyard. She hurried to keep up with him.

“That must be Jennet’s father,” Stephen said.

Master Hall was dressed all in black, with a modest white ruff around his neck. He wore a square hat similar to the one the minister in Preston had worn. Although he obviously intended to pass us without a greeting of any kind, Stephen practically jumped into his path.

“Good morrow, sir,” he said, bowing. “I am Stephen Langford, Master Hoghton’s nephew. May I present my sister, Mistress Olivia Langford.”

I curtsied, and he bowed brusquely, removing his hat. “Matthew Hall. I am Jennet’s father.”

Master Hall had a broad face with a square jaw. His bushy eyebrows arched above hard eyes. Before replacing his hat, he ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. Jennet, who looked completely miserable, must have taken her coloring from her mother’s side, I thought.

“I’ve come to fetch the girl home for Easter,” he said, nodding toward Jennet. “Come along, Daughter. We must make haste to be home by supper.”

Jennet’s face colored. Her eyes darted toward us, then quickly away as she mutely followed her father toward the horses.

“He’s scary,” I said. “And he seems awfully cold to Jennet.”

“Puritan minister,” Stephen said, scorn in his voice.

“Is that bad?” I asked. “Puritans founded the Massachusetts Bay Colony, you know.”

“That is in the future.”

I must have looked bewildered, because he said, “It has not occurred yet, Olivia.”

Of course it hasn’t
. “Well. It’s near Boston. The Puritans left, will leave England, because they were persecuted.”

“They make their own trouble. Nothing is pure or godly enough to suit them. They aren’t content with the dismantling of churches and monasteries, and abolishing the Catholic faith. Even the Book of Common Prayer is too papist for them.”

“But they have a right to their beliefs.”

“Certainly they do. But they do not have a right to force everyone else to believe the same, which is what they would like to do.”

As soon as he said that, I remembered learning about the Salem Witch Trials in American History. Stephen was right. The Puritans had been pretty extreme in their views, and more than a little judgmental.

Stephen’s voice smacked of bitterness. “In truth, nobody knows how to worship anymore. After Henry VIII died, his son Edward forced a rigid Protestantism on the citizens. Then Mary, who reigned after Edward, went back to Catholicism. She was a zealot—burned hundreds at the stake. And now, under Elizabeth, we must all be Protestant again.”

“I just don’t understand this time,” I said.

“Is it really so different from your own?”

I thought about it. Al Qaeda and 9/11. Palestinians versus Israelis. In America, conservatives against liberals. Not waging war, though. But overall, I saw his point. “I guess not,” I reluctantly admitted.

That afternoon, I glanced out the window and noticed dozens of people milling around in the courtyard. Curious, I took Copernicus outside to play fetch. I threw sticks and he dashed after them, dropping them at my feet. I knelt down to pet him and looked into his kind, trusting eyes. Impulsively, I grabbed him and pulled him close. He nestled his head against me, and I thought how good it felt.
I’m hugging a dog. How pathetic is that?
I shot to my feet, brushing off my petticoats. Recognizing one of the servants, I walked over and gestured to the crowd.

“Who are all these people, Andrew?”

“They are come to … that is … they are here for—”

“Never mind,” I said, because I caught a glimpse of Thomas Cook at one of the doors. He was dressed like a monk, in a brown, wool robe. Someone was leaving, and Thomas gripped his shoulder and said something to him. I couldn’t hear the words, but they’d brought a smile to the listener’s face. A woman stepped forward and followed Thomas Cook through the door. Thomas, it seemed, had many followers.

I whistled to Copernicus and headed back to the house. Tomorrow was Easter, and I figured I’d find out a lot more about Master Cook.

I
AWOKE TO A TAPPING
on the passage door. When I rolled over, there was Stephen, holding a candle and wearing a smock nearly identical to the one I slept in. I had to fight down a giggle.

“Olivia, ’tis time to rise. You must prepare for Mass.” He lighted the taper on a table near my bed with his own.

“What time is it? It’s still dark.”

“Near dawn,” he said. “Pray ready yourself quickly.”

I groaned. Once he’d gone, I hopped out of bed onto a small rush mat, shivering in the cool air. Bess had set out my clothes last night. After dressing hastily, I stepped over to the basin and pitcher. The water was warm, and I realized she must have brought it in when I was still asleep. I’d found out that the door in my back wall led to the servants’ work area, so Bess—or anyone else who wanted to—could sneak in that way.

I splashed my face, washed my hands, and rubbed at my teeth with a cloth and the icky goop that passed for toothpaste. From the scent, I figured out it was herbal, with something abrasive mixed in. It tasted evil, whatever it was. After brushing my hair, I covered it with a fancy headpiece called a French hood. Then I grabbed my cloak and met Stephen in his room.

We walked down the back staircase into the passage that led to the banqueting hall. “I think the chapel is through here somewhere,” Stephen said when we’d reached the far end of the hall.

“You must have been in it before.” I was definitely annoyed at being awakened before dawn.

“Not since I was a child, and then I would have been guided by my father.”

After descending a few steps, we continued down a darkened hallway. At the end of the hall, a heavy door swung open, and we entered the chapel. Lots of people, crammed together awkwardly, stood or knelt on the hard stone floor.
Where were the pews? I had to stand for a whole hour?

The room was alight with dozens of tapers, illuminating statues of the saints, paintings of the Virgin Mary and the Christ Child, and religious regalia. Deep reds, silver and gold, the blue of the Virgin’s robes, merged into a panoply of colors and movement. Before an altar at the front, Father Thomas Cook, today dressed in a plain white robe, knelt with his head bowed. Stephen had told me that when I’d seen Thomas yesterday, he was probably hearing confessions. That would explain why so many people had been waiting in the courtyard.

Stephen led me into the room and we found a place to squeeze in. He crossed himself, and I did the same. Immediately, Fulke Gillam threaded his way to the front and began to sing in a haunting, high-pitched voice. His face looked sweet, almost angelic. The music reminded me of a medieval chant, the sound echoing off the walls and filling me with a mystical sensation. To know that we were worshiping in secret, maybe risking our lives, made my stomach clench.

When Fulke’s song ended, the Mass began. Thomas Cook turned to face the worshipers.

“
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
. Amen.”

“Amen,” I whispered. I glanced around to see who else was in attendance. Alexander and his wife, of course. Next to Fulke and his father stood Will Shakespeare. Bess, and some other servants I recognized but couldn’t name, clustered together. A few people who’d been at the dance my first night at Hoghton Tower were there too. Just then I felt fingers biting into my arm, Stephen’s customary way of getting my attention. Everyone had dropped to their knees, so I followed suit.

I’d been to Mass a few times with friends, but this was in Latin and harder to follow. Fulke sang a few more times, Thomas read from the Gospels, and finally there was a long set of prayers and responses leading up to Communion. I had to participate, even though I felt like God might strike me down since I wasn’t a Catholic. Receiving Communion under false pretenses must be a major sin.

When it was my turn, I imitated what I saw the others doing. Opening my mouth, I stuck my tongue out a little and accepted the bread, keeping my eyes lowered. But Thomas Cook’s powerful gaze drew my face up and compelled me to meet his eyes. It was as if he knew me, knew the truth, and saw through the whole ruse Stephen had so carefully planned. No man could have that kind of power. I blinked, and he passed on to the next person.

Easter was a huge celebration in Elizabethan England. We were to have a great feast, and there were games planned for this afternoon. I started salivating as I neared the banqueting hall, inhaling the scent of roasting meats wafting through the passageways. We sat, and the servants began bringing overflowing platters of meats. Roast beef, veal, and legs of mutton. Later came turkeys and chickens, and other, smaller birds I couldn’t identify.

“Eat heartily, my friends,” Master Hoghton exhorted after the blessing. “The end of Lent and fasting; the beginning of spring and feasting!” He raised his glass, and the rest of us joined in. Thomas was in his usual place, having shed his priest’s outfit for a doublet and hose.