Kissing Shakespeare (19 page)

S
TEPHEN’S CHAMBER LAY SHROUDED
in darkness, except for the soft light from one candle burning in a wall sconce. I had pulled the settle close to the bed, keeping watch over him through the night. Servants kept the fire going, and Bess draped a coverlet around my shoulders. Every time he stirred, I jumped up to see if his eyes were open. I worried about more than his visible bruises. What about internal injuries, those that no one in these times could even diagnose, let alone treat?

When the sheriff and his men had finally trooped out for good, a servant raised the alarm and soon Will, Jennet, Fulke, and his father found me, still crouched on the floor next to Stephen.

“God have mercy!” Jennet said when she saw him. “Is he awake?”

I shook my head, and hesitated before speaking. Should I ask about ice, or would they all think I was crazy? But I had to try to do what was best for Stephen. “Is there any chance … Do we have any ice?” I finally blurted out.

“Ice? Whatever for?” Master Gillam asked.

“Our healing woman recommends it for swelling and bruises.”

“I shall ask one of the servants to check the underground cellars. I believe there were some large blocks cut last winter.” He turned to a young man and gave some instructions.

“Pray, let’s remove him to his chamber,” I said, glancing at Fulke and Will. “Jennet, can you prepare a … some kind of medicinal potion? Something to ease the pain?”

She nodded and hurried away.

When a servant had brought the ice, I asked that it be broken into small pieces. I wrapped some in a clean cloth and placed it over Stephen’s eyes and nose, catching a few strange looks from those still in the room. Jennet had delivered an infusion of willow bark, which was meant to relieve pain, for Stephen to drink. But so far he hadn’t been awake enough to swallow anything.

Now, curled up on the settle, I had time to think things over. I didn’t understand why Stephen was so set on saving Thomas Cook, when our purpose was to save Will Shakespeare. Not that I wanted the poor man to die or anything. But with Thomas out of the picture, wouldn’t our problem be solved? Shakespeare, free of his influence, could go on his merry way to London and transform himself into the Bard—with a detour to Stratford to marry Anne Hathaway.

Stephen shifted and moaned. I removed the sodden cloth from his face, found a clean one, and wrapped it around some fresh ice. After repositioning the ice pack, I jiggled his arm, hoping he’d wake enough to let me know he would be all right. But nothing. No response. I lowered myself back onto the settle. My eyelids grew heavy and I dozed.

Someone was shaking me, and I jerked awake. Looking up, I glimpsed Bess, her face scrunched into worry lines. It was morning, and an army of people was crowding around Stephen’s bed.

“Mistress, you must go to your chamber. The physician has come to see Stephen.”

The doctor, a short, balding man, turned to me. “Did he drink the infusion?”

My mind was fuzzy, but I remembered that much. “He did not awake enough to drink anything,” I said, shielding my eyes from the morning light.

“The ice did its work, I see. The swelling has eased. I am surprised, mistress, that you knew of such a treatment.” He eyed me suspiciously. Probably thought I was a witch.

Bess gently grasped my arm. “Come now and rest, Mistress Olivia.” She half lifted me off the settle and pointed me toward my room. “I’ll help you wash and change.”

I nodded and glanced toward the bed where the doctor and his assistants were already undressing Stephen. One of the helpers was laying out rags and instruments, and—oh my God—knives. That could only mean one thing.

“Please do not bleed Stephen! He is weak already.”

“Do not worry yourself, my dear,” the doctor said. “ ‘A bleeding in spring is Physik for a King.’ You must allow me to decide how to balance this young man’s humors.”

Near the bed, an assistant stood holding the bowl for catching the blood. The physician thumbed the knife’s edge, which probably hadn’t been washed after the last bleeding, let alone sterilized. I stood silently as he lifted Stephen’s arm and looked for a vein. And then I screamed. “No!”

“Remove that young lady!” the doctor shouted.

Damn them! They’ll probably kill him
. Two of the assistants grabbed my arms and unceremoniously escorted me next door, Bess on their heels.

“Mistress,” one of them said as he led me to my bed. As soon as they left, the floodgates opened.

“Oh, poor thing!” Bess said. She held me while I sobbed for Stephen, for Alexander, who must be locked up in some dank cell, and, okay, for my pathetic and weak self.

“There, now, mistress. You had a hard time of it last night, you and your poor brother. That wicked sheriff! Lord knows what’s happened to the master. But the doctor will look after Master Stephen.”

Right
. He’ll probably bleed to death, or catch some terrible infection from the filthy knife. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

Bess helped me wash and change into fresh clothing. “You can rest now, Mistress Olivia. Or I can bring you something to eat and drink.”

“Nay, I do not wish to rest, and I’m not hungry. I want to see my brother.”

I pushed past her into Stephen’s room as the doctor and his entourage streamed out toward the stairs.

“Sir!” I cried. The doctor turned and gave me a snooty look.

“May I sit with my brother?”

“He is not to be disturbed, mistress.”

I couldn’t help it. My eyes filled with tears.

His expression softened. “Do not fret yourself, child. I believe he will make a full recovery.”

“Thank you!” I said, even though I believed it would be in spite of, not because of, the doctor’s care.

Bess led me away. Back in my room, a young servant girl was setting a tray by the settle, in front of the fireplace.

“I thought you might change your mind about eating, mistress,” Bess said.

I
was
hungry, I realized. So I ate the pottage and drank some of the ale. Afterward, my stomach comfortably full, I stretched out on the bed intending to sleep. But something—someone, actually—was on my mind.
Stephen
. He’d been incredibly brave, taking all those blows without once begging for mercy or revealing anything. And it wasn’t even to protect Shakespeare; it was all for Thomas Cook.

I rolled onto my side, closed my eyes, and pictured Stephen’s face, pre-beating. Hazel eyes shadowed by dark brows. Brown hair curling at his neck. His overlapping tooth, which somehow made him even more attractive. In my mind I traced the contour of his face with my finger, beginning at his jaw. Up over his cheekbone … no, wait, how about over his lips and … 
Oh, God, get a grip, Olivia!

This was not supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to fall for Stephen, but the truth was, I’d felt it coming on for days. I’d known him for three months at home; had acted with him, seen him every day. I had felt nothing for him during that whole time, except a vague curiosity and the certain affinity actors develop for each other during a play. So what had happened?

I’d become a part of his world, his time. I’d been thrown together with him, and he’d turned out to be charming, handsome, and mysterious. It wasn’t those qualities alone, though, that had tipped me over the edge. His personality combined an often maddening mix of cockiness, vulnerability, and kindness. He could be endearing; he could be infuriating. He was sweetly protective of me. Sometimes he seemed like a tortured soul I wanted to wrap my arms around and heal.

Not that I wasn’t captivated by Will’s personality—his lovable nature, his flirtatiousness. And the totally heart-stopping idea that I, Miranda Graham, had been privileged enough to make the acquaintance of the most renowned playwright the world would ever know. I had a connection to Will because of what he would become. He wasn’t there yet, of course, and I wouldn’t have been able to explain it to him if I tried.

Kissing Shakespeare had been sweet, no denying that. But the thought of kissing Stephen left me breathless. As exciting as that prospect was, in a few weeks’ time, I’d no longer be a part of his world. Once I was back in Boston, I’d never see him again. So what was the point of getting all worked up over him?

Was it possible that he felt the same way about me? Of course he didn’t. He’d brought me here to do a job for him; that was all. I had to get my feelings for him under control. At home, I rarely allowed boys to get close. There was no time for it. Always, I’d devoted myself to acting and school, so I could get into Yale. And frenetic runs around Boston, just to ease the tension. I’d had crushes on guys, of course, and a few nonserious boyfriends, but a real relationship had never been on my radar. Now, for the first time, I was experiencing a dizzy, floating giddiness. All because of Stephen. I could keep my feelings for him at bay, just as I’d done with most of the guys who’d ever shown an interest in me. And I reminded myself that I had to. I didn’t have a choice, really, because I’d be leaving.

After a while, sleep claimed me. I dreamed someone was chasing me, calling my name. I was running so fast, my body seemed weightless. My hair fluttered out behind me. I wasn’t scared; I knew it was a game of some kind. When I turned to see who my pursuer was, I fell right into Stephen’s arms.

I woke up reluctantly. Not wanting the dream to end, I burrowed into my bed until reality sank in. Stephen had been beaten up, and instead of mooning over him, I should be finding out how he was doing. I called out for Bess. My hair needed some serious work.

After Bess repaired my hair, I tiptoed over to Stephen’s chamber. I didn’t see any change in him at all. Eyes still closed, face heavily bruised, already beginning to scab over in some places. What did I expect? The sheriff’s men had used him as a punching bag.

I lowered myself onto the settle and thought I should probably try talking to him. Hearing my voice might rouse him. “Well, Stephen,” I began. It felt so awkward, speaking to someone who was unconscious, but I pressed on. “I’m sorry the sheriff beat you up because I didn’t give him the answers he wanted. Please forgive me—I was crazy with fear by the end. I know you probably can’t hear me—”

“Olivia.” His voice was weak, but perfectly clear.

I flew to the edge of the bed. “You’re awake! I was so worried.”

“The doctor pronounced me curable, so you need not worry. And how are you, sweeting?”

I looked more closely at his face. Maybe his eyes weren’t focusing properly. Did he think I was someone else? The mysterious Mary, perhaps?

“Stephen, it’s me, Olivia. Are you okay?”

He smiled, and then grimaced. “I know who you are. I heard what you said to the sheriff, so I thought perhaps you would allow me an endearment.”

What was he talking about? Did he have a head injury? “I don’t understand.”

He snorted and then groaned. “Do not make me laugh, pray. ’Tis painful. You told the sheriff you loved me. Do you not remember?”

My face turned hot, especially given my newly awakened feelings, and I tried to recall exactly what I’d said to the sheriff. “I did not! I said I cared for you. And that was as your sister!” I hoped I didn’t look as rattled as I felt.

“ ‘Cared deeply.’ That is what you said. ‘Cared deeply,’ ” he whispered softly.

I didn’t want to argue with him. Maybe he was delirious or something. “Whatever.”

“I think they might have beat me to death—”

“Really? Maybe I should have let them.”

“—were it not for your insistence that I am a stubborn man. I think after that they gave up.”

“Because you give new meaning to ‘stubborn.’ And nothing I said made much of an impression anyway. If they’d wanted to kill you, they would have. We’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

Stephen closed his eyes briefly before he said more. When he opened them again, he looked up at me. “You were very brave, Olivia.”

“You’re wrong. I cried and whimpered and begged them to stop hurting you.”

“But you told them nothing. I am proud of you.”

“Why’d you do it, Stephen? Why didn’t you tell them what they wanted to know?”