Love's Labyrinth (29 page)

A shaft of afternoon light fell across the rough plank table. Olivia sat against the wall, stabbing fruitlessly at a piece of embroidery. Every now and then she stuck herself with the needle. She held the linen square out and surveyed it. Between worry about Nicholas and her own inept attempts at sewing, she knew Deb was going to be sorely disappointed with her handiwork. The kindhearted soul had obviously wracked her brain to find an occupation she considered suitable for a lady of Olivia’s supposed stature. She threw it down with a frustrated sigh and rubbed her temples.

“Lady?” Meg’s soft voice broke her reverie. She looked up.

“Yes?”

The girl’s pink cheeks glowed from the heat of the kitchen, and she smiled shyly. “Message come for ye. Mistress said I was to give it to ye. If ye cannot read it, we can send down to the church for the clerk.”

Olivia started at this fresh evidence of how different this time was from her own, then held out her hand. “No, no child. I can read it. Please, give it to me.”

The girl put the folded parchment in her hand and bobbed a rough curtsy. Olivia smiled and carefully opened the folded sheet.

In a labored secretary script, the message read, “Greetings, Olivia. Meet me at the Rose and Quill tavern at the Bishopsgate. Your loving cousin, Geoffrey.”

She rose to her feet. Surely Bishopsgate wasn’t far—nothing in London could be that far. She stared at the script. But why hadn’t Geoffrey come here? Hadn’t Jack said he’d bring Geoffrey here? She looked out the window, frowning. Maybe she’d better ask Deb who’d brought this. If Jack had been going to bring them here, and for some reason they went someplace else, why hadn’t Jack, at least, come for her? Surely Jack would not have stayed behind. The sun was shining brightly and the street bustled with people about their daily routines. Perhaps Deb could find one of the stable boys to escort her. Or maybe it was close enough that she could walk by herself. At least Mistress Deb could answer those questions.

Lounging in the afternoon sun, Warren watched Olivia leave the tavern, a simple shawl clutched close around her shoulders. She looked both right and left, then stepped into the human current that jostled through the street. He followed her as she headed with purposeful steps toward the Rose and Quill tavern.

Darting through an alley shortcut, Warren emerged in time to see Olivia cross the street. He pulled back just as she walked past his hiding place. Swiftly, his arm snaked out and drew her into the alley. A swift chop to her throat rendered her momentarily speechless, and another punch to the stomach doubled her over in pain. He spun her around and raised his knife for a quick under-thrust through the ribs. But his arm was caught by a strong hand, and he looked up—into a surprisingly familiar male face. “You again!” Warren cried, jerking away. It was the same one who’d stopped him from harming the pickpocket a few nights previous.

The young man reached for him, but Warren sped off fleet-footed down the narrow alley. He glanced back over his shoulder, but the man was not in pursuit. He bent instead over the woman, where she knelt, groaning.

Warren stopped behind a stack of crates, took a deep breath, and adjusted his doublet. He ran his fingers through his hair and smoothed his beard while his pounding heart slowed to nearly normal. When he could no longer feel it thumping against his chest, he peeked out from his hiding place and started off. Talcott’s pretty cousin persisted in being a complication. He could feel the pressure begin to rise in his veins. Something had to be done—something soon.

“M’lady? M’lady?” Deb’s rough voice was soft with kindness. “Ah, here you are now.”

Olivia’s eyes fluttered open. Her throat hurt and she ached all over. Deb’s face slowly came into focus. “What—what happened?” she managed to croak. Her throat felt as though she’d tried to swallow a brick.

“Ye were attacked on yer way to the Rose an’ Quill, m’lady. And Master Will saved ye.”

“Master Will?” Olivia repeated painfully.

“Aye, he’s downstairs. He comes here between plays sometimes. I sent to the Rose an’ Quill, lady, but there’s none there who know ye.”

Olivia shut her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“We’ll look into it, lady. Don’t worry yerself on that ‘count.” Deb paused a moment. “But ye were lucky that Master Will happened along when he did.”

Olivia tried to move. Her midsection was sore, and pain radiated across her abdomen. “Very lucky, I’d say.”

“Do ye want to try and get up? Or would ye rather rest here?”

Olivia sat up slowly. “This Master Will, the person who saved me. You said he was here?”

“Aye, he brought ye back here, since he’d seen ye here last night. He’s downstairs scribbling one of his everlasting poems. Forgive me, lady, for not sending one of the lads along wi’ ye. I never thought in broad daylight—”

She broke off, her anxious face creased with concern. “You stay here with us, lady, ‘til your lad comes back fer ye. Are ye feeling up to going downstairs?”

She nodded. “I must—there must be some way to send word to the Rose and Quill.…”

Deb nodded. “I’ll help ye dress, m’lady. And then I’ll roust Dickon’s lazy bones—he’s not good at doing much besides wasting the day away, but a shilling or two might get ‘im going. If ye tell him exactly who to ask fer—are ye sure ye’re up to being about?”

“I’ll be fine, really.” Wincing, Olivia sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She felt battered all over. She felt cautiously at her throat. The skin was swollen and tender, and she knew without looking that she had a bad bruise. Deb helped her down the stairs, guided her to a seat near the hearth, and, with an admonition not to go anywhere, bustled away to the kitchen.

Olivia looked around and met the gaze of a mild-eyed young man, who gnawed a quill, on the other side of the tavern.

At once, the young man smiled, leapt to his feet, and bowed with as much accomplished grace as Nicholas, a bow far more polished than his clothing and ink-stained fingers augured. “I’m pleased to see you looking better, my lady.”

“You are—you’re the one who saved me?” she managed. “Sir, I am most grateful to you.”

“I’m only happy I was able to render you the service, lady. To think in broad daylight…”

Olivia glanced up and out the window, where the street was still sunny, but less crowded in the afternoon heat. “Did you see who it was, sir?”

The young man shrugged and spread his hands. “I could try to recollect a description, but in truth…”

Olivia sighed. In this rough section of London’s streets, a well-dressed woman alone was an attractive target. She’d been foolish to rush out by herself. Jack had been right. “I understand. May I have the honor of your name?”

He bowed again in the same graceful, easy movement as before, and she knew, somehow at once, that he was an excellent mimic. “Will Shakespeare at your service, my lady. Player, poet, aspiring mountebank, and sometime rogue.”

She knew the color drained from her face. The room spun and righted itself as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She stared, helplessly, at the man before her. He could not be more than her own age, she thought, calculating furiously. Born in 1564, dead in 1616, he was now about twenty-three.

“Are you all right, lady? Do I distress you in some way? Should I call for Mistress Deb?” The heavy country burr was mitigated by the gentle manner of his speech.

She swallowed hard. “No—no, not—not at all.”
Stop stammering, you ninny,
she hissed to herself.
You’re behaving like a groupie. And he has no idea why.
“I’m quite all right, really. You, uh, you write poetry, you say?”

“I wrestle with it.” He smiled.

At that she laughed. “How—how did you come to be a player?”

He scratched his head and looked at his nail. “’Tis a simple story, lady, and one without much amusement. Tell me, do you enjoy the theater?”

“Very, very much,” she answered, feeling as though she ought to pinch herself. Her throat gave a throb as she swallowed hard in an attempt to control herself. “Uh, what did you mean, sometime mountebank and aspiring rogue?”

“Aspiring mountebank and sometime rogue, lady,” he corrected with a merry twinkle in his eye. “The words mean all, you know.”

Blessed God, he would say that, wouldn’t he?
She forced herself to smile as casually as she could. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I know.”

He cocked his head, pinning her with a gaze that was as penetrating as it was benign. “May I inquire what you do here, lady? I’ve seen you in the past two days, haunting the inn like an unlikely ghost. You’re waiting for someone?”

She looked up at him.
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,
she thought. She drew a deep breath. “I’m waiting for my—my cousin. Lord Nicholas Talcott. Do you know the name’?”

“Alas, lady, I am ignorant. And where is your cousin that he would leave a lady in—” Shakespeare paused and looked around. “Well, forgive me, but this is not a place much frequented by the gentry.”

“He didn’t leave me here,” Olivia replied. “He’s been detained, I suppose you could say.” “By whom or by what?”

“He was arrested for treason and brought to the Tower. Yesterday.”

At that Shakespeare looked around. He crossed the floor between them in a few long strides, took a chair, and straddled it backward beside her table. “In truth, lady?”

“Aye,” she murmured, thinking of Nicholas. “Unfortunately.”

Shakespeare glanced over his shoulder. “Lady, you are gently born, and should not be here. Good Deb, the landlady, is a decent sort who’ll not take advantage of your bad fortune, but there are plenty around here who would. Do not bandy such a thing about, it you can help it. But a lady like you shouldn’t be alone in London. Have you no friends? No one among the nobles to come to help?”

“His brother—Geoffrey. But he’s in Kent—or he was. I think he’s at the Rose and Quill tavern—my servant went to fetch him. I was there in the Tower, too, till yesterday.”

“Sweet Jesu,” Shakespeare breathed. “What did they think you’d done?”

She shrugged. “They let me go. It’s Nicholas who’s in danger.”

“And you love this Nicholas?” He leaned forward, speaking softly, but his words caught her by surprise.

“Why—” She gave a little laugh. “What makes you say so?”

It was his turn to shrug. “The look in your eyes when you speak of him, perhaps. Forgive me. I have been told much that I should not speak of things which are only shadows in the eyes of others.”

“You see too well, perhaps.”

It was his turn to flush and drop his eyes. “You flatter me, lady.”

Oh, no, I don’t,
she thought.
If only you knew.
“I don’t mean to. It was only an observation.”

“You’re very kind.” He leaned forward again and whispered conspiratorially, “But of what is he accused? What do they say he did?”

“He was arrested for bringing in plans for the invasion of England by Spain. But—he had no part in the plot, he thought he was working for the government… He believed he was helping—oh,” she said in frustration. “No one will believe this.”

Shakespeare frowned. “I will believe it, if you tell me, lady. What exactly has happened?”

Touched by his air of genuine sympathy, Olivia haltingly recounted the story of their trip to Calais, their encounter with the Spaniard, and their subsequent arrest in Dover. “They took me to the Tower, too, but they released me almost at once. And I am very grateful to you, sir, for this was the second time I’ve been attacked.”

“Twice? Since yesterday?” Shakespeare leaned forward with a frown. “In truth, lady, the streets are rough, but twice?” He shook his head and sighed. “Lady, has it occurred to you that someone wants you dead?”

“Me?” Olivia sat back with a troubled stare.

Shakespeare shrugged. “I was here last night when your boy brought you here. And believe me, you didn’t look as though you’d anything worth stealing, save perhaps your clothes. Could it be that someone seeks to take advantage of your state, and is trying to lure you away from this inn?”

Startled at the suggestion, Olivia gazed once more out the window. She knew there was a lively trade in used clothing in sixteenth-century London, but the thought that she could be attacked for the very clothes on her back had never occurred to her. Suddenly the streets outside the window appeared far more menacing than she had ever considered they might be. She remembered Nicholas’s words at the inn that first night in Dover, when he’d essentially stood guard while her bath had been prepared.