The Greatest Lover in All England (23 page)

Dickie knocked over a tankard, splattering his shoes. “I'm a wise man. I know when we go to Newgate and pay for Sir Danny to be fed and given blankets, and the jailers—as greedy a bunch of bastards who ever drew breath—refuse to even accept the money, I know that Sir Danny has been nipped by a great lord, and we're marking ourselves by trying to help him. 'Tis
you
who is
a babe, reaching for the sharp edge of the executioner's blade and pulling away bloody fingers.”

In the battle of eloquent phrases, Dickie had won, and that counted for much with the actors. But Cedric expressed his own conviction in an equally eloquent gastric event. He bowed amid cheers and applause.

In desperation, Alleyn said, “Let someone else do it.”

Cedric closed one eye and pressed his finger to his nose. “What?”

“Aye. Let
anyone
else do it,” Dickie said. “Let anyone else play Ophelia. If we let Rosie do it, we're condemning Sir Danny.”

“We could do that,” Cedric agreed. “'Twould be safer.”

A draft whistled through the room, and William Shakespeare stood in the doorway, his cape wrapped close around his ears. He asked, “But when have we ever done what is safe?”

“Rosie's got to have her chance,” that shy one called from the back.

Will Shakespeare whipped his head around and stared into the shadows. Did he recognize that voice?

“'
Tis
fitting that she should be the one to rescue Sir Danny.” John Barnstaple sounded thoughtful.

Trying to lure further comments from the back, Will said, “I came to tell you. The date is affixed.” Actually, two dates were affixed, but he hesitated to tell them he planned to refuse moneys for a performance of his most notorious, most treacherous play. “The Chamberlain's Men will perform
Hamlet
for Her Majesty on the evening of February eighth, three days hence. We must decide who will play the part of Ophelia for Queen Elizabeth's pleasure, and decide it now.”

“I say Alleyn should play Ophelia.” Dickie waved at Alleyn, posed on the overturned bucket and still as a stone effigy.

“I say Rosie should play Ophelia,” Cedric declared.

“Rosie's not here to present her own case. In sooth, Rosie seems to be nowhere and everywhere, all at the same time.” Shakespeare glanced around intently. “Has anyone here actually seen Rosie?”

One by one the men shook their heads.

“I thought I saw her on London Bridge,” one said. “But she disappeared before I could catch her.”

“I saw something more real than Rosie,” John Barnstaple said. “I saw Ludovic.”

“Ludovic?” Alleyn paled. “That foreign ape is present in London?”

“He is,” John Barnstaple confirmed.

“You aren't afraid of Ludovic, are you, Alleyn?” The voice at the back strengthened and taunted.

“He has a dagger,” Alleyn said, as if that explained everything.

“And a rapier, too.” John Barnstaple spoke in a cajoling tone. “So does everyone else in this city. So what?”

“He'll skin me alive if I take that part from Rosie,” Alleyn said.

“What are you saying?” Will asked. “That you don't want to play the part of Ophelia for the queen?”

Dickie strode to Alleyn and shook him so hard he fell off the stool and landed on his bum. In disgust, Dickie kicked at the shivering bundle. “Get up and declare your desire to act the part.”

“Let Rosie have it,” Alleyn declared, clinging to the leg of a bench. “I would not play it if Queen Elizabeth herself begged me.”

Will swept the room with an all-encompassing stare. In the manner of a judge passing a sentence, he declared, “If Rosie's in London, I say she must present herself to me before tomorrow at noon, or Alleyn will play Ophelia.”

Alleyn moaned.

Everyone started talking at once, and William Shakespeare listened until he heard the door open and close, and knew the bait had been taken. Then he stepped outside into the dark courtyard where thin snakes of fog had begun to slither. The half-moon provided a bit of light, and he'd taken only a few steps when two figures, one slight and one tall, stepped out from beneath the eaves and confronted him.

The large man's very stance bespoke challenge, but William Shakespeare concentrated on the shorter one. A voluminous cape and a large floppy cap made identification difficult. Then she spoke in the diffident tones of the player in the back of the taproom, and her words made him laugh in exultation.

“Uncle Will, I've come to tell you I'm going to act the part of Ophelia.”

 

The sodden atmosphere clung to Tony, but he pulled his hat over his ears and strode along the street. He didn't fear the darkness, so thick he had to rely on senses other than sight. This was what he'd wished for—the opportunity to seek the queen's enemies in the stews and palaces of Londontown. His return had relieved his captain, for although Wart-Nose Harry could handle trouble among the citizens, trouble from the gentry required discretion. Tony protested that his own discretion consisted of a sharp edge on his blade, but Wart-Nose claimed it was a discreet sword point. Now he trotted up Gracechurch Street with Tony, giving his report in troubled tones. “I tell ye, Master, th' lord o' Essex has run wild, an' all th' discontents o' London have run wi' him.”

“That's no news.” Tony sniffed the air, which lightened a little as they moved farther away from the Thames. He should have been perfectly happy. Perfectly
happy, except Queen Elizabeth had banished him, prison had swallowed Sir Danny, and London had swallowed Rosie. On the few times he'd been out, he'd questioned some of Sir Danny's troupe about Rosie's whereabouts, but they all claimed ignorance. He didn't believe them. They seemed to be telling the truth, but they were actors, after all. He'd set spies on them, but he'd had no results as yet, so Tony resolved to check at Cross Keys Inn for his lady. She had to be there. She had to be
somewhere
.

Unless her throat had been slit on her trip to London, or some dockfront madam had captured her and placed her in stock.

Tony shuddered and realized Wart-Nose was talking. “I have a man in Essex House.”

“In Essex House?” Amazed anew at Wart-Nose's ingenuity, Tony asked, “How did you do that?”

“'Twas not hard. Every malcontent in London resides there. Lord Essex, with Lord Southampton, Sir Christopher Blount, and Sir Charles Davers, have determined to surprise the court and the queen's person.”

“Surprise them?” It was no more than Tony expected. “To what purpose?”

“To rescue the queen from evil advisers.”

A glint of white light shimmered across Wart-Nose's grim features, and Tony glanced up. The patchy fog stuck fast across the sky in some places, while in others it drifted, playing dodge with the half-moon. “A traditional formula for English rebels.”

“Essex, with all duty, will tell the queen she must dismiss his enemies.”

“Sir Robert Cecil first, I trow.”

Patient with Tony's interruptions, Wart-Nose agreed. “No doubt. After they are dismissed, and Queen Elizabeth has appointed Essex Lord Protector, Essex will put
his enemies on trial for their lives and afterward summon a Parliament and alter the government.”

“Damn.” The incoming fog gathered on Tony's lashes and brows and trickled down his face. “Is that all?”

“If need be, they will shed Queen Elizabeth's blood.”

The words and the flat tone in which he spoke them froze Tony's feet to the ground. “May they burn in hell, and may I be the one to send them there.” He contemplated the gratifying picture of Essex doused in eternity's fire, then sighed. He feared, even now, that Essex would somehow escape the torment due him. It was true, London adored Essex, but it venerated Queen Elizabeth and had from the day of her ascension to the throne. Might not good sense—not Essex's, Tony never apprehended that—but the good sense of one of his advisers dissuade Essex from open revolt at the last moment? Until Elizabeth's trust in Essex had been completely destroyed, her sovereignty would never be completely sturdy. “Is that all?” Tony asked, half-wistful, half-joking.

“I thought 'twere plenty, Master.”

Wart-Nose sounded stricken, and Tony sighed. He had forgotten the soldier had no sense of humor. “That's more than enough. You've done well, my friend.” Clapping his hand on Wart-Nose's shoulder, Tony continued, “I'll have to find a way to send Queen Elizabeth a message from someone she could not fail to trust.”

A man swirled out of the mist. Tony grabbed his shoulder and slammed him against a wall. Slivers of light slipped through the shutters, revealing Hal, haggard and hollow-eyed. “God's blood, Hal, what are you doing here?” He clutched Hal tighter. “Is something wrong at the manor?”

“Master, please Master.” Hal struggled against Tony's grip. “Ye're hurtin' me.”

Reluctantly, Tony loosened his fingers.

“All is well at Sadler House, but—”

“Odyssey Manor,” Tony corrected.

“Aye, Master.” Hal bobbed up and down. “But I accompanied Lady Honora an' yer sisters.”

“Lady Honora?” Tony remembered the cut and swollen face he'd last seen at Odyssey Manor. Regardless of good sense, he felt responsible for her wounds, and with sincere concern, he asked, “How is that dear lady? Has she recovered from her injuries?”

Hal wiped a drop of moisture off the end of his pointed nose and smeared it on his doublet. “Lady Honora seems t' have returned t' her former self.”

“Ah.” Tony grinned. “Excellent. In sooth, I expected her to rush to Sir Danny's rescue sooner.”

“She got a fever,” Hal reported.

“Poor lady. Have there been any other incidents at Odyssey Manor? Has anyone else been injured?”

“Nay, Master.” Hal sniffled. “Must be ye who causes them. Do ye think ye'll be giving it up?”

“Giving what up? Odyssey Manor?” Tony was shocked. “Never. 'Tis mine until I die. But why are you here? Tonight? In this night of chill and unsavory vapor?”

“The ladies sent me out t' tell ye they'd arrived, an' th' men in th' guardhouse suggested ye'd be here.” Hal's flaming gaze seemed to pierce the mist and see the environs of Gracechurch Street. “Int' this cesspool o' sin.” He tucked his chin down onto his chest and closed his eyes. “I had hoped never t' see it again.”

“Ah, ye're an old London blade.” Wart-Nose sounded sanguine. “I thought I amembered ye, but it's been so many years I doubted me recollections.”

An unhealthy effulgence pocked Hal's complexion with quivering shadows, and he swung on Wart-Nose like an offended saint. “I know scarce about London.”

“Ah.” Wart-Nose nodded, winked, and grinned. “Ye don't want t' recall yer youthful extravagances.”

Hal's breath rasped in his chest. “I had no youthful extravagances.”

“'Twasn't ye, then, who bought a room an' a whore at Tiny Mary's fer a whole month? 'Twasn't ye who raced his horses from one end o' Cheapside t' th' other an' defeated that gentleman-dandy, Raleigh?” Wart-Nose slapped his knee and snorted. “'Twasn't ye who got whittled as a fiddler's bitch when we stole a new barrel o' Frenchie wine an' almost drowned in Houndsditch in an inch o' water?”

“It…wasn't…me.”

Hal loomed over the shorter man, and Wart-Nose said hastily, “Nay, o' course not. 'Tweren't ye. 'Tweren't ye at all.” Hal still hovered, and Wart-Nose cleared his throat. “I've realized me mistake. Stand aside now.”

Recognizing the warning in Wart-Nose's tone and realizing that the younger captain of the guard could easily trounce this unwary steward, Tony laid a calming hand on Hal's shoulder. “You might want to go back now. Lady Honora and my sisters are staying at my town house, aren't they?”

Hal backed away cautiously, as if Wart-Nose were a snarling wild animal. Actually, the reverse seemed true, with Hal harboring a savage torment brought on by Wart-Nose and his jolly memories.

He continued to stare with unblinking intensity until Tony shook him gently. “Where are my sisters and Lady Honora staying?”

Gulping audibly, Hal turned his attention to Tony. “At th' court.”

“The queen will think I set this up,” Tony said glumly. “She'll think I brought my sisters to soften her anger at me.”

“Oh?” Hal brightened. “Is Her Majesty angry with ye again?”

“You sound like a courtier,” Tony grumbled. “Always thinking you'll advance on my trampled body.”

“Nay, sir.” Hal's damp gray hair hung in lanky strands beneath his cap. “I cannot advance in th' queen's affections even after yer fall. I'd have t' be mad t' imagine such a thing.”

Tony wanted to explain that Hal's boorishness would never find favor with the queen, but in the last few months, Hal had aged before his eyes, trembling in a constant palsy and muttering to some unseen companion. Nay, Tony had no wish to distress Hal. He would have to retire him to the stables soon, and that would torment Hal enough.

In the silence, Tony heard a distant conversation. Although the saturated air muffled most of it, he could occasionally pick out a word, a tone, a voice, and he stiffened.

It sounded like Rosie.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Woulda sworn ye were th' man,” Wart-Nose murmured.

“Am not!” Hal flared.

“Sh.” Tony strained to hear, and once again detected the clear bright tones that beckoned like a lighthouse through the fog.

“Wonder where ye got th' money,” Wart-Nose mused.

“It wasn't me!” Hal sprang at him, and they hit the ground fighting.

Abandoning them to their quarrel, Tony ran silently down the street toward Cross Keys Inn. The voices he followed faded in and out, wafting on the breeze, then sinking with the mist. He entered the courtyard of the inn, but its emptiness mocked him. He'd overshot, he realized, and he returned to the street and stopped to
listen. At first he heard only the noise of merriment and quarrel that leaked through the shutters at the inn. Then, beneath the carefree sounds, he heard the scurry of stealth, and his suspicions multiplied. Using the skills honed in Her Majesty's service, he scanned the area with an instinct that depended on nothing more than a scent on the wind and a touch of faith.