The Greatest Lover in All England (24 page)

He prowled back up Gracechurch Street. He could hear nothing from Hal and Wart-Nose, but he saw—or felt—a presence lurking in the shadows of the herb market. Casually he strolled by, inviting attack.

Nothing happened, and his conviction that he'd found Rosie soared. Doubling back again, he crept up to a large and shadowy figure, and with dagger drawn, he pounced.

The arm he caught was heavy with muscle, and the figure was as tall as Tony. “Help! Thief!” the man called, and his deep voice brought forth a curse from Tony.

“Shut your maw, you silly sot. I'm not going to steal from you. I'm the master of the Queen's Guard.”

“That's no promise.” His prisoner stumbled as if drunk. “You could be the worst of the bunch, and no one to catch you when honest folk complain.”

Again he stumbled, and Tony smelled his breath. No bitter scent of beer or ale stained his exhalations, and a stinging suspicion pricked Tony by the neck.

Someone was behind him. Whirling around, he again stretched out his senses, seeking his quarry, wanting Rosie more than safety or duty or desire.

“The master of the Queen's Guard?”

The man behind him spoke, and Tony shushed him harshly.

“Aren't you Sir Anthony Rycliffe, the famous soldier for Her Majesty?”

Tony reached around and grabbed the loquacious fellow by the throat.

The stranger choked, then freed himself with a twist. “I've information about the earls of Essex and Southampton.”

“Curse your eyes!” Furious with the mischance that brought him the only information capable of staying him from his pursuit, he called, “Wart-Nose.” No one answered, and he cursed again. Had Hal and Wart-Nose murdered each other? A likeness of Hal, face pasty and eyes aflame, passed through his uneasy mind, but he couldn't abandon his duty to rescue Wart-Nose, if he needed rescuing, any more than he could chase Rosie, if Rosie was whom he chased.

To the man huddled against the wall, he commanded, “Tell me.”

“My name is William Shakespeare.”

Tony remembered Rosie's praise. “The playwright and actor.”

With smug self-consciousness, he said, “You've heard of me.”

More suspicious than ever, Tony agreed. “I've heard of you. Have you heard of me?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Have you heard that I will rip off the head of the man who distracts me from my pursuit of Lady Rosalyn Bellot?”

The craven fellow stammered, “Sir, I assure you, I do not seek to distract you from any pursuit.”

“Ha.”

“I didn't know whom to approach with this development, and you simply appeared like a gift from God to the stability of the kingdom. If you must go, I beg of you, then go. I'll seek out another.”

William Shakespeare straightened his cape and pre
pared to depart. Gritting his teeth, Tony stopped him. “Tell me.”

Shakespeare capitulated with suspicious ease. “I had a message from my patron, Lord Southampton, that the Chamberlain's Men should perform my play,
Richard II
, on Saturday, and I have reason to know they wish it performed, not for its brilliant prose, but for its seditious material.”

“You wrote a seditious play?”

“I wrote a historical play,” William Shakespeare corrected. “It simply tells of the circumstances in which King Richard was deposed by his cousin, Bolingbroke. When I wrote it, I wrote it for the glory of England, to exult in the line which produced our beloved Queen Elizabeth. Od's bodkin, man, it passed the censor, but now…would to God I had never written it. It's caused me nothing but trouble.”

“And landed your friend in prison.”

Tony watched William Shakespeare for any sign of discomfort, but Shakespeare confounded him by crying, “Sir Danny Plympton? Do you know the plight of Sir Danny Plympton?”

“How could I not? 'Twas my plan which led Sir Danny to Newgate.”

“
Your
plan?” Shakespeare looked puzzled, then shook his head. “I assure you, Sir Danny landed himself in Newgate. He blew into London with all the discretion of a blizzard. He roared and bragged, telling everyone—on their promise of secrecy, of course—that he was Essex's downfall and the queen's savior.”

“Certes, that's Sir Danny for you.” What manner of man would hug the secret of Rosie's inheritance to his bosom, yet sacrifice his own safety for brief, bombastic glory?

Shakespeare answered Tony's unspoken questions
when he said, “I've known Sir Danny for years, and I assure you, he ever has played the part of a beneficent god.”

Tony hadn't known Sir Danny for years, but he'd glimpsed the vision which drove the man, and he corrected Shakespeare firmly. “Nay, 'tis not a part he plays, but a dazzling belief in his own purpose on this earth. God grant he fulfills it.”

“Amen.” But Shakespeare sighed dolorously.

“I also know Lady Rosalyn Bellot, daughter of the late earl of Sadler.”

Shakespeare cocked his head back and forth, curious as a sea gull served grubs on a silver platter. “I don't know Lady Rosalyn. Who is she?”

Skeptically, Tony added, “You would perhaps know her as Rosencrantz.”

“Rosencrantz is Sir Danny's adopted son. He is not—” Shakespeare did his sea gull act again. “Are you trying to tell me Rosencrantz is a girl?”

“Not a girl,” Tony corrected. “A woman. My betrothed. The woman who agreed to marry me, then ran off.” He watched Shakespeare closely. “The woman who may carry my babe.”

The bird act stopped. Everything stopped. Shakespeare stared at him unblinkingly. “Your babe?”

“Whom I'd like to see born in wedlock.”

“Your babe?” Shakespeare dropped his head back and banged it on the wall behind. Under his breath, he muttered, “She never said…”

Tony could have jumped for joy. Here was proof. She was alive. Rosie was alive. She'd been in communication with her Uncle Will, and would be again, no doubt. He'd set his men to watching the London theaters and all the inns frequented by actors, and he planned to have Rosie in his custody before Essex
made his move. Then Tony could concentrate on arresting Essex and freeing Sir Danny. Then he could be wed and his son would be born in the big bed in his bedchamber. Or on the desk where he had been conceived.

Meanwhile, Shakespeare looked so stiff it seemed his sea gull had swallowed a piece of splintered driftwood. “If I see Rosencrantz, I will certainly pass on the message you're looking for her.”

“If you see Rosencrantz”—Tony threatened with a smile—“tell her the world will be minus one playwright if she doesn't return to me.”

Shakespeare grimaced and stirred uncomfortably. “You may be sure I won't forget. But Sir Anthony, none of this treats with my problem, which is—what excuse should I give Southampton for refusing to perform the play? He sent a decent sum of cash, forty shillings, and actors never refuse cash. He knows that very well.”

“Do the play, then.”

Shakespeare laughed briefly with bitter humor. “Nay, I'll not help provoke an insurrection.”

“But it would be a most important provocation,” Tony said. “Don't you see? Until Essex and Southampton break into open rebellion, the queen will continue to tie my hands and refuse to let me act. But if all signs point to a successful uprising, Essex and Southampton will take the bits in their teeth and gallop toward the Tower of their own accord.” Tony chuckled softly at his uncontrived analogy. “Perhaps the women are right. Perhaps all men
are
divided into geldings and stallions.”

Crouched tight against the rough plaster wall, Rosie wanted to laugh. If men were divided into geldings and stallions, she knew in which group to place Tony. She placed her hand on her belly. He'd done his work too
well, and damn him for being so certain of it. Damn him for bragging to Uncle Will about it. At the moment of Tony's grand unveiling, she'd thought her secrecy was lost. She'd thought Uncle Will would reveal her hiding place and insist on marriage, here and now.

Only the brotherhood of the actors protected her, and she knew when next she saw Uncle Will he'd be furious at being so manipulated. Her only excuse
was
her pregnancy. Now when she needed all her well-being, all her wit, fatigue and nausea plagued her. Their babe grew within her, and she blamed the babe for these moments of doubt.

Why else, when all her plans were coming to fruition, did she want to run into Tony's arms? Why did she want to tell him about their child, rejoice with him, and do the easy thing rather than the right thing?

Beside her, Ludovic stirred. He suspected her sentiments, she knew. Since the moment he'd found her on the road, he'd been the rock on which she leaned. He'd helped her get to London, engaged separate quarters for them at the Bull Inn, scouted out Sir Danny's situation, and supported her when she hatched her plan to perform for Queen Elizabeth. It had been Ludovic who had spread the word among the acting community that she wanted to play the part of Ophelia, and Ludovic who accompanied her to the Cross Keys Inn so she could participate in the debate.

It had been Ludovic who realized Tony approached, and Ludovic who had concealed her and persuaded Uncle Will to distract Tony—although persuaded seemed to be too mild a word.

Ludovic had been silent and stoic about her relationship to Tony, and she'd been too wary to ask if he knew the cause behind the accidents at Odyssey Manor. If he
were
the cause of the accidents at Odyssey Manor.

It had been odd, to depend on a man she suspected of attempted murder, but more than once she'd caught him looking at her as if she were his last chance of redemption. She tried to be worthy of his worship; she tried not to encourage him to love her.

Both causes were hopeless.

Behind her, Ludovic tensed when they once more heard the sound of hurrying feet.

“Wart-Nose!” Tony exclaimed. “Did you teach Hal a lesson, or did he teach you?”

Hal? The steward Hal? Rosie could have groaned. Was all of Odyssey Manor traveling to London to plague her?

“That man stinks o' deceit,” Wart-Nose said. “That face o' his looks well lived-in, but I'd swear he abided in London fer a few glorious months fifteen, twenty years ago.”

Rosie hung her head and shrank, shivering, against the wall.

“Let's find out,” Tony said, his tone chillingly calm. “Where is he?”

“Dashing his arse toward the river, last time I saw him,” Wart-Nose said, and he sounded very pleased with himself.

“Returning to Whitehall Palace, I trow.” Tony's voice moved down Gracechurch Street toward the Thames. “I'll find him there.”

“
If
Her Majesty invites ye back.”

“Oh, Her Majesty will invite me back.”

Rosie frowned. How pleasant to note her defection hadn't dented Tony's conceit.

“From the report you and this worthy playwright have given me, there'll be work for the master of the Queen's Guard, and very soon.”

Uncle Will's voice sounded faint. “So you do believe
the lords will stage an insurrection after we perform the play?”

“I do.”

“My heart swells with shame that my work can be used for harm.” Uncle Will repeated, “My heart swells with shame.”

Then Rosie heard nothing. She waited until she knew no one remained within earshot. Rising slowly, she shook the kinks out of her limbs and whispered, “I think they're gone. Don't you?”

No one answered, and she said, “Ludovic?”

Still no answer, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. “Ludovic.” She whirled around, groping in the dark, but Ludovic was nowhere to be found, and Rosie was all alone in Londontown.

Sir Danny's shriek
rose through the air like a living thing, pleading for mercy in its very intensity. “No more.” He sobbed. “No more.”

“Ye have t' have a bath afore ye see Her Majesty.” The rough soldier repeated the same thing he'd been saying for the last hour. “If ye'd stop struggling, we'd be done by now.”

“You're lying.” Three burly men-at-arms pushed Sir Danny under the water to wash the soap from his hair, and Sir Danny knew this time they would hold him under too long. But they let him up, and he screamed, “You're lying. This is just another torture you're inflicting before you take me to the gallows.”

“Her Majesty doesn't like evil odors. She has a very sensitive nostril, ye understand, an' ye smelled o'
Newgate Prison.” The rough soldier nodded at his compatriots, and they lifted Sir Danny free of the tub and set him on his feet.

Sir Danny collapsed, too weak with hunger and fear to stand. His rump missed the reeds scattered on the floor and hit cold stone, and he suddenly found the strength to rise. “Hark!” he croaked. “I serve Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth however she demands, and if my life is forfeit, I give it gladly to preserve her.”

“Hell, man, 'tis only a bath, an' a warm bath at that.” The commander looked disgusted. “Don't ye even bathe on yer name day?”

“Ugh.” One of the men-at-arms shuddered. “No one bathes willingly.”

“I do,” the commander said. “That's why I'm th' commander an' ye're just a soldier.”

“Bet ye don't bathe in winter,” the soldier retorted.

“Scarcely.” The commander glanced around the bare gatehouse room where he and his men slept on pallets. “But I'm not going t' visit th' queen. Best wrap th' skinny bugger. He's turnin' blue.”

Sir Danny had been cold and hungry, tormented and in prison, for too long. No one had come to his assistance. Not one of his friends had sent blankets or food. Sir Anthony Rycliffe had not even tried to use his influence to free him. The torturers had assured him of that when they'd made him confess to treason.

And Rosie, his dear Rosie, probably didn't even know of his misery.

So when these soldiers had plucked him from his cell and carried him through the night, he assumed the worst. This talk of Her Majesty and the palace was nothing but more empty promises produced by a torturer who wanted him to confess to vile treachery. Shivering, Sir Danny watched as the men-at-arms
approached him with a large sheet of linen, and he moaned. “My shroud.”

“Ye're a yellow-backed coward, aren't ye?” the commander commented as his men rubbed Sir Danny from top to toe. “Bring th' clothes Sir Cecil sent, an' let's get him up t' th' palace afore Her Majesty has another one o' her royal fits.”

“Will you send word to my daughter, the dearest daughter in all England, that I've gone to my death unfairly accused of treason?” The soldiers handed a shirt to Sir Danny, and the material was soft as butter and twice as slippery. He fingered it as he pulled it over his head. “Tell her I died bravely.” While he donned hose and garters, he mused, “Possibly you shouldn't say I died bravely. I fear my Rosie knows me too well for that.” Picturing himself dangling at the end of a rope, his feet kicking while children threw stones, he shuddered. “Nay, tell her I died for the safety of the kingdom.” The soldiers jerked him in a circle as they dressed him in a waistcoat, canions, and doublet and finished him off with a stylish cap.

The commander marched in front, the soldiers on either side of Sir Danny as they left the gatehouse. When they realized he couldn't keep up with their rapid pace, the commander cursed and gave an order, and the soldiers formed a chair with their hands and carried him.

Odd behavior, Sir Danny mused, but perhaps they always so assisted the condemned.

“Don't like this,” one of them complained. “They say there's a crazy old man on th' grounds, an' his eyes burn like fire. Might be he could attack us, an' we've got no hands free.”

“I'll protect ye from any old men, crazed or otherwise,” the commander said. “Ye'd best be more worried about getting th' prisoner t' th' palace.”

A low fog swirled around the garden paths, and Sir Danny longed for one last glimpse of the world. If he looked straight up, he could see stars, bright and friendly as ever. The half-moon, too, grinned with partial amusement, and this evidence of eternity gave him the courage. “Oh, lighthouses of heaven, twinkling in a globe of nothingness. Eternal lights, eternal night, eternal death, and precious life, snuffed like a candle by men who, gripped by the madness of treachery, do attempt to wrench England's rudder from the hand of her oil-anointed captain.”

“Thirteen years I been workin' at Whitehall, an' I've never spoke t' th' queen,” the commander mourned. “An' this sheep's head is complainin' in his fancy talk.”

Wrenched from his poetic haven, Sir Danny asked, “Is this Whitehall Palace?”

“Ain't ye been listenin'?” one of the soldiers demanded.

The commander rapped on a tiny door set in a looming stone wall. The door opened slightly, and a bony hand grabbed Sir Danny's wrist and jerked him inside. A hunchbacked man, all in black, held a single candle and whispered hoarsely, “Hurry.”

Sir Danny hurried.

Despite the man's unprepossessing appearance, he wore his air of command with confidence. He led Sir Danny up stairs and through halls and rooms furnished in tapestries and woods and ivories. Sir Danny was, he realized, actually in Whitehall Palace, and he moved closer to the stranger and asked, “Is it only those condemned of treason that you treat with such grace?”

The gentleman looked at him oddly.

“I've never been executed before.” Sir Danny excused himself. “I don't know the protocol.”

“Didn't they tell you why they were bringing you here?” The man spoke softly, as if he wished to avoid detection.

Sir Danny chuckled, and found himself surprised he could still laugh. “To see the queen, they said.”

“Then play not the fool. Bow when you enter the room, speak only when spoken to, and answer the questions in a forthright manner, but with the proper reverence.” The stranger opened a narrow door set into the wooden paneling and shoved Sir Danny ahead of him.

The richly appointed chamber blazed with candles. The flames reflected off the diamond-shaped window-panes, the waxed woods, the mirrors, the wrought gold, and the polished silver. Tapestries draped the walls and a carpet of dazzling color and intricacy covered the glossy wood floor. Beside an immense blazing fire stood a massive, carved chair. Surrounding it, like disciples waiting for enlightenment, squatted benches and stools. The chair drew Sir Danny's eye, and for the first time, awe prickled along his spine.

The childish sense of wonder which had never abandoned him drew him now, and he almost expected to see a regal figure materialize in the chair.

Instead, a querulous voice jerked him around to the pile of cushions thrown in the corner. “What have you brought me, Master Cecil?”

The black-robed figure bowed deeply and in tones of reverence, announced, “Your Majesty, I bring you Sir Daniel Plympton, Esquire.”

Sir Danny gaped. It was the queen. Of course he recognized her from the coins that circulated with her likeness etched on them.

The cushions that surrounded and supported her were silk, satin, wool. Embroidered, woven, sewn. Cobalt, scarlet, amethyst. Likewise, the queen's clothes were magnificent creations, overwhelming in their opulence. And the queen herself seemed insignificant. Nothing but a skinny old woman.

Until Sir Danny looked into her eyes.

The color had been muddied by age, but they glittered with interest and acumen.

Conquered, Sir Danny fell to his knees. “God save Your Majesty!”

“Want me to pardon you, do you?”

Her shrill voice fell on his ears like water on the parched earth. “There is no need.” Removing his cap, Sir Danny worshiped her with his gaze. “Simply seeing Your Majesty's beauty one time before I die makes my sacrifice worthwhile. In sooth, all call you Gloriana, monarch of England and chosen of the gods, and verily, it is true.”

“He's a charmer, isn't he?” She spoke to Cecil, but she watched Sir Danny steadily, and her mouth had curved into a slight, closed-mouth smile. Then the smile disappeared. She winced and pressed her hand to her cheek. “Have you questioned him?”

Cecil tucked his hands in his wide sleeves and watched Sir Danny's homage with approval. “Nay, madam, I waited for you.”

She pointed a long, clawed finger at Sir Danny. “We want to know about you and Essex.”

“Your Majesty, I will tell you whatever you require.” Sir Danny noted the lines of stress between her brows, the tension in the hand she still held against her jaw. Tentatively, he said, “However, if you would forgive my imprudence, you seem to be in pain.”

Her hand fell away from her face, and she said, “I'm healthy as an English war-horse.” She said it as if she'd said it before, many times.

“Your Majesty, again forgive me, but you look nothing like an English war-horse.” Slowly, Sir Danny approached, walking on his knees. He'd always known the safety of his sovereign was his destiny. Was it also
his destiny to give her ease? “Your magnificent health glows from you like a fire that warms you from the inside. You are a morning rose, protected by the thorns of duty and nobility as you open to delight your subjects with vigorous beauty and sweet perfumes.”

Queen Elizabeth relaxed even as he spoke. She lifted her chin, the lines smoothed from her fair complexion, and he caught a glimpse of the young goddess who had captivated the hearts of her subjects even before her coronation.

The cushions bumped his knees now; he bent to keep the top of his head below hers and gazed at her most earnestly. “Yet the rose, if not tended by the loving gardener, might be harmed by the overzealous sun or the attentions of greedy parasites.”

“Too true,” the queen murmured, and she glared at Cecil.

Primming his mouth, Cecil retorted, “If you would allow me, Your Majesty, I would call the tooth drawer back. He thought to relieve your pain, but you changed your mind before he'd even entered the door.”

She sat up with all the vigor she claimed. “Am I not the queen? May I not send a charlatan away if I see fit?”

Cecil drew breath to retort, but Sir Danny placed one hand behind his back and made a gesture. A rude gesture, and Cecil saw it, for he moved in a huff to the fireplace, there to fold his arms across his chest.

When Sir Danny looked back at Queen Elizabeth, he realized with a jolt she had seen it, too. She looked as satisfied as a peahen presented with a strutting display of feathers. “Good,” she said, “He's offended.”

“He is young,” Sir Danny said soothingly. “He'll learn the correct manner to treat his monarch.”

“He is not his father. I do miss my dear Burghley, the greatest statesman of my reign.”

Sir Danny bowed his head in respect.

“You remind me of him.”

He looked up.

“Not in your appearance, of course, but in your tact and good sense.” Plucking at the silk tufting that decorated her massive puffed sleeve, she asked fretfully, “Do
you
think I should summon the tooth drawer?”

Picking his words with caution, Sir Danny said, “Your Majesty, you are a glorious monarch with the resources of all England at your feet, but might not so many resources be as big a problem as not enough? Might the selection of physicians and barbers who long to serve you be so large, you are unable to find the best among the crowd?”

Cecil proved he had been listening. “What are you babbling about, man?”

Elizabeth pointed a restraining finger at her secretary of state. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Why, simply, madam, that I have a reputation as a physician among my lowly compatriots.”

“Lowly indeed,” Cecil snapped.

“Shut your maw, Cecil.” The queen leaned forward and looked into Sir Danny's eyes. “Tell me more.”

“Among the actors I am known for my skills at physicking, and if you would perhaps allow me to try, I might be able to draw the tooth without pain to Your Majesty.”

“Madam, I must object!” Cecil strode forward. “This man is under suspicion of treason. He can't be allowed to give you some magic potion which turns out to be poison!”

“I see no obstacle. I'll have you taste it first.” Elizabeth burst into unrestrained laughter at Cecil's expression, laughter so wild Sir Danny flinched.

She had been too long without sleep. She was balanced
on the edge of madness, and she needed him in a way he'd never imagined. If he could not serve England with his knowledge of Essex, he could at least serve her with his skill.

“I use no potions, madam, but I will have to touch you.” He glanced apologetically at Cecil. “There's no other way.”

“This is outrageous,” Cecil fumed. “Dismiss him at once.”

Elizabeth ignored Cecil with all the stubbornness of her sixty-seven years. “What do you have to do?”

“Just touch your face and hands,” Sir Danny said reassuringly. “However, if the tooth pains you, it must be drawn, and for that I'll need the tools of a tooth drawer.”

“Cecil.” Elizabeth snapped her fingers. “Get the tools from the tooth drawer.”

Stiffly, Cecil said, “Madam, he has gone home.”

She scorned his falsehood. “Nonsense, he remains within the palace on your pleasure until he's done the deed. Now get his tools.”

“I can't leave you alone with this charlatan.”

“I'm not giving you a choice.” Regally, she drew herself up. “Sir Cecil, seek the tooth drawer. It is your queen's command.”

Cecil didn't like it, but neither did he have the presumption to defy a direct order. In a softer tone, he begged, “Might I at least have a guard remain within?”