The Greatest Lover in All England (25 page)

“You may station one directly outside the door. Should this treasonous actor attack me, your conscience will be clear. Now be off, and shut the door behind you.” She watched until he had gone and Sir Danny remained alone with her, then said, “You realize if you fail to draw my tooth painlessly, I'll have your head cut off.”

Sir Danny permitted himself a smile. “Your Majesty,
if you cut off my head, it'll be an improvement over the hanging you have planned for me right now. What have I to lose?”

An answering smile played around Elizabeth's mouth. “Aye, what indeed? So tell me what you heard from Essex that proves his treason.”

She had changed the subject so quickly, Sir Danny's head spun before he realized her brilliant tactics. She'd relaxed him, given him the illusion of control, then slapped him with a sharp query designed to knock the truth from him. More than that, she'd removed Cecil from the room, so no audience gawked with smug delight as she listened to the proof of treason by her favorite courtier.

It was a totally understandable desire, and Sir Danny told his story quickly, explaining how Essex had boasted of his plan to overthrow the queen and wished to have the play
Richard II
played by the Chamberlain's Men to induce an atmosphere of rebellion.

His fellow actors would not recognize him, Sir Danny thought, as his very restraint lent a veracity to his words and Elizabeth's head sank onto her chest.

Distressed, he wrung his hands. “Madam, I have given you pain when I thought to ease it.”

“Nay, 'tis not you who gives me pain.” She touched her fingertips to her papery eyelids. “'Tis the sunset of my reign, and all around me I see death and betrayal as my powers fade into nothingness. 'Tis a bitter thing to grow old, Sir Danny, a bitter thing.”

“I see no sunset. I see no peacock display of colors that announces the approach of night, nor could I ever perceive the anguish of such a fading. When future generations remember Queen Elizabeth, they'll still bask in the warmth of your legacy. What you have wrought can never fail.”

“You are a funny little man, and you comfort me.” She stretched. “Can you really draw my tooth, or was that simply a tale to put Cecil out of the room?”

“I have references, madam, if you chose to call upon my fellows who act with the Chamberlain's Men.”

“The Chamberlain's Men?” The queen lifted her brows. “The company is performing a play for me on Sunday.”

“A play?” Forgetting himself, Sir Danny leaped to his feet. “Which play?”

She watched him curiously. “'Tis called
Hamlet
, I believe.”

“I wonder if…I hope that…oh, Your Majesty, do you have the list of the players?”

“Not at all. Should I?”

“It's just that my child might play one of the parts. But nay, my son wouldn't be here in the city. She's safe now.” He had always concealed Rosie's gender with such practiced proficiency, he didn't even realize when he failed. His shoulders sagged. He wanted to weep and instead cursed his weakness. He'd refused to allow himself to think of Rosie, to wonder how she was faring in her new role as mistress of the manor. He'd refused to think of the marriage performed, no doubt, while he languished in prison. He'd felt only joy in her safety.

But he'd missed her. Od's bodkin, how he'd missed her.

The queen watched him fidget, her bright eyes seeing more than he liked, but before she could question him further, someone rapped on the door. “Enter,” Queen Elizabeth called.

The door swung wide to reveal Cecil with the tooth drawer close behind him.

“I'm still alive,” Queen Elizabeth said. “More travail to you.”

“'Tis care for you which causes me concern.” Cecil led the tooth drawer into the room by the hand.

By the terrified looks the tooth drawer cast toward the queen, Sir Danny supposed she had quite intimidated him. “Let me see your tools,” he commanded.

The tooth drawer sidled forward and handed Sir Danny the bag, then retreated with great haste to the wall opposite.

“He begs Your Majesty for another chance to assist you,” Cecil said, glaring meaningfully at the quivering dentist.

“He's a maggot.” Queen Elizabeth dismissed the tooth drawer with scorn. Glancing at the tools and the herbs Sir Danny was laying out, her voice turned shrill. “Cecil, I want you to send word to Sir Anthony Rycliffe. He's to present himself to me tomorrow morning, and no more of this shirking of his duties.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

“His first duty will be to go to Essex House tomorrow, and tell my lord Essex that I command he come before the Privy Council and give an accounting of his activities.” She clenched a pillow in her fist. “His treasonous activities.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Cecil bowed deeply.

“I thought that'd please you. Well, come on, come on.” She snapped her fingers at Sir Danny. “If you're going to do it, do it at once.”

Sir Danny again crept forward. He'd done this so many times. With Rosie, with Will, with the other members of his troupe. But to the queen? To the lady he'd always worshiped from afar?

“Well?” Cecil said loudly. “What are you going to do?”

“Cecil,” Queen Elizabeth barked. “Either shut your maw or get out.”

Then Sir Danny realized she couldn't help him, because she was more frightened than he. Her need gave him courage, and using his satin-smooth tone, he said, “With your permission?” She nodded graciously, but he could see her tense as he touched her hand. “You have a beautiful hand,” he murmured. “Such long fingers, such fair skin.” He stroked the back of her hand, then her palm and stared into her eyes. She stared back, but she couldn't keep her eyes open as long as he could, and she blinked. “Pain is exhausting, and you are very tired. So tired that as I touch you, you can think only of sleep.”

“That's very relaxing,” she admitted.

“May I touch your face?” He reached out with his fingertips and grazed the skin. Slowly, he accustomed her to his touch. “Such beautiful skin. Such regular features. How much it must pain you to have a tooth causing puffiness.”

“It does.” She slurred her words.

“Show me the tooth.”

She opened her mouth. He touched the tooth, and she winced.

“Think of the pleasure sleep would bring you. Think of how sleep will lessen your uneasiness.” He kept his tones low and regular. “Think of how sleep would lessen any discomfort as I remove it.”

“Aye.” Her lids dropped, but she brought them up again.

He stroked her cheek. “You can sleep now. In your sleep you'll know that I'm helping you with your tooth, but you'll still sleep until you wish to wake. You are in command. I am just helping you achieve your desire.”

“Aye.”

Her eyes had closed, and Sir Danny reached for the cloth and pinchers, taking care not to clang metal
against metal. The tooth drawer had slipped closer, fascinated by Sir Danny's performance. Cecil stood by the fire with his mouth spread as wide as the queen's. Using the most exquisite care and speed, Sir Danny extracted the tooth which was so rotten it slipped from the gum with ease. He packed the cavity with a poultice of willow bark and cobwebs and whispered, “Sleep, gracious queen.”

With her eyes still closed, she murmured. “Stay in the palace. See your actor friends once more. See if your child is among the players.”

Sir Danny could scarcely believe it. He'd come to die, and now the queen commanded life. But had she? With hands clasped in silent prayer, Sir Danny asked, “And my death sentence?”

Head resting against a cushion, she waved a slender, dismissing hand. “I'll decide later. After all”—she yawned and snuggled down—“I might need another tooth drawn.”

“
Never seen a man
fall as hard an' as fast as ye have,” Wart-Nose observed.

“What do you mean?” Tony stepped off the boat landing on the Strand and glared at the elegant cluster of buildings that constituted Essex House. Damn Essex for subjecting Her Majesty to such suffering, and damn him for so interrupting Tony's own wooing.

“Got a good, bright, cold mornin'. Got th' queen callin' ye back t' yer duties.” Wart-Nose paid the boatman sixpence and promised him another nine if he'd wait for them. Hurrying to catch up with Tony, he said, “Got th' earl o' Essex finally showin' his hand, an' all ye can think about is yer woman.”

“Have you ever thought about having that growth on your nose removed?”

Wart-Nose touched the protuberance that gave him
his name. “Nay, sir, don't trust no surgeon with a razor.”

With gentle intent, Tony said, “You won't need a surgeon if you don't stuff a clam in your mouth.”

Wart-Nose cocked his head and thought, then decided. “That 'twere a threat. Very well, I can stuff a clam in it.”

Tony nodded and walked on along the path lined with trimmed shrubs. On the street side, Essex House faced the Strand, the area east of Whitehall Palace where the most exclusive homes in London had been built. No expense had been spared when building Essex House. The grounds were well tended, the stables were the finest, and the house itself rose to three stories of pretension.

It wasn't nearly as impressive as Odyssey Manor.

Following close behind Tony, Wart-Nose said, “Just seems like ye're always lookin' behind ye, expectin' t' see her. An' when I talk, ye seem t' listen, but all th' time I've can't shake th' feelin' ye're listenin' fer her voice.”

Drawing his dagger, Tony turned and stalked toward Wart-Nose, who backed off, cackling.

“Now, now, Sir Anthony, ye might need me in there.” He pointed at Essex House. “Got enemies within, ye do.”

“Do I need a fool guarding my back?”

“Don't know. Want me t' see if I can find ye one?”

Wart-Nose's cheeky, gap-toothed grin eased a little of the tension in Tony. “My thanks, but I have one.” He sheathed his dagger and silently acknowledged the truth of Wart-Nose's accusation. He did look for Rosie, listen for Rosie, no matter where he was. He kept thinking that if he wanted her badly enough, she would come to him.

But that hadn't proved the case, for he wanted her very badly, and she remained elusive.

Last night after he'd bid farewell to Wart-Nose and the playwright, he'd visited every inn that housed actors, looking for Rosie, but he'd accomplished nothing. He wanted to finish his duty quickly today, so he could once more continue on his quest.

“Damned cold day t' leave th' door open,” Wart-Nose observed.

It was true. The massive door stood wide open and no one guarded it. Tony stepped inside and blinked as his sight adjusted to the shadows. From inside, he heard the babble of many voices. Men's voices.

No footmen asked his business nor did any servants greet him, so he and Wart-Nose walked toward the gallery as if they belonged there. No one stopped them. Indeed, no man there—no women were in sight—really looked at the master of the Queen's Guard and his aide.

“Blast me ballocks,” Wart-Nose exclaimed when they paused in the doorway. “'Tis nothin' but a bunch o' lads playin' with swords.”

“A dangerous bunch of lads,” Tony said, but Wart-Nose was right. Bravado clogged the air so thickly that nothing but the swing of a sword could cut it. And the swords were swinging on every side. Tony would have liked to hawk linen bandage strips to this gathering. He'd make his fortune.

“Do you see Essex?” Tony asked.

“Nay, sir, but I see every other lordly rebel.” Wart-Nose tipped his hat constantly, showing proper respect with his gesture if not his expression.

The shining auburn hair and flowing beard which were Essex's trademarks were nowhere to be seen, and Tony interrupted an animated debate. “I beg your pardon, can you gentlemen tell me where I might find the earl of Essex?”

A wild-eyed Welshman with a bared sword looked
Tony up and down. “We all want to talk to him, but he's busy planning the rebellion. Tell me, don't you think Sunday is a good day to rouse London?”

Tony found himself speechless.

“Because of the apprentices, you see. Sunday is their day off,” the Welshman explained. “If we call on London to rebel, and the apprentices are out from under the thumbs of their masters, they'll join us freely.”

Tony nodded, dumbfounded at this madness of reason. “Essex?” he asked again.

“He's over there by the fire.” The Welshman pointed at a large assembly of men clustered in a circle. “But you'll have to take your turn just like the rest of us.”

Coldly confident, Tony said, “Essex will see me.”

As he moved away, he heard the whisper behind him, “Don't you know who that is? Sir Anthony Rycliffe, master of the Queen's Guard.”

“Stay close,” Tony murmured to Wart-Nose. “The flesh between my shoulder blades is itching.”

“Aye, sir. An' look, they're clearin' ye a path.”

In sooth, the whisper must have outrun them, for as Tony walked toward the merry, confident group around Essex, the jocularity died. He walked a silent path cleared for him. Pleased to know that his name and commission inspired deference, Tony walked right to the bench upon which rested Essex and Southampton.

Both men were elegant creatures, dressed in blazing silks and adorned with feathers and jewels. Both smiled a mocking welcome, their austere faces powdered and their thin lips rouged. Their pointed teeth shone, proclaiming them to be night-hunting carnivores who skulked in the shadows until unwary prey displayed a weakness.

Which of them was worse? Essex, with his rebel
lious ingratitude, or Southampton, with his furtive ambitions?

Tony didn't know. He only knew he would display no such weakness. He'd give them no excuse to hunt him. “My lord Essex. My lord Southampton.” Removing his cap, he bowed with an elegant sweep.

“Sir Anthony.” Essex stood and replied with a like bow, then added, “Look, gentlemen, 'tis Her Majesty's trained bastard.”

Southampton shouted with laughter, but he was the only one.

Perhaps Tony's reputation as a fighter had preceded him. Perhaps Tony's pleasant smile contained something less than amusement and more than a threat. But the circle around Essex widened as the others edged away.

Essex sneered when he noticed. “Surely you gentlemen aren't afraid of this pathetic, dispossessed son of a whore? Why, even the estate Her Majesty gave to him is in jeopardy because the true heir has returned. And while God only knows she's been tossing up her skirts all these years, at least she's legitimate.”

Tony leaped and smashed Essex to the floor. Sitting atop his chest, Tony mashed his forearm into Essex's throat, and said, “Do not ever call me a bastard again, or I will be forced to teach you respect for your betters.”

Essex's face grew red from lack of air. He struggled against Tony's grip, but he was a commander with only lordly experience in combat and in courtly duels. He was no match for a man who'd fought for his life with steel, fist, and claw in countless Continental battles.

“And don't ever mention Lady Rosalyn again. You're not worthy to clean her jakes.” Essex's eyes bulged, but still Tony clamped him to the floor and kept him breathless.

But Essex had friends, and this was Essex's camp.

“Sir Anthony!”

Wart-Nose's alarm warned Tony. Still kneeling on Essex's chest, Tony caught a glimpse of Southampton's fine hose stepping toward him. With the point of his dagger, he nicked the earl's leg, and chortled when Southampton yelped and jumped back. “Be off,” Tony warned Southampton, then looked around at the watching crowd. “Be off. There are better causes to die for. There are better leaders to follow.”

Essex fumbled for his sword. “Get off of me.”

Tony pointed the tip of his dagger between Essex's eyes, and Essex froze. In his most cordial, respectful voice, Tony said, “I do as you command, my lord Essex, but first, I have been sent by the queen to tell you her will.”

“What does the old—” The point of the dagger came closer, and Essex hastily revised his query. “What does Her Majesty desire?”

“That's better.” Tony sheathed his dagger.

Essex's black eyes glittered with cold and shiny hatred.

“Let…me…up.”

He sounded fierce, and Tony grinned. “You're damned bony and uncomfortable, anyway.” He stood, then watched as Essex slowly rose. Picking up his cap, Essex dusted it against his knee, watching Tony all the while.

“I hope I didn't hurt you, my lord,” Tony said. “I would be most distressed if you were unable to answer Her Majesty's summons.”

“Has she returned to her senses at last?” Essex snapped, but his hand half rose as if he wanted to rub his aching skull.

“She?” Tony feigned puzzlement. “She? Do you mean Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth?”

“That's who I mean.” Essex curled his mouth in an elegant sneer. “That is her title—for the moment.”

That was blunt speaking, indeed, and Tony wished he'd never let him off the floor. He made a move toward Essex, who pulled his dagger in hasty self-defense.

A collective growl issued from Essex's retinue, and Wart-Nose caught Tony's arm. “We might consider a timely retreat an' live t' fight another day.”

Wart-Nose was right. Tony hated to admit it, but he was right. All around them stood Welsh swordsmen, Irish soldiers, Puritan ministers, Catholic priests, and lords who'd failed to make their marks at court. And men who deluded themselves into thinking the queen's sovereignty was open to debate were men who might decide the queen's herald was ripe for murder.

Solemnly, as befitting a royal command, Tony said, “My lord Essex, the Privy Council summons you to attend it immediately and give an account of your actions and your intentions.”

Essex glanced at Southampton, but Southampton was examining the notch where Tony had removed both hose and skin. “I cannot attend the Privy Council today,” he said.

Tony contained both his jubilation and his scorn. “What excuse should I give?”

“I…am in ill health. Aye!” Essex warmed to his theme. “I can't answer Her Majesty's summons because of you, Sir Anthony Rycliffe.”

“How so, my lord?”

“You hurt me when you attacked me.”

It was all Tony could do not to laugh. “I hadn't realized a minor romp could so impair the commander of the English forces in Ireland.”

“Ah, well.” Essex rubbed his neck where the bruises of Tony's assault darkened, then glanced at the dagger
he still held in his hand. “I was already ill, and your attack exacerbated my weakness.”

“That would explain why I was able to bring you down so easily,” Tony said.

“Indeed, 'tis true.” Then Essex realized Tony was laughing at him, and lunged.

Throwing up his arm, Tony turned aside, and just in time. The dagger sliced through the material of his cape into unready flesh.

Blood dripped from Tony's arm, splattering his boots as it struck the polished floor, but he didn't notice as he drew his dagger. With look and gesture, he and Essex challenged each other.

“Live t' fight another day.” Wart-Nose broke their concentration.

Tony turned on him in a fury.

“Are ye willin' t' die?” Keeping his voice low, Wart-Nose took Tony's arm and wrapped it in his sash. “Ah, he got ye, but only opened th' skin directly over the bone. A few stitches will close that, an' if ye fight him here an' he wins, ye'll die. If ye win, his men'll kill ye. Don't ye want t' bed that woman o' yers again?”

Subduing his fury, Tony said sarcastically, “Well done, my lord.”

Essex glared at the wound with a mixture of shame and defiance. “A just punishment for a bastard's insolence.”

“A just punishment for a bastard's carelessness,” Tony corrected. “Shall I tell the queen that you are too ill to obey her summons?”

“Tell the queen it is so.” Looking relieved, Essex sheathed his dagger. “I command you, tell the queen it is so.”

Again Tony doffed his hat. “I will do as you wish, my lord, but I doubt she desires your excuses.”

 

Queen Elizabeth walked rapidly through the gardens of Whitehall Palace, her ladies-in-waiting trailing behind her like color-dipped cygnets behind a great, graceful white swan. The cold, sunny afternoon invited participation, and Sir Danny had been at first flattered when she invited him to accompany her. Now he could only puff along beside her as she said, “I have checked on the list of players for
Hamlet
. The actor who performs Ophelia is called Rosencrantz. Do you know Rosencrantz?”

Sir Danny clasped his hands to his breast. He'd been in an ardor of gratitude to the queen for the three-course breakfast he'd been served that morning and the seven-course dinner at noon. Now she gave him Rosie. “'Tis my Rosencrantz! My son. Your Majesty, you are too good to me.”

“I hope not.”

She kept walking, and he scurried to catch up. “I both feared and hoped my son would be in London. He shouldn't be, certes, but the news of my incarceration must have drawn him from…from…” He couldn't think of a likely lie. Perhaps the exhaustion of an emotional evening drained him. Perhaps two exquisite meals weren't enough to revive him. Or perhaps the cynical gaze of Queen Elizabeth drained him of wit.

“Your son, you say?”

Her gait was strong, her skin looked fresh, and the dark rings of sleeplessness which marred her eyes last night had vanished. He congratulated himself on the miracle of her good health, and at the same time wondered if by freeing her from pain he'd also turned her keen vision on him and his feeble contrivances.