Love's Labyrinth (34 page)

“Ahh!” Elizabeth turned to Walsingham. “’Twould seem there’s more afoot here than even you know, my lord. Robin, I charge you to look into this matter, in my name.” Elizabeth gazed around the room and her black eyes settled on Geoffrey. “Well, Master Talcott? Does that satisfy? My Lord Leicester shall inquire early tomorrow into this matter.”

Geoffrey bowed. “Completely, Most Gracious Majesty.”

Elizabeth fixed Walsingham with a hard stare. “And I shall expect, Sir Francis, that both your agent, Master Warren, and Sir John shall be present to accuse Lord Nicholas face-to-face.”

“It shall be done, Your Majesty.” Walsingham bowed low.

With another satisfied nod, Elizabeth swept from the room, Leicester and Walsingham trailing in her wake.

Olivia looked up at Geoffrey. “At least we got her attention.”

He nodded, his expression not quite so grim as before.

“Indeed, mistress. Now, let’s hope that there’s no more to this coil than we already know.”

A shower of stones hit the window of Olivia’s bedroom, striking the thick panes of glass with a sound like falling hail. Startled out of her sleep, she lay awake a moment, trying to place the sound, and then realized what it was when the sound came again. She scrambled out of bed, Alison sleeping as soundly as usual by her side.

She unlatched the window and peered out into the dark night, looking down into the deserted street. London lay sleeping, but a figure, as familiar as it was unexpected, stood looking back up at her, a sheaf of parchment clutched in one hand. “Master Will!”

“Mistress Lindsley.” He swept the flat cap off his head and bowed low, in an actor’s version of a polished Court bow.

Olivia looked back over her shoulder. Alison rolled over on her back, muttering softly. “What do you want?” Olivia asked in a loud stage whisper.

“Forgive me for disturbing you so, but I didn’t see you after the performance—you left with your cousins and—”

For a moment he looked sheepish, and Olivia remembered that the Bard of Stratford was no more than barely beyond boyhood, the full force of his talent years from flowering.

“I’ll be right down.” She pulled the latched window shut, thrust her feet into her slippers, and threw on the loose robe over her shift, which served as her nightdress. She scampered down the silent hall, down the stairs, and into the common room, where the low glow of the banked fire gleamed a soft red in the shadows. She struggled with the great beam that barred the door. It fell aside with a thud, and she opened the door, wondering if Mistress Deb would forgive her for opening the door so late. Shakespeare slipped inside.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so, mistress.”

“No trouble, not really. But why did you come here? What’s wrong?”

“I must return to Stratford, mistress, on the morrow. My—my wife has been taken ill, and—well, the message reached me at my lodging—and I had no other way to contact you so I—”

“I understand, but—”

“I wanted to give you this.” He pressed the sheaf of parchment into her hands. “’Tis my first play, mistress. You—you were right. In some way I cannot name, this play, tonight—poetry is still my first love, but, oh, Mistress Olivia—I think I can be as capable as Marlowe himself in the penning of these plays. And if you’d not suggested it…”

Olivia stared at the parchments in her hands. Stained with ink spots, lines crossed out and others substituted in a wayward scrawl, creased and dog-eared, they were still a priceless possession.

“I owe you a great debt, mistress. I—I hope all works out for you as you hope, and that if you come again to London you will seek my company out. ‘Twould be a great honor to know that you were in the audience. With your cousins, of course.”

“Of course.” She stared up at him, scarcely able to speak. “Master Will, I—”

“’Tis you should be thanked, mistress.” He caught up both her hands and pressed a kiss on both of them. “I must away to Warwickshire at first light, but I could not leave without telling you.”

“You are more than welcome, Master Will. I shall treasure this play all the days of my life.”
And all the days after that,
she added silently. “Did you sign it? Date it?”

“Ah!” He strode to the fire, reached for a piece of charred wood, and scrawled his name across the last page. “There. ‘Twill suffice, I think? You and I both know it is from me, to you.” He grinned. “My muse.”

She felt herself blush. “You’re too kind, Master Will.”

“I must go.” He clutched his cap and bowed. “You will let me know if you ever come up to London?”

“Of course,” she promised, still stunned by his gift and scarcely capable of speech.

He was gone with another bow. She placed the parchment sheets reverently on one table while she struggled to bar the door once more, then picked them up and carried them upstairs to the bedroom as gently as she might an infant. She was still nearly speechless when she climbed into bed.

“Livvie?” muttered Alison. “Where’d you go?”

“Allie, you’ll never guess who was here.”

“Nicholas?”

“No! No, Shakespeare. Shakespeare was here—you know we left Greenwich before we could see him. He brought me his play.”

“He did what?” Alison struggled to sit up.

“Look.” Olivia reached over and spread out the parchments. “It’s his play. His very first play.”

“Cool.” Alison yawned.

“Allie, don’t you understand? This is priceless! A play by Shakespeare—his first play. Look, he dated it—and signed it—Allie, can you believe what he gave me?”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Olivia sat back. “I don’t know. Try to take it into the future somehow, I guess. If I just show up with it, it’s going to raise all sorts of questions—” She broke off and sighed. “Well. We have enough to worry about right now.”

“I’ll say.” Alison patted her hand. “Let’s get through the next day or so, okay? We can talk about how to get your gift home later.” She turned on her side and pulled the sheet up to her ear, yawning. “God knows I can’t wait to get back.”

Olivia placed the parchments reverently on the tiny table and lay down beside Alison. In the shadowy room, the sheaf was a pale smudge. Who would ever have imagined anything like this?

NICHOLAS KNEW THAT something was afoot when the jailer threw a clean shirt and hose on the table, along with a bucket of water, soap, a towel, a razor, and a sliver of a mirror. He leapt to his feet from the narrow cot.

“Make ye’self ready, m’lord,” the jailer growled.

“For what?” Nicholas demanded.

“Lord Leicester’s come to see ye.” Before Nicholas could ask anything else, the jailer slammed the door shut. With hands that shook from anticipation he soaped and shaved and rinsed and toweled himself as best he could. He laced on the clean shirt and hose as quickly as possible. When he was ready, he went to the door and banged on it. There was no response. Then heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor and the door opened once more, this time to admit the jailer accompanied by Robert Dudley himself. “Leicester!”

“Nicholas.” The older man stepped inside the room and peered around. “Mine was worse.” He glanced at the jailer. “That’ll be all, my good fellow.”

“Ye want met’ see t’ the rest of ‘em, m’lord?”

“Aye,” answered the earl. “Do that.” When the jailer had gone, he grinned at Nicholas. “Now, perhaps you could explain to me why Walsingham’s crowing like a cock at daybreak over the fact that you’re here. Have you taken leave of your senses, man? I never thought to see the day that you’d be accused of consorting with the Spanish.”

Nicholas groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Blessed Jesu, Leicester, ‘tis the last thing I ever thought to be accused of, believe me. I thought I was performing a service for my country—not consorting with anyone.”

“Hmm. Except perhaps for that tempting little Olivia. I hear you’re also accused of masquerading as man and wife.”

“And that’s a crime now?”

Leicester cocked his head and wagged his finger. “Nicholas. In the church courts, you know it is.” He shook his head. “All right. Tell me how this all happened.”

“’Twas the day the Queen came to Talcott Forest. Master Christopher Warren approached me and asked if I’d do Her Majesty a service. I said of course. So he told me that a traitor had been apprehended and that someone was needed to go to Calais.” Haltingly, careful of any mention of Olivia, Nicholas explained the story.

At last, when he was silent, Leicester nodded, stroking his chin. “And there’s no witnesses to any of this? Save your brother and Mistress Lindsley?”

Nicholas shook his head slowly. “But—surely you see—”

“Aye,” Leicester said, “I do. ‘Tis a question of whether we can make Sir Francis and his agent—”

“Give me five minutes alone with Master Warren,” Nicholas said, clenching his fists.

“Now, now.” Leicester wagged another finger, about to say something else when a knock on the door interrupted him. “Enter.”

“Ye said to tell ye, m’lord, when Sir Francis and ‘is man arrived.” The jailer peered around the corner of the door.

“Ah, good. Well, come, Nicholas. Her Majesty herself has ordered a hearing into this matter.”

Nicholas started. “The Queen?”

“Aye. Don’t look so surprised, man. Did you think I came to pay you a visit?” Leicester chuckled, adjusting his doublet. “Let’s go.”

Nicholas drew a deep breath. “As you say, my lord.”

Leicester stood aside to let him proceed out the door, and he patted him on the back as he passed. “Be of good cheer, Nicholas. You have friends in very high places.”

The spartan chamber was, if anything, even more bleak than Nicholas’s cell. A long wooden table and six chairs were the only furnishings. The two occupants of those chairs surprised him. Walsingham fixed him with a steely eye as he entered, flanked on both sides by guards, with Leicester bringing up the rear. “Lord Talcott.”

“Sir Francis.” Nicholas inclined his head.

“I believe you know your accuser, Sir John Makepeace.”

Nicholas’s eyes slid over to Sir John, who had the grace to appear uncomfortable. “I do.”

“You dispute the charge against you?”

“I do.”

“And what have you to say in your defense?”

Nicholas turned to Leicester. “Is this a court, my lord? Is this to be my venue of justice?”

Leicester sat down opposite Walsingham. “Think of this as a hearing, Nicholas. We do not come to condemn you. But the story you tell is quite fantastic, as I’m sure you’d agree if you were seated in our place. So tell us, Nicholas, as you told me. What is your answer to Sir John’s charge?”

“I answer with a question, my lord.” Nicholas drew himself up and looked at Sir John. “What were you doing in that church?”

At that, Sir John started. “I—I was told to watch for you, sir.”

“By whom?” Walsingham’s voice was colder than the stones of the Tower.

“By your own agent, Master Warren, Sir Francis.” Sir John met the other man’s eyes with the fearlessness of one who knew he walked with the Lord.

Walsingham’s face paled, then flushed an ugly purple color. “Wait here.” He stalked to the door, opened it, and spoke rapidly to the guards. “Bring me Master Christopher Warren. Now!” He looked back over his shoulder. “It seems all roads lead us to Master Warren. We’ll soon get to the bottom of this, I promise.”

Leicester nodded. “What did he tell you to look for, Sir John?”

“He said that Lord Talcott and his leman would be there, and that they would be meeting with an agent of the King of Spain.”

“And did you see them thus?”

Nicholas’s face flushed. “Mistress Olivia is not—”

Leicester waved an airy hand. “Calm yourself, Nicholas. ‘Tis not the matter at hand. Go on, Sir John. Did you see them meet with anyone?”

“A dark-complected man—he looked like a Spaniard, dressed as a priest. I saw them meet with him. And then later, I saw the man come to the tavern at which they stopped, and leave after but a brief time.”

“So all you really saw, Sir John,” said the earl, leaning forward, “was a conversation or two? You saw nothing pass hands?”

Sir John flushed. “It was clear to me—They found the plans on Talcott’s person—”