He released Nicholas’s hair with a savage twist and backed away. His boots echoed on the stone floor. “You have a choice, my lord.” When he spoke once more, his voice was much more composed. He tapped the parchment. “I give you twenty-four hours to sign this confession. If you do, you will die far more swiftly and cleanly than either my father or my mother. But if you do not, I shall watch with the greatest pleasure as you are sliced and burned and battered into shreds.”
He spun on his heel abruptly and slammed the door shut, leaving Nicholas alone with the sputtering candle and a sickening sense of doom.
Warren pounded down the winding steps, his heart thudding in his chest, his veins throbbing in his head. He had to force Talcott to sign the confession—he had to. It was the only way to ensure a speedy execution. And after the botched attempt on the wench—He closed his eyes and paused near the bottom. He would have to see to her himself. He recoiled from the thought of actually having to kill her himself, but he had no time to find another assassin. And as for Talcott… He glanced back up the stairs. If Talcott refused to sign the confession there would be an inquiry at least, and a trial. A dagger between the ribs at night would give nearly as much satisfaction, but who could he trust to do the deed? He’d never intended to bloody his own hands. His mother’s anguished face rose before him, and the remembered sound of her hacking cough as she struggled to breathe filled his ears. And the eyes—those tormented eyes—they tortured him more than the memory of his father’s screams. Whatever was required he would do, he decided suddenly. No matter how distasteful.
CHAPTER 14
“SHE’s BEEN TAKEN where?” Alison rose to her feet, her face flushed, eyes flashing. “What in the name of God is going on? Damn it, I knew there was a good reason she shouldn’t go. I knew she might be risking her life—”
“Alison.” Geoffrey touched her hand. “Come, sit. This is distressing, but nothing’s to be gained by shouting. We must think.”
Their eyes met in a long look, and, abashed, Alison sat. “Go on, boy. Tell us what happened next.”
Jack glanced nervously at Geoffrey, who nodded. “Well, after they got arrested, m’lord told me to go to the inn and get the horses and bring ‘em home. But I thought better to follow ‘em to Londontown, and that’s what I did. They let Lady Olivia go—”
“Oh, now she’s Lady Olivia,” interjected Alison. “Shh,” said Geoffrey. “Go on, Jack.”
“So they let ‘er go and I found a place for ‘er, but she told me to come straight to you and here I am.”
“So Olivia’s alone in London? Without money? Or anyone to help her?”
Geoffrey patted her arm. “You did well, Jack. Go to the stables. Tell Adam to saddle my horse—” “I’m coming with you,” Alison interrupted.
Geoffrey raised one eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “All right, two horses—”
“What’s all this shouting for, Geoffrey?” Dr. Dee was slowly walking down the staircase, his academic robes whispering around him.
“My brother, Dr. Dee. Nicholas is in the Tower, accused of treason.”
“Treason?” Dee looked shocked. “What’s this all about?”
Geoffrey exchanged a look with Alison. “To tell you the truth, we’re not quite sure. But that’s all, Jack. Oh, and see if Miles is about. I’ll need some money from the strongbox.”
“Aye, sir.” Jack tugged his forelock and practically scampered from the room.
Alison paced between the fireplaces. “I knew it, I just knew it.…”
“Come, come, Mistress Alison, we’re not without friends at court,” Dee said kindly.
“We’ll get this mess straightened out. I promise. Tell me more, Geoffrey. What has your brother involved himself in?”
“’Tis all because he seeks favor at court.” Geoffrey ran his fingers through his hair.
“He’s not alone in his ambitions, my boy.”
“No, maybe not, but Nicholas pursues his with a single-mindedness that blinds him to other possibilities, I’m afraid. At the Queen’s visit, just a fortnight ago, Nicholas was approached by one of Walsingham’s agents, a Master Christopher Warren.”
“Hmm, the name is unfamiliar, but no matter. I avoid Lord Walsingham’s men at all costs.” He winked at Alison. Only in private did Dee drop the mask he wore so expertly. In public, Alison had a hard time remembering he was from her own future.
“So should we all,” Geoffrey put in. He quickly outlined the plan that Nicholas had so enthusiastically embraced. “And then there was a bit of trouble, which I thought very odd—Warren returned the next day and said Nicholas would not suit, since he was not possessed of a wife. And thus, Mistress Olivia offered to play the role, and the two of them left nearly a sennight ago. And now, this.”
“So Nicholas obtained the plans as he was bidden, and then the moment he stepped foot on English soil, he was arrested? And taken to the Tower?”
“Aye. That’s the story Jack told.”
“And Mistress Olivia—she was released?”
“Aye. Without questioning.”
Dee stroked his beard. “’Tis most odd—the whole business. One would almost think they discounted what she had to say, or did not want to hear it at all.”
Alison glanced over her shoulder and bit back the retort that rose so readily. Odd wasn’t the word that came to her mind. But nothing would be accomplished by antagonizing either Geoffrey or Dee, so she stayed silent.
“The Queen is still on progress,” Dee was saying. “I don’t believe she’ll be back at court for another fortnight or more. If there were some way to send a message to her—”
“Excuse me, Master Geoffrey?” Miles Coddington stood in the door, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his breeches dusty. Obviously, he’d been in the middle of working. “Jack has brought me extraordinary news—is it true, sir?”
“Aye, Miles, I’m afraid so. Come in, come in.”
“How has this happened?”
“I believe my brother has an enemy he knows not of, Miles. ‘Tis the only explanation possible.”
“So it would seem,” said Dee. “But if we can get a message to Her Majesty—”
“I’ll take it,” said Miles at once. “Allow me, Master Geoffrey.”
“I am not quite certain where Her Majesty is,” Dee said.
“I shall go to Leicester House in London. The earl’s men will know where she is,” offered Miles.
“Excellent,” said Dee. “I shall pen the letter myself immediately.” He gathered his robes and ascended the steps, his face creased in a frown.
“And I’ll make ready to leave, with your permission, Master Geoffrey?”
“As will I and Mistress Alison. We’ll ride to London together—tell that young rogue Jack that we’ll need him as well.”
“Very good, Master Geoffrey. I shall see to the preparations at once.” With a brief bow, Miles was gone.
When they were alone, Geoffrey walked over to Alison and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Allie.”
At the sound of her nickname, Alison looked at him over her shoulder. She blinked back sudden tears. “I’m really scared.”
“I know.” He pulled her close and, for a moment, she allowed herself to relax against his chest.
“I mean, Olivia’s all by herself….”
“Allie, we’ll be there as soon as possible. I promise. Jack will take you right to her, while Miles goes to Leicester House and I see if I can get to Nicholas.”
“Will they let you in to see him?”
“I can but try.” He gave her a crooked little grin and chucked her under the chin. “Chin up, now. Go see to your packing. I’m sure old Janet doesn’t move as fast as she once did.”
They broke apart, and Alison started up the stairs. Halfway up, she paused and turned back. Geoffrey was standing by the hearth, stroking his chin. He looked troubled, and a pang went through her. “Geoffrey?” At once he looked up. Before he could speak, she went on, “I’m sorry about Nichol
as. I don’t mean to act as though your brother’s life isn’t important. I’m sorry.”
He gave her another crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I understand, Allie. Believe me, I do.”
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?”
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