Love's Labyrinth

by Anne Kelleher

  “Well, um. Yeah. It is. I guess he’s the sort of person who grows on you, you know?”

  “He is?” Olivia giggled at her friend in spite of herself. “Are you telling me that Alison O’Neill has been swept off her feet by a sixteenth-century geek? Alison O’Neill, who’s broken hearts more times than the Yankees beat the Red Sox? This is one for the history books!”

  “Oh, cut it out.” Alison cuffed Olivia on her uninjured arm. “How about you, Miss I-don’t-want-to-leave-my-love-in-jail?”

  “Sounds like a country-western song.” The two women exchanged grins, and then reality crashed down on Olivia once more. Tears filled her eyes and she brushed them away. “I just don’t want to see anything bad happen to him, Allie, and I don’t think I could stand not to know.” Alison gathered Olivia in a motherly hug. “I know, honey. I understand. Try not to worry, though. Mother O’Neill’s here now, and we’ll make it all right. I promise.”

  And clinging to Alison like a child, Olivia desperately tried to believe that was true.

  “What word, Miles?” Geoffrey ran his fingers through his hair. It stuck up in all directions, but for once, Alison didn’t think it the least bit funny. Olivia had finally fallen back to sleep, and the night watchman had announced midnight on his rounds through the nearly empty streets. Empty of humans, that is. Dogs skulked in the shadows, snarling over bones, and alley cats slunk up and down the ledges of the buildings, eyes glowing green on the hunt. Even the raucous noise in the tavern below had faded, as the patrons had stumbled in twos and threes out the door and down the street, most by ten or eleven.

  Miles Coddington shifted on his feet. His face was gaunt with fatigue, and his limp was even more noticeable. Dark bags hung below his eyes. “Lord Leicester’s in Sussex with Her Majesty, Master Geoffrey. They are not expected to return to London for another week or more.”

  “A week. And the women must be back at Talcott Forest in less than a fortnight,” Geoffrey breathed.

  “Did they let you see him?” Miles asked.

  “They told me to come again tomorrow at noon.”

  “Now what do we do?” asked Alison. “We’re not going to just sit and wait for a week to pass, are we?”

  “No,” sighed Geoffrey. “But I wish I could think of some way to ensure that Dee’s letter would be delivered to the Queen. There’s always the possibility she might not read it—or be given it—until it’s too late.”

  “If Lord Leicester gave it to her—” Miles began.

  “Aye, but how to ensure he gets it? How to make certain he understands how important it is?” Geoffrey stroked his chin and rubbed his temples.

  “Can’t you just show up and ask for an audience?” Alison put in.

  “Oh, certainly. But will we get one? That’s the question. While she’s on summer progress, the Queen refuses to be troubled by requests from petitioners. Nothing must interfere with her sport and her delight. And she’s sure to be besieged by such requests by those who seldom, if ever, have an opportunity to come to court. So though we might get the letter to her, how to make sure she doesn’t let it languish…” Geoffrey rose to his feet and paced to the window, his long strides as restless as a caged tiger’s in a crowded cage. “There’s the rub.”

  “Well, we should at least show up, don’t you think? The squeaky door gets the grease, as my mother always said.”

  “Ah, but it will be all for naught if the Queen’s humor—” Geoffrey stopped and slammed a fist against the wall. “I’d like to wring his neck.”

  “This is a matter of life and death,” Alison said. “She wouldn’t interrupt her sport for that?”

  “The Queen answers to no one, Mistress Alison.” Miles looked grave. “According to Lord Leicester’s agent, the Queen may be at Greenwich one week hence, but that is the soonest anyone expects her.”

  “Greenwich, hmm?” Geoffrey stroked his chin. “Perhaps there….”

  “Why? What’s so great about Greenwich?” Alison asked.

  “’Tis one of her own residences, mistress,” Miles answered. “Once she’s there, the pressures of her councilors will begin to bear on her. She may be more open and receptive to requests, although she’s sure to be besieged by court business—”

  “Well, this is court business, too,” Alison snapped.

  “We’ve a better chance of an audience, Alison, that’s true. But she may keep us cooling our heels for who knows how long.” Geoffrey’s voice trailed off and he stared into the fireplace. Finally he shook his head, as if to shake off the worry, and turned back to face them both. “All right, Miles. Let’s to bed. We’ve done as much as we can do this night.”

  “I’ll come with you to the Tower, tomorrow, if you will, Master Geoffrey.”

  “Of course.” Geoffrey nodded a dismissal. “Good night, Miles.” He looked at Alison when the older man had gone. “The hour’s late, Allie. We’d best go to bed.” Their eyes met and held, and Alison felt the color rise in her cheeks.

  She picked up the candle. “I’ll be right next door, then. With Olivia.”

  “Allie—” He held out his hand. “You can stay here, an you like.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Geoffrey, that’s not a good idea. We both know that.” Look at what’s happened to Olivia, she wanted to say. She wants to stay in this benighted time, all because of your brother. But she held her tongue, and smiled sadly instead. “Good night, Geoffrey.”

  “Good night, Allie. Sleep well.”

  She nearly responded, “Sweet dreams,” before she stopped herself. Surely if any of them dreamt tonight, there’d be no good dreams at all.

  CHAPTER 16

  “THEY WOULDN’T LET me in to see him.” Geoffrey strode over to the table where Alison and Olivia waited. He slapped his gloves down and stared, grim-faced, into the empty hearth.

  “So now what?” asked Alison with her characteristic practicality.

  “I was told to return at two o’clock.”

  “Will they let you see him then?” Olivia asked.

  “I don’t know.” Geoffrey shook his head. He wore an expression that could only be described as disgust.

  “May I come with you?” Olivia refused even to consider the possibility that the trip would be for nothing.

  Geoffrey glanced down at her, surprise clear on his face. “Mistress, that place—the Tower—’tis no place for a lady, and especially not one—”

  “I was there, too Geoffrey.” She reminded him gently.

  He heaved a sigh. “An you will, then, mistress. ‘Tis not—”

  “That’s all well and fine,” interrupted Alison, “but don’t you think we ought to give some thought to exactly what might be going on? And try to figure out how this happened, and what’s the best way to get him out of there? All this wringing our hands and moaning and groaning isn’t going to help much.”

  Geoffrey sat down heavily on the bench next to Alison. “Well, Mistress Allie, what’re your thoughts?”

  Even Miles, silent up to now, leaned forward.

  “Ok—” Alison began, then stopped, remembering to watch her speech in such a public place. “All right. This much we know for sure. Nicholas—and Olivia, too—was set up by someone, most likely this Christopher Warren, right?”

  “Aye.” Geoffrey nodded, stroking his chin.

  “All right. We know that Warren knew something, because the information he gave Nicholas was accurate to a degree, but that there were things he didn’t know, like the fact that a woman who served Mary, Queen of Scots, was supposed to show up, too, right?”

  Again the men nodded, and Olivia plucked listlessly at the embroidery on her sleeve.

  “How’d Warren get his information? I mean, who does Warren work for? Is that person Nicholas’s enemy too?” She paused. “It seems unlikely, as far as I can tell. Warren’s the one with the ax to grind. So what if we go to Warren’s boss and tell him what happened? Think that might work?”

  The men exchanged glances. “It might,” Geoffr
ey said, with a puckered brow.

  “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” Alison looked from one to the other. “I mean, what do you think, Liv?”

  Olivia spread her hands. “I suppose that’s a good idea. I guess I’m not sure that it’s going to be as simple as knocking on Sir Francis’s front door and saying, ‘Hi, we’re here to talk about Nicholas Talcott.’ I mean, I just don’t know. What do you think, Geoffrey? Master Coddington?”

  “I’ll be happy to take a letter to Sir Francis, mistress, wherever he might be,” said Miles.

  “I guess it can’t hurt,” said Geoffrey. “I wish I could get my hands on that Christopher Warren myself.”

  “Maybe we should look for him,” Alison suggested.

  “And do what? Beat him to a pulp? Force him to tell the truth?” Geoffrey shook his head.

  “If this whole scheme was his idea, to bring down Nicholas, the last thing he’ll ever want revealed is the truth,” Alison said. “Especially to Sir Francis Walsingham. He’d go to his grave denying it, and if that happened, then who’s to say Nicholas is innocent?”

  “Who’s to say he’s not?” Olivia asked softly.

  Alison stared at her. “Are you saying let’s commit murder, Livvie?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Of course not, Allie. This whole situation is just a mess. And we’ve got this time constraint thing—”

  “Miles will take you back to Talcott Forest when the time comes, mistress,” Geoffrey said. “Have no fear on that score.”

  “That’s not what I’m afraid of, Geoffrey.” Olivia took a deep breath. “Don’t you see? The only reason Nicholas was able to get the plans from the Spanish agent was because I was there to tell the Spaniard what he needed to know. That’s the reason Nicholas was found with the plans, and that’s the ultimate reason he’s in the Tower now. We have to find a way to get him out of the Tower, or, when we go back, we might not go back to the same place we left.”

  Alison stared at her in dismay. “What are you talking about, Liv?”

  “Don’t you remember practically the last thing I did before we went through the maze, Allie? I was checking the Talcott family records. There’s no mention that Nicholas Talcott died a traitor’s death. If this happens, the past we knew will be irrevocably changed. If Nicholas dies, God only knows what the repercussions will be. How can we return?”

  With a shocked and troubled stare, as the implications of all Olivia said slowly penetrated, Alison shrank on the bench, her face pale, her eyes wide. “Good grief, Liv,” she breathed. “I think you’re right. What in the name of God are we going to do?”

  “Let’s think,” said Olivia. “No matter how silly or ridiculous the idea, we have to think.” She looked up at Geoffrey, who wore a look very similar to Alison’s.

  “Nicholas said no good would come of the maze,” he said, so softly it was hard to hear him.

  “There’s no time for feeling bad about that now,” Alison snapped. “Two things are going to happen in the next two weeks. Nicholas is getting out of that Tower, and Olivia and I are going home.”

  “Has the prisoner signed the confession?” Walsingham paused long enough from his writing to stare up at Warren with his black, deep-set eyes.

  There was something of a Spaniard about his master, thought Warren suddenly—the black, piercing eyes that seemed to bore right through to a man’s soul, the thick dark hair, and the sallow, pockmarked skin. “No, my lord, not yet.”

  “He refuses?”

  “Yes, my lord. But with your permission, I’ve prepared this warrant…” Warren placed the rolled parchment gingerly on Walsingham’s desk.

  “And this is?” The dark eyes seemed to stab all the way into Warren’s most private thoughts.

  “A warrant, my lord. For the execution of Lord Nicholas Talcott—”

  “You want this man dead, don’t you, Warren?” Walsingham toyed with the parchment scroll. He sat back in his chair with a long sigh. “’Tis not so easy as Master Steele, Warren. Lord Talcott is just that—Lord Talcott. Only a court of the high steward, or the Queen herself, can command that a peer of this realm may lose his life for treason. And while Her Majesty makes merry on her summer progress, there is no hope at all of this matter coming to her attention. Even when she returns to Greenwich, a return most devoutly to be wished, she won’t want to give this sordid little matter her attention unless cajoled. She likes Lord Talcott, remember?” Walsingham drew a deep breath, stared into space for a long moment, and then shrugged. “Let him cool his heels in the Tower a few weeks. The case against him is strong—he was, after all, caught with the plans—”

  “And there’s a witness, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes, so you did say. Sir John? Sir John Makepeace?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “He’s known to me.” Walsingham steepled his fingers together and pressed his lips to the tips of his forefingers. “That’s all, Warren.”

  “But—but—but, my lord—”

  “Yes, Warren?”

  “What about the confession? Should he not be—”

  “Racked? You forget, Warren. This is a peer of the realm. Lord Talcott may go to the block. But for the interim, you cannot touch him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Warren bowed, forcing his face to reveal nothing of the frustration he felt. As he reached the door, Walsingham’s cold, dry voice stopped him in midstride.

  “Warren? Tell me again. Who gave you Talcott’s name?”

  “Stephen Steele, my lord.”

  “Under torture?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  There was a long silence. Walsingham seemed to mull over this information in his mind. Finally he nodded. “That’s all, Warren. You may go.”

  Suppressing a sigh of relief, Warren made his escape, ignoring the servant who politely held the door open. He’d have to tread carefully, lest Walsingham discover what he’d done. He had the terrible suspicion that Walsingham suspected something. He’d have to go once more to his contacts, and see if there were some way to reach the Talcott cousin while she stayed within the inn itself.

  Now that the brother was here in London, she’d be better protected. Perhaps one of the servants could be bribed, or even the landlord himself. Surely there’d be a way to silence her, he thought with a growing sense of desperation that required a greater effort than before to suppress. But why should Walsingham care, he rationalized. Intercepting the plans for the invasion of England was as great a coup as he was ever likely to score. Surely that alone would warrant gratitude from the Queen herself. He went out the door with almost a light heart as he envisioned bowing low to receive Elizabeth’s grateful thanks.

  As he was walking down the steps to the street, he was surprised to meet Sir John Makepeace walking up them. “Sir John! What do you here?”

  “I was told I could find you here, Master Warren.” The tall knight reversed direction and followed Warren down the steps. When they reached the street, he paused and put his hand on Warren’s arm. “Well? What news?”

  Warren stiffened. “News?”

  “Of the traitor? Has he confessed? Has his property been attainted?”

  Warren shook his head and started off, Sir John following as eagerly as a puppy at his heels. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet? You have him with the plans in hand—I’m the witness—what do you mean, not yet?”

  “He refuses to sign a confession.”

  Sir John narrowed his eyes and drew himself up, his thin lips pursed in disdain. “I see.”

  “These things take time, Sir John. Surely you didn’t believe Talcott would be executed immediately? He’s a peer of the realm—only Her Majesty can sign his death warrant.” Surreptitiously yet savagely, Warren crumpled that document, which he still held in his fist.

  “I see.”

  “I promised you nothing, Sir John.’”

  At that, Sir John dropped his eyes. “You’re right, Master Warren. I am, perhaps, overzealous in my desire to s
ee the traitor punished.”

  Aren’t we all, Warren wanted to say, but all he allowed himself was a mild, “It is quite understandable, Sir John. I bid you a good day.”

  “And a good day to you, sir.” Sir John bowed his head politely and stood aside as Warren nodded in return and took off down the street. He had the unpleasant feeling that the knight watched him every step of the way, until he was swallowed by the crowd.

  “A quarter hour, that’s all.” The jailer swung the door closed with a satisfying bang. Olivia raised her eyes to Nicholas. His chin was rough with his unshaved beard, dark circles ringed his eyes, and he looked pale and drawn. His shirt was wrinkled and filthy, but at least he clearly had not been harmed. The two of them hesitated, and then she rushed across the room and clutched him in her arms, as his closed around her.

  “Are you all right?” they asked in unison.

  They drew apart and looked at each other, smiled, and both laughed.

  “I’m fine—” she began, trying not to wince.

  “Well enough—” he said.

  They stopped once more, and their eyes met again. “You first,” she said.

  “Let me look at you.” He traced the outline of her face with the tip of one finger. “Sweet Jesu, I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Me? I’ve been frantic for you. What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  Nicholas nodded and turned away. “Aye, as well as I can be. Warren tried to threaten me if I didn’t sign his confession. I refused, of course.”

  “Can they force you?” She picked up his hand and held it between both of hers.

  “Rack me, you mean?” He shrugged. “Not without some sort of royal approval from some level. But given the seriousness of what they say I’ve done, who knows?”

  “Oh, Nicholas.” She dropped her head and closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. ‘This is all my fault.”

  “Stop that nonsense, lady. You and I both know that’s not true. ‘Tis my own folly that got us both tangled in this web, nothing more. My own folly and ambition. I should’ve listened to my brother.”