She was relieved to see, as he mopped his brow with a less than pristine handkerchief, that he clearly welcomed the reprieve. “No,” he exclaimed, “not at all.”
Oxford approached them again.
Before he could speak, Shakespeare stopped him with an upheld hand. “The lady’s feet are aching.”
The earl immediately offered her his arm. “Come then, let us find you a place to rest.” Without a backward glance, he led her to a small bench, near the musicians, where she perched uncomfortably.
Shakespeare followed, and then the two men stood nearby, speaking heatedly under the music. Oxford gestured, his hands flying. Shakespeare’s brow first creased in confusion, but he finally seemed to relax, offering his companion a broad smile.
Something brushed up against Cassandra’s shoulder. She turned with a start. There stood the man in black, Robin, Oxford had called him. This must be Robert Cecil. He sported a neatly trimmed beard, and had large, liquid brown eyes. He wasn’t old, maybe in his mid-thirties, but his dark hair was thin with streaks of grey. One could not call him handsome, yet there was something gentle in his angular face which belied his conniving reputation.
He bent toward her to speak, making more evident the hunch of his back.
“Robert Cecil, at your service,” he said quietly, speaking under, rather than over the music.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” she replied, awed to be speaking to the person who would soon be the most powerful man in England. His father, William Cecil, or Lord Burghley, as was his title, was the Queen’s right hand and had been for decades. Burghley would soon die and Robert, already Secretary of State, would take over as Elizabeth’s principle minister and advisor. Other than those facts, Cassandra knew little about him.
“How do you find your introduction to Her Majesty?”
“Intimidating, to say the least,” Cassandra replied with a smile.
“Your gift saved the day.”
“And the good looks of my s―, my nephew.” She glanced quickly toward James to distract from the slip. The Queen was chatting with him. James had a wide grin plastered on his slender face, but he was flushed, and the sheen of sweat on his forehead was evident even from where Cassandra was sitting.
“I am afraid she has taken to him,” Cecil said, “which means she may ask him to stay at the palace for a few days.”
“What?” Cassandra suddenly felt very hot.
“Do not worry. I will make certain he is well cared for. The Queen simply likes new scenery every now and then.”
Would that nasty old woman make James sleep with her? That was too hideous, and perhaps even dangerous, to contemplate. Elizabeth might call herself The Virgin Queen, but historians generally believed it was a myth. What could Cassandra do to help him?
As if reading her mind, Cecil said, “There is nothing to be done about it. I hope you can spare him for awhile. The Queen will have her way.”
“Of course,” Cassandra coughed, her throat very dry.
“Allow me to bring you some punch.” Cecil hobbled away and Oxford and Shakespeare moved in quickly, each vying to be a little closer to her than the other. When Cecil returned with two goblets of punch, he handed one to Cassandra, and Oxford snatched the other from his grip.
“I need this more than you, Robin.”
To hide her surprise at Oxford’s behavior, Cassandra took a sip of the brown liquid. It was hardly what she thought of as punch. More of a sickly sweet concoction that burned going down and heated her from the stomach out. And the cup was so heavy it could even have been made of lead. “It is a bit strong for me, Sir Robert,” she confided with a gasp.
“Oh I am sorry, your ladyship. I should have warned you.” He retrieved it from her. “Perhaps I can bring you something else?”
Before she could respond, the Queen suddenly stood and began to move through the genuflecting crowd. James, red faced, and with an imploring glance at his mother, followed Her Majesty out, surrounded by a bevy of young ladies all whispering and giggling to one another. Cassandra momentarily locked eyes with her son. And then, with her escort of guards, the Queen and her followers disappeared out the door.
“I must go,” Cassandra said, her stomach growing queasy.
“I shall come with you,” Shakespeare pronounced.
“No, I shall,” insisted Oxford.
Shakespeare nodded in quick agreement, the earl’s authority final.
“You are leaving so soon?” Cecil said, stepping forward, a look of genuine regret warming his pinched features.
“I am afraid so. It was delightful making your acquaintance.”
“The honor is mine.” He bowed deeply but without the flourish so many of the courtiers assumed.
Oxford retrieved her cloak and led her through the castle and out to the dock. “I shall accompany you home to assure your safety.”
By this time the boteheir was stinking drunk.
“You didn’t come by river?” she asked Oxford.
“I did, but I did not pay the waterman to stay. I will economize and ride back to London with you if you do not mind.”
It was an opportunity to have Oxford alone. “I appreciate the protection your company offers. Thank you.”
They boarded, and the oarsmen launched while the boteheir fell into a stupor at the bow. Oxford plopped next to Cassandra on the narrow bench. He grinned at her, and, as the vessel rocked on the light chop, leaned in close.
“Do you mind if I sit on the opposite side?” she asked, the strong odor of the scented oil he wore a bit nauseating. “You see, it prevents my feeling seasick.”
“Oh, no.” Oxford sat up straight as Cassandra moved. “Of course.”
After an awkward silence, she began, “Tell me, how do you pass your days, Lord Oxford?”
He jumped eagerly at the question. “I spend as much time as my income allows out of the country. I try to pass the majority of the winter in warmer climes, but this year, I was forced to return home early. Both the foul weather in Venice and a want of ready funds spurred my decision.”
Weren’t earls supposed to be wealthy? “Were you only in Venice?”
“Oh, no, I had been on the continent for six months. In September I was in France. There is nothing more beautiful than Paris in the autumn. But since the execution of the Queen of Scots, the English are not very popular there.”
“Ah yes, she was raised in France, was she not?”
“The child bride of the Dauphin. That all happened long before you were born, of course.”
“No, certainly, not long before.” Wait, how old was Cassandra supposed to be? Could she get away with thirty-five, forty? “But tell me, where did you go after Paris?”
I traveled through the Papal States, and the Republic of Florence. I am in love with the classical Italian language they speak in Firenze, and the art there from the last century. Then we went on to the Republic of Venice―a poorly timed trip.”
“You traveled with your wife?”
“Yes.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “But she does not appreciate the vibrant people of that region as I do. And the food does not agree with her.”
“Impossible.”
“You must be very familiar with Venice, there on the doorstep of Austria.”
“Indeed, I have oft’ traveled to the city. But I prefer Tuscany.” The weeks she had spent in Siena with Lauro were suddenly at the forefront of her thoughts.
“Even in the lamplight I see your color rise. You must have some delicious recollection of your time spent there.”
If only he knew she had been in Siena almost a hundred years earlier, that it was there she’d met the man she loved more than any other since her late husband. That she had taken Lauro from his own time, 1509, to more than six hundred years into the future, then sent him back again to the early sixteen hundreds, a necessity that had caused her sadness every day since. To think: in seven years from this present moment, Lauro would begin living a whole new
life in Florence of 1605, Galileo’s right hand man if all had gone as planned. She blinked. “Your Lordship, there are some things a lady cannot tell.”
He laughed loudly. “Excellent! I can see you are one who shares my adventuresome spirit.”
“Perhaps.” She allowed a sly smile. “And what of your life here? Do you enjoy England?”
“There is no landscape lovelier in the spring and summer. I mostly stay in my country estates. They provide me the solitude I need.”
“To do what, my lord?”
“Why, to write, of course.”
Now she was getting somewhere. “What do you write?”
“Poetry, sonnets, odes to nature and the beautiful women I have known in my life.”
Did he pause just now, ever so slightly, over the word “women,” or was that her imagination? “I have heard you are patron of a theatrical company, Oxford’s Boys, is that it?”
His face lit with a smile. “Yes, oh yes, you have heard of us?”
“Do you mean you are one of the company?”
He laughed loudly again. “No, of course not. Someone of my rank could never be an actor.”
“Not even an amateur?”
“Is that how it’s done in Austria? Here, it is acceptable for private masques and entertainments only.”
“And, do you never write plays for the troupe?”
He hesitated. “I have, yes. But I no longer do.”
“Why is that?”
“The Queen forbids it. Again, it is a matter of my nobility. Any professional participation in theatrical endeavors is beneath me, according to Her Majesty, that is. I attempted it many years ago, and was nearly thrown into the Tower.”
“I see. But you love the theatre; that is quite obvious.”
“More than you could possibly know.” He gazed through the foggy panel of glass to his right.
“You admire Master Shakespeare?”
“Immensely. He is quite the interesting fellow.”
“How came you to be friends?”
“I asked his opinion of a play I wrote, a few years ago.”
“And?”
“Truth be told he was not very helpful,” he replied with a rueful laugh, “but we have been friends ever since.”
“I see.” However, she did not see at all. Was Oxford just being cagey? It would make sense for him not to reveal that he was writing the plays and giving them to Shakespeare to produce, if such were the case. If the Queen found out, she might well take everything from him, and he seemed to be barely getting along as it was.
Before she could dig more deeply, his gaze moved away from her and toward the bank of the river. He began humming quietly to himself. Apparently the subject was closed.
“You have a lovely voice, my lord,” she offered.
“You may call me Edward.”
“I am not sure that would be proper.”
His eyes went misty. “Would you like me to sing for you?”
“Please.”
He sang a song about love, another about longing and loss. At last, with the aid of a swift current, the boat landed at James’s quay. The botehier had already been paid for the night, and so Cassandra and Oxford disembarked and let him go. They walked through the gardens to the front door and Cassandra knocked loudly.
“Wait,” declared Oxford. “May I come inside?”
“My lord,” she murmured. “Please, respect my widowly virtue.” Was widowly a word?
“Do forgive me. May I call on you tomorrow? Are there services you require that I might perform for you?”
Cassandra considered. “What you can do for me tomorrow, Lord Oxford, is to find out how my nephew fares at the palace and bring me word from him.”
He bowed. “I will consider it my sacred duty.”
Mistress Flint opened the door with a wide yawn.
“Are you far from here?” Cassandra asked Oxford as she stepped inside. “The curfew―”
“I am exempt,” he laughed. “But no, I am not far. Goodnight, my lady.”
Chapter Five
James was walking up a hill toward Cassandra, calling out to her. What was he saying? Queen Elizabeth marched steadily behind him, dressed in a nightgown so sheer her stark white body could be seen though it. She was so thin she seemed to be made only of bones. At some unheard noise James turned to behold his pursuer. He began to run. Cassandra was rooted to the ground, unable to move an inch. She could only watch as the old queen, fast as a young girl, chased him.
A shadow rose up behind Cassandra. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. Fearfully, she turned to see a man towering over her―a giant! His silver hair was long and lank. He was dressed all in black, muscular under his clothes. It was Nick.
“Don’t try to get away from me, Cassandra,” he roared. “You will never escape. I’ll find you, and then I’ll never let you go again.”
An enormous hand reached out to grab her. She opened her mouth to scream but there was no sound. James was far away now, still running and running, though the Queen was gone. He ran into a distant woods and Cassandra was all alone with the gargantuan Nick.
Her eyes flew open. She was sweating, gasping for breath. She sat up, trying to shake away the images in the dream. It had been a long time since she’d thought of Nick Stockard. Betrayal was all he represented to her. Yes, she had once loved him, or thought she did. After all, his help had been key in rescuing James from that terrible situation in Regency England. At the time, Nick had seemed the epitome of a gentleman and, after they’d returned to the reality of life in the future, he’d been a lovely distraction from what she’d left behind in 1820. But later…no, she had to let those thoughts go now. She must sleep. Tomorrow she would find out how James was doing.
Only one thing would soothe her now. She lay back and closed her eyes. Lauro’s face, his deep brown eyes, full lips, tanned skin, wavy black hair, and sculpted body materialized before her. She brought her hands to her breasts. Now they were his, strong and sure. His lips were on her lips. He drew down her nightgown and kissed her collar bone, the dip between her breasts, the flesh of them, nibbling, teasing. His hands eased down along her hips and stroked the delta where her thighs met. The muscles of his arms were firm, the hair on his taut chest tickling her skin.
A light from somewhere far away called her to consciousness. Her eyes opened again. It was morning. The late winter sun drifted through the multi-paned windows and into the gap she allowed for fresh air between the bed curtains.
She rang for Mistress Flint and asked to have breakfast served in her room, so that perhaps the housekeeper wouldn’t remark on James’s not coming down for breakfast. Just as she finished the small bowl of oat porridge with dried fruit, nuts, butter, and honey, a knock sounded at her door.
“Your ladyship?” the housekeeper called. “A message has arrived for you.”
Cassandra flew to the door and grabbed the folded parchment. “Thank you, good mistress, thank you!”
She closed the door on the curious face and tore the letter open. It was immediately clear it wasn’t what she had been hoping for. Yet the words were strangely familiar:
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
She sat on the bed, holding
the paper, reading and rereading it. She had seen it before, absolutely. The Sonnets were old friends, she’d know them anywhere. It was unmistakably Shakespeare, or at least attributed to Shakespeare. From the first moment she’d met the playwright, he’d seemed taken with her. At the same time, however, last night Lord Oxford was singing her songs and wanted to come inside. It could be from either one. Certainly, whether it was written by him or not, this sonnet would someday bear Shakespeare’s name. Not yet though. Nothing Shakespeare wrote was signed by him, or even written in his own handwriting. According to James, there were only six surviving documents with Shakespeare’s signature on them. Indeed, these were the only examples of his handwriting anywhere, and each of those six signatures, not on manuscripts as one might expect, but on legal documents alone, were spelled differently; Shakspere, Shakesper etc…. none of them matching the conventional spelling that had endured with his plays for hundreds of years. No wonder scholars had spent the last several centuries trying to figure out how a man who couldn’t even seem to spell his own name the same way twice could have written such masterworks.
Could the handwriting of this sonnet in her hands be his? If so, it would be vital to preserve it for future examination. And then there was the subject matter of the sonnet itself: as if the writer had looked into her own mind last night. As if he’d been visited by dreams, just as she had―dreams of her. She dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t need more confusion, at the moment, she needed to hear from James.
Another knock on the door, and Mistress Flint’s voice again. “Another message, milady.”
Cassandra opened the door a crack and took it from her more cordially this time. “Thank you.”
“Your ladyship….” Mistress Flint inserted herself into the doorway before Cassandra could close it. “Be Master Gwynne at home? He does not answer his door.”
“Oh, goodness, um, no. He was invited to stay at the palace last night, so, there he remains for now.”
“Invited to stay? But, what an honor!”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Thank you. I shall call you forth again in a moment.” Cassandra closed the door firmly and opened the letter. The handwriting was different.
The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Page 7
