It was inexpressibly wonderful to make your acquaintance the evening last. Your face swims before my visage, un-erasable. Your russet locks, your eyes of celestial blue, your skin of porcelain―have all together conspired to undo me. You have become my sweet solace, my hope of a new dawning in life. I remain forever your humble servant.
Maybe this was Shakespeare’s handwriting. Why didn’t people sign their damn letters? She tossed it down on the bed and began to dress, a plan forming. She would ask for the carriage to be readied and she’d go to The Curtain and find Shakespeare. Surely he could take her to Oxford, and she would then ask the earl to go with her to the palace. She had to find out what was happening to James.
Once dressed, she rushed down the stairs, determined to leave immediately, only to discover, to her great distress, that it would take an hour or more for the driver to be brought and the horses hitched up.
Deeply frustrated, she paced the front hall. A knock at the outer door startled her, but she forced herself to wait while Mistress Flint answered. Moments later the woman ushered Oxford into the room.
“Oh, your lordship, I am so happy to see you,” Cassandra cried, rushing to him.
His already broad smile bloomed wider. “Please, you must call me Edward, dear lady. I assume this means you received my note?”
Which one? “Yes, thank you. It was beautiful.”
“It was nothing. My pen is not worthy of your grace and beauty.”
“Nonsense.” She had no time for flowery sentiments. “I am very flattered. But as you might imagine, I am most concerned about my nephew. I must know what you have heard from the palace.”
“Nothing yet, I am afraid.” He shook his head. “I sent my personal messenger there this morning and have not got a reply.”
“Oh.”
“My dear lady, do not despair. I came to tell you in person, for I feared you would be frantic, but there is no reason for that. There is no doubt your nephew is as pampered and coddled as he can be in the bosom of the Queen’s favor, as well as the fact that beautiful ladies abound at court, and I am certain your nephew is being well entertained by their considerable talents.”
“I see.” That was a whole different worry. James had better not be tempted by any of those beautiful ladies, a potential pitfall to be sure. He had told her himself that one reason Oxford had fallen into such disgrace with the Queen was that he had bedded one of her ladies, Anne Vavasour, several years ago. Apparently, Elizabeth preferred her ladies-in-waiting to pretend to be as virginal as she did.
There was nothing to be done for the time being however. And while she waited for word from him, she must continue their work. “It seems I am left to myself for…who knows how long?” she said to herself, as much to the earl. “I had hoped my nephew would be spending time with me. Showing me how Londoners entertain themselves.”
“I have an idea,” he replied.
How did this not surprise her?
Oxford took a step forward. “Come with me tonight. I shall get Will, and Burbage, and some of the others of The Chamberlain’s Men, and we shall take you to a true London tavern. Fie on this upper crust nonsense! Let me show you how the people really divert themselves in this town.”
“Go amongst the lower classes? I have nothing to wear to such a place.”
“Of course not, but then you will stand out no matter what you do, my beauty. However, with your housekeeper’s help to outfit you, you shall do as I do when I want to be one of the ‘rustics’ as I call them.”
She caught the term immediately. The Rustics were what the group of clown-like actors who put on the play-within-a-play in A Midsummer Night’s Dream were called. Yet surely it was a common reference. She blinked. “I, I see,” she stammered.
“Yes,” he enthused, “we shall dress like them―alter our manner and speech to some degree. Those who know me well know I am a nobleman, but others do not. It will be great fun!”
“Very well, if you say so. I am game for the escapade.”
It was his turn to blink. “Game?”
“You know, I am up for it…I am―”
Understanding dawned. “You are desirous! I knew you would be. I will come for you by carriage after supper, say nine o’clock. We will slip into a nearby tavern where I know the boys carouse.”
“I shall be ready.” She hoped.
James was swept up in Elizabeth’s wake, joining a bevy of ladies-in-waiting and a few male courtiers en route to her private chambers. There, the walls were draped with silken fabrics in rich jewel tones: emerald, ruby, sapphire, topaz. Candelabra stood on tables of thick, shining wood, the candles flickering with dim, romantic light. Carpets of animal furs covered the floors, making James’s skin crawl with the idea of what insects might be lurking there. There were carved wooden chairs placed here and there, and he made for one, with the hope that they’d keep him elevated above the vermin, but the Queen motioned him toward a velvet divan. He obediently sat, and she arranged herself next to him. Around them, the others lounged on cushions and ottomans. In the center of the gathering was a low, round table where wine, cake, marzipan, fruit, and cheese were placed.
He had expected Elizabeth to dominate the flow of conversation, but she seemed tired. She semi-reclined on the sofa, while the younger people kept up a running banter about music, plays, and court gossip.
A young woman named Susannah with chestnut hair, dark brown eyes, and milky skin, dressed in burgundy satin, seemed to feel James was her personal charge. She sat close to him on a nearby ottoman and made sure his cup was always full, and that he had all the delicacies he could want to eat. “How long have you been in London, Master Gwynne?” she inquired during a brief pause in the chatter.
“I have been here since October.”
“So long? How is it possible we have not seen or heard of you?”
“I had no means to obtain an invitation to court.”
She ran her eyes over his clothes. “Surely one such as you, so well endowed―”
The other ladies and gentlemen all tittered, while Elizabeth gave a loud snort. “With money, I mean,” Susannah admonished with mock sternness, “could have made the right connections before now.”
“I was bit distracted. I came to London to see plays and meet William Shakespeare.”
“He is a favorite, to be sure,” Elizabeth interjected, “but not more so than Marlowe or Jonson. A pity you were not here while Kit Marlowe still lived. Though he was an obstreperous man, not particularly pleasant company, his plays are sheer genius. Fortunately, they live on.”
“I have seen Tamburlaine performed by The Admiral’s Men. It was astonishing.”
“So it was. I had a private performance of it at court.”
James nodded with the proper degree of deference. No one spoke, and he wondered if something more might be required.
“I propose a game of cards,” piped a buxom blond in a blue gown. She drew a pack from the small purse she carried, tied at her waist. “Primero. Does it please Her Majesty?”
“You play. I have no desire to squander the people’s taxes tonight.”
Everyone laughed again, including James.
“Do you know the game, my lovely boy?” Elizabeth reached her arm toward him and ran a long finger under his chin.
“Yes. One does not spend time in the company of actors without parting with ones shillings in these games of chance.”
Susannah giggled.
“You will be popular here if you have money to lose,” the Queen retorted.
“I care not about losing coins to such charming adversaries. But will you not play, Your Majesty? We can share a hand.”
“No, I am old and tire early, sad to say. I will close my eyes for just a moment. You young people divert yourselves.”
“Begging your pardon, I refuse to hear you say the word ‘old’ in reference to yourself, my Queen. Your youth is eternal,” James insisted.
“He knows what to say, does he not?” Elizabeth sa
id with a grin, turning to her courtiers.
“He is correct, Your Gracious Highness,” chimed a lanky young man with hair so oily it was impossible to say whether it was blond or brown.
“Go on about your game,” ordered the old woman. “Enough flattery.” She lay back against the divan again and closed her eyes.
The first time James had played Primero, he’d quickly learned it was the predecessor to poker, something he was well versed at from his college days.
“Susannah,” the blonde said. “Will you play for us upon the lute?”
“Of course, Clarisse.” There was a degree of disappointment written on the brunette’s face, but there seemed to be a hierarchy among the ladies in waiting, and Susannah dared not refuse the request.
A servant brought the instrument and placed it in her hands.
“Sit there, Susannah,” Clarisse said, motioning to a cushion opposite James. Then she took over the ottoman next to him and began to dole out cards, finding any opportunity to brush her shoulder against his.
James arranged his face into an attitude of contentment, though in truth, he was tired too. How long would the evening’s festivities go on? At any rate, if Clarisse had intended to capture his attention from Susannah, she’d made the wrong maneuver, for now he had a perfect view of the dark-haired beauty while she played, and no picture could have been lovelier.
Around a half an hour later, when the Queen began to snore, the young men and women exchanged glances that seemed to say the night was over. “We shall settle our winnings later,” Clarisse whispered, and they got up and moved toward the door, all but the ladies who were to attend on readying the Queen for bed. One of them was an older woman who had stayed in the background all evening, motioning to the servants to fetch and serve as required. Now, she moved protectively toward Elizabeth, while Susannah, Clarisse, and the other non-essential persons melted away. James went with them, hoping he could speak to Susannah another minute. However, in the hallway, a man stood waiting.
“Master Gwynne?”
“I am he,” replied James.
“I am to show you to your rooms and serve as your valet.”
“Ah, very good. Goodnight,” he called to the others as they went in their various directions.
“Goodnight!” Clarisse and Susannah called in unison. They giggled, and hurried down the corridor.
James followed his new servant quite a long ways down one hallway and another, until the valet opened a door and proceeded into a room, where he set about lighting candles. The glow from the tapers revealed an elegant space dominated by a large bed of carved, deep red mahogany, covered with embroidered linens and plump pillows.
“I have no clothes but these at the moment,” James said to the man once he’d finished his chore, “so I suppose I shall need a nightdress. Could you procure one for me?”
“Of course, sir. With your leave, sir.” He twitched his straw-colored mustache.
“Yes, please. Oh, and your name, good man.”
“Thompkins, sir.”
“Very well, Thompkins.”
“A man will come to light your fire, sir,” Thompkins said, then bowed and left.
James walked around and looked the room over further, admiring the intricately woven Turkish carpets as he stepped upon them. There was also a table, chairs, and a desk, all of the same carved mahogany as the bed, a large armoire inlaid with a mother of pearl mosaic, and a window seat below the one window, covered in fine, needlepoint cushions.
On the desk were paper, quill, ink, and all the necessary accoutrements he would need to send his mother a message. He had no idea how long Elizabeth would want him to stay. If it were longer than a day or two, he supposed he would need more clothes. At any rate, for now, he would have no choice but to leave the investigation of the plays up to the Duchess.
Chapter Six
Cassandra sat on a bench at a large, rectangular table in the murky tavern, surrounded by men of all ages―from Oxford, the most venerable, to Samuel Cross, the teenaged actor―every one of them drunk, the air thick with tobacco smoke. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men mostly had the place to themselves for the night, it seemed. She felt the slightest bit carefree, even a little tipsy. Her mind had been full of nothing but worry for weeks since she’d gotten that fateful call in Boston from James. She took another gulp from her “bowl” of ale, as they called the large drinking cups. So what if it was warm and a little sour? Its relaxing effect was heavenly.
In the sea of males, Mistress Turnbow was a glaring vision in bright green, her breasts as abundantly displayed as they’d been the night before at the palace. She seemed to harbor no ill will against Burbage for his previous dismissal of her. She was draped across his lap, the only woman in the place other than Cassandra and a young bar maid who was stoically enduring a great many pinches and slaps on the behind from the customers. Oxford was positioned protectively to Cassandra’s right, but Shakespeare had made himself at home to her left, and had been stealing hungry glances at her. He wasn’t the only one. The outfit Mistress Flint had found for her amongst her daughter’s things was of blue felt, which was rough on her skin, even through her under smock. It was lower cut than a widow should probably wear, the neckline surrounded by simple cotton ruffles, the collar rising in the back to the nape of Cassandra’s hairline. The housekeeper had adjusted the waist so it fit snugly, and instead of attaching the unwieldy farthingale, had taken a roll of fabric and tied it under the skirt to hold it out in the fashionable style. She had not, however, been happy about Cassandra’s plan, and had tried to convince her not to go, saying it was not proper for a duchess to consort with actors and other lowlifes in a tavern. Cassandra was glad she’d ignored her.
The men were one-upping each other with jokes and bawdy songs. She turned to Shakespeare. Should she just come out and ask him if he’d sent her the sonnet that morning?
He glanced at her with an embarrassed grin. “I apologize for the rude behavior of my comrades.”
“You should see how the Austrians behave when they’re drunk,” she reassured him. “Think nothing of it.”
“Were you really in Austria for all of twenty years without ever returning to England?”
“I did visit Cornwall occasionally, to see my family there. And I was telling Lord Oxford last night that I have traveled quite a bit throughout the continent. In particular - the Italian states.”
“I have never been. Actually, I have never been anywhere outside of England.”
Cassandra nodded and sipped from her bowl. There was a decided lack of mention in the scanty biographical information about Shakespeare that he had ever traveled abroad. This was now confirmed. Yet he’d set many of his plays in Italy, as well as other foreign countries, and wrote of it as if he knew it well. “This surprises me, sir,” she ventured.
“It should not. I am a countrified swain at heart. As a matter of fact, I am not inclined to live many more years in London. I shall make my money in the theatre and go home to Stratford to peace and quiet. City life does not agree with me.”
“Do you have family there?” she asked cautiously, already knowing the answer.
He grew red and looked away. Finally he turned back to her. “Yes. I have a wife. She is older than I. We have three children.” He paused. “Had,” he continued, his voice growing hoarse. “My son died two years ago. He was but twelve.”
She knew this already, but it didn’t lessen her sadness for him. “I am so terribly sorry.”
He remained silent, staring into his ale. His face grew tender, his eyes far away. His sorrow somehow made him more human, and, as a result, more attractive.
She leaned in close, nearly brushing his cheek with her lips. He smelled faintly of licorice. “Master Shakespeare,” she whispered. “I do not want to make you think of sad subjects on this merry night.”
He turned to her, their faces just inches apart, and looked into her eyes, smiling faintly. He took a breath and leaned back against the wall, the
spell broken. “Another reason to return home to Stratford within a handful of years. My wife has not been well in the head since my son passed. Not that we ever really got on. She is irksome to me, I do not mind telling you, but I must look after my house and property there, and I do not trust her to do it.”
“Will you continue to write there?” She already knew that answer too. He would never write another word after he returned to Stratford a decade from now, nor would he leave any mention of his plays in his sparse will. He would devote himself to petty arguments over financial matters with the locals. How could such an immense poet, the writer of sonnets and plays that moved the world, not pick up a pen again after his “retirement?” Most writers she knew could not stop themselves.
“An odd question,” he replied, his mood appearing to lighten. “How do I know if I will continue to write?”
“I do not know,” she said with a laugh. “Twas a silly question.”
“What are you two talking about over there?” Oxford interrupted.
“Wives,” Shakespeare joked. “Your favorite subject.”
“Please, do not say the word ‘wife’ in my presence! Mine is the most frightful nag,” Oxford chortled, drawing the attention of several of the company members. “I have been married more years to that woman than I care to say and I am still trying to train her to obey her master.”
“That will never happen,” Burbage offered loudly. “Which is why you have to trade a wife in for a new one every few years.” He squeezed Mistress Turnbow’s thigh.
“But I am not your wife,” she objected.
“Thank Saint Swithun for that!” he replied, raising his glass. His audience followed suit and they all gulped their drinks.
“Last I saw the woman,” Oxford went on, “she chided me for spending time in the company of certain wenches.” To Cassandra he whispered, “Pardon my language, my lady.”
She lifted her cup to him. Why should she care? “Continue, good sir!”
The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Page 8
