“And who is Lord Oxford’s wife? Sir Robert’s sister. Cecil could have witnessed that very scene as it took place, or his sister could have told him about it.” She took a breath. “And then there’s Richard III.”
“Richard III?”
“Oh, I have not told you, Essex came to Oxford’s house. There was a terrible row.” She related all that happened, and what Oxford said about how he would encourage Shakespeare to go to Essex and offer to mount Richard III again, as a peace offering in light of their harsh treatment of him. “How does that opening monologue go again? I’m sure you know it.”
“The one that begins, ‘Now is the winter of our discontent…?’”
“Yes. Richard goes on to say something about his deformation.”
“I know the lines exactly. I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinished, sent before my time, into this breathing world, scarce half made up, and that so lamely and unfashionable that dogs bark at me as I halt by them; why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, have no delight to pass away the time, unless to spy my shadow in the sun and descant on mine own deformity…” He took a breath. “But why would Cecil write a play in which he belittles himself so much, basically saying that even dogs find him repulsive. And why would he cast himself as such an evil character?”
“Could he have had the foresight to write a play in which he represented an enemy to the throne, knowing Essex would be influenced by it?”
Picking up on her train of thought, James continued. “He was hoping to prod Essex into a rebellion, and knew that rebellion would have to fail. Thus, Elizabeth would have an excuse to execute Essex, thereby freeing England and Elizabeth of the man forever.”
“This is what Oxford predicts.”
They both fell silent. The carriage rumbled along. Finally she spoke again. “After we read the finished version of As You Like It, I asked Oxford about his manuscript and he conceded that Shakespeare’s was the better.”
“And you said Shakespeare’s version was a disaster just twenty-four hours before. Who else was left to write the play? Cecil. Robert Cecil must be the author. This discovery will change the world.”
“But we can’t prove it,” she said, turning to him.
“Yes we can. He has to be the one who wrote that sonnet to you. His handwriting can be matched to historical samples.”
“The sonnet, yes! Oxford said he didn’t write it. Shakespeare obviously didn’t, so that only leaves Sir Robert. But I don’t have it. It’s in the trunk with everything else that was in the carriage when Nick kidnapped me. It’s gone.”
James sat back in his seat. “Then was this whole trip was for nothing.”
She considered for a moment. “Maybe it’s better this way,” she said gently. “I don’t think the world will ever be ready to accept that William Shakespeare isn’t the true author of the greatest works in the English language. But what you do have, the thing that does make this trip worthwhile, are Elizabeth’s letters to her love, Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester. Those letters, whether you should have them or not, are the discovery of a lifetime.”
James patted the breast of his jacket and nodded slowly. “They’re right here, safe and sound.”
They were crossing the bridge. They’d be at the portal in a few minutes. However, as they approached the far gate, the carriage stopped.
“What’s happening?” Cassandra wondered with a surge of anxiety. “Put up your hood, James.”
He did, just as the door opened on her side. A sentry stood there with a lantern. He peered inside. “Young sir,” the man said. “Where go you at this hour? Curfew is passed.”
“My brother is sick,” she said.
James coughed weakly.
“I am taking him to the doctor,” she continued, “for the physician would not come out on this foggy night. Take care, sir, there may be danger of infection.”
The sentry drew back quickly. “There is a criminal on the loose,” he said. “A man suspected of spying and plotting against the Queen. Be careful. He may be of a murderous bent. A man was found stabbed on Thames Street. ‘Tis a foul night and there be ill happenings afoot.”
“I thank you for your warning. We shall be wary, but the doctor is not far off yet.”
“Be on your way then.” The sentry slammed the door closed, no doubt happy to let the sick passenger be on his way. One could never be too careful about the dreaded illnesses that crept about London, in particular, the plague.
The carriage moved forward and Cassandra and James exhaled at the same time.
“This man they found,” James said. “Was it Nick?”
“Cecil stabbed him. He saved all our lives.”
The carriage’s sudden, violent rocking and rattling told them they had arrived on the pitted mud streets of Southwark and in another few moments, they were within a block of the portal exit. James tapped on the roof and the carriage halted again. They hopped out and James paid the driver a huge sum, admonishing him not to tell anyone where he had taken them. It didn’t really matter though. Even if the driver mentioned to someone that he’d left his former master, James Gywnne, and another fellow on the streets of Southwark, what difference would it make? The time travelers would be long gone and the Elizabethans would be left to puzzle over it.
They waited until he drove on and with him went the carriage lantern, leaving them in the dark. “I can hardly see,” Cassandra whispered.
There were a few dimly lit windows shedding some glow into the street. James took Cassandra’s hand and led her along. “Here it is,” he said at last: the gated entry to the small, shabby alleyway where the portal exit resided. The door opened without resistance and they went in. The team would see the outline of their bodies with a sensor that would immediately identify them as James and Cassandra.
She stood still, holding her breath. Suddenly, the ground seemed to give way. The transfer had begun.
Chapter Sixteen
Professor Carver and Suhan were on duty at the portal lab when Cassandra and James exited the chamber. Cassandra let Suhan embrace her in welcome, but when the professor pulled the redhead in for a hug, she whispered to him, “Call the police.”
He looked into her face, eyebrows raised.
She nodded, and surreptitiously passed him the gun that was still tucked into her doublet.
The professor slipped it into his jacket pocket without question, then turned away and crooked a finger to activate his palm-link.
“There’s so much to tell,” said James excitedly, “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Wait,” Cassandra cut in. “Let’s get out of these clothes and decompress. And I could definitely use a shower. After that, there will be time to tell everything. For now, give Elton Elizabeth’s letters.”
“Queen Elizabeth?” Carver queried, turning back to them.
“The one and only,” Cassandra grinned.
James drew them from his breast pocket, where they were tied with a string, and gave them to his boss.
“I can’t wait to hear the story behind this,” the Professor said as went to place them in the lab safe.
A siren wailed in the distance.
“I’ll grab a shower too,” said James. “It’ll be great to get into some clean clothes at last. I’ve been wearing this stuff for far too long.”
“Good idea, go ahead,” said Cassandra. It would be better if James didn’t witness what was about to take place. She’d explain everything afterwards.
“Do you have any wine stashed around here?” she asked the Professor once her son had gone. “I could use a glass.”
“Of course.” He narrowed his eyes.
The siren grew louder.
“What is that?” Suhan wanted to know. Police sirens were a rarity in their world.
“I have something to tell you,” Cassandra said to her. “Sit down.”
“What’s going on?” The young woman’s tawny skin grew pale.
“There’s no getting away. Just sit down. They’ll be here in a second.”
“What do you mean? What’s happening?” Her black eyes grew wide in her slender face.
“Cassandra? What is the meaning of this?” Carver asked.
“Nick is dead,” she said to them both.
Suhan moaned loudly and sank onto a sofa.
“Nick?” said the professor. “I don’t understand.”
“He was there. He kidnapped me.” She tipped her head toward Carver’s pocket that contained the gun. “He knew about our activities because of Suhan. She’s been his spy ever since he escaped in Boston three years ago. She was helping him in Italy. She was his accomplice.”
“I don’t believe it,” Carver exclaimed.
Suhan sobbed into her hands.
There was a rap on the door. Carver mutely went to answer it, allowing a squad of police officers to politely enter.
“She’s an accomplice to Nick Stockard,” Cassandra said, indicating Suhan. It was all she needed to say. Nick was a famously wanted man.
“Where is he?” the sergeant asked.
“He’s dead, stabbed to death in a previous era. He was time traveling. I’ll come along to answer questions,” Cassandra said.
“Sergeant,” Carver cut in. “I’m Elton Carver. This is Cassandra Reilly.” Their names, if not their faces, were world renowned. “She’s just returned from a very harrowing journey. Take the suspect into custody, but let Dr. Reilly rest before she has to begin explaining.”
“Of course,” the sergeant said. “We take you at your word, Dr. Reilly. Report to the station tomorrow, if you would.”
“I will,” she said. She sat next to Suhan.
The Turkish scientist looked up at her. “He’s really dead?”
“I’m pretty certain.”
“He still loved you, didn’t he?”
“He was obsessed with me, Suhan,” Cassandra replied.
“He made me spy on you,” Suhan uttered through her tears. “And I did it because I thought if I did what he told me to do, I could make him love me instead of you.” She shuddered a breath. “But he never did.”
“He wasn’t worth it, Suhan.”
“I loved him,” the young woman sobbed, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain.
“He couldn’t love you back Suhan, not because he loved me, but because he didn’t know how to love anyone.”
“Come with us, miss,” the officer said.
Suhan pushed her hair back and slowly rose. “I’m sorry,” she said to Cassandra and the Professor.
“It’ll be all right, Suhan,” Cassandra said, though she wasn’t sure how.
Mine angel, my light,
The perfection of our two bodies entwined consumes my thoughts day and night. Thy strong and masculine arms, back, stomach, arse and legs, and the milky white of my feminine softness enveloped by thee is more than I can bear to think about whilst I go about my duties, for the moment thy naked body entereth into my thoughts, the heat riseth between my thighs and up into the core of my being until I need scream with release.
Then, on those precious nights that thou dost come to me, secret and sacred, and dost pinion me to my bed with thy manhood, I am finally and fully satisfied―yet only for those hours from dark to dawn whilst thou liest with me. As the terrible daylight approacheth, I seek to consume thee, to swallow thee up, inch by inch, to drink in thy lips and thy tongue, to fill myself with the memory of thee so I may live until our next rendezvous. I am not a whole woman without thee. Thou art the half of me, the male that makes my female self complete. O, come thou to me, and in me, again, and again, and again. Never cease to gratify me, as I will thee.
Today I ride afield. Meet me in the dairy barn. I will send my people away. There, thou wilt have me as the farm boys and maidens do copulate, on the hay, as animals, beastly, at the peak of their carnal lust. I shall wear naught beneath my petticoats, and by the time I have ridden my steed the many miles, my loins will be hot and primed for thy member. Do thou anything with me that thou pleasest. I shall subjugate myself to thee wholly. I ache with the thought of our bawdy union. Violate me, savage me, enjoy me. I cannot breathe with anticipation.
Thy ruler and thy servant
Cassandra was sure her face was a hot pink color. Her brow was damp and her whole body tingled. She looked across the room to her boss who had just set down the letters he’d been reading. He crossed his legs.
“Lord,” he said quietly.
“Quite a find, wouldn’t you say?” she responded.
“The Chronology Board will be impressed by these. Though you and James came back without absolute proof of the authorship of the plays, MIT will consider the acquisition of these letters an incredible coup. After they share them with the scientific community and leading Elizabethan historians from around the world, the money they make off exhibiting them in a public forum will be enough to fund our future projects for years to come.”
Cassandra let his words sink in for a moment before she spoke. “There’s been something on my mind, Elton.”
“What is it?”
She looked around. She and the professor were in the main room of the lab. James was upstairs debriefing with a team member named Yoshi, who had flown in to London for that purpose. Her trip had been brief enough to not require the same amount of attention, upon re-entry to the present, as James did. At any rate, she didn’t want her son to hear what she was about to say.
“I want to go back.”
By April first The MIT Board in Boston had possession of Elizabeth’s letters and was reviewing them. James would continue to work with them long distance as he finished documenting his London time journey. The Chronology Team was feeling Suhan’s loss. She had been a competent and seemingly reliable scientist. She was awaiting her trial now. Cassandra would have to testify soon. And though Suhan would likely be found guilty of being an accessory to Nick’s crimes, Cassandra took some comfort in knowing that the correctional system the young woman would face was merciful: its aim to rehabilitate, not punish.
With a very real looking beard and mustache glued to Cassandra’s face, some clever make up to roughen her skin, and a snug hat to conceal her hair, Professor Carver sent her though the portal that afternoon. Her clothes were plain, but not poor-looking.
There was no trouble with the portal exit in the Southwark alleyway. Just before London Bridge, she hailed a hackney coach and arrived at The Curtain in time to secure a seat in the section just above the pit, befitting her humble status. There, she was crammed with mostly men, many of them smelly and loud, but it was better than being below in the yard where anyone who possessed a penny could squeeze into the throng. The prostitutes among the pit audience, or “groundlings,” were easy to spot. Not so much the many pickpockets who were reputed to prowl the area. Vendors roamed the theatre, selling food and drink. She bought a lukewarm ale and sipped it.
She fidgeted on the hard bench. If she’d paid a few pence more, she could have sat higher up and had a cushion, but she was not dressed for that class of seating. The theatre was filled to capacity, people perching on the edge of the stage as well, where they smoked pipes and swilled alcohol. Just in front of the proscenium, a young boy stood his ground amidst the people vying for the best view of the pre-show entertainment: singers, dancers, jugglers, and trained dogs. The boy looked behind him, jabbing at the people who were trying to roust him from his spot. It was Henry, the servant from James’s house who had spied on her at Nick’s behest. The little traitor! How she’d like to throttle the two-faced brat then and there. But that wouldn’t do. She certainly couldn’t reveal her true identity to him. She took a deep breath to calm her ire. At least he was spending his ill-got gains to good purpose.
Finally the play began and she forgot about Henry. It was exciting to see the people she’d come to know acting out the parts she loved so well. Thomas Pope played the romantic lead, Orlando; Samuel Cross was Rosalind, and anot
her young actor, Alexander Cooke, played her cousin Celia. Kempt played the clown Touchstone, and Burbage the philosopher Jaques. Shakespeare played the misguided Duke who banished Rosalind into the Forest of Arden, a small part, but acted well enough.
The rowdy audience made it hard to focus, while the day lit theatre made it as easy to notice other audience members as the actors. As the play wore on, and she had a chance to observe her fellow theatergoers; she spied Mistress Turnbow in her green gown, sneering down at the mob from a seat just above the stage, one reserved for the wealthy―a privilege, apparently, of sleeping with as prominent a company member as Burbage.
Then she noticed a small man, dressed much as she was, in a seat on her level, but a few sections away. He was leaning forward, intent on what was unfolding on stage. It was Robert Cecil. There was no mistaking him. It was obvious by the way he was dressed he was trying to disguise himself, a heavy cloak hiding his hump. He hadn’t been able to resist being at the opening of his comedic masterpiece.
As Burbage recited the lines of Jaques’ that would become so famous in the future: “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players…” she watched Cecil mouth the words along with him. These were his words, those he had written in a play that paid tribute to Cassandra, not to the Queen, as he had pretended. Elizabeth would get her own private performance whenever she wanted it. Hopefully, she would love it just as much.
It ended too soon. As congested and uncomfortable as the theatre was, as loud and annoying the audience, Cassandra had been enraptured. She made her way to the exit with the throng, all pushing and shoving, careful to hang on to the few coins she would need to pay for a coach back to Southwark. Several carriages hovered outside. She saw Cecil again, making his way with great difficulty to one of the finest of the vehicles. She longed to go to him and help him. He had taken a great risk to be out among the populace.
“Driver,” she called loudly to another coach, a shabby looking one among those for hire.
The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Page 24
