Restoration

by Deborah Chester

  “Fatigue is symptomatic of more than—”

  “Stop,” said Noel impatiently. “This isn’t simply medical. It’s more complicated than that. Less obvious.”

  “No question has been asked.”

  “I know that,” snapped Noel. “Scan for Leon. Has he appeared yet? Has he activated his LOC?”

  “Negative.”

  “Damn,” said Noel softly, trying not to let his worry get to him. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Switching off his LOC, he sat down on the edge of the bed, turning his hat over and over in his hands. He had to face it. Leon wasn’t here. Leon wasn’t going to turn up.

  Otherwise, he’d have already shown up. In Noel’s previous travels, Leon had appeared immediately, within a few hours at the most, in whatever situation Noel was involved in. Well, this time, he’d been here for over half a day, and there wasn’t even a hint of his twin.

  Why should there be? he asked himself. He’d landed thirty-one years off the mark. What did he expect? That the time stream would obligingly pull Leon over to this date just because Noel was here?

  It apparently didn’t work that way.

  Meanwhile, he had two more days until automatic recall. Noel tried not to remember Bruthe’s gloomy comments about how perhaps recall wouldn’t be possible at all. If so, then he was trapped here with bubonic plague and ignorant superstitions for life.

  The prospect was not appealing.

  “Ho!” shouted a voice outside a split second before the door burst open. It slammed into the wall. Two men, their arms around each other, staggered inside the doorway and stopped, swaying and blinking. One had his wig on crooked; the other wore his hat backward. Both had untied their cravats and loosened their shirts beneath their coats. The fatter and older of the pair, he of the crooked wig, raised his hands. Noel saw that the lace ruffles at his wrists were soaked through with wine.

  “Ho!” he shouted again, his diction blurred but his projection loud enough to make Noel jump. “‘Carry him gently to my fairest chamber/And hang it round with all my wanton pictures/Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters—’ Will! Thirsty as Hades in here. Not our room. Find us a drink.”

  The young man, his hat on backward, smiled sweetly at Noel and attempted a bow. “Your pardon for thish intrusion, sir. Humble apoloshies.”

  He attempted to turn his swaying companion around, but the two of them went on spinning around and around, unable to stop, comic in their helplessness.

  The fat, older one waved his arm and declaimed loudly, “‘Hark! Apollo plays/And twenty caged nightingales do sing/Or wilt thou sleep?’ Sleep, Will? You came up here to sleep in the wrong room. Man in it.”

  “Humble apoloshies,” repeated the younger man with a second, awkward bow to Noel. “Our room, Mr. Tuptree. Wrong man in it.” He tried to focus on Noel, blinked, and frowned. “Confound it, the man’s a devil. Stand still so I can get a proper look, sirrah!”

  Noel, who hadn’t moved an inch after their entry, tilted his head on one side and said, “You’re drunk. Both of you.”

  They exchanged glances and giggled together like girls.

  Tuptree put a plump finger to his eye and winked at his companion. “You know, my dear Will, I believe we are.”

  Will hiccuped and smiled blearily.

  “When drunk, my good man,” said Tuptree with a grandiose gesture that nearly overbalanced him, “there is only one thing to do.”

  “One shing,” said Will with a nod.

  “One thing to do,” repeated Tuptree solemnly, nodding his head with every word. “And that is to lie in the arms of Bacchus until morning. Will! There is a bottle in my trunk.”

  Will smiled. “Bottle in she shrunk. In she drunk. In she—”

  “You will never act, Will, until you learn to enunciate under the most difficult conditions,” said Tuptree. He turned to Noel, his head bobbing gently, his gaze fuzzy. “Kind and gentle sir,” he said, his voice as persuasive and rich as Devon cream, “would you be so good as to find that bottle among my things and share it with us?”

  In silence Noel opened one of the two trunks and pulled out the bottle asked for. Uncorked, the reek of cheap wine filled the room. He handed it to Tuptree and went to open the window.

  The two actors drank deep.

  “Ah,” said Tuptree with a satisfied gust of air, “to quench a man’s thirst is a noble deed for a wine. Were I a king, I’d knight this grape in my most profound gratitude.”

  Will stopped swigging and turned suddenly pale. “I feel sick…”

  With a moan he slumped over. Alarmed, Noel sprang to grab the basin and got it in place just in time to save the floor. Disgusted, he put the bowl outside in the hall and turned around to find Will snoring gently on his side and Tuptree taking another deep swig of wine.

  “The boy,” he said with a small belch, his smile muzzier than ever, “is green.”

  “He certainly looks it,” said Noel without sympathy.

  “Green, sir, upon the boards. A first-season whelp, scarcely tried; his voice, sir, pitiable; his timing worse. You can hear his knees knock upon the stage. Look at him, sir. No shoulders, no calves. Spindle shanked, and a bumpkin’s ignorance. Will Osborne, my dear partner’s only son, my dear partner’s only legacy to me after all our years in this company we put together so long ago. Can he tame a shrew? Hardly. Can he bring a dream to a midsummer’s eve? Pah! Can he—”

  “—know Yorick, my dear Horatio?” interjected Noel with a grin at his own pun.

  Tuptree raised his brows. “I see you know Shakespeare. Are you by chance a thespian also?”

  “Something like that,” said Noel. “Not professional, of course.”

  “Ah, a gentleman.” Tuptree yanked off his wig and threw it on the floor. He bowed low and ponderously. “For thee, my good sir, I shall recite one of Shakespeare’s best sonnets.”

  “Please don’t bother,” said Noel.

  Tuptree’s mouth opened, but he looked at Noel a moment and frowned. Drawing another swig from the bottle, he offered it in silence to Noel, who shook his head.

  “You are a cold man, sir,” he said, his voice hurt. “Do you prefer Kyd? A lesser artist, true, but one who has appeal to the masses?”

  “No, thanks. Another time,” said Noel.

  Tuptree sniffed. “Barbarian. I thought you of kindred spirit, sir. I see myself mistaken.”

  Much upon his dignity, he drank again and emptied the bottle. Cradling it to his stomach, he turned himself about and staggered around his friend, who was still snoring on the floor.

  At the door, he stopped and glanced back, his shaved head looking oddly small and pointed in comparison to the rest of his corpulent body.

  “Barbarian,” he said clearly. “Visigoth. I do not…you will note that I do not say Puritan, although I feel strongly in my heart that you are one. You would keep us in the dark ages, sir. You would place shutters on our heart and iron bars on our soul. ‘Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo/Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls…’ Silence! I will speak no more with thee. Certainly I will drink no more with thee.”

  Clutching his bottle and his dignity, he walked out. Noel rolled his eyes with relief, hoping the man didn’t come back. Better he slept off his drunk in the taproom than in here. One was bad enough.

  Reluctantly, Noel heaved Will Osborne up and tossed him on the bed. He walked over to close the door.

  Just as he set his hand on it, however, he heard a cry and a loud bumping and crashing on the stairs. It was followed by silence, then people called out in consternation.

  Noel hurried out with the rest to see, but he already knew what he would find.

  Tuptree the actor lay at the bottom of the dark narrow stairs in a heap, unmoving, his head at an unnatural angle. He would tread the boards no more.

  Casting herself over him, one of the women from the onlookers began to wail.

  Chapter 8

  Noel backed away from the head of the stairs and secluded himse
lf in the shadows. Downstairs, the wailing and laments grew louder.

  “LOC,” he said softly, “activate but maintain disguise mode.”

  The LOC pulsed warmly against his wrist in acknowledgment.

  “Scan records for an actor named Tuptree. Uh…at the court of Charles II.”

  “Found,” said the LOC. “Arthur William Tuptree. Born in Liverpool circa 1621; died in the Great Fire of London, September third, 1666.”

  “Stop!” said Noel, startled. “What fire?”

  “The Great Fire of London, originating in a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane on September second. It spread across the city for five days. Most of London was destroyed, including the—”

  “Stop,” said Noel, drawing in his breath. “That’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Noel thought about his trek across the city today. No wonder everything looked odd and unfamiliar. The wooden, medieval houses and ramshackle shops were due to be burned to the ground. In the subsequent rebuilding would come Sir Christopher Wren’s inspired new version of the old St. Paul’s Cathedral, the soaring public buildings of stone, the sturdy brick houses, the triumphal arches.

  Rubbing his face, Noel pulled his thoughts back to the present. “So history hasn’t been tampered with by what’s just happened,” he said. “Tuptree was going to die anyway. This accident is just three days early.”

  “Warning,” said the LOC. “Anomaly warning.”

  A chill dropped through Noel. “No,” he whispered.

  “Warning—”

  “How can this old drunk’s death affect the future?” demanded Noel. “Was he famous? What could he do in three days to change things?”

  “Before the alteration of history, Tuptree’s September first performance of Shakespeare’s play, Julius Caesar, so inspired King Charles he agreed to put aside his adviser Clarendon and continue England’s war against the Dutch. Buckingham was brought in to replace Clarendon and the infamous Cabal was created the following year.”

  “And now that Tuptree’s neck is broken?” whispered Noel.

  “The play was never performed for King Charles. He continued to favor Clarendon, who remained at court as lord chancellor. Through poor advice, England lost the war and—”

  “Stop.” Noel scowled into the darkness, trying to think. He didn’t have to get into the long and tangled political history of Great Britain to know that once again his presence in the past had opened a can of worms. If only he’d humored the old man, drunk wine with him, and listened to him spout off random lines from Shakespeare’s plays. But no, he was rude and impatient. Now Tuptree was dead and history was changing.

  He couldn’t blame Leon for this one, he thought bitterly. He’d been the one to stick his foot into it, not his malignant twin. Leon, after all, wasn’t even here.

  But flagellating himself wasn’t going to fix anything. Noel forced himself to think even as a man came storming up the stairs.

  “Will!” he shouted. “Osborne, are you up here? Something dreadful’s happened!”

  He pounded on the chamber door at the end of the passageway, then thrust it open. Noel kept himself hidden and silent in the hallway, watching as the man bent over Will Osborne and failed to shake him awake.

  “Drunk as a lord, damn ye!” he cried. “Ah, blast.”

  He came storming out again, closing the door with a slam, and thundered down the stairs. Noel could hear voices conferring.

  “A priest? Are you daft? He won’t come.”

  “What then? What do we do?”

  “The landlord said we could put him in the pantry room for now, till he’s buried.”

  “But where? The sexton won’t bury him in consecrated ground. You know that, Jack.”

  Someone began to snivel.

  “Hush up, all of you!” said Jack angrily. “It’s a pauper’s grave for him. Hell and thunder, I can’t decide. Will’s the man in charge now.”

  “Alas, and weep ye all for this poor prince of playwright’s art,” intoned another. “Stilled, hushed in midflight as a candle flame is snuffed out. His great voice, bell-like, to toll no more across men’s hearts. How—”

  “For God’s sake, Poddensby, leave off with that doggerel.”

  “’Tisn’t doggerel,” said Poddensby, his voice suddenly quavery with hurt. “’Tisn’t even drivel. I was thinking of composing his eulogy. That was the first stanza, rough to be sure, but promising—”

  “Ha!” said Jack roughly. “Promising, the way you’re always promising to write a really good play for us. You can’t write your own name without botching it.”

  “Lads, please,” said a peacekeeper. “Quarreling does us no good. He’s in God’s hands now. Let him rest there.”

  “Aye,” growled Jack. “He’s in God’s hands. But we’re in the devil’s. What’s to be done with us now? What about our performance for the king? Without Tuptree we’re finished. Think on that in your prayers.”

  The voices quieted then and there were rustles and footsteps as they walked away from the foot of the stairs.

  Noel frowned. “LOC,” he said at last.

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Is it Tuptree that’s important, or is it that the play must be performed?”

  “Arthur Tuptree was considered by contemporary critics to be one of the finest Shakespearean actors of his day,” said the LOC tonelessly. “Shall I quote what was written about the quality of his voice?”

  “No. Look, if I stepped in, took his part or something, couldn’t the play go on as planned?” asked Noel.

  “Unknown.”

  “Yeah,” said Noel, half to himself. “I’d have to convince them. Right. LOC, access data banks for Julius Caesar. Is the entire play on record?”

  The LOC remained silent for several seconds, then pulsed warmly against his wrist. “Negative.”

  Noel let his breath whistle softly against his teeth in disappointment. “Damn. All I’d need is a portion of—”

  “Condensed version of primary scenes on record in general information sector.”

  “It is?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Specific question referred to unabridged—”

  “Stop,” said Noel impatiently. “All I need is to memorize the main bits. Have that pulled up in ready access for when I need it.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Deactivate.”

  The LOC went cold and silent around his wrist. Noel stepped out from the shadows, running his fingers through his hair and straightening his coat. Hoping for inspiration, he started downstairs in search of the actors.

  However, he found the door to the taproom blocked by a burly fellow in a sleeveless jerkin and a leather apron.

  “The taproom’s closed.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “There’s nothing to gawk at. Go back to bed.”

  “I wanted to talk to the company, uh, his fellow actors,” said Noel. “Express my condolences and offer—”

  “That can wait until morn.”

  “I think not.”

  Noel tried to push past him, but the man gave him a rough shove back.

  “You leave be!” he said angrily. “The devil’s been inside this ’ouse tonight. We don’t want no more trouble.”

  “I’m not causing trouble,” said Noel. “I just want to talk to—”

  “Save breath fer prayin’. Be more profitable.”

  Short of starting a fight, there was no getting past this oaf. Frustrated, Noel backed off and went back upstairs. Halfway up, a tight little smile curved his mouth. After all, Will Osborne owned the company, didn’t he? The son of the co-founder ought to call the shots. And who was still sharing a room with Will?

  Noel’s smile widened.

  Going into his room, he saw that Osborne lay sprawled on the bed, snoring. The candle had burned down to a stub and was fluttering. Picking up the candle and burning his fingers on the melted wax,
Noel bent over Osborne and shook his shoulder.

  The snoring caught momentarily, then sawed on.

  “Will,” said Noel. “Wake up.”

  Osborne didn’t stir, not even when Noel shook him again.

  “LOC,” said Noel.

  “Working.”

  “Scan Osborne here. Is he out for the—”

  “Estimate return of consciousness in approximately eight hours.”

  “Out till morning,” said Noel with a sigh. “Even if I throw cold water on his head?”

  “It would—”

  “Never mind,” said Noel. He ached with renewed hunger, and since returning upstairs his leg muscles had resumed cramping. He might as well get some rest himself.

  Pulling Tuptree’s trunk over, he wedged it against the door. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it made Noel feel slightly more secure. Taking off his coat and shoes and unbuckling his sword belt, he stretched out on the floor, aware of time trickling by like water soaking into thirsty sand.

  Without Leon here, he had to get recalled and try again to link with his twin. In the meantime, he was helpless, forced to deal with events he cared little about, repairing his inadvertent mistake, killing time while he waited to return to the future.

  Killing time…

  The archaic phrase lingered in his mind as he closed his eyes.

  If time didn’t kill him first.

  Across the city, a breath of hot wind swirled from nowhere, scattering rubbish across the streets, plucking at the skirts of a poor woman lying dead in the gutter, ruffling the hat feathers of a trio of gentlemen walking home after an evening of drink and the comforts of their mistresses, stirring the late-summer stench of the sleeping city southward across the polluted river Thames.

  A solitary boatman steered his craft beneath the bridge, where the heads of the king’s enemies were impaled on pikes, to rot and be pecked by ravens.

  Tucked beneath one end of the bridge, hidden in the murky shadows with the soft lap of water a constant lullaby, a lump stirred slowly to life. A misshapen heart began to pump, lungs swelled with air and expelled it, a spark of cognizance formed in the brain.