“Yet you told me on my first day there was a Jesuit here who had his eye on Shakespeare.”
“I did not yet know who it was, nor did I perceive the true extent of the threat. ’Twas only after the burning I fully understood.”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. “Did you see me in your visions?”
“I did.”
I squirmed around so I was facing him directly. “So then you found me in the future and decided I was the one?”
He stared at me for a long time before answering; so long I had to look away from the intense scrutiny. But not before I noticed the look in his eyes. Longing, regret, and need, all mixed up together, and aimed directly at me.
“None other would do. You were the right age and sex, and because of your acting skills, you could pass yourself off as a young lady of this time. Given your parentage, and your own interest in Shakespeare and acting, it had to be you.”
“Oh.” A lame response, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Still with that intensity in his eyes, he went on. “Your purpose here is real. If we are unsuccessful in carrying out our mission, Shakespeare’s work may be lost for all time. Indeed, there may never be any plays, poems, or sonnets, because he will not have composed them.”
“Wow,” I said softly and mostly to myself.
“Are you satisfied, then?”
I wasn’t exactly clear on all he’d told me, but I’d absorbed about as much as I could for now. “I have more questions, but I’ll save the rest for later. For now, one last thing. Why seduction? Was that in the visions?”
“That was of my own devising.”
My jaw dropped and I stared, incredulous. “You thought that part up on your own? Oh, my God! You’re no different from a modern guy with too much testosterone.”
He raised his brows. “Pray, what does that mean?” In the darkened room, Stephen’s eyes were almost black.
“You think sex is the answer to everything!”
“Nay, I do not,” he protested. “I’ve spoken of this before—we have an urgent problem. ’Tis the quickest way to avert disaster.” That said, he got to his feet and walked over to the windows, his back to me.
Maybe I was being too hard on him. If everything he’d told me was true, he was grappling with a major problem and had no choice but to find an immediate solution. I followed him over to the windows and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Stephen.”
Without looking at me he said, “And I apologize for my excess of, what was it? Testosterone?”
I groaned inwardly at his sarcasm. There would be no more communication between us tonight. We’d reached our limit of trying to understand each other. Passed it, in fact. “Good night then, Stephen.”
He didn’t respond, so I crept quietly out the door. When I reached my passageway, I glanced out the tall windows facing the courtyard. Night was falling, but I could make out two figures walking briskly toward the front of the manor. I recognized Shakespeare and Thomas Cook. Wasting no time, I detoured into my room for my cloak. Copernicus dozed by the fire, chin on paws, and didn’t rouse himself to greet me. Just as well, since I didn’t have time to play with him. I flew down the staircase in pursuit of the two men.
I made my way through the inner and outer courtyards, walking by the stables and passing beneath the great keep. No sign of Will and Thomas, but they couldn’t be too far ahead of me. It was deep twilight, the first stars brilliantly awakening and a waning crescent moon curving in the sky. A profound peace and stillness gripped the night air. Nothing but some plaintive birdcalls broke the silence.
After a few minutes, when I was approaching the rose garden, the sound of voices drifted toward me. Stepping back, I huddled against a large shrub, wishing I could be an ordinary girl again. Not someone who skulked around listening in on other people’s conversations.
“What drives you to this life?” Will asked. “To be pent up here like a prisoner?”
“I’m no prisoner, Will. My work is here for the present. I am free to come and go, when and as I must.”
“Do you not miss the more worldly life? Do you never long for a wife and children?”
“I gave up those things for God.”
“I do not know if I have such strength as you, to be so devout.”
“Mayhap you would never be a missionary. But think of the pleasures of learning! Latin, Greek, history, logic, science. Studying the church fathers. Writing verse.”
I covered my mouth before a laugh could burst out. Will would learn that well enough to please even Thomas.
Will said nothing.
“Your father has already signed his spiritual testament,” Thomas continued.
“Aye. He sent me north with the priest who witnessed it.”
“You are gifted, Will. You would adapt easily to the priestly life.”
“I would love to study the classics. Such as I have already learned is but a trifle compared to your learning.” Will sounded excited, eager. My mind spun out a fantasy of what might have happened if he had gone to university and become a brilliant scholar. Perhaps he would have been content with a scholarly life, but I didn’t think so. The plays shone with too much vitality and spirit.
“ ’Tis getting late,” Thomas said. “Promise me you will think on all we’ve discussed.”
I didn’t wait around for Will’s answer, because I had to get away before they discovered me cowering in the bushes. But it sounded like Thomas was beginning to gain some ground.
A FEW DAYS CRAWLED PAST. It rained, not a gentle rain, but thick sheets streaming from the sky. I stayed indoors, trapped by the deluge, and saw Stephen mainly at meals. Things had stayed awkward between us, and I hated that.
One morning after I’d eaten breakfast and dressed, I walked through the passage to his chamber, clutching the volume of Ovid. At first, I couldn’t see him. It was another dreary day, a veil of mist and clouds shrouding the landscape, and not much light found its way into our rooms. He must have already gone out, I thought, although I couldn’t imagine what he’d be doing in this weather.
But after a minute of staring into the room, I sensed a dark shape hovering near the back wall. An uneasy feeling rippled through me. If it was Stephen, why hadn’t he called out to me, invited me in? And then I heard a piercing moan, so startling I lost my grip on the book and it slammed to the floor. The dark figure made a sudden movement into the light. It was Stephen.
He continued to moan, softer now, but still an eerie and primitive sound. I approached him slowly, not wanting to frighten him. He was in a trancelike state, and I knew beyond a doubt he must be in the throes of a vision. Although he was looking right at me, he didn’t speak or acknowledge my presence. Whatever was playing out in his head, I didn’t want to mess with it. So I continued to stand silently, keeping watch. If he got so loud someone else might hear, or seemed to be in pain, I’d intervene. Unless that happened, it was probably best to leave him alone until it was over.
After a short time, he moved toward the bed and collapsed sideways onto it, becoming so still it scared me. I rushed over and nudged him with my hip, whispering his name. Once, then again. He moved, rolling onto his back, and opened his eyes. He blinked at me and said, “Olivia, what are you doing in here?”
“Are you all right? I think you just had a vision.”
“God’s breath! Did you witness it?”
“Just the last few minutes. How long do they usually last?”
“According to my father and uncle, not much longer than that. You must have seen most of it. Was I moaning?”
“I guess you could call it that. I—I was frightened at first.”
“Can you help me sit up?”
Positioning myself behind him, I slid my arms underneath his shoulders. His body felt slack in my grip. “Ready?” He nodded, and with my help, he managed to raise himself up. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and gave me an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry you had to see
that.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad. I wanted to know what it was like.”
He grasped my hand and pulled me down beside him. “What do you wish to know? I can tell you are curious.”
I hadn’t expected him to be so open to my questions. “What was in the vision, obviously.”
“It was not one of my clearer visions. More fleeting, and the feeling of dread I mentioned to you was pronounced.” He paused and rubbed his hands over his face. “You will not like to hear this, but I saw the sheriff.”
“Oh God, not him. What was he doing?”
“He was sitting at a table with another man. One I did not recognize. They were studying a map. I could see it was of the north of England, and Hoghton Tower was marked on it. They seemed to be plotting or scheming, but I couldn’t hear their words. Suddenly, the sheriff looked up and fixed his icy stare on me, as if he were a hunter and I, the prey. That must have been when I felt the fear in my belly and began keening.”
“That’s bad!” I practically shouted. “I’m terrified of that man. He’s evil.”
“Hush, now.” Stephen squeezed my hand. “No need to be alarmed. Sometimes it takes me a few days to sort out the meaning of a vision. I remember things I could not recall at first. It will come clearer, and we will understand more fully.”
I nodded, wanting to believe him, but I knew I’d stress about it until he figured out exactly what the vision had been telling him. Giving him a sidelong glance, I noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead. I rose and went to the washstand, where I dipped a fresh cloth into the bowl of water. I hurried back to Stephen and pressed it to his head. I thought he’d bat my hand away, but he let me take care of him.
“Is it painful? When you have the visions?”
He looked at me in surprise. “Not painful. Only the sweating and sometimes a slight headache.”
I lowered myself back down beside him. “The first day I was here, when you told me about … steering history in the right direction, you used the phrase, ‘for my sins.’ Did you mean that literally?”
Half-laughing, he said, “ ’Tis only an expression. But sometimes it seems I must have done something very wicked in the past, or mayhap an ancestor did, and now I must atone for it.”
“Is it so bad, what you do?”
“I suppose some men would find it exciting. But I would far rather live a normal life—farm, marry, and raise a family—than deal with magic, visions, and hurtling through time.”
“You sound like a real homebody,” I said.
“Is that bad?”
“No. Not bad. Just surprising for someone your age.”
“You do remember what century you are currently residing in?” he said, quirking his mouth at me.
I laughed. “It’s amazing how different it is now. In my time, a young man your age would probably rather hurl himself off the Empire State Building than get married.”
“That is one of your wondrous constructions?” He shrugged. “We don’t live as long in this era, and so must get on with our lives.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It is the truth. Disease is rampant, and nothing to be done for it.”
“I don’t like thinking about it.” I swallowed hard.
He stared at me for a moment, looking confused, and then said, “We shall not talk of it, then. I see you brought a book with you.”
“Oh, damn, I dropped it! I hope I didn’t damage it.” I walked over and picked it up. “I wanted to remind you about teaching me to read Elizabethan script. You probably don’t feel up to it now, though.”
“On the contrary, it will do me good to think about something else.”
“It’s the translation of Ovid. Will it work for teaching me?” I handed it to him and looked at his handsome face, now grown so familiar. Crazy, but for a moment I had the strongest urge to ask him to hold me. I wanted to feel his arms around me and beg him to forgive me for doubting his visions. Now that I’d seen him having one, I was convinced they were genuine. It seemed scary and surreal to me—so what must it be like for him? And then afterward, he had to figure out what it all meant. It must take an emotional toll, even if Stephen wouldn’t admit it.
“Olivia? Are you unwell?”
I blinked back to reality. “No, of course not. I’m sorry, I was distracted, that’s all.”
“Let’s work in the library, at the table.”
“Won’t Thomas be there?”
“He rode out earlier to administer last rites. I do not believe he’s returned.”
In a few minutes, we were seated at the oak library table, where Will had tutored me in Ovid. The smell of leather-bound books and beeswax candles drifted through the air. Stephen found a piece of foolscap—which is what they called sheets of paper—and began writing.
I rested my elbow on the table and propped my chin in my hand. “What are you doing?”
“Writing the alphabet. You must learn to recognize how each letter is formed. Printed books look much the same.”
“Oh.” I stared, mesmerized by the elegant script forming on the page. He slid the paper over to me and handed me the quill.
“You try.”
I dipped the quill in the ink jar and attempted to copy the letters as he’d written them. “This feels so awkward,” I said, glancing at him. I flashed back to second grade, when I’d learned cursive, always hopeful for a sticker on my paper. But I didn’t write cursive anymore. Hardly anybody did, except for older people.
I wrote, crossed out, and sighed with frustration. Stephen curved his fingers over mine, so we were tracing each letter together. His touch sent an electric shock through me. I felt his breath on my cheek, could smell his shaving soap. When I looked goofily up at him and laughed, the quill slipped and slashed a long black stroke against the page.
My cheeks burned. What was the matter with me?
“You’re hopeless,” Stephen said.
I shot him a toxic look and tried again, finally making it through the lowercase letters. While I worked, Stephen had written capitals on another sheet, which he now scooted over to me. I groaned and said, “Slave driver.”
It wasn’t so difficult, only different, with a lot of curving, swirly lines. Extra loops and marks that looked as if they didn’t belong. After a while, we moved to the settle and Stephen examined the book. “This will serve.” He handed it to me. “Can you read any of it?”
I studied it for a few minutes. He rose, and I heard him at the desk moving objects and papers around. He came back over and handed me a magnifying glass. “This might help.”
It did, but only marginally. Even enlarged, some of the words remained a complete mystery. Many were easily identifiable, and others I could guess at. Eventually I tossed the book aside, feeling a headache coming on.
Stephen laughed. “Do not give up. I felt exactly the same when trying to decipher your script. You’ll catch on after a time.”
“Absolutely. Just in time for my return to the present.”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. I didn’t want to ruin our tenuous peace. “And I nearly forgot to tell you.… I followed Shakespeare and Thomas Cook the other night after I left you. I overheard a very interesting conversation.”
“Go on.”
“Thomas spoke to Will about furthering his education, and ended by urging him—again—to think about becoming a Jesuit. Will promised he would. Think about it, I mean.”
Stephen looked worried. “If we don’t set the plan in motion, it may be too late.”
“I told you I arranged a meeting with Will. Two meetings, actually. That should lead to something.”
Stephen sent me an accusing look, which totally irritated me.
I folded my arms across my chest. “Don’t worry. I’m looking forward to making love with Will. I can’t imagine anything more exciting.”
He muttered a curse under his breath. “Truly, mistress? I am glad the idea is no longer so loath
some to you as it once was.”
He didn’t look glad. He looked kind of miserable. That feeling I’d had earlier of wanting to be held reared up again, and suddenly my heart was in my throat. It had to be homesickness. What else could it be? Stephen took one look at me and must have seen the despair written on my face. He pulled me into his arms, and I clung to him. “Forgive me for pushing you. ’Tis not easy, I know.”
I curled myself into his embrace for a minute. “I think I’m homesick,” I said, drawing back. My voice trembled, my throat so tight I could barely speak.
“I am always here if you need me.” He kissed the top of my head.
“Yes, I know. I’m being idiotic.” I stepped away and inhaled a huge breath.
“Better?”
I nodded.
“We’ll speak of this another time. Come, let’s go to lunch.”
Although my mind was on Stephen, I chatted pleasantly with Fulke and his father. “We may have a visit from Lord Strange’s Men,” Master Gillam told me between chewing bits of pheasant. He sounded excited, so I knew this must be something big.
“Ah. When do you expect them?” I had no idea who Lord Strange was, but I suspected his “men” must be a group of actors.
“Within a fortnight,” he said, “and the Earl of Derby as well!”
“How … thrilling.” I clumsily sliced off pieces of meat with my knife, popped them into my mouth, and washed them down with ale.
“Aye. Preparing for their arrival will mean extra work for the whole household. Then too, it is costly when an earl visits.” He laughed and leaned in close. “Especially this earl, who fancies himself royalty.”
“Father, what play are Strange’s men to perform?” Fulke asked.
“Orlando Furioso, mayhap, or Beauty and Housewifery.”
This was good news! A performance would definitely engage Shakespeare and help further my secondary plan. I glanced at Will and Thomas across the table, engaged in a discussion about, if I overheard correctly, the Aeneid.
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