by C. J. Archer
“Never mind,” Alice said, going after her. “We’ll tell him ourselves. Which door?”
“Third on the left,” the landlady said, puffing and holding her side.
Leo had to walk fast to catch up to Alice. “Thank you,” he said to the landlady. “You may remain here.” To Alice, he said, “Perhaps you should too.”
She clicked her tongue and continued up. He sighed and followed. The third door on the left was closed so Leo banged on it with his fist.
“Go away!” said a voice from inside.
“Open up or I’ll push the door in!” Leo called back.
“I’d like to see you try!”
Alice turned the handle and the door swung open. Marlowe looked up from the desk where he sat, a deep frown marring his youthful features. “What the devil—?”
“I’m Lord Warhurst.” Leo shut the door. “I need to speak to you.”
“I’m busy. Get out.”
“This will only take a moment,” Alice said.
“Who are you, wench? You look familiar.”
“Alice Croft, daughter of John Croft, tiring house manager for Lord Hawkesbury’s Players.”
Marlowe swore and slapped his pen on the desk. Ink splattered over his page, which made him swear again. “Bloody Hawkesbury’s Players! Bloody Style! Bloody Peabody witch!”
“Call my future sister-in-law a witch again,” Leo warned, “and I’ll be forced to teach you some manners.”
Marlowe’s full lip curled and he changed from a somewhat feminine-looking creature to a purely masculine one. “That witch stole my audience.”
Leo whipped out his sword but pointed it away, unthreatening. “I will not listen to you disparage her! Draw!”
“Gladly.” A grin twisted Marlowe’s mouth. “Then we’ll take this outside.” He reached for his sword, sheathed and leaning against the wall beside the unlit fireplace.
“In front of witnesses?” Leo shook his head. He wasn’t letting the cur get away with the insult, and there were still questions he needed answered. Having a crowd around would only cause problems and ruin his fun. “No. Let’s settle this here and now. I’ll be careful with the furniture.” Not that there was much to break. Marlowe’s study appeared to double as a sitting room but contained only a small table, two chairs, the desk, and a solid chest with three locks. The only adornment came from the pages spread over everything, including the floor.
“Gentlemen!” Alice said, stepping between them. “Put your blades and your tempers away for a moment. This is achieving nothing.”
“Move aside, Mistress Croft,” Leo said. “Let me solve this.”
“Yes, out of the way, wench,” Marlowe said.
Alice groaned. “Oh for goodness sake. Put the blades away this instant!” When neither man complied, she stamped her foot. “Warhurst! Sheathe your sword. If we fail to get satisfactory answers then you can do as you please.”
A laugh bubbled inside Leo but he suppressed it. Reason? She thought he had reason? Hadn’t their kiss proved he did not? He sheathed his sword and watched Marlowe do the same. He would give Alice a chance to do it her way, but when it didn’t work, he would use his rapier. He had a feeling it was the only thing Marlowe respected.
“Thank you,” Alice said. She smoothed down her skirts, which didn’t appear at all ruffled. “Now, Mr. Marlowe, Lord Warhurst and I are here on another’s behalf to discover what information Lord Enderby holds against Lord Hawkesbury.”
Marlowe’s brows rose. Clearly the direction of the question took him by surprise. “Why not ask Lord Enderby?”
“We cannot.”
“And what makes you think I know anything of it?”
“A guess,” she admitted with a shrug. “We know that both of you work for Sir Francis Walsingham. We know that Enderby has information that he’s using to force Hawkesbury to wed his daughter Patience. We suspect that you handed this information to him.”
Leo wanted to applaud. Alice spoke calmly, with the sensible reasoning of a man, and a clever one at that. It was obvious from the way Marlowe looked at her that his sneering condescension had disappeared and she now had his full attention.
“This is a matter for the Crown,” Marlowe declared. “Not you.”
“I think not,” Leo said. “Or Hawkesbury would have been arrested. In fact, I do not think the matter is an offense to the Crown but rather one that may smear the Hawkesbury name.” He took a step toward Marlowe and crossed his arms. “And I think that you, sir, have just admitted that you know something of it.”
“I, I…I admitted no such thing!” Marlowe glanced from one to the other.
“Come now, Mr. Marlowe,” Alice said. “This is not your concern. Tell us what you know.”
Marlowe shook his head. “I can’t. Enderby will destroy me if I do.”
“I’ll destroy you if you don’t,” Leo said, hand on hilt.
Marlowe snarled and withdrew his blade again. “Just try it.”
“No!” Alice shouted.
“Get out and shut the door,” Leo said to her. “Now!”
She backed up, out of his sight, but he did not hear the door open or shut. He half turned to order her again but Marlowe lunged and Leo had to jump aside or be sliced apart.
“Both of you leave my rooms now,” Marlowe said, “or I cannot be responsible for my actions. If you choose to stay then you both stay. Your woman can bear witness that this is a fair fight.”
“I’m so glad you agree to a fair battle,” Leo said, watching his opponent’s wrist for a warning that he was about to lunge again. “A sword fight is just what I need right now.” For the last few days an itch that refused to be scratched had spread across his skin. A good fight might work it out of his system.
“Oh lord,” Alice muttered from somewhere behind Leo. “Men.”
He smiled and flicked at Marlowe’s blade with the point of his sword. The teasing move drew another snarl from Marlowe and he lunged again. Leo stepped aside and found himself up against the heavily locked chest. He climbed up on it. The small room would make the fight more interesting, but more dangerous for Alice.
“Mistress Croft,” Leo said without taking his eyes off Marlowe, standing a blade’s length away. “Get out of this room and wait for me downstairs. I won’t be long.” When she didn’t move, he shouted, “Now!”
He glanced at her, and Marlowe took the opportunity to lunge once more. Leo jumped over the sweeping blade just in time and landed on the floor, the thin covering of rushes not dampening the thump.
“Go!” he shouted at her again.
She opened the door but Marlowe reached around her and pressed his hand to the solid oak, shutting it before she could leave. “Witness,” he hissed.
Alice pressed back against the door. She didn’t look afraid, simply wary. Good. If she was to stay, she would need to be alert to keep out of harm’s way. He would do what he could to keep the fight on the other side of the room.
But the other side of the room held most of the furniture. Marlowe thrust wildly again and Leo stepped aside, sending Marlowe reeling into the small table. The flimsy thing collapsed under his weight.
“Get up,” Leo said.
Marlowe did. He adjusted his grip and shook his shoulders. His next lunge was more skilled, more controlled, and therefore more accurate. Leo parried the blade only inches from his chest.
Alice’s gasp filled the room. He dared not look at her.
He parried Marlowe’s next thrust and the next but found himself backed into the desk. He leapt onto the chair Marlowe had been sitting in earlier and grabbed a hold of the roof beam when Marlowe struck at his legs. Leo swung one-handed off the beam and landed on Marlowe’s other side.
Spinning around, Marlowe growled and lunged. “Stand still! Fight like a man, not a monkey.”
Leo laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?” God, it felt good to stretch his muscles again, practice skills he’d not used in a long time. The last sword fight he’d had was against Blake, and while
they’d been quite intent on doing some damage, neither would have killed the other. Leo couldn’t recall who’d won although he did remember they both ended up covered in horse shit, as the fight had taken place in the stables.
A lot of things seemed to happen to him in stables. He glanced at Alice. She stood watching from the door, her eyes wide but unafraid.
Then they widened farther. She screamed.
“Warhurst! Watch out!” Alice closed her eyes as Marlowe’s blade plunged toward Warhurst’s head. But there was no sound of a skull being cleaved, nor the squelching of blood. She opened them again.
Warhurst was alive although he was now hatless and his small ruff had come unpinned. He ripped it away and threw it at her feet. She picked it up and clutched it to her chest.
That had been close. Too close. What was it with men and their need to fight? Why couldn’t they have been civil and had a decent discussion like sensible adults.
Warhurst jumped on a chair and kicked out, dislodging Marlowe’s blade. It tumbled to the floor and Marlowe scrambled to pick it up. Warhurst could have won the fight in that moment but he remained on the chair and waited for Marlowe to retrieve his sword and resume the fight.
“Warhurst!” she said, hands on hips. “What are you doing? End it!”
“Not yet,” he said.
Dear God, he was enjoying himself. His usually dour, staid countenance had been shed like an outer skin. He looked alive. No, that wasn’t right. He looked real. For the first time, except during their kiss, Alice felt like she was seeing the real Baron Warhurst.
And she liked him.
After a few more minutes of Warhurst tormenting Marlowe, he leapt onto the desk again. “Now it’s time,” he said. He kicked off some of the papers scattering the surface, perhaps to ensure he had a stable footing.
“No!” Marlowe shouted, scrambling to pick up the pages. “My play! You’ll ruin it.”
Warhurst continued to kick them off the desk. “Come up here and stop me,” he taunted.
Marlowe’s face darkened. His knuckles went white around the hilt of his sword. He looked like he wanted to kill. But instead of going for Warhurst, he went straight to Alice and pressed the blade point against her throat.
“Get out of here or I slice her open.”
Warhurst stilled and the last page he’d kicked fluttered to the floor. “Don’t move,” he said, but whether to Alice or Marlowe it wasn’t clear. “Walk away from her. It’s me you want. Mistress Croft is innocent.”
Marlowe snorted. “I doubt that.”
Alice wanted to run him through herself. “Put the swords away and let’s talk sensibly,” she said.
“Enough talking! I am not going to answer your bloody questions. Wench, open the door.” He shifted so she could do as he ordered while keeping both her and Warhurst in his sights.
“Do not touch a hair on her head,” Warhurst said, inching closer.
“Stay back!” Marlowe held up his free hand as if that could stop Warhurst.
Warhurst didn’t obey. What was he doing? Marlowe would panic if he drew any closer and…
Then she realized Warhurst wasn’t drawing closer—he was moving around so that it became more difficult for Marlowe to keep both of them in his line of sight. When Marlowe shifted again and turned to see Warhurst, she took the opportunity to lunge at him. Using every bit of her strength, she pushed him while he was distracted.
It was almost enough.
His lightening-quick reaction caught her by surprise. His sword lashed out, striking her forearm. The blade sliced through material and flesh and she cried out as pain ripped from fingertips to shoulder blade.
In the instant it took for her cry to tear from her throat, Warhurst was at her side. He shoved Marlowe to the ground and pressed a boot against his shoulder, pinning him and his sword to the floor. His blade point pricked the skin above Marlowe’s ruff. A trickle of blood seeped into the starched fabric, staining it.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t ram this through your black heart,” Warhurst said in a voice that sounded so unlike his own.
“Because we need him,” Alice said. Her arm felt like a thousand bees had stung it. Blood, warm and sticky, tracked down to her fingertips, soaking her sleeve. If it hadn’t been for the thick wool of her coat and the thinner fabrics of bodice and smock beneath, the wound would have been a lot worse. Nevertheless, all wounds could fester.
“Yes,” Marlowe said, looking up from where he lay flat on the floor. His chest rose and fell with his hard breathing and sweat beaded at his hairline. “You need me, my lord.”
Warhurst didn’t take his eyes off the man under his booted foot. A look so ferocious, so dark and frightening, masked his features, twisting them until he wasn’t the handsome baron anymore but someone else entirely. For one chilling moment, Alice was unsure if he really would plunge his blade through Marlowe’s throat.
Marlowe must have felt the same. “It’s something to do with his father,” he blurted out.
“What?” Alice said.
“Hawkesbury’s secret, the one he doesn’t want anyone to find out. I was investigating a rumor about an old plot to assassinate the queen and uncovered a missive addressed to the previous Earl of Hawkesbury.”
“Assassinate Her Majesty,” she whispered. It was too awful to say any louder.
“What did the missive say?” Warhurst asked.
Marlowe shrugged. “I don’t know. It was in code. I couldn’t read it.”
“Then how do you know what it contained?”
“Because it was in code. Who writes in code unless there’s something dangerous contained in the message?” Marlowe laughed. When he saw that no one laughed with him, he shrugged again. “Enderby decoded it and told me that much.”
“Did he also tell you the last Earl of Hawkesbury was involved?”
“He didn’t need to. It was addressed to Hawkesbury, so of course he was involved.”
“So you gave the message to Lord Enderby?” Warhurst prompted.
“He was my contact. He reports directly to Sir Francis Walsingham.”
Alice didn’t understand. If Walsingham knew, then why hadn’t Lord Hawkesbury been investigated? As the son of a nobleman plotter, surely he would now be considered a person requiring scrutiny. People had been thrown in the Tower for less.
“Then why—?” She stopped at the small shake of Warhurst’s head.
He removed his foot and withdrew his blade but didn’t sheathe it. “Landlady!” he shouted.
The door opened immediately and the woman poked her head around. She must have been hovering on the landing or listening at the door. She took in the three occupants, broken furniture, and scattered pages, and clicked her tongue. “Any damage will be added to your rent,” she said to Marlowe.
“Get me warm water and two clean cloths,” Warhurst said. “And I mean clean.” To Marlowe he said, “Get up. You may pick up your papers but leave your weapon here. One attempt to do me or Mistress Croft harm will result in your death.”
Marlowe’s Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his bloodied neck. He nodded quickly and scampered toward his desk and bent to scoop up his play.
Warhurst gently took Alice’s arm and inspected the cut through the torn fabric. Then he looked up and his gaze locked with hers. Where fury had distorted his features before, they were now soft with concern. “Are you all right?” She nodded. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
The landlady returned with a basin of water and the cloths slung over her shoulder. “Just washed ‘em this mornin’ and they’ve been dryin’ by the kitchen fire,” she said, handing the cloths to Warhurst. “Want me to do that, my lord?” she asked, nodding at the wound.
He shook his head and sheathed his sword. “Take off your coat and sit,” he ordered Alice. She did. He knelt in front of her and rolled up the sleeve of her bodice and smock. She winced as it grazed the wound. “Sorry,” he said, and continued rolling until the entire o
ozing, puckered gash was revealed. He used one of the cloths to wash away the blood drying on her skin. It stung but Alice bit down to stop herself from making a sound.
“It appears to have stopped bleeding,” he said and blew out a breath. He continued to wash her arm, his strokes surprisingly gentle for such a powerful man.
Marlowe peered over Alice’s shoulder, a bunch of papers under his arm. He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “It’s just a scratch.”
Warhurst bared his teeth. “Get away from her.”
Marlowe scurried back to his desk and restacked his papers.
“Do you have a horse?” Warhurst asked the landlady.
She stood over the broken table, a splintered leg in one hand. “What would I need a horse for round here?” she asked, waving the leg.
“Servants then?”
“I have a girl helps me out in the kitchen.”
He pulled out a leather pouch from his doublet and handed her a coin. “Send her to the nearest traveler’s inn to hire a horse. A gentle one. Tell her to be quick.”
The landlady left, grumbling about theatre people and finding good tenants these days.
“What’s the horse for?” Alice asked, inspecting the wound.
“For you to ride on.” He folded the second cloth into a rectangle and positioned it over the cut.
“I don’t walk with my arm,” she said.
“You’re not walking.”
“I can—”
“You’re not!” He wrapped the cloth around her arm. “Marlowe! A ribbon.”
Marlowe found one on his desk and handed it over somewhat reluctantly. It was red and looked new. Perhaps it was supposed to tie up his latest play.
Warhurst gently tied the ribbon around the cloth, secured it, then rolled her sleeves back down. “We’ll wait outside for the horse.” He took her hand and drew her up, then settled her cloak around her shoulders. At the door, he turned to Marlowe. “If you have lied to us, I will make your life hell.” The threat hung like dense fog in the room. Marlowe nodded quickly.
While Warhurst’s back was still turned, Alice bent and picked up his ruff, which she’d dropped in the commotion. She stuffed it down her bodice.
