Love's Labyrinth

by Anne Kelleher

  Nicholas himself looked puzzled as he opened his mouth to speak, but Geoffrey cut in, answering with a smoother lie than Olivia would have thought him capable of fabricating. “Cousins, Your Majesty, but newly arrived from the North.”

  Elizabeth raised one questioning eyebrow and looked the women over carefully, assessing their clothing with a jaundiced and well-practiced eye. “Indeed, Master Talcott?” It was obvious that her brain was working furiously, doubtlessly assessing the attire that was in actual fact nothing but a semblance of proper Elizabethan dress. Beside her, Nicholas’s dark brows were gathered in one thunderous line across his face. He knows something’s up, thought Olivia. If he knows anything at all about Geoffrey’s theories, he has a good idea where we’ve come from. Nicholas had opened his mouth once more to speak, when Olivia, taking a deep breath, interrupted him.

  “Distant cousins, Your Majesty,” she said, aping Geoffrey’s accent as best she could. She stepped forward and sank once more into a curtsy that she hoped was authentic. “My name is Olivia Lindsley and this is my sister, Alison. We are deeply honored to meet you.”

  “A forward chit,” murmured Elizabeth. “Are you, now, girl? Stand up and let me look at you. Such clothing as yours I’ve never seen outside a mummers’ show.”

  Olivia rose slowly, forcing her face to stay smooth. She was aware of undercurrents running through the crowd.

  Lindsley was a Scottish name, and it had raised a stir amongst the courtiers, who were crowding ever closer.

  She raised her eyes to the Queen’s. Elizabeth gave her a smooth-faced stare, and then, with the abrupt change in manner chronicled by the contemporary accounts Olivia had read, dismissed her. “She looks thin and sallow, as one must when bred in the North. What say you, Lord Nicholas? The air of southern England is healthier, no doubt, and produces far more beautiful women.”

  “Your Majesty is, as usual, quite correct,” Nicholas replied. This time his thunderous look went right to his brother, who smiled weakly in response. “And my brother,” he gave the word an ominous emphasis that Olivia didn’t think boded well for any extended welcome, “was about to take our two” here he gave Geoffrey another baleful stare, “guests inside and show them to their lodgings. They must be wearied by their journey.”

  “What do they here?” put in one of the courtiers. He was a burly man, big chested and bulky, dressed nearly as fantastically as the Queen, in green embellished with tiny gems that sparkled in the sunlight. His gray hair was clipped close to his head, but the lower half of his face was hidden by a full gray beard. His legs were slender in the tight-fitting hose, but his paunch hung over his sword belt, from which dangled an elaborately decorated scabbard. He gripped the hilt of his sword and leaned over the Queen with a certain proprietary air.

  “My sweet Robin, do you think assassins hide in women’s clothing these days?” Elizabeth chided. She tapped Nicholas’s arm and tossed her head coquettishly. “Have you any more relations hiding about, my lord? My lord of Leicester will be poking about beneath the beds and twixt the stairs ‘til he uncovers all your secrets.”

  Nicholas’s face was murderous, and Geoffrey made a little choking sound that might have been a word that stuck in his throat. Olivia knew at once that the speaker was none other than Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, Elizabeth’s favorite since girlhood and the one man in England who’d come closest to marrying the Queen. The silence stretched out ominously, and Olivia, glancing at both brothers in turn, realized neither was capable of answering. There was much tension here, she thought.

  With a bright smile and an aim to defuse the mounting stress, she said, “We—we but thought to sing Your Majesty a song—a song to welcome you to Talcott Forest. We were about to take our places when you came upon us—we were somewhat startled by your arrival.”

  “Ah.” Elizabeth smiled. “How clever of you, my lord.”

  She raked the women once again with the same intense gaze, but smiled up at Nicholas, as though the explanation satisfied. Nicholas returned the Queen’s smile with an uncomfortable one of his own that bordered on a grimace.

  “Have we so discomfited you, then, that the song is out of the question? Or will you sing it for us now, maiden?”

  Olivia gulped, thinking quickly. “As Your Majesty wishes.” She glanced at Alison, who was staring at her with a shocked look. “Just, um, follow along, Alison, and Geoffrey, you know your part?” She prayed that the much-vaunted Elizabethan ability to harmonize was one that had been encultured in Geoffrey. She drew a deep breath, hoped that Shakespeare had borrowed from popular culture, and launched into the first song that came into her head.

  Sigh, no more, ladies, sigh no more;

  men were deceivers, ever,

  One foot on land and one on shore,

  to one thing constant, never.

  Then sigh not so, but let them go,

  and be ye blithe and bonny,

  Forgetting your cares and woe

  with a hey, nonny, nonny!

  Alison hummed, a little off-key, but Geoffrey managed to produce a smooth harmony that blended all three voices into one melodious whole.

  Elizabeth looked first a bit taken aback, but smiled graciously as the song came to an end. “So you’d bid me have no care for men, would you, mistress?” she asked as the song ended. She clapped her hands with a sly grin at both Nicholas and Leicester. “Well done, wench. You’re a saucy thing, and you have an able voice. Take this, with our gratitude.” From her belt she removed two white gloves, lavishly embroidered with pearls, and handed one to Alison, who looked startled, and the other to Olivia, who immediately sank into a deep curtsy. Geoffrey bowed, pulling Alison down beside him.

  “You are a most gracious majesty,” murmured Geoffrey.

  Elizabeth smiled appreciatively as both Olivia and Alison murmured thanks. Olivia dared a peek at Nicholas.

  He was standing stock-still, his expression still thunderous and not at all mollified by the Queen’s fortunate reception of the song. “We’re on our way to the pavilion, Geoffrey,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth. “Will you join us as soon as you’ve seen to our guests?”

  “In a moment,” Geoffrey replied. “Mistress Alison felt a trifle unwell.”

  Olivia, watching the Queen beneath lowered lashes, saw Elizabeth raise one eyebrow and step back instinctively.

  “’Tis just the heat, Your Majesty,” she murmured. “My sister and I aren’t used to this weather.”

  Elizabeth looked relieved. “Who could be? This air is frightfully close.” She tapped Nicholas’s arm. “Lead on, Lord Talcott. ’Tis best that none of us dither any longer in the hot sun. Let us away into the shade.”

  Nicholas bowed smoothly, an elegant, courtly bow that was at once so natural and so polished, it put Geoffrey’s to shame. There were more actors than she could count who would give an arm to be able to move that gracefully. She noticed that he walked with the same easy grace, and that the lines of his shoulders beneath the embroidered doublet were broad, and tapered to a narrow waist and slim hips that even the puffed Venetian breeches could not hide. No wonder Elizabeth leaned upon his arm, glancing up at him as flirtatiously as a girl, despite her age, which in this year had to be at least fifty or fifty-five, thought Olivia, calculating rapidly.

  She sank into a deep curtsy as Nicholas led the Queen and her party past. She dared another peek through her lashes, and noticed another man following closely at the Queen’s heels, one who seemed out of place among all the gaudily dressed courtiers. He was a tall, spare man, dressed in unadorned and unrelieved black, and his expression was stern and completely at variance with the laughing courtiers. In contrast to this man, Leicester, the Queen’s sweet Robin, reminded her of an aging football player—a big man softening to fat after years of indulgent living—and he scowled at Nicholas as the Queen’s laughter rose above the rest in response to some jest.

  Beside her, she could feel Geoffrey trembling as the Queen’s retinue went past. They
rose, and Geoffrey, taking both their arms, led them firmly in the direction of the house, moving quickly past the curious glances of the courtiers. “Come with me, mistresses. Quickly.”

  Without any more conversation, he led them into the house. Olivia scarcely had time to absorb the furnishings of the high-ceilinged hall, but noticed that a huge fireplace dominated one end of the room, and that two other fireplaces, both so high a tall man could stand inside them, flanked both sides. The floor was covered with long reeds—rushes, thought Olivia—and from the rushes rose a woodsy, herbal scent. She noticed lavender heads strewn among the rushes. A raised dais at the opposite end of the room from the fireplace was placed in front of an ornately worked screen. Without pausing, Geoffrey led them behind the screen and indicated a staircase that led from the hall to the floor above. Olivia noticed a sort of balcony that overhung the hall. The musicians’ gallery, she thought, but all within the hall was quiet. The feast, the revel—whatever they called it—was obviously being held outside.

  “Come.” He gestured, indicating that the women should climb the stairs. Alison looked dubious, but obeyed. They followed Geoffrey down a short passageway, past two doors on either side, and then paused as he pushed open a third door. “In here.”

  The two women stepped past him into an Elizabethan bedroom. A huge bed with heavily carved posts and headboard dominated the entire room. The wood was dark, but not nearly as black as similar furnishings Olivia had often seen in museums and restored houses. It was hung with embroidered hangings of red wool. They looked, thought Olivia, stepping closer, as her curiosity got the better of her, as though they’d seen better days. A table and two chairs stood next to a relatively small, diamond-paned window. The floor was bare, and the floorboards, though clean, were worn smooth. The walls were white, as bare as the floors, and the ceiling was relatively low.

  “You must both wait here,” Geoffrey said, indicating the chairs. “I’ll return as soon as—”

  “Wait!” cried Alison. “What do you mean, wait here? For how long? We can’t wait here—we have to get back to our own time. Where are you going?”

  Geoffrey glanced from one to the other with an apologetic look. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, mistress.” He glanced over his shoulder, and, shutting the door behind him, stepped into the room. “You must understand that the Queen’s visit is a great honor, and one that my brother has most devoutly sought.” He looked frustrated for a moment, and then spoke rapidly, in a low voice, as though he were afraid the very walls might overhear and report their conversation. “You should know, mistresses, that the fortunes of my family have suffered much since King Harry decided he knew better than the Pope of Rome how best an Englishman should worship God. We Talcotts have always been Catholics: loyal to the King, but loyal also to the Pope, and ever mindful of the Lord’s injunction to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s. But those are sometimes dangerous sentiments, even now, under our Gracious Majesty. She can blow hot and cold, and Nicholas, who desperately hopes to restore the fortunes of our family—”

  “Then why not convert to the new religion?” interrupted Alison. “What difference can it make?”

  Geoffrey looked a trifle shocked, but recovered quickly with a wry grin. “I see you come from a far more practical age than ours, mistress. Nicholas thinks much as you do, and has, in fact, gone over to the new religion, but allegiances, and the perception of allegiances—even to an outworn creed—die hard in ours. We Talcotts are seen as Catholic because our father and grandfather before him were Catholic. I am not so sure what difference it makes, either, but in the meantime, until he proves his loyalty to the Queen, such a thing as your appearance in this time and place—” He broke off, and his mouth was grim.

  Suddenly he looked very old, and Olivia realized that the stresses of the sixteenth century were every bit as acute as those of the modern age. “We could be burned for witchcraft, if it were suspected who you are,” he finished.

  “We’ll stay out of sight,” Olivia said quickly.

  “Thank you.” He looked at Alison. “I’m sorry for any trouble I may have caused you, mistress. Such was never my intent. But unless you can tell me that lives hang in the balance in your time, I’m afraid my brother’s needs must take precedence over yours.” Without waiting for a response, he bowed out of the room, firmly shutting the door as he went.

  “Well, that’s just great.” Alison strode over to the door and opened it, peering out into the hall. “At least he didn’t lock us in here. This is the room that’s supposed to be haunted, according to the tour guide.”

  Olivia let out a loud sigh and sank down into one of the chairs. It felt stiff and cold and alien, and she shifted her weight, trying to find a comfortable spot.

  “What are we going to do?” Alison asked, turning back to face Olivia. She closed the door carefully. “How long do you think this revel is going to last?”

  Olivia shrugged. “At least ’til dark. It doesn’t sound as if the Queen is staying here—she just came for dinner.”

  “Oh, that’s even more great.” Alison rolled her eyes. “And what time was the bus leaving?”

  “I think we were supposed to be back in London by eleven, so I guess the group would leave around nine.”

  “Nine o’clock.” Alison shook her head. “What time do you suppose it is now?”

  There was a long silence. Finally Olivia met her friend’s eyes. “I don’t think it matters.”

  Alison strode over to the other chair and sat down. “What—what do you mean?” For the first time, Olivia heard the little catch in her friend’s throat that meant that she was upset.

  She drew a deep breath. “I don’t think it matters what time it is right now.” She spoke very gently. “I’m afraid it might not be quite so easy to get home.”

  Alison bent her head, and the short fall of her strawberry-blond curls hid her face. For a long moment, she was silent. Finally, her shoulders heaved as she drew a deep breath. “What are we going to do?”

  Olivia shrugged. She leaned over and patted Alison’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. We’ll find a way to get back somehow. If it worked one way, it’s got to be able to work the other. It’s a pattern—it can’t be that difficult to reverse it. It’s just that while we’re here—” she broke off and bit her lip, trying desperately to remember all she knew about the middle years of the reign of Elizabeth I. But at the moment, it was all a jumbled mess—of new religions and usurping Tudors and imprisoned Scottish queens. But Shakespeare had begun to write his great plays, and Marlowe and Jonson—she raised her head with a start. Somewhere in this time, a man named William Shakespeare had just made his way from a little town in Warwickshire to London. His greatest works probably weren’t even glimmers in the writer’s eye. Had he even appeared in London yet, or was he still in Stratford? For one minute, she tried to remember, and then dismissed all thoughts of Shakespeare, London, and the Globe Theater. She really was every bit as undisciplined and unfocused as her father used to say. Deliberately, she forced herself to think about the matter at hand.

  Alison was watching her. “What do you mean, while we’re here?”

  Olivia sighed. “This is a very difficult time in Elizabeth’s reign. Mary, Queen of Scots, had become a focal point for anti-Elizabethan and anti-Protestant sentiment. There’s evidence of plots and treason—all aimed to get Mary on the throne of England and restore Catholicism as the true religion. If this is fifteen eighty-seven—let’s say for the sake of argument, it’s August fifteen eighty-seven—Mary was executed in February of this year. But even after Mary died—which was something Elizabeth eventually had to order because of the threat to her own life—Spain vowed retaliation, which was really just an excuse to plan an invasion of England. Remember the Spanish Armada?”

  Alison nodded slowly.

  “I imagine in the shipyards of Spain, even as we sit here, the ships are being built.” A little shiver rippled down her spine.
What would her father have given to spend even five minutes in this time and place? A wave of sadness came over her as she realized that whatever knowledge she’d managed to acquire from him was going to have enormous importance until they could return.

  “But, but,” Alison was saying, “but what about our families? If we don’t get back soon….” She broke off and dropped her eyes. They both knew that the only family Olivia had left was a seventy-seven-year-old aunt in a nursing home in New Jersey. Following her last stroke, the woman didn’t even recognize her niece. Except for Alison and her own family, Olivia was truly alone.

  “I’m sorry, Liv, you know what I mean. My family’s going to be just as worried about you. Mom’s probably going to think it was all my fault. She’s always saying I get you into trouble. And what about our friends? Our jobs? What about poor Mrs. Higgins? She’s probably all in a tizzy by now at least. She must be frantic.”

  Olivia gave another deep sigh and, rising, walked to the window. Her ersatz costume swished around her legs. She peered out, but could see little through the leafy green branches of the great trees that hugged the walls of the manor. She strained her ears and, faintly, through the thick leaded glass, thought she could hear the sound of high-pitched piping and the deeper drone of something that sounded like a bagpipe.

  “I can’t imagine what they’ll do,” Olivia said. “And yeah, I agree. Your mom’s going to give new meaning to the word upset. I wouldn’t want to be whoever she’s going to talk to from the travel agency.”

  “How long do you think this will take?”

  “Hopefully, if the Queen is only staying for dinner they’ll be gone before it gets dark. And then maybe after that we can try—or first thing tomorrow.”