Love's Labyrinth

by Anne Kelleher

  The knight looked disgruntled. “You may think what you will, Master Warren, but no godly woman parades herself in clothing meant for men. Why, you could see her legs all the way to the thighs. It’s an abomination before the Lord.” He drained his tankard and pulled the other closer. “And it’s struck me as odd, Master Warren, if I do speak plain, that I don’t understand why you want Talcott to go all the way across to Calais, and meet up with this Spaniard. Wouldn’t it be better to arrest him here?”

  The knight’s voice carried over the swell of the crowd, and Warren leaned forward, swiftly motioning to keep his voice down. “Caution, Sir John. Not all faces are friendly, even in such a place as this.” He glanced around the room, assessing whether or not anyone who might have overheard could possibly care. No one was looking at the two men, but Warren knew that did not necessarily indicate lack of interest. Inwardly he sighed, and continued, “We need the plans, Sir John. Even if His Catholic Majesty should choose to abandon these particular plans, once he realizes they’ve fallen into our hands, there are still only a limited number of possibilities. These plans will give us a look into the mind of the King and his most trusted strategists.”

  “I see.” A frown crossed Sir John’s face, as though he wanted to ask another question, but thought the better of it. “Well, these are great doings, and I am only a humble country knight.”

  “Indeed, Sir John, we are all but little cogs caught up in the great wheel of Her Majesty. And, I for one, considered myself blessed to be so.”

  “To the Queen.” Sir John raised his tankard in a toast. Warren touched the rim of his own tankard to Sir John’s. “The Queen.” He drank the toast slowly, his eyes darting around the room, over the rim. Was that a French agent he recognized in the corner by the fire? He downed the contents of his mug in another great swallow. “I’m to bed, Sir John. I will see you here, at Dover, four nights’ hence. And may God look kindly on us all.”

  “An you say so, Master Warren.” The knight nodded a good night, then turned back to his tankard, his long thin hands laced around its rough surface. “Good night.”

  “Yes.” Olivia breathed the word in one drawn-out sigh as Nicholas dropped tiny kisses down her inner thigh.

  “You like that?” He raised his head and smiled.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You’re so smooth,” he whispered, caressing her skin. “You used my razor to shave your body?”

  “Do you mind?”

  He glanced up with a small grin. “Do I mind?” He slid up the bed to lie beside her and wrapped his arms around her. Their bodies pressed tightly together, legs intertwined. He moved his foot up one of her calves. “Do you think I mind?”

  She giggled and reached for his mouth. He kissed her deeply, lips firm and smooth, his tongue probing and insistent. She turned beneath him so that her breasts were crushed against his chest. She felt his hand creep up her side, to cup one breast, thumb pressing gently on the nipple. She sighed again as he drew her bottom lip between his teeth and gently sucked and bit in turn. She ran her hands down his back, acutely aware of the muscles beneath the pale skin, to his buttocks. She pressed against the taut, firm flesh.

  “Ah,” he whispered, pushing her over onto her back.

  Her legs spread of their own volition. He reached down, gently twisting one finger in the nest of dark curls between her thighs, and caressing her wet, swollen flesh with the others.

  Pleasure, sudden and swift as a flame, arced through her body. She moaned against his mouth. She felt his hard length against her thigh and lifted her hips.

  “So eager my lady is.” He chuckled softly, nuzzling her ear and her throat. “So wanton.”

  “And so wanting,”’ she whispered.

  “And so sweet.” he replied, rolling over to lie squarely in the shallow bowl of her hips. He balanced above her, and she ran her palms over the muscled planes of his chest, caressing his nipples as he had hers. With a groan, he lowered his mouth to hers once more as he buried himself in her flesh. She twined her fingers in his dark curls and moved to meet his thrusts. This is madness, the voice of her conscience seemed to say in Alison’s voice. You can only get hurt. Another stab of pleasure coursed through her, hot and unexpected. She clutched him closer and strained against him. If this he madness, the line ran unbidden through her mind, then let me be mad indeed.

  It was her last coherent thought for quite some time.

  It was close to dawn when Nicholas roused her once more. “Time to go, my love. We must make the tide.”

  For a moment, she lay, disoriented, and then the memories of the past night came rushing back. She tried to meet his eyes, and found that she was suddenly shy. “All right.” she said. She heard the uncertainty in her own tone.

  And so did he, for he turned back to her with a swift, hard kiss. “My only regret of last night, my lady, is that four hundred years and more prevents me from making you, in fact, my wife.”

  Olivia blinked, even more taken aback than by his initial distance. It seemed too impossible for him to really mean it. “So you doubtless say to all the ladies from the future you meet, sirrah.”

  He traced one finger down the tip of her nose. “Only the ones who look like you, madam.”

  She laughed, pushing aside the covers, and swung her bare legs over the side of the bed with a casual air she did not feel. “What time is it? It’s still dark.”

  “Just gone four, according the watch who just went by. The tide is at five, and we must be aboard the Merry Harry.” He was watching her closely as she gathered up her things.

  “Then I shall go and dress.” She gave him a quick smile and fled to the safety of the other room.

  The packing was completed in less time than she would’ve imagined. After a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, washed down by bitter ale, they were on their way to the docks. Outside the sky had brightened, but the streets were still in shadow. Jack led the way slowly, leading the horse, which held their luggage. Olivia clung to Nicholas’s arm, trying not to trip on the uneven cobblestones, which were difficult to see in the shadowy light of dawn.

  Despite yesterday’s rain, the crossing from Dover was accomplished in little time and less trouble. Olivia watched in wide-eyed wonder, feeling like a child on Christmas morning, or an extra in a BBC production. It was one thing to know such things had happened; it was another to watch them being done, without machines, without computers, without the most basic sorts of technology, except those powered by raw brawn and sweat.

  The maneuvers of the sailors, who nimbly skipped up and down the rigging with a surefooted grace, who pulled and dragged and hoisted the great sheets of sail that propelled the ship, and who sweated over the oars, cursing between gritted teeth as the huge wooden lengths heaved in and out of the water, kept her staring in unabashed fascination. A few of the men noticed her interest, and either blushed and turned away, or swaggered and exaggerated their movements, showing off their prowess like strutting roosters.

  “My lady takes an interest in the sailors?” Nicholas teased. He leaned against the railing beside her.

  “It’s all so…” She paused, looking around. The sky was full of puffy white clouds, and gulls swooped and shrieked between the masts and the rigging. “So real.” She breathed the salt air deeply. The tangy aroma was a blend of wet wool and wood, fish and salt.

  “It is real,” he answered, looking out over the sea. The coast of France was a smudge on the horizon. “It’s the only reality I’ve ever known.”

  “Did you know that there are scientists in my time who believe that time is simply something our minds have constructed, and that in reality, all time is now. There is only the present, they believe.”

  He turned to look at her as if he would speak, but seemed to change his mind. Finally he said, “Be careful of what you say, Olivia. When we’re alone, it’s different. But here—be careful. I mean that only for your safety.”

  “I understand.” She glanced at the water and then b
ack at him. “How am I doing so far?”

  He looked puzzled.

  “You know—as your wife,” she continued. “Am I meeting all your expectations?”

  At that, he picked up her hand and pressed a deep kiss into her palm. He looked at her and laughed. “Believe me, my lady, you’ve exceeded every expectation, and fulfilled almost every desire.”

  “Almost?” She frowned.

  “All those of last night.” He glanced down with a grin. “’Tis another day. And the inn in Calais is only an hour or two away. We’ve another day yet before I meet—before I keep my appointment.” He reached for her hand again and pressed another kiss into the palm: this time he bit the flesh gently. “Another day to explore the sights of Calais. And another night to explore—”

  “Each other?” She raised her chin and smiled.

  “Exactly, my lady.” This time he stroked he fingers gently, and Olivia knew his touch was a promise, unspoken, but understood.

  “So what do you think?” Alison pushed the last of the parchments at Geoffrey. She ran her fingers through her hair, heedless of the ink stains on her fingers. One left a pale gray smudge across her forehead.

  Geoffrey smiled at the smudge, picked up the parchments, and slowly scanned each equation. “I think…” He hesitated, then continued, “I think we’re missing something, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”

  “You think Dr. Dee will be able to figure it out?”

  He met her eyes squarely. “I believe so, Alison.”

  “You hope so.”

  He chuckled. “You’re very good at getting right to the meat of the matter, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

  At that he looked puzzled, and she hastened to explain, “I’ve told you about my job. When you deal with the kind of problems I deal with, it helps me to be able to cut through all the crap the kids throw at you. The great majority of them aren’t bad kids—it’s just they’ve had to deal with a lot in their lives. They tend to treat everyone the way they’ve been treated. And in a lot of cases, that isn’t so nice.”

  “Ah.” He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “These problems are caused by the drugs you’ve told me about?”

  “Well, drugs, and parents who aren’t much more than kids themselves, and streets where a kid who’s caught wearing the wrong colors can get killed—oh, it just goes on and on. There’s no one reason. And all the reasons are connected, somehow.”

  “And this is your work?”

  “I do what I can. There’s a lot of frustration, but the rewards can be incredible. I had one kid, she was thirteen. Her mother was addicted to crack cocaine. It was so sad. But, you know, she’s a great kid. She went to live with her aunt, and by the end of the school year, her mom was back in rehab. She seemed pretty cheerful the last time I talked to her, but scared about the summer. They complain about school but it gives them structure.”

  Geoffrey frowned a little, toying with the edge of the parchment. “But what about—forgive me if I seem forward—but what about a husband? Is not your father concerned? Isn’t there someone—?”

  Alison shrugged. “Oh, I get plenty of dates. But so far, I haven’t really found anyone I like enough to want to marry.” She grinned at him.

  “But—but your parents?” He looked shocked and completely lost. “Have they not worked to find you a suitable mate? Or at least presented one or two for you to choose from? If you are busy with your work, perhaps you’ve not the time, but surely they—”

  Alison burst out laughing. “Oh, Geoffrey, it’s not like that at all anymore. No one arranges marriages—well, I guess in some places they still do, but not where I come from.”

  “In truth. Mistress?” He was staring at her as if she’d suddenly grown another head. “In truth, where do you find your husbands?”

  “Well, all over, I guess. Some people meet at school, some people meet at their jobs. Some people—I don’t know. Just happen to be at the right place at the right time?” She grinned at him. “But what about you? Both of you? Two such eligible bachelors? How come some proud papa hasn’t scooped either of you up?”

  Geoffrey rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Forgive me, mistress, if I laugh. Eligible bachelors indeed. Look around you. My brother is the lord of an estate that’s marginal at best, while I, the younger son, have little but my wits and my mind to make my way in the world. There are no fathers beating down these doors. I assure you.”

  Alison eyed him, head cocked, eyed dancing. “Then haven’t you had your share of tumbles with the village wenches? The daughter of the local squire?”

  Geoffrey shook his head, laughing. “A few, mayhap, now and again. But in truth, mistress, any bastard Nicholas or I seeded has yet to exist. Mayhap the Talcott line will end right here.”

  “Oh, but—” Alison broke off and hastily shook her head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Are you saying the line doesn’t end with us?” Geoffrey peered at her downcast face.

  She looked up and couldn’t help but grin. “Never mind.”

  ‘Tell me,” he said, his voice gentle and caressing. “Surely you’ve had your share of—?”

  ‘Tumbles in the hay?” She sniffed. “We don’t have any hay where I come from, either.”

  He laughed. “You delight me.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Would that I could see your time.”

  “Well, maybe you can. What’s to stop you from following us? Or coming with us?”

  Geoffrey frowned. “I suspect that if two came back, two must go forward. And perhaps there’s something about two—something that triggered the mechanism of the maze? I could never make it work.” He paused, and his eyes were as merry as hers. “And I can wager every dubloon in the King of Spain’s treasure that Nicholas would no more consent to come with me than the Queen of England herself.”

  “Hmm,” Alison said, feigning contemplation. ‘Then maybe we can work something out with Olivia.”

  At that he burst out laughing. He reached over, seized her shoulders, and kissed her firmly but gently on the lips. She sat back with a start.

  “Do I offend?” His tone was light, but his eyes were intent and serious. The sunlight brought out the gold within the light brown depths.

  “Oh,” Alison replied, her voice very small, her heart pounding nearly audibly. “No, not at all. In the least.”

  “Good.” He leaned forward again, this time gathering her up and into his arms as he rose. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I met you.”

  The dark-haired priest sketched a Benedicte over the head of the woman who scrabbled at his feet in the dust for the coin he’d just tossed her and murmured a garbled Latin blessing as movement on the other side of the street caught his eye. A man and a woman—a well-born man and woman by the looks of them—were stepping off a ship that flew the colors of England. His heart beat a little faster. This was the third day he’d haunted this very spot, hoping for a glimpse of such a pair as this. The man was tall and dark and well-proportioned, the woman, slender and daintily made. A raw-boned servant followed them down the dock, a small iron-bound trunk on one shoulder, a leather pack on the other.

  Alphonse Figueroa de Valez, agent of His Majesty King Philip, squinted in the sunlight and muttered a curse as he nearly tripped over the beggar, who’d huddled as close to his legs as possible. He glanced up and down the street looking to see if anyone came forward to greet the pair or if they would simply continue on their way. The man stopped a passing sailor, spoke, and followed the sailor’s nod in the direction of the Gold Angel. Figueroa looked both right and left, crossed the street, and followed the pair up the winding street that led from the quay to the tavern. Was it possible that here was the Englishman at last?

  He kept his head down, but observed the couple from a safe distance. The man fit the description well enough, but the wife—hadn’t the description of the wife been of a frail sickly wom
an? This woman appeared healthy, for her step was as quick and as vigorous as her husband’s, and her face was flushed with a healthy color, even if she seemed a little too thin for Figueroa’s taste. But still, the timing was correct, and they were heading to the place where he’d been told to expect Master Steele to stay.

  Figueroa stuffed his arms up his wide sleeves and bent his cowled head. He crept along the street and noticed, not for the first time, a tall man, dressed all in black except for a plain starched linen collar, who strolled down the opposite side of the street. Figueroa eyed the man, another Englishman and a Puritan—here his lips twisted involuntarily at the word—by the looks of him. There was an aspect to the way the man walked that made Figueroa think he was following the couple too. Figueroa allowed himself to pause, ostensibly to throw another blessing on a pair of sailors snoring in the sunlight.

  The couple reached the tavern, and Figueroa stifled another curse as a passing wagon flung filth on his priestly disguise. The couple paused briefly, as though reading the sign, then proceeded into the inn. They left the serving boy shuffling his feet outside. The boy set both burdens down as close to the wall as possible, rolled his shoulders back in a stretch, and yawned. His gaze brushed over Figueroa with complete disinterest, but Figueroa was not deterred. After nearly fifty years of Protestant rule, one could hardly expect the English rabble to have the proper respect for a priest.

  This appeared potentially promising. Figueroa looked up, but the tall Puritan was nowhere to be seen. Of course he had not been following the English couple. Such fancies were figments of an overheated brain. He dismissed all extraneous thoughts and visualized the leather case of documents he carried in the secret compartment of his own luggage. He adjusted his cowl over his head and made his way to the inn. The blond boy nodded at him as he passed, and he sketched another blessing in the boy’s general direction. He was gratified to see the boy cross himself awkwardly in return. Ah, he thought, perhaps… His thoughts trailed away as he stood for a moment just inside the door.