Love's Labyrinth

by Anne Kelleher

  “Lord Nicholas is unfairly accused, Your Majesty. ‘Tis hard to make merry when he lies in prison under threat of losing his life.”

  Elizabeth did not reply, but her bright black eyes slid over to Sir Francis. “And what say you, Sir Francis?”

  “There is a witness, Your Majesty.”

  “Who?”

  “Sir John Makepeace, Your Majesty. A knight of unassailable reputation, and a Protestant of unparalleled virtue.”

  “That well may be,” Olivia burst out, “but why was he there in the first place? We saw him in the church—a Catholic church, Your Majesty.” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, and even Sir Francis started. “Who told him to look for us there? Sir John would no more darken the door of a Papist Church than he would a house of prostitution.”

  “Hold your tongue before the Queen, hussy!” Sir Francis burst out.

  But Elizabeth burst out laughing. “You have a rare spirit, wench.” She glanced at Sir Francis. “Sir Francis. You agree this is most irregular?”

  Sir Francis shrugged. “I would have to speak to Sir John, Your Majesty.”

  “Then do so. And as for you, Leicester, Talcott is a friend of yours, is he not?”

  Leicester, who up to now had stayed silent, started. “Well, Your Majesty…”

  “Do not equivocate, Robin, ‘tis not your head upon the block.”

  “He is my friend, Your Majesty.”

  That seemed to satisfy Elizabeth momentarily, but soon she looked up with a puckered frown. “This Christopher Warren. Where’s he?”

  Walsingham looked up. “He’s here, Your Majesty.”

  “Summon him. Now.”

  At once Walsingham bowed and went to the door. He whispered something to the guard outside and turned back. “He’ll be here momentarily, Your Majesty.”

  “Good.” Elizabeth nodded with a self-satisfied air. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  The minutes dragged. Olivia shifted on her feet and stole a peek at Geoffrey. He glanced at her and winked. Finally there was a tap on the door.

  “Enter,” cried the Queen.

  A puzzled-looking guard stood in the doorway as the heavy door slowly swung open.

  “Where’s this Master Warren?” asked Elizabeth.

  The guard bowed. “In truth, Your Majesty, he’s not to be found. He was seen to leave shortly after the play began. He did not look well, according to those who saw him go.”

  “Ahh!” Elizabeth turned to Walsingham. “’Twould seem there’s more afoot here than even you know, my lord. Robin, I charge you to look into this matter, in my name.” Elizabeth gazed around the room and her black eyes settled on Geoffrey. “Well, Master Talcott? Does that satisfy? My Lord Leicester shall inquire early tomorrow into this matter.”

  Geoffrey bowed. “Completely, Most Gracious Majesty.”

  Elizabeth fixed Walsingham with a hard stare. “And I shall expect, Sir Francis, that both your agent, Master Warren, and Sir John shall be present to accuse Lord Nicholas face-to-face.”

  “It shall be done, Your Majesty.” Walsingham bowed low.

  With another satisfied nod, Elizabeth swept from the room, Leicester and Walsingham trailing in her wake.

  Olivia looked up at Geoffrey. “At least we got her attention.”

  He nodded, his expression not quite so grim as before.

  “Indeed, mistress. Now, let’s hope that there’s no more to this coil than we already know.”

  A shower of stones hit the window of Olivia’s bedroom, striking the thick panes of glass with a sound like falling hail. Startled out of her sleep, she lay awake a moment, trying to place the sound, and then realized what it was when the sound came again. She scrambled out of bed, Alison sleeping as soundly as usual by her side.

  She unlatched the window and peered out into the dark night, looking down into the deserted street. London lay sleeping, but a figure, as familiar as it was unexpected, stood looking back up at her, a sheaf of parchment clutched in one hand. “Master Will!”

  “Mistress Lindsley.” He swept the flat cap off his head and bowed low, in an actor’s version of a polished Court bow.

  Olivia looked back over her shoulder. Alison rolled over on her back, muttering softly. “What do you want?” Olivia asked in a loud stage whisper.

  “Forgive me for disturbing you so, but I didn’t see you after the performance—you left with your cousins and—”

  For a moment he looked sheepish, and Olivia remembered that the Bard of Stratford was no more than barely beyond boyhood, the full force of his talent years from flowering.

  “I’ll be right down.” She pulled the latched window shut, thrust her feet into her slippers, and threw on the loose robe over her shift, which served as her nightdress. She scampered down the silent hall, down the stairs, and into the common room, where the low glow of the banked fire gleamed a soft red in the shadows. She struggled with the great beam that barred the door. It fell aside with a thud, and she opened the door, wondering if Mistress Deb would forgive her for opening the door so late. Shakespeare slipped inside.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so, mistress.”

  “No trouble, not really. But why did you come here? What’s wrong?”

  “I must return to Stratford, mistress, on the morrow. My—my wife has been taken ill, and—well, the message reached me at my lodging—and I had no other way to contact you so I—”

  “I understand, but—”

  “I wanted to give you this.” He pressed the sheaf of parchment into her hands. “’Tis my first play, mistress. You—you were right. In some way I cannot name, this play, tonight—poetry is still my first love, but, oh, Mistress Olivia—I think I can be as capable as Marlowe himself in the penning of these plays. And if you’d not suggested it…”

  Olivia stared at the parchments in her hands. Stained with ink spots, lines crossed out and others substituted in a wayward scrawl, creased and dog-eared, they were still a priceless possession.

  “I owe you a great debt, mistress. I—I hope all works out for you as you hope, and that if you come again to London you will seek my company out. ‘Twould be a great honor to know that you were in the audience. With your cousins, of course.”

  “Of course.” She stared up at him, scarcely able to speak. “Master Will, I—”

  “’Tis you should be thanked, mistress.” He caught up both her hands and pressed a kiss on both of them. “I must away to Warwickshire at first light, but I could not leave without telling you.”

  “You are more than welcome, Master Will. I shall treasure this play all the days of my life.” And all the days after that, she added silently. “Did you sign it? Date it?”

  “Ah!” He strode to the fire, reached for a piece of charred wood, and scrawled his name across the last page. “There. ‘Twill suffice, I think? You and I both know it is from me, to you.” He grinned. “My muse.”

  She felt herself blush. “You’re too kind, Master Will.”

  “I must go.” He clutched his cap and bowed. “You will let me know if you ever come up to London?”

  “Of course,” she promised, still stunned by his gift and scarcely capable of speech.

  He was gone with another bow. She placed the parchment sheets reverently on one table while she struggled to bar the door once more, then picked them up and carried them upstairs to the bedroom as gently as she might an infant. She was still nearly speechless when she climbed into bed.

  “Livvie?” muttered Alison. “Where’d you go?”

  “Allie, you’ll never guess who was here.”

  “Nicholas?”

  “No! No, Shakespeare. Shakespeare was here—you know we left Greenwich before we could see him. He brought me his play.”

  “He did what?” Alison struggled to sit up.

  “Look.” Olivia reached over and spread out the parchments. “It’s his play. His very first play.”

  “Cool.” Alison yawned.

  “Allie, don’t you understand? This is p
riceless! A play by Shakespeare—his first play. Look, he dated it—and signed it—Allie, can you believe what he gave me?”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  Olivia sat back. “I don’t know. Try to take it into the future somehow, I guess. If I just show up with it, it’s going to raise all sorts of questions—” She broke off and sighed. “Well. We have enough to worry about right now.”

  “I’ll say.” Alison patted her hand. “Let’s get through the next day or so, okay? We can talk about how to get your gift home later.” She turned on her side and pulled the sheet up to her ear, yawning. “God knows I can’t wait to get back.”

  Olivia placed the parchments reverently on the tiny table and lay down beside Alison. In the shadowy room, the sheaf was a pale smudge. Who would ever have imagined anything like this?

  CHAPTER 18

  NICHOLAS KNEW THAT something was afoot when the jailer threw a clean shirt and hose on the table, along with a bucket of water, soap, a towel, a razor, and a sliver of a mirror. He leapt to his feet from the narrow cot.

  “Make ye’self ready, m’lord,” the jailer growled.

  “For what?” Nicholas demanded.

  “Lord Leicester’s come to see ye.” Before Nicholas could ask anything else, the jailer slammed the door shut. With hands that shook from anticipation he soaped and shaved and rinsed and toweled himself as best he could. He laced on the clean shirt and hose as quickly as possible. When he was ready, he went to the door and banged on it. There was no response. Then heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor and the door opened once more, this time to admit the jailer accompanied by Robert Dudley himself. “Leicester!”

  “Nicholas.” The older man stepped inside the room and peered around. “Mine was worse.” He glanced at the jailer. “That’ll be all, my good fellow.”

  “Ye want met’ see t’ the rest of ‘em, m’lord?”

  “Aye,” answered the earl. “Do that.” When the jailer had gone, he grinned at Nicholas. “Now, perhaps you could explain to me why Walsingham’s crowing like a cock at daybreak over the fact that you’re here. Have you taken leave of your senses, man? I never thought to see the day that you’d be accused of consorting with the Spanish.”

  Nicholas groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Blessed Jesu, Leicester, ‘tis the last thing I ever thought to be accused of, believe me. I thought I was performing a service for my country—not consorting with anyone.”

  “Hmm. Except perhaps for that tempting little Olivia. I hear you’re also accused of masquerading as man and wife.”

  “And that’s a crime now?”

  Leicester cocked his head and wagged his finger. “Nicholas. In the church courts, you know it is.” He shook his head. “All right. Tell me how this all happened.”

  “’Twas the day the Queen came to Talcott Forest. Master Christopher Warren approached me and asked if I’d do Her Majesty a service. I said of course. So he told me that a traitor had been apprehended and that someone was needed to go to Calais.” Haltingly, careful of any mention of Olivia, Nicholas explained the story.

  At last, when he was silent, Leicester nodded, stroking his chin. “And there’s no witnesses to any of this? Save your brother and Mistress Lindsley?”

  Nicholas shook his head slowly. “But—surely you see—”

  “Aye,” Leicester said, “I do. ‘Tis a question of whether we can make Sir Francis and his agent—”

  “Give me five minutes alone with Master Warren,” Nicholas said, clenching his fists.

  “Now, now.” Leicester wagged another finger, about to say something else when a knock on the door interrupted him. “Enter.”

  “Ye said to tell ye, m’lord, when Sir Francis and ‘is man arrived.” The jailer peered around the corner of the door.

  “Ah, good. Well, come, Nicholas. Her Majesty herself has ordered a hearing into this matter.”

  Nicholas started. “The Queen?”

  “Aye. Don’t look so surprised, man. Did you think I came to pay you a visit?” Leicester chuckled, adjusting his doublet. “Let’s go.”

  Nicholas drew a deep breath. “As you say, my lord.”

  Leicester stood aside to let him proceed out the door, and he patted him on the back as he passed. “Be of good cheer, Nicholas. You have friends in very high places.”

  The spartan chamber was, if anything, even more bleak than Nicholas’s cell. A long wooden table and six chairs were the only furnishings. The two occupants of those chairs surprised him. Walsingham fixed him with a steely eye as he entered, flanked on both sides by guards, with Leicester bringing up the rear. “Lord Talcott.”

  “Sir Francis.” Nicholas inclined his head.

  “I believe you know your accuser, Sir John Makepeace.”

  Nicholas’s eyes slid over to Sir John, who had the grace to appear uncomfortable. “I do.”

  “You dispute the charge against you?”

  “I do.”

  “And what have you to say in your defense?”

  Nicholas turned to Leicester. “Is this a court, my lord? Is this to be my venue of justice?”

  Leicester sat down opposite Walsingham. “Think of this as a hearing, Nicholas. We do not come to condemn you. But the story you tell is quite fantastic, as I’m sure you’d agree if you were seated in our place. So tell us, Nicholas, as you told me. What is your answer to Sir John’s charge?”

  “I answer with a question, my lord.” Nicholas drew himself up and looked at Sir John. “What were you doing in that church?”

  At that, Sir John started. “I—I was told to watch for you, sir.”

  “By whom?” Walsingham’s voice was colder than the stones of the Tower.

  “By your own agent, Master Warren, Sir Francis.” Sir John met the other man’s eyes with the fearlessness of one who knew he walked with the Lord.

  Walsingham’s face paled, then flushed an ugly purple color. “Wait here.” He stalked to the door, opened it, and spoke rapidly to the guards. “Bring me Master Christopher Warren. Now!” He looked back over his shoulder. “It seems all roads lead us to Master Warren. We’ll soon get to the bottom of this, I promise.”

  Leicester nodded. “What did he tell you to look for, Sir John?”

  “He said that Lord Talcott and his leman would be there, and that they would be meeting with an agent of the King of Spain.”

  “And did you see them thus?”

  Nicholas’s face flushed. “Mistress Olivia is not—”

  Leicester waved an airy hand. “Calm yourself, Nicholas. ‘Tis not the matter at hand. Go on, Sir John. Did you see them meet with anyone?”

  “A dark-complected man—he looked like a Spaniard, dressed as a priest. I saw them meet with him. And then later, I saw the man come to the tavern at which they stopped, and leave after but a brief time.”

  “So all you really saw, Sir John,” said the earl, leaning forward, “was a conversation or two? You saw nothing pass hands?”

  Sir John flushed. “It was clear to me—They found the plans on Talcott’s person—”

  “But you can’t say how they came to be there?”

  Sir John opened his mouth and shut it. “I cannot, my lord.”

  Leicester shrugged. “’Twould seem to me of no matter, Sir Francis, whether or not this Master Warren is found.

  Sir John witnessed nothing but a meeting or two—a meeting which could be chance—”

  “But—” Nicholas began, then stopped.

  Leicester winked as someone knocked on the door.

  “Enter!”

  The jailer entered, wearing a puckered frown. He hesitated, looking uncertain.

  “Well?” barked Walsingham.

  “Master Warren, Sir Francis—we sent to ‘is lodging, sir, as ye asked, and—” He glanced at Leicester, Nicholas, and Sir John in turn. “’E’s not there, sir. Landlord said ‘e’s gone. And all ‘is belongings—young Jemmie’s outside here, if ye wish to speak to ‘im.”

  “Gone?�
� Walsingham repeated.

  “Aye, m’lord. Quite gone.”

  Walsingham turned to Leicester. There was a long silence, as the four men gazed at each other. Finally Walsingham spoke. “This is most irregular.”

  Leicester threw back his head and laughed. “Irregular? Come, Sir Francis. Sir John corroborates Lord Nicholas in saying ‘twas Warren who set this up—”

  “Why?” demanded Walsingham. “What earthly reason—”

  “’Twas my father’s fault,” said Nicholas quietly. “He saw Warren’s father burned. My brother Geoffrey reminded me when he came last week. ‘Twas in the realm of the late Queen, Mary.”

  There was another long silence and then Sir John cleared his throat. “And the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children—yea, even unto the seventh generation.”

  The hour was late when Nicholas walked into the little tavern. He ducked his head beneath the low door and stood for a moment, just inside the door, looking around. Alison, sitting next to the hearth, noticed him first. She nudged Olivia, who flew into his arms with a little cry. For a long moment, they stood still, holding each other tightly, until finally Geoffrey gave a discreet cough. “And we’re all very glad to see you, too, Nick.”

  Nicholas raised his head and released Olivia. He reached for his brother, and the two embraced. “I should’ve listened to you, Geoff.”

  “Aye, you should’ve,” Geoffrey agreed. “After all, I’m the brilliant one. You’re just the good-looking one.”

  Olivia gazed up at Nicholas. Even in the warm wash of firelight, his face was tired and gaunt after just a few days in that terrible place, and she shuddered to imagine what a prolonged confinement could do to a man or woman. He smiled down at her.

  “Does this mean you’re free to go?” asked Alison, ever practical.

  Nicholas nodded. “We’ll leave at first light tomorrow, Mistress Alison.”

  “About time,” she sighed. “Because the day after that—”

  She broke off as Geoffrey nudged her.

  “It’s time we all went home,” said Nicholas. He looked down at Olivia as he spoke and a quiver went through her.