by C. J. Archer
She bent to pick up the sword but he caught her wrist. “Lizzy.” His eyes were half-closed like he was just waking up.
Then all of a sudden he shook his head and let go of her. His chest rose and fell like he’d been laboring long and hard. “I should go,” he said gruffly, turning away.
Oh. Well. Good.
Except there were some tasks she could set him doing, tasks that required strength and an extra pair of hands. Big, capable hands…
Like showing her how to hold a broadsword.
She cleared her throat. “Rafe, would—”
“You!” shouted Roger Style from below. “Bloody pig’s pizzle! Get out of my theatre!”
The sound of wood shattering sent Lizzy running for the stairs. Rafe was a step ahead of her.
CHAPTER 4
“I said, get out of my theatre!” Roger stood with hands on hips, feet apart, and chin thrust forward in the classic hero pose for which he was famous. An audience of mostly groundlings paying a penny for entry would have gasped or cheered, but an audience of players who knew him well simply shook their heads.
“He’s not the only pizzle in this room,” Freddie muttered.
Roger ignored him. The short, flat-faced man he confronted laughed so hard it became a snort. He must be Gripp. The only other man Roger would order to leave was the lead actor and cosharer of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, Richard Burbage, and the newcomer wasn’t he.
“It’s not your theatre,” Gripp said, smiling beneath a long, drooping moustache. “It’s Henslowe’s.”
It was true. Lord Hawkesbury’s Players leased the Rose off the Admiral’s Men and their manager, Philip Henslowe. Both companies performed there several times per week, often one after the other. It made for a crowded tiring house at times.
Roger took a step toward Gripp and kicked aside the pieces of a stool which had suffered most from his tirade. “If you don’t get out,” he snarled, “I’ll kill you.”
Lizzy exchanged a worried glance with Antony on the other side of the room until Rafe gently drew her behind him. If it had been anyone else she would have dug her elbow into his ribs and chastised him, but since it was Rafe she simply stepped out from his shadow.
“Steady, Roger,” Edward said to his brother. “We don’t want a scene here. The audience will be arriving soon.”
“I don’t give a toss about the audience,” Roger said without moving his jaw or lips. “I want this man gone from my presence. He’s poisoning the air of this hallowed theatre.”
“You’re an arse,” Gripp said. “And you couldn’t kill a bee if it stung you on that beak of a nose.” He rocked on his heels, looking pleased with himself. “Now, care to know why I’m here?”
“No,” Roger, Edward, and Henry said at once.
“I’m here to tell you The Spoils of War has been banned.”
“Banned!” Roger bellowed.
“Why?” asked Henry.
“It’s a vile piece of work,” Gripp said.
“Vile!” Roger huffed and snorted and wagged a finger at his nemesis. “How is it any different from any other play put on by this company or indeed Lord Chamberlain’s Men?”
“You speak of yourselves in the same breath as that illustrious troupe! You’re a fool as well as an arse, Style.”
Teeth bared, Roger took a step forward but was held back by Edward and Henry. Rafe made no move to assist them. He simply crossed his arms and watched the proceedings with interest.
“You…you vindictive swine!” Roger shouted. “Selfish, ox-brained…pizzle!”
Gripp laughed. “That’s all you can come up with? Maybe Jonson could pen better insults for you. He certainly has a knack for them if The Spoils of War is an indication.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that play,” Roger snapped. “It contains nothing of a treasonous nature.”
“I didn’t say it was treasonous.”
“Then what’s wrong with it?” Edward asked.
Gripp smoothed down his moustache with his finger and thumb, drawing out the dramatic pause as expertly as any master actor. “I don’t need to answer to any of you.”
Lizzy held her breath as Roger exploded with a series of curses that made even Freddie’s eyes pop.
“I think we get the idea,” Rafe said in that calm but commanding voice of his. It got everyone’s attention, even Roger’s midtirade.
“Exactly what I was going to say,” Gripp said, triumphant.
But Roger would not be silenced. “All this hatred because Margaret chose me over you,” he said with a sneer.
That seemed to put a prick into Gripp and deflate him.
“It’s no surprise to anyone that she did,” Roger went on. “Look at you with your sour face and your dreary clothes. You are a dull, small man with an inflated opinion of himself. Leaving you was the best thing she ever did.”
Gripp’s cheeks reddened above his magnificent whiskers. “You stole her,” he hissed. “You seduced her with your swaggering hips and your lewd ways.” His gaze swept around the room, taking in each of the onlookers. “You’re all vile creatures, acting in your crude plays for a barbaric audience. At least the Lord Chamberlain’s Men are a refined lot.” Someone—Henry?—snorted. “They’re the only company fit to perform in front of the queen. The only ones I’ll allow to perform for her. You and your men” —he jerked his head at Antony— “will never grace her audience chamber again with your filthy ways.”
“Filthy!” Antony cried. “I am certainly not filthy, unlike some others I could mention.” He gave Freddie a pointed glare. Freddie merely shrugged.
Lizzy edged closer to Antony and squeezed his hand. “Pay him no mind,” she whispered.
“I don’t care about court,” Roger said to Gripp. His lips stretched into a white, flat line. “This is where the money is, where the audience truly appreciates our art.”
He was lying. Roger cared more about performing at court than he did about his own children. He idolized the queen and adored staging plays for her. It appealed to his snobbish nature.
“I will ruin you,” Gripp went on. “I’ll make sure your audiences grow bored of you, and when they grow bored, they’ll maul you out there. They’ll make you wish you’d never become an actor, make you want to crawl back in here. I’ll ruin you, Roger Style, and your troupe.”
With a frenzied cry, Roger ran at him again. Once more Henry and Edward had to hold him back. Rafe shifted closer but didn’t interfere. He seemed more interested than a stranger should be.
“You destroy my company and I will kill you,” Roger spat.
Gripp laughed and teased his moustache. “Of course you will.”
“You might not think me capable.” Roger’s gaze switched to Rafe and lingered before focusing once more on Gripp. “But I know someone who is.”
Rafe straightened to his full, formidable height and his face became strangely blank, not empty but masked. A chill crept down Lizzy’s spine. He was once more the youth she remembered from her childhood—cold, detached, ruthless.
“I think it’s time for Mr. Gripp to leave,” he said.
Gripp cleared his throat and nodded as he backed through the tiring house curtain and out onto the stage beyond. “Ah, yes, well, good day to you, sir.” He doffed his hat without taking his eyes off Rafe.
“Good riddance,” Roger shouted after him.
No one else spoke. The rest of the troupe, including Lizzy, watched Rafe. She didn’t know what she expected him to do or say but she did expect some sort of reaction.
But there was no reaction of any kind in those deep, black eyes. Rafe simply stared at Roger, who took no notice of him.
“Where’s that devil’s costume?” he roared. “Elizabeth! I need it now!” He snapped his fingers at Lizzy.
In a move so fast it was a blur, Rafe caught Roger’s fingers, silencing the snaps. “Do not shout at her,” he said evenly. “The costume is upstairs. Go and get it yourself.” There was no menace in his voice. It wasn�
��t necessary. He had a way of sounding threatening without so much as a change of tone.
Roger’s face drained and he made a squeaking noise. “I…I will. I mean I was. Just needed to check with her first.”
Rafe let go and Roger tucked his hand under his armpit. He scampered up the stairs without looking back.
The rest of the troupe exchanged glances then dispersed to prepare for the performance. More than one kept a wary eye on Rafe. Antony winked at Lizzy then went upstairs in search of his costume.
Lizzy picked up the prompt book and hugged the bound pages to her chest. She was all too aware of Rafe nearby, watching her. She didn’t need to see him to know; she could feel his gaze on her. Why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he leave?
Did she want him to leave?
“Lizzy—”
“You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I’m sure you would rather be anywhere else but here after…”
“No.”
“I’m sorry about Roger.”
“Don’t be. It doesn’t concern me. I’m worried about you. This fight between Style and Gripp looks like it might turn nastier.”
“Don’t concern yourself. It’ll probably all blow over.” She bit her lip. She didn’t believe that at all. If Gripp had banned The Spoils of War for no apparent reason, what would he do next? She hazarded a glance at Rafe, just a brief one, and saw that he was indeed still watching her. “I’m sorry Roger implied what he did about you.”
He laughed softly. “Worse things have been implied about me. Some of them were even true.”
Like what Roger said—Rafe was capable of killing.
“Lizzy? What’s wrong?” He frowned and stepped toward her.
She moved quickly away. Her skirts brushed against a stool, pushing it over, and she bent to pick it up. It gave her an excuse to not look at him, to not see the confusion in those endlessly dark eyes.
“I better go,” he muttered. “Do you remember why I came—about my friend who’s a little mad?” She nodded. “He’s tall, like me, with longish brown hair. Don’t let him in.”
By the time she’d digested that order and looked up, he was gone.
The Marshalsea prison was crowded, damp, and stank worse than a pair of old boots. Hughe’s money had bought James a clean cell with only three others and a sackful of food. There was no more coin left.
James sat in the corner on a pallet, his forehead resting on his drawn-up knees. He looked up long enough to see the warden let Rafe in, then lowered his head with a groan.
“Unless you’ve paid off my debts you can go away,” he said.
“That’s no way to greet your only kin.” Rafe dropped the sack at his brother’s feet and sat down. “I brought bread, cheese, and apples. Don’t eat them all at once.” He eyed James’s cell mates, who all watched him back, one openly and two surreptitiously. None looked to be starving but the big one, the one who didn’t hide his interest, had a cockiness about him that could be dangerous if he decided to prove his superior strength. “There’ll be enough to share around if need be.”
James peered inside the sack. “Did you steal all this?”
“No, little brother. I sold an old sword I don’t use anymore.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily enough and James accepted it with a shrug and bit into an apple.
“Everything well here?” Rafe asked, keeping one eye on the big prisoner. Their gazes met and the other man’s held steady. That alone set him apart. Usually the cocky sort saw the warning and backed down. Even the big ones. Either this oaf was too stupid or he was throwing out a challenge.
“Everything’s perfect here,” James said with obvious sarcasm. “I only got bitten two hundred times last night by whatever is living in this pallet and I’m fortunate to be able to see the feet of passersby through that window. Sometimes they even throw us little presents through the bars, like mud or rotten fruit.”
He was lucky that’s all they threw in.
“Has anyone been to visit you?” He considered telling James about Barker but decided against it. James had enough troubles of his own.
“No. Nobody but you knows I’m in here.”
“Good. And don’t worry. I’ll get you out.”
James sighed and rubbed a hand through hair not yet as dirty as that of his fellow inmates. In another few days it would become greasy and itch like the devil. “Thank you, Rafe, you’re a good brother. Always have been.” He offered up a weak smile then looked quickly away, but not before Rafe saw the tears in his eyes. There was no need to ask what they were for. They both knew.
“I could have been better.” Should have been better. “I could have been here more.”
“You think I wouldn’t be in prison if you were around?” All trace of sentimentality was gone. Defiance flashed in James’s eyes where before they’d swum with despair. “I am not a child, Rafe.”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. I know what you meant. You think I’m not capable of taking care of my own affairs.”
It was no use arguing with him. James was a young man, angry at himself and the world. More than anyone, he knew that a few days in prison wouldn’t be long enough to knock that out of him. It would take time and perhaps a few life-threatening events. Or a woman. Lizzy could do it. She’d be good for James. A sensible, leveling influence.
He rested his head back against the wall with his eyes closed—a bad idea because it brought memories of the way Lizzy had felt against him when he’d shown her how to hold the sword. She’d been soft, her skin smooth, and she smelled of honey. Even now, amid all the filth of the prison, he could conjure up the scent of her.
“Rafe? Are you all right?”
He opened his eyes to see James frowning at him and guilt swamped Rafe. For God’s sake, she was his brother’s intended! “Yes.”
“You seem a little unwell.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Rafe tried to force every last thought of Lizzy away but his efforts failed. He worried about her. The situation between Gripp and Style looked volatile and the company’s ruin at the hands of Gripp seemed inevitable.
Rafe couldn’t believe two grown men could be so antagonistic and not actually fight each other. Perhaps if the players had let Style attack Gripp, they could have gotten it out of their systems and it would all blow over. Then again, perhaps not. Neither looked like they’d give up on their feud so easily. Which brought up the question—would Style kill Gripp?
Rafe didn’t think so, but he might hire someone as he’d implied. It was that suggestion that had turned his blood cold. Not the fact that he’d thought Rafe was the type capable of killing, but more the reactions of everyone in the room. The sharp intake of breaths. The tension stretching tighter and tighter as they waited for Rafe to explode in anger.
The fear in Lizzy’s eyes.
She’d backed away from him like she would a vicious dog. The frightened doe had returned and he didn’t like it. He wanted to see the woman who’d blossomed beneath his touch up in the storeroom. The one who pressed herself into him and shuddered when he whispered in her ear, and not with fear. That woman trusted him enough to let him close.
He liked that woman.
“Everything’s well with her,” he mumbled.
“Lizzy?” James asked.
“Uh…yes. We were talking about Lizzy.” Weren’t they?
“No, but I’m glad to hear she’s in good health.”
At least Barker hadn’t tried to get to her and use her against Rafe. Perhaps he didn’t know about the connection between Lizzy and James. Perhaps James was the more likely target. Even so, Rafe felt better having warned her.
“Has anything happened with the Master of Revels?” James asked.
Rafe almost told him about the confrontation at the Rose but instead said, “No.” It was yet another worry his brother didn’t need.
“Perhaps it will all amount to nothing,” James said. “I hope so. The Crofts are good people, the best,
and Lizzy’s a sweet girl. Losing her job at the tiring house will be a terrible blow.”
Rafe winced. His brother loved Lizzy. They would be wed in a few years’ time. He certainly should not be thinking about her soft curves. They were not his to think about. Never would be.
“Take good care of her,” James said.
Rafe cleared his throat. “I’ll treat her like a sister.” He could do that. “It would be easier if I didn’t have to lie to her about your whereabouts. Why won’t you trust her and let me tell her you’re here?”
“No!”
“Why not? I don’t understand.”
“Of course you bloody don’t,” James snapped. “Look at you.”
Rafe looked down at himself and shrugged.
“You’re big and strong and capable. You always have been.”
Cold fingers of ice gripped Rafe’s heart and squeezed. “Not always.”
“I don’t need Lizzy thinking I’m a failure too.”
“Too? Why, who else thinks you’re a failure?”
James sighed and lowered his forehead to his knees again. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
True. Rafe didn’t. If he had a woman like Lizzy in his life he’d tell her all his troubles. He’d wager she had a sympathetic ear and practical suggestions.
“I should go. I’ll return tomorrow.” He slapped James on the back and leaned closer. “Keep an eye on that prisoner, the big one. Offer him some cheese and an apple.”
“What if he doesn’t like cheese or apples?” James mumbled into his knees.
“Dig your fingers into his eyes.”
James groaned loudly. Rafe slapped him again and stood, but the big prisoner blocked his path to the door. He was huge, with a trunk shaped like a barrel and a boulder of a head on top of a thick neck.
“I haven’t got time for this,” Rafe said. “Tell me what you want so I can tell you that you can’t have it, then we can get to the part where I make you wish you’d picked on someone else.”
The big oaf screwed up his face, thinking hard. Rafe waited until he’d caught up.