‘Mistress Barrett,’ he said. ‘You are looking quite lovely this evening. Most beautiful.’
She looked rumpled and dusty, and she knew it, but his words made her feel oddly uncomfortable—as did the way he looked at her. As if he expected something from her. Flustered, she turned away to put her basket down on the table beside the ledger books. The coins inside clinked—the rent paid at last from Mother Nan, thanks to Rob’s blandishments.
‘Thank you, Master Ennis,’ she said. ‘I hope you and my father have had a good conversation this evening.’
Her father sat down in his chair by the fire and propped his feet up by the grate. ‘Henry here says he has been working on a play.’
‘Have you really?’ Anna said. She sat down as far from the light of the fire as she could, sure that her afternoon of lust with Rob Alden showed on her face. Her cheeks felt warm, and her lips still tingled. ‘So you want to do more than act on the stage?’
‘I can’t be a player forever,’ he said. ‘But I want to stay in the theatre. Surely I have appeared in enough plays to know what the audience wants?’
‘Blood—that’s what they want,’ her father said. ‘And plenty of it. A funny bit for the clown can’t hurt, either.’
‘Surely they also want romance?’ Anna protested. ‘A grand passion they can cry over? At least the ladies do, and they are a large part of our daily receipts.’
‘The ladies want to look at a handsome lad, like Henry here, no matter what the plot might be,’ her father said with a laugh. ‘Eh, Henry?’
Henry laughed, too, and in the firelight Anna saw that he was very handsome—surely as much a draw to the White Heron as Rob was. His golden cap of hair gleamed above a face as perfectly sculpted as an ancient statue, and his lean-hipped body was as elegantly clothed as any courtier’s. He was the perfect romantic lead for any play, a vision of manly beauty.
And yet she was strangely unmoved when she looked at him, as if she were admiring a tapestry or carved chair, instead. He didn’t make her feel as if she would burst out, as Rob did, as if she had to cry out from looking at him.
If she was to be prudent again, surely she should spend more time with Henry and less—much less—with Rob. Rob made her feel alive again, which was the most dangerous thing she could think of.
‘There is blood aplenty in my tale, Master Alwick,’ Henry said. ‘But I will be sure there is romance, as well, to please Mistress Barrett.’
‘Then I’ll be happy to take a look at it when you have finished,’ her father said. ‘The White Heron always needs new plays. There’s never enough supply for the demand. The public is greedy for them.’
‘I hope it will be up to the standards of your usual writers,’ Henry said quietly. ‘Such as Master Alden. He is very popular.’
‘Robert is a great writer, and the audience does flock to his plays,’ said her father. ‘But he’s not nearly fast enough with his pen for their taste.’
Because he was so busy with Walsingham? Anna remembered that look on his face when he stepped out of Walsingham’s vast spider lair of a house, so inward and serious. And the note that had arrived when he thought she slept…
He said he was a mere messenger for Walsingham—a code-breaker and cipher-writer. But what if there was more to it? What was he not telling her?
Yet another reason to be prudent and stay away from him. Yet she seemed to have used up all her prudence long ago.
‘I must go now, I fear,’ Henry said as he pushed himself up from his chair.
‘Stay and dine with us,’ her father urged. ‘Tell us more about this play of yours.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, Master Alwick, but I have an appointment I must keep.’
Anna was glad he was going and leaving the house quiet again. She had so much confusion swirling in her mind, so much she had to think about.
On the other hand—perhaps it was better not to think. Perhaps what she needed was action and activity.
‘I will see you to the gate, Master Ennis,’ she said. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and led him out of the door and into the garden as her father lit his pipe and settled in for an evening next to the fire.
It was almost nightfall now, the sky a deep purple-indigo tinged pale grey at the edges. The world seemed suspended in silence for just a moment, before darkness descended completely and Southwark came to noisy life.
‘Thank you for coming to visit my father,’ she said. ‘He seems to need company more than ever of late, and it’s good for him to think on business.’
‘I am happy to spend time with him,’ Henry answered. ‘Especially if it pleases you, Anna. I would do anything at all for you—you know that now, I hope.’
Anna shook her head and started to turn away. ‘I do know, Henry, and I am flattered by your kind attentions. But I…’
Henry caught her arm and swung her back towards him. His eyes gleamed in the twilight and his grasp was tight. She couldn’t leave him now. He wouldn’t let her go.
‘I’m sorry if I spoke too soon,’ he said. ‘I should have waited, bided my time. But I could not. Not any longer.’
‘Henry, please,’ Anna said desperately. ‘Can we not be friends, as we were? I do like you, but after my marriage I don’t—I can’t be married again. You have so many admirers—beautiful women far more worthy than me.’
His grasp tightened on her arm, crumpling the sleeve, and he dragged her closer. ‘Their beauty is false! I want something real and true for once in my life. Something truly my own.’
Anna felt tears prickle at her eyes. She felt for Henry so much; she too longed for something true—something she feared did not really exist at all. Sometimes she ached with that longing.
But she was not that something. Not for anyone. Not any longer.
‘Henry, nay, I beg you—’
Her words were cut off by his sudden kiss, his mouth hard and hungry on hers. His kiss wasn’t terrible, not smothering and fearful as her husband’s had been when he was drunk and lustful. She might even have enjoyed it another time—enjoyed being admired by a handsome young man who thought her something true and good.
But it did not make her feel as if she was falling, tumbling free into another world, as Rob’s did. It awakened a flicker in her, but no flame.
She pushed as hard as she could against his chest, until his hold on her broke at last and he stumbled back from her.
‘Anna,’ he gasped, looking shocked by his own actions. His face flushed a deep red. ‘I am sorry…’
She shook her head as she rubbed her fingers across her damp lips. ‘I must go inside now, Henry. I know this will not happen again when next we meet.’
She spun round and ran back up the garden path before he could say anything else or kiss her again. As she turned to shut the door she glimpsed him still standing there by the gate, watching her. Waiting for—something. Something from her. Something she almost wished she could give.
But she felt hollow and tired. There had been entirely too much passion for one day.
Her father still sat by the fire, staring into its flickering glow as he puffed on his pipe. Anna dropped down onto the chair across from his and rubbed at her throbbing temples.
‘Henry Ennis seems a fine young man,’ her father said, not looking away from the fire. ‘Ambitious and hard-working. He tells me he has a house in the country he intends to retire to one day.’
‘Aye. Where his mother and sister live now,’ Anna said.
‘It sounds as if he is looking for a wife to add to the household.’
She laughed. ‘Players should never marry.’
‘Some should not, of a certes. As a lot they tend to be hot-tempered and impulsive, and they lose their coin as soon as they earn it. But Henry seems a different sort. A lady might do well to consider him.’
Did her father know about Henry’s attentions to her? Anna studied him carefully, but he gave not a hint of what he was thinking, what he really wanted for her.
He just chewed on that pipe.
‘The right lady, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Are you going out tonight, Father, or should I send Madge to the tavern for some supper? I bought some apples at the market for our pudding. They’re small and rather hard, but might make a fine pie.’
‘Aye, my dear, if you are hungry. I will just take a little wine now, and sit by the fire awhile longer.’
‘Not too much wine, Father. Not on an empty stomach. Or I shall be calling for a physick.’ Anna went to kiss his cheek before she left the room. ‘I must go tidy myself now. It has been a very long day.’
He caught her hand in his as she turned to go. ‘You work too hard, dearest daughter. I tell you, you should consider Master Ennis. He could take care of you as you deserve.’
‘Never fear. I can take care of myself quite well enough—and you, too.’ Anna gave her father a confident smile and another kiss, but inside she was just not so very sure any longer.
* * *
Rob tossed the tiny scraps of parchment into the fire, watching intently as they turned to black flakes of ash and melted away. If only the words could be so easily erased from his mind, so easily cast out of the world.
Behind him, the main room of the Three Bells was crowded with its usual denizens, getting drunk either loudly or morosely, losing money at cards, grabbing the serving maids who slapped them down. The smells of fried onions and cheap beef, spilled ale and damp wool blended thickly with the acrid smoke of the fire.
But Rob didn’t see any of it. It was as distant as birdsong in the sky and as removed from him. He braced his fists on the arms of his chair and stared at the charred bits of Walsingham’s note.
The Secretary had new information on the traitor among Lord Henshaw’s Men—the one who hoped to profit from Spanish information passed under the disguise of the theatre. It was Tom Alwick.
Anna’s own father. And Rob was assigned to find the evidence that would bring him down forever, ruin him and bring him a traitor’s death.
Rob sat back in the chair and stretched his long, booted legs towards the fire, as if its heat could melt the ice forming around his heart. He thought of Tom, always so affable, yet so shrewd about the plays he could sell and what the audience wanted. Tom, who almost always seemed at best half-drunk, and lately more apt to leave business affairs to Anna. Could he really be such a good actor himself as to hide treason behind such a façade of jokes and drink?
Rob rubbed his hand hard over his jaw. Of course, Tom could be acting—anyone caught in Walsingham’s web had to be a good liar or he would be dead in an instant. Yet Rob had learned hard lessons ever since he was a child—lessons on seeing beyond what people presented to the world and into the very heart of the matter. He had to be observant to write his characters, and to do his job for Walsingham. It was how he stayed alive in the face of daily danger.
Tom seemed to be no actor, no deceiver. A ruthless businessman, aye, but one who was fair to his tenants and employees. A man getting on in years and seeking solace in wine and ale for a too-long life.
Rob didn’t believe he was the spy. Surely it had to be someone around him? Someone in his business…?
Someone like Anna?
‘Nay,’ he muttered. His remembered the sweetness of her kiss, the wonder in her eyes as she found pleasure in his arms. The softness she hid under her sharp tongue and stern grey garments. Anna wasn’t a traitor.
Yet doubt, once planted, lingered. She was clever and she had access to all her father’s business concerns. It was said around Southwark that her husband’s death had left her penniless, forcing her to return to her father’s house.
He had to consider all possibilities in this conundrum. It was often the least likely one that proved true. Even if it was not Anna, she could be helping the villain—whether wittingly or not. He had to discover the truth, and take care of the matter before Walsingham could.
He had become very good at taking care of matters over the years, ridding the Queen of her enemies any way he could. He couldn’t let Anna Barrett cloud his judgement or stand in his way. Too much depended on this one task.
He heard a footfall behind him—the tap of a boot’s sole on the sticky floor more purposeful than the general cacophony of the room—and he reached for the hilt of his dagger.
‘What visions do you see in those flames, Robert?’ Edward Hartley asked.
Rob relaxed, no longer preparing to do battle, and looked back at his friend. Edward stood out from the usual Three Bells crowd in his bright green satin Court clothes, but as usual no one dared assault him—even to steal his finery.
‘I was merely seeking a quiet moment to myself,’ Rob said.
Edward arched his brow as he took the chair across from Rob. ‘Here?’
‘I do my best thinking in the midst of a crowd.’
‘Then you must have something brilliant indeed in mind. It’s even noisier than usual here tonight, not to mention noisome.’
‘And you’re far from home for such a late hour. Is the beauteous Lady Elizabeth gone from London now?’
‘Not as yet. We’re to meet later tonight.’ Edward took a long drink from the goblet in his hand. ‘I heard you were at Seething Lane this morning.’
‘So I was.’
‘Any progress?’
Rob shrugged. ‘Perhaps. None I care for, though.’
‘Ah. Well, I may be able to help you in your task, my friend. I’ve had word that Sir Thomas Sheldon is back in London, penniless again and even more careless than usual.’
‘Is that so?’ Rob sat up in interest. Sir Thomas Sheldon had long been an enemy to Edward, as Edward blamed the man for his brother’s untimely death. Edward had been seeking a way to ruin him, and lately Rob had learned Sheldon’s loyalty could definitely be for sale to the highest bidder. He was possibly even involved in this threatened treason in Southwark, though likely not as the main mover. He seemed too clumsy for that.
‘We may have him now,’ Edward said. ‘I have a plan to set a trap that could benefit us both, and I need your help.’
‘Of course you have it. What are you thinking of?’
‘Elizabeth and I are having a party at Hart Castle next week. We have invited Sheldon and some of his friends, as I have heard he looks to sell his estate next to mine and considers me a possible buyer. Once we have them trapped on our own ground, they won’t be able to wriggle free so easily.’ Sheldon was a rich, thieving, Court-toadying man, who had recently attempted to marry Edward’s love Elizabeth’s young niece. She ran away with Elizabeth’s help—and inadvertently brought Edward and his Elizabeth together.
‘And Sheldon has agreed to come?’
‘Oh, aye. He is always seeking his own advancement—not to mention the sale of his estate. And I have also dangled the promise of some young heiresses before him. He has been seeking a wealthy wife ever since Elizabeth’s niece got away from him. He took the bait quick enough.’
‘And you want me to help reel him in?’
‘No one is better at that than you, my friend. And you must invite anyone who can help us to this little gathering.’ Edward grinned. ‘It should be a most rewarding few days.’
‘Anyone?’ Rob stared back at the fire, as if there truly were visions to be found there. Could he lure Anna to Hart Castle? Perhaps once she was away from London, from her father and his friends, he could find out more from her. He could discover if she or her father were involved in this scheme.
Then he would know what to do.
‘I will be there,’ he promised. He had to be. The game was afoot and he had to see it to its end, even as his guilt over hurting Anna pricked at him in a most inconvenient and painful way. He had set his course long ago. He had to finish it.
Chapter Nine
The clash of steel blades rang out with a metallic clang in the morning air. Men shouted insults at each other, and laughed when their opponents responded with angry volleys of futile blows. It was the final, decisive battle between two warring cla
ns.
Anna watched it all from her perch in the upper gallery, between stitches on a torn costume. She called out lines when an actor faltered, and noted repairs that needed to be made to the stage. The morning light, bright and golden for once, clear of the grey clouds, showed chips in the painted finish of the columns and faded spots on the mural of Zeus and the gods emblazoned below the musicians’ balcony.
One of the fighters tumbled off the stage into the rush-strewn yard and rolled nimbly back to his feet. If only all battles were so easy as that, Anna thought. A whirl of colourful insults and blows that hurt no one, and then everyone went to the tavern for tankards of ale.
But Walsingham and men of his high ilk didn’t work as simply as that. There were no shouts—just a dagger in a dark alley or a hidden room and it was as if nothing had happened at all.
She looked up from her needle to find Rob on the stage. He held no sword, only the pages of the play he had written, and he directed the men in their battle. The seemingly chaotic brawl was carefully choreographed for maximum effect as seen from the level of the audience, and Rob leaped nimbly among the action, shouting out encouragement. Sometimes he would clamber atop the base of one of the columns to direct the movement.
He waved up at Anna and gave her a merry grin, and despite everything she found herself smiling back. Rob was in his element on that stage, burning with raw, wondrous life. He was a different man from the passionate, intense lover, or the darkly brooding man who had left Walsingham’s house. Which was the real Robert Alden? It was too enticing a riddle.
Anna laughed and waved back at him. He swung lightly around the column and dropped back onto the stage.
‘Nay, Ethan, hold the sword thus,’ she heard him say. ‘It’s not a sow you’re herding to market. Rapiers are delicate and changeable, perfect for both cutting and thrusting attacks, and they need a light touch—like a woman. You can’t bash it around and expect it to go where you please.’
He took a stage blade from one of the apprentice actors and twirled the hilt in his palm. He swung it around, as if the heavy weapon weighed no more than a feather, and lunged forward with perfect control. ‘In stage combat you must make it look real and fearsome, not comical. Take advantage of space, as you would in a true fight. Back your opponent into a pillar or a door. Use the element of surprise.’
The Taming of the Rogue Page 8