The Greatest Lover in All England
Page 1
Christina Dodd
The Greatest Lover in All England
With thanks to Carol Bortner
for letting me work at
Carol’s Book Corner,
for teaching me about reps and returns,
and for giving me some of the best times of my life
with the best customers in the world.
Contents
I
1
“Catch them two whoreson actors!”
2
“Sir Danny Plympton’s in the house. Stop the play.” Uncle Will…
3
Sir Anthony Rycliffe staggered, knocked from his passionate exploration of Lady…
4
Dada, don’t leave me here. I’m tired and it’s too…
5
But had he really?
6
What was the girl up to now?
7
A chamber pot! Tony shut the door with a click.
8
“I don’t understand Ophelia. She’s a pitiful woman.” Rosie crossed…
9
Sir Danny stood on the step leading into the wagon…
10
Stupid men, gawking at her like pelicans denied a fish.
11
“Hey, Sir Danny! Look at this costume.” Rosie skipped along…
12
It was a simple arrow, made of a sharpened ash…
13
A sweet piping trill from a fife announced Rosie’s return…
14
Lady Honora leaned over the rail and watched as Tony and…
15
The fire burned on the massive hearth, but the heat…
16
Rosie opened her eyes, and realized she lay on her…
17
Lady Honora was staying.
18
Thunder battered Tony’s ear. Dust rushed up in a whirlwind.
19
“Sir Anthony!”
II
20
“I will not have my tooth pulled.” Queen Elizabeth plunked…
21
Sir Danny’s shriek rose through the air like a living…
22
“Never seen a man fall as hard an’ as fast…
23
Lady Honora, Ann, and Jean found the queen sitting by the…
24
“Essex imprisoned the Privy Council?” Tony stared at Wart-Nose in…
25
Hamlet. Act three, Scene one.
26
Rosie’s jaw dropped, but Tony couldn’t allow himself to feel…
Epilogue
Lord Nottingham and Sir Robert Sidney did indeed have to bring…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Christina Dodd
Copyright
About the Publisher
I
All the world’s a stage.
And all the men and women merely players.
—AS YOU LIKE IT, II, vii, 139
1
England
Autumn, 1600
“Catch them two whoreson actors!”
The shouts of five men-at-arms propelled Sir Danny yet faster. The mud of the squalid London streets splashed to his knees, and he cleared a garbage-eating pig in one leap.
“Catch ’em an’ th’ earl o’ Essex’ll reward ye!”
Curious spectators turned to watch as Sir Danny and his ward skidded around the corner, but no one stepped between the soldiers and their prey. With every stomp of their boots, with every shout and every curse, the men-at-arms proclaimed their intention to commit murder most foul.
Sir Danny loved the drama of it. When watered with intrigue, he grew like a mighty oak, and he thrived on life’s tumult. Responsibility was for lesser men; Sir Daniel Plympton, Esquire, lived to laugh, drink, fight, swive—and act. Seeing the crowd of beggars, drunkards, and prostitutes gathering in the doorways of the tall, ill-kept taverns and tenements that lined the street, he slowed and pointed one hand skyward. Pitching his voice to reach the farthest member of his audience, he proclaimed, “Damn yon brazen sun! Would God that wispy London fog might cover o’er its bright and erring face, and so conceal us from our enemies—”
“Shut your maw and run.”
His ward planted one firm hand on his back and shoved him along the sunny lane. Dear Rosencrantz, Sir Danny thought, always so worried about him, always sure that this adventure would be their last. Didn’t Rosencrantz realize that in his fifty years on this earth, Sir Danny had not yet fulfilled his destiny? That audiences still waited to be thrilled by his thespian endeavors? That Queen Elizabeth’s reign had not been defended by him?
That he had not yet resolved Rosencrantz’s own fate?
“In the alley. Quick, Danny. Quick!”
He chuckled at the panic in Rosencrantz’s voice, at the slender shoulder shoved into his spine.
Spurting ahead, Sir Danny darted into the dark, narrow lane, overhung with the eaves of two-story hovels. He raced past the massive washerwoman hanging sheets on the line, ignored her furious cry, and ducked beneath the dangling white canvas.
Still playing to the crowd left behind, he announced, “Oh, stinking mud beneath our feet which even now reminds of us of our mortality! The stench of death hangs heavy o’er our fair city—”
Between the flapping sheets, the washerwoman seized Rosencrantz and yelled, “Ere now, ye young oaf, ye’ll not be fer ruinin’ me laundry.”
“Let me go!” Rosencrantz sounded panicked.
When Sir Danny poked his head back, he saw the youth captured by the beefy washerwoman.
Rosencrantz struggled, but the washerwoman lifted and shook Sir Danny’s ward. “This is my alley, an’ no lickspittle goin’ t’ come through lessen I say so.”
Rosencrantz’s feet kicked in midair. “No, m’lady, but yon soldiers’ll murder us.”
“Yon soldiers?” The washerwoman put Rosencrantz down hard and faced the entrance to the alley, blocking the meager leak of sunlight with her girth.
Using the damp line of laundry like a theater curtain, Sir Danny warned, “They come. They come! The ungodly heathens even now curse us with their hot breath, and fair Jupiter himself—”
Ducking beneath the sheet, Rosencrantz grabbed Sir Danny’s hand and pulled him aside even as Essex’s men thundered through the gap.
“Begone, ye leadenpated lug-loafs!” the washerwoman roared. “This is my alley, an’ no—”
They shoved her so hard she landed in a puddle. Her broad beam created a wave that left a tide mark on the side of the building, and she shrieked out oaths to make a lord blush.
The soldiers ignored her, slashing the clothesline with their swords and trampling the sheets beneath their boots. Both Sir Danny and Rosencrantz tried to dart toward the far end of the alley, but the sharp and shiny edge of a blade blocked that way—and then every way. Helmeted heads obstructed the scant light, and the faces within sneered.
“Like maddened dogs,” Sir Danny said. “Your visages proclaim your lineage and your temper.”
“Danny. Don’t…don’t…” Rosencrantz could scarcely speak for terror. “Don’t provoke them.”
Sir Danny looked at the men towering over him. He looked at their leather armor, their scars, and their swords, and, for the first time, fright possessed him. This was no drama, no imaginary threat which brave words would vanquish. He’d done the worst thing a common man could do. He’d proved himself a menace to a nobleman, and regardless of the justice of his cause, he would die for his insolence.
But Rosencrantz would not die. By the gods, he—Sir Daniel Plympton, Esquire—would not allow it.
Rosencrantz understood, of that Sir Danny had no doubt. But answering him in kind, Rosencrantz moved closer and denied him firmly. “Youth and age will die together, and so entwined, give life to that blessed earth.”
Sir Danny abruptly lost his eloquence. “Dammit, Rosencrantz, if these clots discover—”
“Clots?” The chief man-at-arms, a hulking soldier with a single eye, grabbed Rosencrantz by the long tail of hair. “Ye aren’t talking about us, are ye?” He twisted the unkempt brown locks until the youth sank into the mud with a moan. “Are ye?”
“Nay. Nay!” Sir Danny observed, horrified, as the bully grabbed the long, white throat exposed by his brutality and squeezed. “I meant no disrespect, kind sir. Brave, brawn sir.” He poked at the soldier’s arm and professed amazement at the muscles he found, while ascertaining that mere wool covered those muscles. A hardened leather vest protected the soldier’s chest and back, and a padded leather trunk hose shielded his hips from slashing blows, but the rest of his body was vulnerable.
Vulnerable? One-Eye stood a full foot above Sir Danny, and grinned with the relish of a butcher about to dismember a lamb. Tearing his ruff loose, Sir Danny pointed at his exposed throat. “Only look at my neck and know how this better suits your purposes.”
“But we like th’ pretty lad. Yer son’s head’ll look fine decoratin’ a spike on London Bridge.” He tightened his grip again, and Rosencrantz clawed at him, choking.
“Better than this ol’ man’s.” Another soldier thrust Sir Danny against the wall and poked the displayed throat with the point of his sword.
He was going to die. They were going to die, and with them all his dreams of glory. Silently, he prayed for deliverance. He promised to reform, to give up drinking to excess, smoking tobacco, plowing wild cunny, acting. Well, perhaps not acting. Nor the cunny—he did love women.
But anything else. Anything else he would do to be delivered…or, better yet, to have Rosencrantz delivered.
But deliverance, when it came, didn’t smell like deliverance. A splash of warm piss came flying from the open window above, accompanied by a lady’s shriek. “That’ll teach ye boofheads t’ mess wi’ Tiny Mary!”
A second deluge followed the first. Astonished, the men-at-arms released their hostages.
Looking up, Sir Danny saw females in various stages of undress protruding from every window.
“Ye’ll not knock that doxy around again,” another woman cried.
Sir Danny laughed aloud.
Fool. Fool! Now he recognized this lane. Now he recognized the mighty washerwoman. He and Rosencrantz had stumbled to the best-known brothel in London, and the soldiers had attacked the best-loved madam in the business.
The now-damp men-at-arms danced as they tried to avoid the odious contents of the chamber pots. They never saw Tiny Mary pawing the ground like an infuriated nanny goat. She charged, and three soldiers went down like bowls hit by a wooden ball. Two remained standing, but staggered, spitting and cursing.
The harlots screamed encouragement, and Sir Danny screamed with joy. They were saved. He knew it! The heavens watched over him, for only he could rescue Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth from the nefarious plot against her. Only he could return Rosencrantz to a proper place. Sir Danny laughed again, and One-Eye stiffened and wiped his eyes.
“Stupid,” Rosencrantz muttered. “Stupid old actor.”
When the chief man-at-arms headed toward him, sword out, Sir Danny almost agreed.
In Rosencrantz’s hand, metal glinted. His ward held an eating knife. An eating knife! Against a fully armed soldier!
Lowering his head, Sir Danny rammed into his attacker’s groin. The chief man-at-arms doubled over, but he took Sir Danny down with him.
He rolled over on Sir Danny, holding him down with his body. Sir Danny flopped like a beached fish and tried to bite. Then the hand holding him suddenly loosened. The body above him exploded into action. Surfacing, he heard a man screaming in a most unmanly way. Rosencrantz dragged Sir Danny to his feet, urging, “Run. We’ve got to run!”
Stumbling, Sir Danny tried to catch his breath. No more would he laugh at fate. For now, he would clasp escape to his bosom.
At the corner of the alley, he glanced back. Metal chamber pots showered the two standing soldiers. Tiny Mary sat on two more men, holding their heads and stretching their necks in her elbows. And One-Eye writhed on the ground, emitting that awful screaming.
At a loss for perhaps the first time in his life, Sir Danny stammered, “What…? What…?”
Rosencrantz glowed with grim satisfaction. “I shoved the point of my eating knife up under his trunk hose and into his—”
Sir Danny clutched himself. “My God!”
“Aye,” Rosencrantz said. “He’ll not come after us any time soon.”
Wiping her muddy hands on her apron, Tiny Mary grinned down at One-Eye. “Got ye in th’ family apples, did she?”
One-Eye stopped examining his privates and glared at the immense woman. “There’s no permanent damage.”
“Wouldn’t have been any permanent damage if she’d cut ’em right off.”
Furious and wounded, One-Eye snarled, “I’ve still got th’ goods t’ take on a butt-peddler like ye.”
Flinging back her head, Tiny Mary laughed. Her merriment boomed back and forth against the walls; her body jiggled with glee. “That feeble little root couldn’t make a dent.”
The women above joined in her laughter, and the recovering men-at-arms hid their heads and sniggered.
One-Eye covered himself and leaped to his feet, groping for his sword.
“Looking fer this?” Tiny Mary dangled it from one fat finger. “Ye lost it when th’ little woman stabbed ye.”
Flopping back against the wall, One-Eye groaned and held himself.
“Looks like he lost more than ’is sword when she stabbed him,” one of the harlots said.
“Hey, Tiny Mary, do ye know her?” another asked.
“Nay, but with an arm like hers, she could fight on me team anytime,” Tiny Mary answered.
“Ye stupid ol’ whore.” Blood dripped down One-Eye’s leg. “That’s an actor. He plays women’s parts, but he’s no woman. Ain’t no women actors. Ain’t proper.”
“Ye stupid ol’ footslogger,” Tiny Mary mocked. “That’s a woman. I know th’ law says there ain’t supposed t’ be no women actors, but I seen me share o’ bodies in me day, an’ that actor’s got all th’ equipment t’ live on th’ distaff side o’ th’ street.” Observing the stunned soldier, she laughed again, and her ladies laughed with her.
A woman? A woman had half-gelded him? A woman had defeated him? “’Tisn’t possible,” One-Eye muttered.
“A padded doublet covers a lot, but even a fool like ye ought t’ recognize she ain’t got no spindle-shanks beneath them trunk hose. Not t’ mention”—Mary minced in a circle—“I’ve seen Papist monks wi’ more worldly wisdom. Haven’t ye?”
Recalling the narrow, beardless face and wide brown eyes, he knew the uncomfortable truth. He had been defeated by a woman. He, who had raped and murdered more women than a Hun on a rampage.
Blood rushed to his brain, and he forgot his injury. Shrieking “Rosencrantz!” he ran full tilt toward the alley’s exit.
A man stepped in his way. One-Eye skidded to a stop and reached for his sword, but it wasn’t at his side. He pulled his knife and prepared to gut the stranger, but—
“Ye.” One-Eye jerked his arm backward, although the man before him made no move. “Ye! I know ye. We fought togeth
er.”
“Long ago.”
The deep, guttural voice held a trace of accent and no trace of emotion, and a chill touched One-Eye’s back. Dressed like a civilian, this former soldier exuded menace in his stance, in his steady, challenging gaze, in the stillness of a battle ready wolf. One-Eye tried to remember the man’s name while remembering all too well the stranger’s ruthlessness. “Remember when that Frenchie burned th’ hut around our ears, an’ broke yer knee? Remember how we tracked an’ captured him? Remember how he screamed when—”
“Nay.”
One-Eye squinted through the dim light. “Th’ fire didn’t scar ye much.”
The stranger didn’t answer, and One-Eye said, “If ye’d step aside, I’m after a bitch named—”
“Rosencrantz?”
Uneasy still, although he didn’t understand why, One-Eye agreed. “Aye. Rosencrantz.”
“Then”—the man’s hand shot out, a shiny blade clutched in his hand—“you must die.”
Astonished, One-Eye saw blood spurt from his own throat. He fell to his knees, breathless, in pain.
Yells of fear penetrated his fog; screams of fright and sounds of battle. He risked one glance up, and observed a seemingly disembodied sword dispensing death. With relentless efficiency, the stranger murdered every soldier in the alley.
A living barrier, Tiny Mary spread herself over the door that led to her brothel, but the stranger stalked toward her. She lifted One-Eye’s bright sword; the stranger lifted his bloody blade. Tiny Mary shivered, melting like a jelly on a hot bakestone.
Even now, One-Eye wanted that strumpet dead, and he croaked, trying to lend encouragement to the stranger. The stranger’s head swiveled; for one moment their gazes met. Memories of ruthless laughter and crimson knives passed between them. The stranger smiled coldly and in slow increments, he withdrew his sword. “Go inside, fat woman,” he instructed, and Tiny Mary sprang through the door with fear-endowed agility.