The Greatest Lover in All England

by Christina Dodd

  “Ah, ye’re an old London blade.” Wart-Nose sounded sanguine. “I thought I amembered ye, but it’s been so many years I doubted me recollections.”

  An unhealthy effulgence pocked Hal’s complexion with quivering shadows, and he swung on Wart-Nose like an offended saint. “I know scarce about London.”

  “Ah.” Wart-Nose nodded, winked, and grinned. “Ye don’t want t’ recall yer youthful extravagances.”

  Hal’s breath rasped in his chest. “I had no youthful extravagances.”

  “’Twasn’t ye, then, who bought a room an’ a whore at Tiny Mary’s fer a whole month? ’Twasn’t ye who raced his horses from one end o’ Cheapside t’ th’ other an’ defeated that gentleman-dandy, Raleigh?” Wart-Nose slapped his knee and snorted. “’Twasn’t ye who got whittled as a fiddler’s bitch when we stole a new barrel o’ Frenchie wine an’ almost drowned in Houndsditch in an inch o’ water?”

  “It…wasn’t…me.”

  Hal loomed over the shorter man, and Wart-Nose said hastily, “Nay, o’ course not. ’Tweren’t ye. ’Tweren’t ye at all.” Hal still hovered, and Wart-Nose cleared his throat. “I’ve realized me mistake. Stand aside now.”

  Recognizing the warning in Wart-Nose’s tone and realizing that the younger captain of the guard could easily trounce this unwary steward, Tony laid a calming hand on Hal’s shoulder. “You might want to go back now. Lady Honora and my sisters are staying at my town house, aren’t they?”

  Hal backed away cautiously, as if Wart-Nose were a snarling wild animal. Actually, the reverse seemed true, with Hal harboring a savage torment brought on by Wart-Nose and his jolly memories.

  He continued to stare with unblinking intensity until Tony shook him gently. “Where are my sisters and Lady Honora staying?”

  Gulping audibly, Hal turned his attention to Tony. “At th’ court.”

  “The queen will think I set this up,” Tony said glumly. “She’ll think I brought my sisters to soften her anger at me.”

  “Oh?” Hal brightened. “Is Her Majesty angry with ye again?”

  “You sound like a courtier,” Tony grumbled. “Always thinking you’ll advance on my trampled body.”

  “Nay, sir.” Hal’s damp gray hair hung in lanky strands beneath his cap. “I cannot advance in th’ queen’s affections even after yer fall. I’d have t’ be mad t’ imagine such a thing.”

  Tony wanted to explain that Hal’s boorishness would never find favor with the queen, but in the last few months, Hal had aged before his eyes, trembling in a constant palsy and muttering to some unseen companion. Nay, Tony had no wish to distress Hal. He would have to retire him to the stables soon, and that would torment Hal enough.

  In the silence, Tony heard a distant conversation. Although the saturated air muffled most of it, he could occasionally pick out a word, a tone, a voice, and he stiffened.

  It sounded like Rosie.

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  “Woulda sworn ye were th’ man,” Wart-Nose murmured.

  “Am not!” Hal flared.

  “Sh.” Tony strained to hear, and once again detected the clear bright tones that beckoned like a lighthouse through the fog.

  “Wonder where ye got th’ money,” Wart-Nose mused.

  “It wasn’t me!” Hal sprang at him, and they hit the ground fighting.

  Abandoning them to their quarrel, Tony ran silently down the street toward Cross Keys Inn. The voices he followed faded in and out, wafting on the breeze, then sinking with the mist. He entered the courtyard of the inn, but its emptiness mocked him. He’d overshot, he realized, and he returned to the street and stopped to listen. At first he heard only the noise of merriment and quarrel that leaked through the shutters at the inn. Then, beneath the carefree sounds, he heard the scurry of stealth, and his suspicions multiplied. Using the skills honed in Her Majesty’s service, he scanned the area with an instinct that depended on nothing more than a scent on the wind and a touch of faith.

  He prowled back up Gracechurch Street. He could hear nothing from Hal and Wart-Nose, but he saw—or felt—a presence lurking in the shadows of the herb market. Casually he strolled by, inviting attack.

  Nothing happened, and his conviction that he’d found Rosie soared. Doubling back again, he crept up to a large and shadowy figure, and with dagger drawn, he pounced.

  The arm he caught was heavy with muscle, and the figure was as tall as Tony. “Help! Thief!” the man called, and his deep voice brought forth a curse from Tony.

  “Shut your maw, you silly sot. I’m not going to steal from you. I’m the master of the Queen’s Guard.”

  “That’s no promise.” His prisoner stumbled as if drunk. “You could be the worst of the bunch, and no one to catch you when honest folk complain.”

  Again he stumbled, and Tony smelled his breath. No bitter scent of beer or ale stained his exhalations, and a stinging suspicion pricked Tony by the neck.

  Someone was behind him. Whirling around, he again stretched out his senses, seeking his quarry, wanting Rosie more than safety or duty or desire.

  “The master of the Queen’s Guard?”

  The man behind him spoke, and Tony shushed him harshly.

  “Aren’t you Sir Anthony Rycliffe, the famous soldier for Her Majesty?”

  Tony reached around and grabbed the loquacious fellow by the throat.

  The stranger choked, then freed himself with a twist. “I’ve information about the earls of Essex and Southampton.”

  “Curse your eyes!” Furious with the mischance that brought him the only information capable of staying him from his pursuit, he called, “Wart-Nose.” No one answered, and he cursed again. Had Hal and Wart-Nose murdered each other? A likeness of Hal, face pasty and eyes aflame, passed through his uneasy mind, but he couldn’t abandon his duty to rescue Wart-Nose, if he needed rescuing, any more than he could chase Rosie, if Rosie was whom he chased.

  To the man huddled against the wall, he commanded, “Tell me.”

  “My name is William Shakespeare.”

  Tony remembered Rosie’s praise. “The playwright and actor.”

  With smug self-consciousness, he said, “You’ve heard of me.”

  More suspicious than ever, Tony agreed. “I’ve heard of you. Have you heard of me?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Have you heard that I will rip off the head of the man who distracts me from my pursuit of Lady Rosalyn Bellot?”

  The craven fellow stammered, “Sir, I assure you, I do not seek to distract you from any pursuit.”

  “Ha.”

  “I didn’t know whom to approach with this development, and you simply appeared like a gift from God to the stability of the kingdom. If you must go, I beg of you, then go. I’ll seek out another.”

  William Shakespeare straightened his cape and prepared to depart. Gritting his teeth, Tony stopped him. “Tell me.”

  Shakespeare capitulated with suspicious ease. “I had a message from my patron, Lord Southampton, that the Chamberlain’s Men should perform my play, Richard II, on Saturday, and I have reason to know they wish it performed, not for its brilliant prose, but for its seditious material.”

  “You wrote a seditious play?”

  “I wrote a historical play,” William Shakespeare corrected. “It simply tells of the circumstances in which King Richard was deposed by his cousin, Bolingbroke. When I wrote it, I wrote it for the glory of England, to exult in the line which produced our beloved Queen Elizabeth. Od’s bodkin, man, it passed the censor, but now…would to God I had never written it. It’s caused me nothing but trouble.”

  “And landed your friend in prison.”

  Tony watched William Shakespeare for any sign of discomfort, but Shakespeare confounded him by crying, “Sir Danny Plympton? Do you know the plight of Sir Danny Plympton?”

  “How could I not? ’Twas my plan which led Sir Danny to Newgate.”

  “Your plan?” Shakespeare looked puzzled, then shook his head. “I assure
you, Sir Danny landed himself in Newgate. He blew into London with all the discretion of a blizzard. He roared and bragged, telling everyone—on their promise of secrecy, of course—that he was Essex’s downfall and the queen’s savior.”

  “Certes, that’s Sir Danny for you.” What manner of man would hug the secret of Rosie’s inheritance to his bosom, yet sacrifice his own safety for brief, bombastic glory?

  Shakespeare answered Tony’s unspoken questions when he said, “I’ve known Sir Danny for years, and I assure you, he ever has played the part of a beneficent god.”

  Tony hadn’t known Sir Danny for years, but he’d glimpsed the vision which drove the man, and he corrected Shakespeare firmly. “Nay, ’tis not a part he plays, but a dazzling belief in his own purpose on this earth. God grant he fulfills it.”

  “Amen.” But Shakespeare sighed dolorously.

  “I also know Lady Rosalyn Bellot, daughter of the late earl of Sadler.”

  Shakespeare cocked his head back and forth, curious as a sea gull served grubs on a silver platter. “I don’t know Lady Rosalyn. Who is she?”

  Skeptically, Tony added, “You would perhaps know her as Rosencrantz.”

  “Rosencrantz is Sir Danny’s adopted son. He is not—” Shakespeare did his sea gull act again. “Are you trying to tell me Rosencrantz is a girl?”

  “Not a girl,” Tony corrected. “A woman. My betrothed. The woman who agreed to marry me, then ran off.” He watched Shakespeare closely. “The woman who may carry my babe.”

  The bird act stopped. Everything stopped. Shakespeare stared at him unblinkingly. “Your babe?”

  “Whom I’d like to see born in wedlock.”

  “Your babe?” Shakespeare dropped his head back and banged it on the wall behind. Under his breath, he muttered, “She never said…”

  Tony could have jumped for joy. Here was proof. She was alive. Rosie was alive. She’d been in communication with her Uncle Will, and would be again, no doubt. He’d set his men to watching the London theaters and all the inns frequented by actors, and he planned to have Rosie in his custody before Essex made his move. Then Tony could concentrate on arresting Essex and freeing Sir Danny. Then he could be wed and his son would be born in the big bed in his bedchamber. Or on the desk where he had been conceived.

  Meanwhile, Shakespeare looked so stiff it seemed his sea gull had swallowed a piece of splintered driftwood. “If I see Rosencrantz, I will certainly pass on the message you’re looking for her.”

  “If you see Rosencrantz”—Tony threatened with a smile—“tell her the world will be minus one playwright if she doesn’t return to me.”

  Shakespeare grimaced and stirred uncomfortably. “You may be sure I won’t forget. But Sir Anthony, none of this treats with my problem, which is—what excuse should I give Southampton for refusing to perform the play? He sent a decent sum of cash, forty shillings, and actors never refuse cash. He knows that very well.”

  “Do the play, then.”

  Shakespeare laughed briefly with bitter humor. “Nay, I’ll not help provoke an insurrection.”

  “But it would be a most important provocation,” Tony said. “Don’t you see? Until Essex and Southampton break into open rebellion, the queen will continue to tie my hands and refuse to let me act. But if all signs point to a successful uprising, Essex and Southampton will take the bits in their teeth and gallop toward the Tower of their own accord.” Tony chuckled softly at his uncontrived analogy. “Perhaps the women are right. Perhaps all men are divided into geldings and stallions.”

  Crouched tight against the rough plaster wall, Rosie wanted to laugh. If men were divided into geldings and stallions, she knew in which group to place Tony. She placed her hand on her belly. He’d done his work too well, and damn him for being so certain of it. Damn him for bragging to Uncle Will about it. At the moment of Tony’s grand unveiling, she’d thought her secrecy was lost. She’d thought Uncle Will would reveal her hiding place and insist on marriage, here and now.

  Only the brotherhood of the actors protected her, and she knew when next she saw Uncle Will he’d be furious at being so manipulated. Her only excuse was her pregnancy. Now when she needed all her well-being, all her wit, fatigue and nausea plagued her. Their babe grew within her, and she blamed the babe for these moments of doubt.

  Why else, when all her plans were coming to fruition, did she want to run into Tony’s arms? Why did she want to tell him about their child, rejoice with him, and do the easy thing rather than the right thing?

  Beside her, Ludovic stirred. He suspected her sentiments, she knew. Since the moment he’d found her on the road, he’d been the rock on which she leaned. He’d helped her get to London, engaged separate quarters for them at the Bull Inn, scouted out Sir Danny’s situation, and supported her when she hatched her plan to perform for Queen Elizabeth. It had been Ludovic who had spread the word among the acting community that she wanted to play the part of Ophelia, and Ludovic who accompanied her to the Cross Keys Inn so she could participate in the debate.

  It had been Ludovic who realized Tony approached, and Ludovic who had concealed her and persuaded Uncle Will to distract Tony—although persuaded seemed to be too mild a word.

  Ludovic had been silent and stoic about her relationship to Tony, and she’d been too wary to ask if he knew the cause behind the accidents at Odyssey Manor. If he were the cause of the accidents at Odyssey Manor.

  It had been odd, to depend on a man she suspected of attempted murder, but more than once she’d caught him looking at her as if she were his last chance of redemption. She tried to be worthy of his worship; she tried not to encourage him to love her.

  Both causes were hopeless.

  Behind her, Ludovic tensed when they once more heard the sound of hurrying feet.

  “Wart-Nose!” Tony exclaimed. “Did you teach Hal a lesson, or did he teach you?”

  Hal? The steward Hal? Rosie could have groaned. Was all of Odyssey Manor traveling to London to plague her?

  “That man stinks o’ deceit,” Wart-Nose said. “That face o’ his looks well lived-in, but I’d swear he abided in London fer a few glorious months fifteen, twenty years ago.”

  Rosie hung her head and shrank, shivering, against the wall.

  “Let’s find out,” Tony said, his tone chillingly calm. “Where is he?”

  “Dashing his arse toward the river, last time I saw him,” Wart-Nose said, and he sounded very pleased with himself.

  “Returning to Whitehall Palace, I trow.” Tony’s voice moved down Gracechurch Street toward the Thames. “I’ll find him there.”

  “If Her Majesty invites ye back.”

  “Oh, Her Majesty will invite me back.”

  Rosie frowned. How pleasant to note her defection hadn’t dented Tony’s conceit.

  “From the report you and this worthy playwright have given me, there’ll be work for the master of the Queen’s Guard, and very soon.”

  Uncle Will’s voice sounded faint. “So you do believe the lords will stage an insurrection after we perform the play?”

  “I do.”

  “My heart swells with shame that my work can be used for harm.” Uncle Will repeated, “My heart swells with shame.”

  Then Rosie heard nothing. She waited until she knew no one remained within earshot. Rising slowly, she shook the kinks out of her limbs and whispered, “I think they’re gone. Don’t you?”

  No one answered, and she said, “Ludovic?”

  Still no answer, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. “Ludovic.” She whirled around, groping in the dark, but Ludovic was nowhere to be found, and Rosie was all alone in Londontown.

  21

  I have seen a medicine

  That’s able to breathe life into a stone.

  —ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, II, i, 74

  Sir Danny’s shriek rose through the air like a living thing, pleading for mercy in its very intensity. “No more.” He sobbed. “No more.”

  “Ye have t’
have a bath afore ye see Her Majesty.” The rough soldier repeated the same thing he’d been saying for the last hour. “If ye’d stop struggling, we’d be done by now.”

  “You’re lying.” Three burly men-at-arms pushed Sir Danny under the water to wash the soap from his hair, and Sir Danny knew this time they would hold him under too long. But they let him up, and he screamed, “You’re lying. This is just another torture you’re inflicting before you take me to the gallows.”

  “Her Majesty doesn’t like evil odors. She has a very sensitive nostril, ye understand, an’ ye smelled o’ Newgate Prison.” The rough soldier nodded at his compatriots, and they lifted Sir Danny free of the tub and set him on his feet.

  Sir Danny collapsed, too weak with hunger and fear to stand. His rump missed the reeds scattered on the floor and hit cold stone, and he suddenly found the strength to rise. “Hark!” he croaked. “I serve Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth however she demands, and if my life is forfeit, I give it gladly to preserve her.”

  “Hell, man, ’tis only a bath, an’ a warm bath at that.” The commander looked disgusted. “Don’t ye even bathe on yer name day?”

  “Ugh.” One of the men-at-arms shuddered. “No one bathes willingly.”

  “I do,” the commander said. “That’s why I’m th’ commander an’ ye’re just a soldier.”

  “Bet ye don’t bathe in winter,” the soldier retorted.

  “Scarcely.” The commander glanced around the bare gatehouse room where he and his men slept on pallets. “But I’m not going t’ visit th’ queen. Best wrap th’ skinny bugger. He’s turnin’ blue.”

  Sir Danny had been cold and hungry, tormented and in prison, for too long. No one had come to his assistance. Not one of his friends had sent blankets or food. Sir Anthony Rycliffe had not even tried to use his influence to free him. The torturers had assured him of that when they’d made him confess to treason.

  And Rosie, his dear Rosie, probably didn’t even know of his misery.

  So when these soldiers had plucked him from his cell and carried him through the night, he assumed the worst. This talk of Her Majesty and the palace was nothing but more empty promises produced by a torturer who wanted him to confess to vile treachery. Shivering, Sir Danny watched as the men-at-arms approached him with a large sheet of linen, and he moaned. “My shroud.”