The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  Cassandra stood and faced Shakespeare. She pushed the hood back from her face. “My name is Duchess Cassandra Von Schell. I am Master Gwynne’s aunt.”

  “She’s from Austria,” Mistress Flint added helpfully, trying to take the cloth from James.

  Shakespeare stared at Cassandra for a long moment as if he had lost the power of speech. “Austria?” he finally stammered. “Your accent is…not that of Austria.”

  “I hail originally from Cornwall, as does my nephew,” Cassandra said, “though I need explain nothing to you.”

  “Dear aunt,” James said, yanking at her hem, while looking directly at Shakespeare. “Please, I am willing to consider Master Shakespeare and myself squared. If he is also willing to call a truce, so am I.”

  James was right. They would make no progress with their task by continuing to hold Shakespeare as an enemy. Besides, they certainly didn’t need any more confrontations tonight.

  “I find that I am,” said Shakespeare magnanimously, bowing low in Cassandra’s direction. “And I deeply regret causing you any offence, dear lady.”

  “Very well then,” Cassandra replied.

  “Perhaps I might offer―” Shakespeare began.

  “We shall declare the matter settled,” she stated with finality, turning back to James.

  “Yes, we must get Master Gwynne to bed,” said Mistress Flint in support.

  “No, no I am fine,” muttered James.

  “Come, to a chair, then.”

  Shakespeare was forced to move awkwardly to one side as the housekeeper, Cassandra, and Henry helped James to one of the stiff-backed chairs in front of the huge, stone fireplace. The maid tried to take the damp cloth from James so that she could minister to him.

  “Thank you, Lucinda,” James said holding onto the cloth, “Leave the bowl, I shall do it myself.”

  The young woman set the bowl of water on a nearby table, curtseyed, brushed nervously at a stray lock of hair, and scurried off.

  “Perhaps,” Shakespeare offered meekly, “I should be on my way. If you please, sir.”

  James held up a weak hand. “Stay a moment?”

  “Why?” Shakespeare paused, picking his hat up from a table. “What would you have of me?”

  James winced with the effort of speaking, “My aunt wishes most fervently to visit your theatre.”

  “Does she?” Shakespeare smiled warmly, looking at Cassandra.

  “Indeed, sir, she has been looking forward to it.”

  “I must confess, it is true, sir,” Cassandra joined in. “Though I had rather hoped our first meeting would have been a more pleasant one. It is simply that you took us by surprise, ambushing us as you did.”

  “And they already have been through one fright this evening. Nearly robbed, they were,” added Mistress Flint.

  “I am so sorry to hear it,” Shakespeare said. “What a dreadful thing.”

  “No matter,” Cassandra replied. “We escaped unscathed.”

  “Please accept my apologies for my behavior.” Shakespeare sounded almost contrite. “I had no idea you would be―”

  Cassandra continued on as though he had not spoken. “You see, it was my intention to make amends for my nephew, in hopes of seeing the work of the man of whom I have heard such great things.”

  Shakespeare almost visibly preened. “You have heard great things of my work?”

  “Of course. Know you not how your reputation precedes you?”

  “Apparently not, milady, though I am much gratified to hear it.” He smiled broadly. “You would be most welcome to visit us at The Curtain, where we are now rehearsing a new work for our repertoire.”

  “I am most honored, sir.”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “’Tis only a temporary place. We are building our own theatre south of the river, but that is far from finished.”

  “I am sure to be enchanted, sir.”

  “Shall I come myself to retrieve you in the morning then?”

  “No,” James interrupted. “I shall bring her.”

  “On the contrary, sir,” the playwright said with a slight bow. “You must stay at home and recover your appearance. Her ladyship shall be safe in my keeping.”

  “No, I cannot allow it.”

  “I am afraid my nephew is very protective,” Cassandra said. “He will accompany me if he is able, and we shall meet you there…at what o’clock?”

  “Very well,” Shakespeare conceded reluctantly. “Shall we say at the hour of ten?”

  After Shakespeare left, Mistress Flint showed Cassandra to her room on the upper floor. It was a simple room by modern standards, though luxurious for the time. In the center was a large, four poster bed covered by a canopy and surrounded by dusky golden drapes of heavy brocade. There were few other pieces of furniture: a stand for a pitcher and basin, a writing desk and chair, a long, free standing mirror in a frame, a cabinet for the commode, and a narrow armoire. A fireplace was directly opposite the bed, but no fire was yet lit. The windows were covered with long, reddish curtains that had the look of thick, tightly woven wool, and the floor was of polished oak planks.

  After Cassandra had washed her hands with coarse soap in freezing water, and had taken a minute to fix her hair in the wavy mirror, she hurried back down the wide, wooden staircase and found her way to the dining hall. There, a fire crackled in the great stone hearth, though keeping the room only marginally warm. The intricately carved wood paneling on the walls was partially covered with woven tapestries in muted hues: mauve, teal, olive, and tan, probably faded over the years from the original red, blue, green and gold. Tapers burned in silver holders on the large table that was covered with a crisp, white tablecloth. Carved wooden platters, concave in the middle, had been placed at each end. Next to both were one silver knife and one large spoon, resting on a cloth napkin. The length in between was covered with food―mostly meat: capon, beef, partridge, mutton, ham, a pie of some sort―fish, Cassandra imagined from the briny scent, a loaf of brown bread, and a bowl of mashed something or other. Lucinda, the maid, pulled her chair out and she sat while James went to the opposite end.

  Mistress Flint stood near the table with a look of distress on her plump face. “I beg your pardon, Master. The dishes are cold, all but the pie and the turnips. The meats are not warm, for the cook did not count on your being home. It seems hardly a meal befitting a duchess.” She managed a nervous smile in Cassandra’s direction. “And as I said, the male servants are not here at present. Henry went to fetch them wherever he can round them up. I will not blame you if you want to fire the lot of them for their errant behavior.”

  “Do not trouble yourself about it, my good woman,” James replied, grimacing in pain as he spoke.

  “With your permission then I shall have to do the carving.”

  James nodded.

  “Lucinda will serve,” she said glancing up at the other woman as she began to hack somewhat hesitantly at the capon with a large knife.

  Lucinda presented the pie to Cassandra who awkwardly spooned some onto her platter.

  “Well, bon appétit!” James said as he stabbed at the platter of meat nearest to him. He placed a piece in his mouth. “Aaagh!” he painfully exclaimed, placing a tentative hand on his jaw.

  Glancing up, Cassandra caught his eye and gestured with an almost imperceptible nod of her head toward the two serving-women.

  “Please Mistress Flint, Lucinda, leave us,” James ordered politely.

  When they had gone, Cassandra said to him, “Well. Now that he’s invited me to the theatre, do you have any ideas about how I might broach the subject of Oxford?”

  “You’ll just have to find an opportunity.”

  “And how exactly will I do that while they’re in the middle of a rehearsal?”

  “I don’t know, but he invited you, so surely an opportunity will present itself. It shouldn’t be hard since it’s clear the idiot is already taken with you. Anyway, I’ll be there to help guide you to the point.” James dipped
his napkin in a water glass and pressed it against his eye.

  “I don’t know about that,” Cassandra replied with a wary look at her son’s growing bruise. “At any rate, if you keep thinking of him as an idiot, we’ll never get anywhere. Maybe that’s been the problem all along.”

  “You can’t blame me. I tried being nice to him from the very beginning, but he’s stubborn.”

  “You should have tried harder. The whole purpose of your journey was at stake.”

  “I did! I took him and the company out for food and drinks again and again. I bought costumes for them. I donated money to the building of The Globe. I assured them I wanted no stock in their company, that the money came from an act of pure charity. Richard Burbage took me at my word, but Shakespeare remained convinced I wanted to be made a partner. He saw me as an interloper, and a spy…maybe for another theatre company, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want the charity.”

  “He’s an actor! He’ll take anything that drops into his lap as long as it promotes his company. But I just couldn’t get him to trust me. Ugh…” He dropped his head into his hands.

  His mother threw her napkin down. “We need to get you into bed. You must have something you can take that will make you feel better.”

  “Well, I have some nano-healers. They’re not for this sort of thing,” he said pointing to his battered face, “but I guess they might help.” He stood shakily to his feet.

  “Let me help you.” Cassandra began to rise.

  “No.” he held up a hand. “Mistress Flint will take me up. You finish eating.” He rang for the housekeeper.

  After he’d gone, Cassandra sat in the chilly dining room before the over-laden table, and unenthusiastically picked at her dinner.

  Chapter Three

  In the morning, James wasn’t at breakfast. After eating, Cassandra gently knocked on his bedroom door, next door to her own. No answer. She pushed it open and found the burgundy velvet curtains still closed between carved bedposts of dark wood.

  “James?” she whispered.

  A groan came from within.

  “Can I open the curtain?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  She pulled the fabric back enough to shed some light on him. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his face a grayish shade of white, but his bruises nearly gone.

  “How do you feel?”

  He pointed to his head.

  “Your head hurts?”

  He nodded faintly.

  “You look a little better at least,” she said to him. “Do you want another tablet?”

  He nodded, then gingerly took a chain from around his neck where a skeleton key hung. She opened his wooden safe and extracted one of several small, white pills from a corked bottle. Though nanomeds significantly sped up the body’s ability to heal itself, it was clear James would need more time and rest.

  “You’ll have to go by yourself, mom,” he croaked. “Tell Mistress Flint to have the carriage readied.”

  “I don’t want to leave you here in such bad shape.”

  “I’ll be well looked-after, don’t worry.” He opened his eyes a crack. “I’m more concerned about you going to the theatre without me,” he said quietly, “but you will be safe in the carriage. There’s a driver and two footmen. They will wait there for you. I hate to ask you to do it alone, but Shakespeare will be expecting you.”

  “I would think you’d know by now I have no trouble looking after myself.”

  James smiled faintly, and closed his eyes again.

  For the occasion, Cassandra wore the only other outfit she’d brought, a skirt and bodice in grey and blue wool that left the sleeves of the white kirtle exposed. The neckline was square and had no ruffles. It was plain, but elegant. She’d asked Mistress Flint to have a dressmaker come to the house that night, to take her measurements and bring fabrics to choose from, and to begin the process of making her more things to wear.

  Cassandra threw on her warm cloak and set off in the carriage, a vehicle that would have made Cinderella feel right at home, except that it was black instead of glittery white, and rocked loudly on its springs as it trundled along Dowgate―a nauseating ride no fairytale princess should have to endure. As Dowgate merged into Walbrook Street with an extra thump from a large rut in the road, she unlatched the foggy window and flung it open for air, at the same time affording herself a clearer view of the city. The closely packed and overhanging wooden buildings in this part of town, taverns, stables, inns, and a variety of shops on street level with quarters for the inhabitants on the upper floors, seemed to her eyes shabbily constructed and precarious. Beggars wandered the streets, some missing limbs, some hideously scarred by disease. Children in rags ran about un-cared for. Women with carts, peddling their wares, ambled by. Some of the men loafed in doorways, while others swept ambitiously at small areas in front of their various enterprises in an effort at maintaining some standard of cleanliness. No one seemed to particularly mind the cold.

  At the intersection of Three Needle Street, a momentary gap in the buildings afforded Cassandra a view of the peaked roof and center tower of the massive Saint Paul’s Cathedral to the east, and various other church spires to the west though she wasn’t yet familiar enough with the ancient city to know which ones they were. There was no enjoying the cityscape for long though, because her carriage had come upon the Stocks Market―a busy marketplace where law breakers were held in stocks for public display. There were a smattering of pitiful beings with their head and hands locked into the wooden devices, tormented by urchins hurling insults and handfuls of mud. Cassandra quickly glanced away. This cruelty, this barbarity, was one of the reasons she would never have chosen to come to this time period if it hadn’t been necessary.

  As the horses lurched forward half a block, the view changed again. Three Needle Street boasted many grand buildings, including the Royal Exchange, a two tiered building, the lower half of which was lined with archways on three sides. The upper story was adorned with niches from which statues of ancient kings peered down on finely dressed gentlemen, accompanied by their servants, coming and going with a busy air through the center courtyard. Beyond Three Needle, the pedestrian, animal, and vehicle traffic bottlenecked, and slowed to a crawl at Bishopsgate passage: a narrow opening through a massive stone building. The particular stench that had greeted Cassandra at London Bridge wafted through the windows of the coach. It didn’t take long for her to locate the source: something resembling hunks of animal carcass dangling from sticks at the top of the gate entrance. Bile rose in her throat from the sight―even more horrifying than the heads on London Bridge: they were the quartered sections of executed criminals, left there as a grim and putrid warning. She rapidly shut the carriage windows.

  The traffic surged suddenly, and to her relief, her vehicle was forced through the gate to the other side where the smell dissipated. Beyond Bishopsgate were houses with gardens, and what appeared to be a convent. The view was pleasant enough until the coach passed a large, shabby building with people hanging out the windows, crying and shrieking. Bethlehem Hospital, its sign read. Bedlam, it was pronounced, a place no one wanted to be, sick, dying, or insane. Tears stung behind her eyes. She would have to toughen up if she was going to get through this without having a complete breakdown. Still, she turned her head away again. She’d had just about enough horror for one day.

  Through the opposite window, now clear, the scenery was more benign: a large field of winter-dead grass where laundry was laid out to dry, and a practice range where men were shooting with bows and arrows into targets. Beyond it all a couple of windmills, arms revolving ponderously, rounded out the view.

  Eventually, Bishopsgate Street Without entered the Borough of Shoreditch, a more heavily populated area, with much the same squalor she’d witnessed in heart of the city. On the left side of the road, an enormous, cylindrical building rose up out of it all. This had to be The Curtain.

  The carriage slowed to a stop, and one
of the footmen opened the door and took Cassandra’s hand as she descended. She tiptoed across the muddy yard, nerves gnawing at her stomach, yet also awed by the fascinating architecture of the building that in the future would be memorialized only in a few scant drawings. The building was a brown color, made of mud or plaster, and wood, with a few small windows placed high up in the walls. The entry she now approached was set into a kind of turret that jutted out from the wall. The tall door of thick wood was closed and seemed to be locked tight. She knocked vigorously. After a few moments, it opened a crack and two blue eyes peeped out at her. After looking her up and down, the door opened all the way and a portly, well-dressed man in a trimmed beard stepped through.

  “Do not tell me,” he commanded heartily, “you are Duchess Von Schell.”

  “I am,” Cassandra replied.

  “Will told me you were beautiful, but I had no idea you would be so very breathtaking. I am humbled by your presence.” The man took her gloved hand as he bowed low, and kissed it.

  “And you, sir, may I ask your name?”

  “Richard Burbage, at your service.”

  “Of course, I might have known,” she smiled warmly. This was possibly the most famous actor of his time―the man who played all the heavy leading roles in Shakespeare’s plays: Macbeth, King Lear, Othello…. “I know your name well. I am honored.”

  He bowed slightly in acknowledgement. “Will said Master Gwynne would be coming with you.”

  “I’m afraid my nephew was not feeling well this morning.”

  “Ah yes, I was told those two had another altercation last night.”

  “That they did. Master Shakespeare dealt my nephew quite a blow. It is why he did not accompany me today. His head still aches from it. However, it is nothing more than that, and he will recover quickly.”

  “I am very glad to hear it. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men has been most grateful for his patronage, that is, all of us but Will.” He shook his head. “I do not know why he harbors such animosity toward your nephew. I have tried and tried to get him to forgive and forget the attack, but he would have none of it.”