The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  “I admonished her not to behave as a wasp, to which she replied that if she were waspish, I had best beware her sting. I told her if she stung me, I would simply pluck it out. She said I was too much of a fool to even find it. So I said to her, ‘everyone knows where a wasp wears its sting, in his tail!’”

  The men all laughed raucously.

  “Has he been attending rehearsals, sir?” Cassandra quietly asked of Shakespeare. Oxford had mimicked those lines from The Taming of the Shrew almost exactly.

  “No,” the bard said simply.

  Oxford plunged on, his words beginning to slur. “‘In his tongue,’ I replied. ‘Whose tongue?’ she inquired. ‘Yours, if you talk of tails. And so, farewell.’”

  “What, with my tongue in your tail?” The actors, roaring with laughter, all yelled in unison.

  Oxford’s face clouded with confusion.

  “You remember the play well, my lord,” cried Kempt. “That was nearly word for word. I should know, I am playing Petruchio, the man who speaks the line.”

  Oxford exchanged a glance with Shakespeare, then buried his face in his mug of ale.

  “Go on,” called a man in the back, who’d recently come in.

  “Ben Jonson,” Burbage declared. “Our most revered playwright. Present company excepted.” He nodded in Shakespeare’s direction.

  Cassandra looked back at Oxford. His face had folded into a scowl.

  “Please do not stop on my account, sir,” Jonson shouted.

  “They already know the story.” The earl pouted, then, as if to save face: “There must be spies afoot in my house.”

  “I do not know it,” Jonson urged. “I missed the first run.”

  “You must be our guest when the new production opens, good sir,” offered Burbage.

  “If he does not end up in jail in the meantime,” Slye said in an aside to Kempt.

  Apparently Ben Jonson spent a lot of time in and out of The Clink for his seditious writing.

  Oxford took another long pull on his drink and closed his eyes as if his head ached. Cassandra put her hand on his. He opened his eyes again and smiled gratefully at her.

  “Lord Oxford, tell us another of your anecdotes,” Shakespeare said cheerily. “I cannot hear enough of them. You are a story teller of the highest degree.”

  “I appreciate your kind words, Will, but an actor has to know when his audience has had their fill. I believe such is the case.”

  Cassandra took the moment to wave the barmaid over and discreetly asked her the location of the jakes.

  “Come along, I’ll take you,” the girl whispered.

  Cassandra rose to go, and, as if suddenly remembering their manners, the men all jumped to their feet. Even Burbage hoisted Mistress Turnbow off his lap and stretched his legs. Cassandra picked her way across the room, ignoring the stares that followed her.

  The barmaid took her up the rickety staircase to the second floor and opened a door onto a built-in wooden seat with a hole in the middle. A cold, foul wind blew up out of it.

  “We’re sich-ee-ated over the Fleet River ‘ere, so your business just drops right in!” the barmaid cackled, revealing a set of teeth like a broken fence, jarringly framed in that pretty face, and unnoticeable until she’d smiled.

  Cassandra mustered a grimace in return and waited for the girl to leave before taking a deep breath and dashing into the tiny room. She closed the door. Now it was a race to do what she had to do without inhaling. She gathered her skirts up and yanked down her underpants. Her next challenge was to perch without letting any part of her body or clothing touch the seat that was stained with decades of urine and everything else. She hovered, balancing. Even if her hands weren’t occupied holding on to her skirts, she wasn’t about to rely on the walls for support. Her breath ran out and she gasped for oxygen, immediately sorry she had. There was nothing to wipe with so she shook off, fixed her clothing, and flung the door open. She hurried to the stairs, a flash of green catching her eye from an open door in the hall. She glanced into the room to find Mistress Turnbow bent over a bed, her skirts bunched around her waist, Burbage pressed up against her rear. His hands were on her exposed breasts, using them for leverage as he thrust his hips to and fro, both their faces etched with pleasure. Cassandra turned away and ran quickly on.

  The men downstairs were yelling about something. She ducked under the landing to see what was happening. Another large group had just entered the tavern. She crept down the stairs, staying close to the wall.

  A solid looking man, perhaps in his thirties, with longish fair hair, a prominent nose, and a high forehead, stood taller amongst the others, glowering menacingly. “Where is Burbage, that whoreson rogue?” He yelled. His companions seemed as drunk as he, all stumbling and swearing, ranging for a fight.

  All of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men had risen, bodies tense and ready. Cassandra glanced up the stairs. She knew very well where Burbage was at that moment.

  “What do you want with him, Alleyn?” Kempt shouted. “His quarrel is our quarrel so if it is he you challenge, you best be prepared for a brawl.”

  “That suits us just fine,” the man named Alleyn retorted. “You are trying to steal our audience, and our livelihood, building that atrocity you call The Globe within site of The Rose.”

  “We have every right, you simpering monkey,” Kempt quipped.

  “You have not, and we will settle the matter now!” Alleyn rushed at Kempt, throwing a punch that caught the smaller man on the chin. Kempt fell back, but only for a moment. He came back at Alleyn, fists flying.

  Will Slye shoved one of Alleyn’s boys and the man rewarded him with a slug to the face. Another man punched Samuel Cross in the gut, and within seconds the room had erupted into a brawl.

  Oxford jumped onto a chair: “Good sirs, good sirs, this is not how one comports oneself! Please desist!”

  Someone threw a mug at him and he ducked, toppling off the chair. Jonson joined the fray, wrestling a man to the ground while Alleyn, Kempt, and the rest of the men continued to exchange blows. Another mug flew through the air and smacked the wall near Cassandra’s head. She screamed and rushed toward the exit, hesitant to go by herself, but desperate to get out of the melee. Someone lunged at her and grabbed her around the waist. She jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow.

  “I am trying to get you out of here,” Shakespeare wheezed, pulling her out the door.

  “I do not have my cloak,” she cried. “It’s freezing!”

  “I am sorry, milady, you must not stay. Here, have mine.” He wrapped a warm, if not somewhat shabby cape around her shoulders. “Do you have a carriage?”

  “No, Lord Oxford brought me in his. I had every intention of returning with him.”

  “Then we have no choice but to go on foot. There are no hackney coaches about at this time of night.”

  He grabbed her hand and they dashed along the Fleet River toward the Thames.

  “Who were those people?” she asked, breathless.

  “The Admiral’s Men.”

  “The acting company?”

  “They are our rivals. The Rose Theatre is their home. In Bankside.” Shakespeare grasped her by the arm and urged her faster.

  A heavy door slammed and footsteps pounded the packed dirt street behind them.

  “Stop, Shakespeare!” a man shouted. “You lily-livered, cowardly mongrel!” It was Alleyn’s voice. He was closing in, but the night shrouded them.

  “In here,” Shakespeare whispered, pulling Cassandra into another tavern. Everyone turned to look as they entered.

  “Master Shakespeare,” the barkeep called, “welcome!” He was a short, fat man with a bright red face.

  “A bowl for everyone in the house if you do not reveal our presence,” Shakespeare hissed to him and the crowd.

  A cheer went up.

  “Put it on my bill, good man,” the playwright added.

  “It is very high, already,” the barkeep replied skeptically.

  �
��I promise I will return tomorrow with the full amount.”

  The door swung open and Shakespeare pulled Cassandra to the ground. They huddled among the legs of the other customers.

  “Shakespeare, you beggarly varlet, where are you?” Alleyn’s gruff voice called out.

  The people in the bar ignored him as they continued their drunken conversations.

  “Out with you, Master Alleyn,” the barkeep said. “We need no trouble here.”

  “Does anyone know the writer Shakespeare? Did he come in here?” the man shouted.

  “Be gone, you sot,” someone replied. Several drunken men joined in hurling insults.

  Alleyn grumbled, and after a moment the door creaked open, then slammed shut.

  “He be gone,” a man said to Cassandra, holding his hand to her and helping her to her feet.

  She brushed filthy straw from the floor off her skirt. Shakespeare leapt up. “And now, drinks for all,” he declared. “And two bowls, for us,” he said to the barkeep. The people made room for them at the counter, and the proprietor poured two mugs of ale.

  “I cannot drink a drop more,” Cassandra said to her companion in a low voice.

  “Do your best, Duchess,” he replied.

  The barkeep set two crusty-looking mugs in front of them and began gathering the cups of the other customers to refill.

  As Shakespeare drained his drink, Cassandra slid a gold coin toward the owner. It would certainly cover the playwright’s tab and more. The rotund man opened his eyes wide. She winked at him, and he grabbed up the coin eagerly.

  She turned to Shakespeare. “Who is that man, Alleyn?”

  “Edward Alleyn…surely you must have heard of him. A great actor. One of the finest.”

  “Why do your men quarrel with him? Something about The Globe?”

  “We were playing in a house called The Theatre. It was near The Curtain. When the landlord ended the terms of our lease, we tore it down, all during one night, and moved the materials across the river to build The Globe. You see, we had built The Theatre ourselves. We owned those materials, the landlord only owned the land. However, we are building The Globe near The Rose and The Swan, both owned by Alleyn, and Phillip Henslowe, a powerful man in the theatre world. So, of course, they are furious that they will lose audiences to us, and for certain, they will.”

  Cassandra smiled to herself. She had once heard something of that story.

  “Yet Burbage and Alleyn have had bad blood for a long time,” the bard continued. “Their fathers were also rivals, and now the two of them are always looking for a reason to quarrel. Alleyn even blamed him for Marlowe’s death.”

  “Surely not!”

  “Kit Marlowe and I were competitors, and our companies have always been contending for audiences. They are lately in the Queen’s highest favor, now that he is dead. Everyone wants to see his plays again and again. If Burbage did kill Marlowe, it certainly had the opposite effect than desired.”

  “Do you think he did?” she whispered. It seemed inconceivable.

  “No, of course not. Though I am not entirely convinced it could not have been another of our company.”

  What was he saying? Was he the one who did it? Cassandra took a gulp of the bitter ale.

  “Another,” Shakespeare said to the barkeep.

  “No, we have had enough. Do you think it is safe to go on? My housekeeper will be frantic with worry if I tarry much longer.”

  “Very well. Let us venture forth. Cautiously though, cautiously.” They moved to the door. Shakespeare peeked out. “He is gone,” he said to her. They stepped out together into the street.

  Cassandra clutched the knife in her pocket and they ran on toward the Thames, staying close to the buildings, stepping over the homeless sleeping huddled on the ground. Before long though, they were at the banks of the great river. They spied a waterman, wrapped in a blanket, dozing in a tiny craft. Shakespeare rocked the boat with his foot, and several rats scurried out from under it. Cassandra stifled a scream and shuddered from head to foot.

  “Westward ho, good man,” said Shakespeare, unfazed. “To Dowgate.”

  The man roused himself and helped Cassandra in. The vessel barely looked seaworthy. She examined it as best she could in the darkness for rodents, but it seemed to pass inspection.

  “We have not far to go, milady,” Shakespeare assured her.

  They settled themselves on a rickety bench. Cassandra grasped the side of the boat as the waterman pushed off. Shakespeare put his arms around her. His presence was calming, and the fears of the night began to melt away.

  “You shall be safe, I promise,” he whispered, his face near hers. She opened the cloak and wrapped it over his shoulders. Under its protective cover, he kissed her. The drink had gone to her head. His lips were soft, his tongue warm, she opened her mouth to his, then reluctantly pulled away.

  “Did you send me a missive yesterday?” she whispered.

  He laughed gently. “A missive? Is that what you call it?” He kissed her again, more urgently, and she let him. She had not kissed a man since she’d been with Lauro.

  “Which landing do ye want, sir?” the waterman blurted.

  Cassandra jerked away. This would not do. She pointed. “There it is.”

  The man rowed to the quay.

  “Let me come in with you,” Shakespeare said in a low rasp.

  “No. I cannot. Goodnight, sir.” She must not let temptation get the best of her.

  “I adore you,” he murmured.

  “Go home, sweet man,” she said to him with a smile. “Where is your house?”

  “Just the other side of the bridge. Billingsgate. However, I shall get out here and take you to your door.”

  “No, Mistress Flint shall be scandalized.” She still didn’t have her answer about the sonnet.

  The boat docked and the waterman helped her out.

  “Goodnight then, Master Shakespeare,” she said, tossing his cloak to him. She placed a coin in the boatman’s hand before he nimbly leapt back in his vessel.

  “Goodnight, goodnight…” Shakespeare cried. The boat swept away from the dock. The playwright called out something else to her, but the wind took the words away.

  Chapter Seven

  Dearest Aunt,

  I send this via messenger from the palace. A new acquaintance of mine, Susannah, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, offered to convey the messenger by means of her carriage that he may retrieve my clothing and some money for me. I would like to have funds on hand in case I need them, and I’m ready for a change of clothing. One cannot be seen wearing the same thing too often at court, and I’ll soon begin to smell less than pleasant―not that anyone would notice. Therefore, would you mind having Mistress Flint pack up all my clothes―yes, a stay at the palace is never a short one―I shall probably be expected to remain at least another two weeks. I am truly sorry for my absence, but I am at the whim of Her Majesty. She will be in the Presence Chamber again tonight, and will be expecting me.

  This morning, I happened upon Robert Cecil in person. He stopped to chat, confirming that, indeed, I may be required to stay a fortnight at least. We discussed you then. He seems quite taken with you. Poor soul, he is sneered upon by the courtiers and the ladies of the palace. With his limp, his hunched back and his small stature, he is considered something of a freak. I think many resent that he is rising high in the country’s politics, especially because he is not nobility. Regardless of his reputation as a conniving fellow, he was most kind to me, inquiring after my comfort and making sure I have what I need.

  Please send word if you have any vital information about our friends, the “Earl” and the “Bard.” And about the money, a few pounds should be more than sufficient to last me two weeks. Hopefully, it won’t be that long, and I sincerely pray no longer.

  Your nephew,

  James

  Two weeks?! Well, at least he seemed to be enjoying himself. And his own valet―Elizabeth must think highly of him. T
he mention of this Susannah was a little troubling; she knew her son and his penchant for a pretty face all too well. Oxford had been right about the ladies at court. Wait a minute; what ever happened to the messenger Oxford had said he’d sent to the palace? Nothing had been heard from him. Had Oxford actually sent someone to the palace or had he simply told Cassandra that to impress her? Maybe he didn’t want James returning too soon so he could himself spend more time with her.

  She went to Mistress Flint and asked her to have James’s clothes packed up, her head pounding from all the alcohol she’d drunk the night before. After that, she fished money out of the false bottom of her satchel, put it in a small cloth purse, and buried it at the bottom of the trunk Mistress Flint had provided for the clothing.

  She’d have no choice but to tackle the quill and ink bottle now. Cassandra sat at James’s writing desk and carefully penned a reply.

  Dear James,

  I hope you find everything here you need. Last night, I went drinking with the Earl, the Bard, and cronies. In the end, there was a brawl, The Admiral’s Men against The Lord Chamberlain’s; but the Bard saw me safely back home and I am none the worse for wear. Come to think of it, I can only hope the Earl survived in one piece. Anyway, I tried to glean some information out of them both but didn’t get very far. However, here’s an odd circumstance. I received a sonnet yesterday morning, yes, a sonnet, and a kind of a love note: two separate compositions, neither signed. The Bard would not confess to writing anything specific, nor would the Earl. Yet they both want my attentions.

  At any rate, let’s see what more I can dig up.

  Fondly,

  Your aunt, Duchess Von Schell

  She handed the note off to the messenger, and she and Mistress Flint saw the trunk stowed safely in the carriage. As the driver rode away with it, a young boy approached with a paper in his hand. “For Duchess Von Schell,” he said.

  She gave him a coin and took it. Now what? The delivery of messages was certainly a hopping business in old London. She opened it. The handwriting was different from any of the notes she’d received so far.