The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  “I have not words enough to thank you.”

  “Such a sentiment is not necessary. This guise as a boy is a good idea, but not with these clothes. They are too…peculiar. Come into the ‘tiring room with me. We will find you a costume befitting a young man of noble rank, at least until we can hide you.”

  They went into the dressing room of the theatre and he chose a man’s costume for her, then left her to change into the persona of an Elizabethan lad.

  Chapter Thirteen

  James walked back and forth in the small room made entirely of stone, trying desperately to stay warm. A desultory fire burned ineffectively in a hearth. There was a bed with a mattress of scratchy straw, and from it he had taken the two wool blankets and wrapped them over his cloak. He had not changed clothes for days and he smelled bad. At least he’d had the wherewithall to always keep a couple of the packets of airborne insecticide on his person that none of the time travelers ever journeyed without, and still had one left in a pocket when he was taken to the Tower. Having blown it into the air first thing after they’d slammed the heavy wooden door behind him and secured it with an iron lock was the only thing keeping him from being eaten alive by fleas and bedbugs. He and Cassandra had been vaccinated against the plague and other diseases before leaving for this time period, so that was not a concern, but he had a particular loathing of vermin.

  They had been bringing him food three times a day and he was careful to finish every morsel, unappealing as it was, so nothing remained to attract rats, yet he was sure he could hear them scratching around in the walls. The guards had given him a candle, and a torch burned on one wall, but neither that, nor the meager fire, allowed him much light. There was one window in the room through which he could see the Thames, London Bridge, and the South Bank, but the panes of glass in it were tiny, joined together by forged lead. It would not open though he had tried its strength by banging his boot heel against it. This had brought the guards, so he’d quickly left off that endeavor. Even if he could break it though, perhaps using the one heavy chair in the room, would he be able to scale down the high wall? And then, could he swim the freezing Thames and get to the portal in Southwark?

  He had thought of trying to overpower the guards, but they were big, muscular men and bore heavy swords―not a likely scenario. Besides them, no one had been to see him and there had been no message from Elizabeth, or Robert Cecil, that bastard. In spite of his attempt to convince James he was on their side, in reality, he was nothing but a weasel, just covering his tracks in case Cassandra was somehow acquitted so he could remain in her good graces. In an inevitable circle of thought, his mind returned to his mother. She must be well on her way to Austria by now, but what on earth would become of her there, forced to face the emperor and explain herself? She had money at least; perhaps she could buy his favor. She was good enough looking, he supposed, which often helped her out of difficult situations when there were men involved, and she was creative―maybe she could make something up that would convince the emperor she had meant no harm with her deception. But how would James ever find her again?

  If Elizabeth ever decided to release him, he would go straight back through the portal and get help. He had faith in Professor Carver and the team. They would never stop looking for Cassandra, no matter what. But would she be okay until they managed to? All the scenarios of what might be happening to her revisited him for the thousandth time. She might be attacked along the way. She might be robbed, or worse―and he cursed himself, also for the thousandth time, for asking her to come back to this horrible era with him.

  He went back to the window and stared at the grey-green river. A large sailing ship was working its way up to the bridge. As it neared, the middle section of the bridge began to rise in an ingenious piece of engineering, allowing the ship’s masts to pass underneath.

  A key rattled the lock of his door, startling him from his reverie. It couldn’t be time for the midday meal yet. The door groaned open and before him stood Susannah, a guard behind her. “Thank you, sirrah,” she said to the man.

  “You have not much time,” the guard grunted. She stepped into the room and he slammed the door behind her.

  “Good lady,” James said with a bow, “I am overwhelmed with joy to see you.”

  “Master Gwynne, the Queen does not know I am here. But my father is acquainted with the Chief Warder and I asked him to request permission to come. I persuaded Papa ‘twas the Christian thing to do: to visit a prisoner in need. I bring you some wine and a round of fine cheese.”

  “Thank you. Please, will you share it will me?” Not waiting for an answer he pulled the table to the bed and then the chair, which he offered to her. He sat across from her on the mattress, tossing the blankets off his shoulders. He poured water out of the one cup they had given him, back into his water pitcher. It was all he had to drink and wash with. He poured wine into the cup and they each took a drink. The heat of the alcohol was the first physical comfort he’d experienced since he’d been sent to The Tower. “Your kindness is too great. I feel I should not impose upon you. There could be trouble for you if the Queen finds out.”

  “Yes, which is why I may not be able to return. Listen to me, Master Gwynne.” She put a hand on his arm and its warmth radiated through him. “I have dire news for you. There is a great commotion about the palace. The Queen’s men returned yesterday morning. Your aunt was not with them. She had somehow escaped but they did not know how.”

  James tried to assimilate this news. “Good lady, please explain yourself. How could my aunt have bested the Queen’s guards?”

  “That is the question. They said a mysterious horseman attacked them with a sort of dart weapon. The darts contained a potion that put them to sleep. They said when they awoke, she was gone, but her belongings were still in the carriage.”

  Was it relief or panic that made James’s temples pound? This smacked of something only a time traveler would be able to do. And yet, who knew what herbs and potions might Elizabethan alchemists be able to conjure? Someone wanted his mother, but who? It was impossible that it was someone from his own team. Professor Carver and the others would have no way to know she’d been banished to Austria by Elizabeth. Yet somehow, there was a ray of hope in all this. At least, she wasn’t to be taken out of the country…as far as he knew. “What does the Queen say to all this?” he queried.

  “She is beside herself. She now believes your aunt to be in the hands of some enemy, meaning, an enemy to the Queen. She is convinced it is the O’Neil, Chieftain of Ireland, behind it.”

  “My lady, that is absurd. My aunt has no connection with the Irish in any way, and nor do I. It is impossible to know who has taken her. I quake with fear.”

  “I am so very sorry to bear you this terrible news.”

  “Wait,” James said, jumping to his feet and pacing the small space. “Maybe Robert Cecil has something to do with this.”

  “Sir Robert? Why, Master Gwynne, of course not.”

  “I get the feeling he is playing two sides of the coin in this game.”

  “No, that is impossible. I have spoken to him. He is frantic with worry for your aunt. As a matter of fact, I told him I was coming to you today to give you the news, this is how much I trust him. He assured me he would not tell the Queen, and he asked me to beg your forgiveness for his part in all of this. He is surprised at how harsh the Queen’s retribution has been, never thought she would banish your aunt for a bit of dissemblance, and now he truly fears for her life. He does not for a moment think the Irish are clever or resourceful enough to whisk your aunt away beyond anyone’s reach.”

  “I appreciate your feelings on this subject, but you can tell him I do not forgive him, nor can I,” James returned. “He is a snake.” He stopped pacing and seated himself opposite Susannah once again.

  “I hope he can somehow prove himself otherwise,” she said gently. “I have always known him to be a kind man. Perhaps he can help win your freedom after all. This is wh
at he hopes.”

  There was nothing he could say to this.

  “Master Gwynne,” she reached out and touched his hand.

  “Please, call me James.”

  “I have faith, James, that your aunt will be found, that both your names will be cleared from all suspicion, and that you will be freed and restored to favor in the court.”

  It wasn’t likely things would go that way. All he could do was pray that Cassandra’s rescuer was on their side, and that they had taken her to the future to get help. “Thank you. Your saying so gives me hope.”

  “And when that happens, I desire that we can become better acquainted. I sense a kindred spirit in you. You are a good soul.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I long to make myself worthy of your confidence.”

  “When you are released, will you seek me out?”

  “If that should happen, Lady Susannah, it might be better for me to leave London for a while, perhaps for good. I do not belong at court. I should never have come.”

  “Oh.” she gazed at the table. “So we may never see each other again once you are set free.”

  “I do not know, but I am afraid ‘tis not likely.”

  “My surname is Radcliffe if you did not know. You may send any communication to my family’s home, Radcliffe House, London.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “You must think me very forward.”

  “Not at all. If it were in my power, I would woo you.”

  She dimpled. “I can only dream that such power may be yours someday,” she said rising. “I must go.” She leaned across the table, her snowy breasts plump under her snug bodice. She pressed her lips to his. They were sweet, ripe.

  He rose to go to her, taking her in his arms and returning the kiss with infinite longing, until they both stepped back breathlessly.

  “Really, I must go,” she said and started to turn to the door.

  James reached out and gently caught her arm. “Wait,” he breathed as he enfolded her in his embrace once again and held her close, soaking in her warmth and smell of sweet cloves. He kissed her again, more passionately.

  “’Tis time!” cried the guard from without. The keys clanged in the lock.

  She put her hand to his face for a brief moment, then was gone, the door thudding behind her like a death knell.

  Shakespeare and Cassandra stood at the entrance to Oxford’s mansion, a building that made James’s home in Dowgate look like a mere cottage. They waited while a servant went to announce their arrival. Moments later they were ushered in, through the entryway and up a grand staircase to a room paneled in shining oak and hung with tapestries, where a fire burned in a large fireplace: the Great Hall, as such rooms were called. They were led on through another door to a drawing room, a smaller, but no less luxurious space. Oxford rose from a writing desk to greet them. He wore a long robe of blue brocade: his house attire, apparently.

  The broad-brimmed hat on Cassandra’s head was pulled low, almost over her eyes. The man’s cloak she wore was wrapped completely around her, its collar turned up.

  “Will, what a pleasant surprise. Who do you bring, a boy actor? Someone new to the troupe?”

  Cassandra let her cloak fall open and removed her hat.

  “What?” The earl exclaimed. “You, here! How is it possible?”

  “A complicated story involving gypsies,” answered Shakespeare.

  “Gypsies, how now?”

  “They helped me escape from the Queen’s men and make my way back to London,” Cassandra replied shakily.

  “I have just come from seeing Her Majesty. The guards say ‘twas a lone horseman who overtook them and rendered them unconscious, and who must have absconded with you.”

  She hadn’t counted on the guards getting back to Elizabeth already with their version of the story, but obviously, she should have. “It was a gypsy rider, I tell you.”

  “Are you sure about that, Duchess? There are so many things about your story that lack rhyme or reason.”

  “What means your lordship?”

  “Her Majesty is irate. In a fury. She has been assured you are not Duchess Von Schell. Beyond that, she believes you are at large, which, indeed, is the case. Soon, she will know if your nephew is whom he says he is as well. For now, he waits in the Tower. For your sake, I had hoped to see him, but she will not allow it.”

  “James…” Cassandra whispered.

  “She has convinced me, too, that you are lying about who you are. You will tell me the truth now, or I will turn you in.”

  “You would not do such a thing, Lord Oxford!” Shakespeare cried.

  “I am loyal to my Queen and I will not harbor a criminal. So, what will it be, my lady?”

  Cassandra wrung her hat in her hand.

  “Come, let us sit,” Oxford said. “This should be interesting.” He motioned Cassandra to a chair, and she sat, as did Shakespeare in another. The earl eased himself into a leather armchair and lifted his feet stiffly onto a foot stool. “I am waiting.”

  “Forsooth, it was gypsies who freed me. I could not invent something so bizarre.”

  “I have my misgivings, but go on.”

  From there, there was no place to start but with the truth. “I am not Duchess Von Schell. I am a widow, but not Duke Von Schell’s. My name is Cassandra Reilly. And James is not my nephew, but my son.”

  “Reilly! You are Irish!” Oxford exclaimed.

  “No. My husband’s family was. But they have been good English citizens for generations.”

  “I see then,” he continued, “why you might want to change your surname, but to take on the guise of a Duchess? Why?”

  Here is where she had to get creative again. “My husband was merely a yeoman, but a wealthy one. He ran his farm and lands profitably. My father is a merchant, also successful. James and I never wanted for anything, but what I always did want for my boy was to be introduced at court and to meet the Queen. This was his dream as well. But these were ambitions that could not be fulfilled being merely the son of a farmer, albeit a gentleman. Her Majesty has come near our village in her progresses; we have seen her from afar but that is all. I was sure if I could get James to court, he would distinguish himself, but we had no connections.”

  “However, Master Gwynne, I mean Reilly, seemed to only be interested in me and my theatre when I first met him, throwing money at us right and left,” said Shakespeare. “Why did he do this if his ambition was to be introduced at court? He must have known we weren’t the people to procure such introductions.”

  Think fast, Cassandra. “He has always been a lover of plays. He came to London thinking he could become patron of a theatre company, and that way, perhaps, be thrown in the way of other patrons, like the Earl of Southampton for example, and make connections in that manner.”

  “You spent much money on inventing his character of a wealthy young patron.”

  “Yes, but he never seemed to have any luck meeting the right people. When things went so badly between you, when you fought at the Bear Garden, he fled home and was ready to give the whole thing up. That is when I had the idea of pretending to be an Austrian Duchess, to come back to London with him, and to use you, Lord Oxford to procure an invitation to court.”

  “He had heard me bragging that I knew Lord Oxford and told you,” Shakespeare said, the light of realization in his eyes.

  “Yes. A friend of mine liked to boast that her family was distantly related to the Von Schells of Austria, so I took that name, and, well, you know the rest.”

  “In faith,” Oxford exclaimed, “if the Queen ‘ere convinced me you were Irish spies, I do not believe it now. The story you have devised is far too elaborate for any of that drunken lot to have conceived of; there is not one clever enough among them. Nor do the Irish have enough money, all of them put together, to afford the circumstances with which you have surrounded yourselves. But what about Cornwall? You do not hail from there?”

  “No, we are from Hampshire.”
It was at least a place she knew well.

  “And so when the Queen’s man returns from Cornwall, he will bear news that there is no James Gwynne there, nephew of Duchess Von Schell.” Oxford picked up a pipe from where it lay on a side table next to his chair, lit it using a long stick and a candle, and began to puff.

  “Yes, that is correct,” Cassandra said. “This is why we must extricate James from Elizabeth’s grasp. I am begging you to help me, Lord Oxford.”

  “It is impossible,” the earl said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “The best thing we could do is secret you back to your farm and hope Elizabeth never finds out you are in her realm. Perhaps she will have mercy on James after all. Probably not, but perhaps.”

  “Maybe you could go to her and tell her the truth about me and James,” Cassandra reasoned. “Perhaps she will be flattered.”

  “And from whence did I learn this truth? From the woman she banished, who managed to defy her orders and make her way back to London with the help of gypsies, and who is now a refugee in my home? She will have your head. Or mine. I am not sure which will be first. She cannot know you are in London, madam. No, we must leave James to fend for himself.”

  “Lord Oxford, that will not do,” Shakespeare declared, leaning forward in his chair. “Pardon me for speaking so frankly, but we must help Mistress Reilly. This is her child we are speaking of. I, who know what it is to lose a son, cannot sit idly by while she suffers. I have not been one to like James much, as you both know, but we cannot leave him to rot in the Tower or face whatever dreadful punishment the Queen might devise. Though I am rankled at having been deceived, I will not let that stop me from trying to help our friend.” He gestured toward Cassandra.

  “An impassioned speech, Will. I too, have feelings of tenderness for our fair ‘duchess.’ I do not want her or her son to suffer. But what are we to do?”