The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  Oxford started to speak, but Burghley cut him off. “Young men, young women, it matters not to you, does it Edward?”

  “My lord, no!” Cassandra declared. “’Tis not like that at all.”

  “Quiet!” he bellowed. To Oxford he said, “My Robin seems to have some stake in this scheme, some investment in it. Therefore, I will not insist that your friends quit the house until the three day deadline has been reached. However, after that, whether the play is delivered to Her Majesty’s satisfaction or no, they must go. I will come back myself to see that they do.” He turned his back on Cassandra and Oxford.

  The head man, having slunk into the room adjusting his breeches and doublet, now rushed to Burghley’s side and supported him as he limped out. The servant’s face was flushed.

  “I am so very sorry,” Oxford said to Cassandra, his voice full of anguish. His chin dropped to his chest. “Now you see, now you see.”

  “Please, do not worry yourself on my account,” she replied. “It is no rare thing to have a troublesome in-law.”

  “He is far more than troublesome. He controls me. I wish to God he were dead.”

  “Do not say such a thing, Lord Oxford.” She went to him and lightly touched his shoulder.

  “When he dies, I shall be free. And when Elizabeth dies―”

  “Shhh,” Cassandra glanced around. “’Tis treasonous to wish for such a thing.”

  “I know, I know. Yet when she is, there will be no one to stop me from publishing mine own work, in mine own name, for the world to see.”

  The Earl of Oxford would only know a scant year of life after Queen Elizabeth died, and that in very ill health. He would never be free. He would never write plays under his own name.

  Shakespeare rushed in and stopped when he saw Cassandra’s hand on Oxford’s shoulder. “Is all well? I thought I heard shouting.”

  “My father-in-law,” Oxford said.

  Cassandra withdrew her hand.

  “He is displeased, as always,” the earl continued. “He knows of our plan. That sneaking little son of his obviously told him.”

  “I am sure he had the best of intentions,” Shakespeare offered.

  However, Oxford was staring at the fire, his faced etched with disgust, perhaps even humiliation. “Robin and I grew up together, did you know that?”

  Which of them was he speaking to?

  “I believe I did, my lord,” Shakespeare replied.

  Oxford went on, the words spilling out. “He resented my beauty, and I his birthright,” he said, his eyes reflecting the flames licking at the stone of the fireplace, “though I was the one born a nobleman. After my parents died, his father took it upon himself to raise me, but only so the man could steal the lion’s share of my inheritance. It is true that he schooled us equally, in mathematics, the sciences, and languages ancient and modern, but he never liked me. He groomed Robin in matters of government, while I was left to amuse myself with plays and poetry. He only married me to his cow of a daughter because he did not know what else to do with me―”

  “My lord―” Shakespeare broke in, “perhaps these things are better left in the past.”

  “Nothing is in the past. This is the life I lead now!”

  “Besides, do you not think it is equally likely Queen Elizabeth told Lord Burghley about the play?” Cassandra reasoned.

  He ignored her as if she had not spoken at all. This was a man who did not wish to listen to reason. “There is not one single thing that misshapen little rat does not run to tell his father,” raged Oxford bitterly.

  “Yet he obviously has not told her about…you know…Ganymede,” said Shakespeare in a whisper. “He knows Lord Burghley disapproves of the theatre, I cannot believe that Sir Robert would have troubled him with the information,” said Shakespeare. “He is old and sick. I would think he’d want to spare him the aggravation.”

  “Yes, one would think that, if one had any sense. But when it comes to playing his father’s favorite, Robin has no sense. He kisses the arse of anyone whom he thinks would favor him with more power. And that includes James of Scotland.”

  The future King James. “But Sir Robert is loyal to the Queen,” Cassandra said, “and there is no certainty James Stuart will be king. Her Majesty will not name a successor until she breathes her last breath.”

  “How could you know such a thing?” Before the time traveler could formulate an answer for her slip up, Oxford went on, his temper growing still. “Yes, he is loyal, where it pays to be loyal. But I hear things he says to his sister in private. I am privileged to conversations no one else is. He has been in communication with James Stuart without Elizabeth knowing. He is cementing his future in the king’s council, for surely the Stuart heir will be the successor…there is no one else.”

  “Why do you not tell the Queen of his actions if you are so bitter toward him?” Shakespeare wanted to know.

  “I have told you, man! I depend on his wretched family for my livelihood. Once his father is gone, Robin will ooze into his place as the Queen’s chief advisor…and then that of the future King James. I dare not take such a drastic step against him. Oh, it is all such a vicious, endless circle I am trapped in!” He leaned his arms on the back of a chair and hung his head.

  “Perhaps you have worked hard enough for one day, Lord Oxford,” Cassandra said gently.

  “No!” He straightened his back. “The work is the only thing keeping me sane. Sup without me tonight, dear friends. I will to my writing.” He walked out in the direction of the library.

  “I too, Ganymede, have much more to do,” sighed Shakespeare. “However, I think I am getting there, I truly do.”

  “I am so pleased to hear it, Master Shakespeare.” In truth, there was no way to know how to feel. “Are you sure we were wise to have trusted Sir Robert?”

  “Yes, I know him and believe in him. Even if his brother-in-law does not.” He bowed and left the room.

  She retired to the bedroom and ate a light supper there. She changed into the nightshirt Oxford had leant her and slid gratefully between the sheets. She’d once heard that the character of Polonius in the play Hamlet was based on Lord Burghley. If Hamlet had ever married the ill-fated Ophelia, Polonius would have been his father-in-law. As it was, Hamlet had accidentally slain Polonius, mistaking him for a spy hiding behind a curtain. If Oxford was the author of Hamlet, had he based the melancholy Dane on himself? And was the fictional death of Polonius his way of working out his fantasy of revenge? Who was Laertes then, Polonius’s son in Hamlet, and a heroic figure at that? It didn’t make sense that Oxford would portray Sir Robert as a hero.

  Tired though she was, sleep would not come. Cassandra got out of bed and went to close the curtains over the window. She glanced down into the garden, illuminated by moonlight. Something moved in the shadows. A cat perhaps, or a stray dog. No, it was bigger. She went to extinguish her candle and came back to look. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, it became clear that the moving object was a person, cloaked in black. Maybe a servant taking a walk? The person stopped, looking up at the building. She retreated behind the curtains so she could not be seen, and peeked through an opening. The person in black walked back and forth, stopping to look at each window. She could see his eyes shining in the moonlight.

  Nick!

  She muffled a scream and let the gap in the curtain fall closed. Should she alert Oxford? Tell him there was a prowler? She furtively looked out again, in time to see Nick crawling over the wall that surrounded the garden. He would be long gone by the time she could tell Oxford. Her heart pounded. He knew where she was, but could he get to her? She was as safe as she could be in Oxford’s house, crawling with servants. She knew they locked every door at night―she had asked, just to be sure. Besides, to tell Oxford and Shakespeare about Nick added a new complication to her story that would be more than hard to explain.

  She crept back into bed and pulled the covers up over her head as if she were a child. She would never sleep now. A
nd yet, at some point she must have dozed because she was woken by a movement in the bed. Someone was pulling back the covers and getting in.

  “Stop! Who goes there?” She leapt out on the opposite side.

  “God’s death! Forgive me, madam, forgive me!”

  “Master Shakespeare? What are you doing?”

  “I know not. I was so tired I forgot I was to sleep on the mat. I forgot you were in the bed. A thousand apologies, good lady. Nay, ten thousand.”

  “You are forgiven, sir,” she said, quickly sitting on the bed before her knees gave way.

  He sat too, obviously shaken, and took several deep breaths. “I finished the play,” he finally said.

  “You did?” She tried not to sound surprised.

  “I am very pleased with it.”

  “I am so glad. And relieved of course.”

  “I hope the Queen will be pleased with it.”

  “As do I.”

  He rested his hand on the back of her neck. It felt nice.

  “Will―”

  “Cassandra―” He gently pulled her down. He rolled next to her and kissed her. His lips were warm.

  “I do not think…” she whispered.

  “Nor do I…” he said.

  She let him kiss her, more deeply now. He moved closer until he was almost on top of her. He kissed her neck, her collarbone. He moved his hands to her hips and began to draw the nightshirt up. Why not? His physical presence soothed her. He was just what she needed. “Wait,” she declared, suddenly coming to her senses. “We must not.”

  “Why not?” He murmured, echoing her thought from a moment before.

  “Because it is not right.” She gently pushed him away and sat up. “Forgive me, Master Shakespeare, I must not.”

  “But Cassandra―” he clutched her hand in his.

  “You must respect my wishes. Besides, did you not promise Lord Oxford?” she added in a jesting tone.

  “Yes, ‘tis true,” he said with a small laugh. He pulled his hand away and sat up too. “Forgive me as well.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. I care for you, but I must not succumb, I must not.”

  “You are right.” He spoke into the darkness. “I am a humble man, led by my desires, but this is not correct.” He stood.

  “Thank you.”

  He pulled the mat out from under the bed and chuckled again. “Besides, I am weary with work. Let us try to sleep.”

  “Yes. Let us. Goodnight, good sir.” She crawled back into the sheets.

  “Goodnight, fair lady.”

  A knock on the door woke both she and Shakespeare in the morning. “Masters,” the housekeeper said from without, “Lord Oxford bids me waken you. He says to say Master Cecil has come and is anxious to see the work.”

  “You first,” she said to Shakespeare, turning away.

  In a few minutes he had dressed and left her the room. Not long after, she joined him and Cecil in the study.

  Oxford appeared last, looking bedraggled. “So early, Robin?” he complained.

  “This is the last day,” Cecil replied. “There is no more time to spare. We must see what William has, and help him put on the final touches if need be.”

  Cassandra prayed that what one or the other of the writers had done the day before was an improvement over what she’d seen.

  “I cannot do anything until I breakfast,” said Oxford. “I am sure you’ve already eaten your Spartan repast, Robin, but do join us like a civilized person while we partake.”

  “Very well, Edward, if it can be done with some haste.”

  “Haste. Haste should be your middle name.” He led them to the dining room, where they ate porridge, cream, honey, toasted bread, and butter at their usual pace. However, Oxford left them at the table before they were finished, saying he’d meet them in the drawing room. When the three of them appeared there twenty minutes later, he was waiting.

  Shakespeare went to the desk and touched the neat stack of papers there as if he couldn’t believe they were real. He smiled slyly. “It was a true feat to finish this in the allotted time, yet here it is.” He picked it up and handed it to Cecil.

  “Come,” the small man said, taking it from Shakespeare. “Let us gather round, closely, where we can all see.”

  Shakespeare and Oxford arranged four chairs in a tight circle. Cassandra craned in to look at the top page. The handwriting was neat and flowing, like Oxford’s. The title read As You Like It, and below it the words:

  ACT I

  SCENE I. Orchard of Oliver’s house.

  Enter Orlando and Adam

  “Do you mind if I begin?” Cecil asked Shakespeare, “with the character of Orlando as you call him?”

  “Please,” the bard answered readily.

  With a clear voice, Cecil began reading: “As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox?...”

  As far as Cassandra could recall, this was exactly how the play was supposed to begin. Unable to contain her excitement she blurted, “Wait a minute!”

  Cecil stopped reading, his eyebrows raised.

  “May I see it for one moment? Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” He handed her the manuscript and she quickly scanned a few pages ahead, stopping when she saw the heading for Scene II. The setting was described as: Lawn before the Duke’s palace.

  She read on:

  Enter Celia and Rosalind

  Celia: I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

  Rosalind: Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure….

  This was it! This was the play. To be sure, she skipped forward, to the first scene of Ganymede’s trickery of Orlando, the man Rosalind, in disguise, loved:

  Orlando: Where dwell you, pretty youth?

  Rosalind (Ganymede): With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

  Orlando: Are you native of this place?

  Rosalind (Ganymede): As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.

  Orlando: Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

  Rosalind (Ganymede): I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal….

  She jumped ahead to the end where Rosalind’s true identity was revealed, where she was reunited with her banished father, and married to Orlando.

  “Yes, this is it indeed,” she finally whispered.

  “What mean you, good madam?” Cecil asked her.

  She looked up at the three men to find them all staring at her expectantly with an attitude of polite tolerance.

  “I mean, it seems good. Very good. How did you do it, Master Shakespeare?”

  His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

  “Again, what mean you?” Cecil gently inquired.

  “I have something to confess,” Cassandra continued. “I came in here yesterday morning and I read what Master Shakespeare had written before. It was not this.”

  Shakespeare shot a look at Oxford.

  Cecil laughed lightly. “I think I understand your confusion. But you must realize how very clever William is. He always begins with a rough start, is it not true, William?”

  “Y
es,” Shakespeare uttered.

  “But give him time, oh, give him time and he is able to work miracles.”

  “Miracles I should say. And in just one day,” she added.

  Cecil gently took the manuscript back from Cassandra. “Do you not think we should read the whole thing through?”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me my enthusiasm. I am just so very relieved. I believe this will please the Queen greatly.”

  Oxford’s face was a pale shade of green, but it regained its usual color during the two hours it took to read the entire script. When they were finished, he said to Shakespeare, “’Tis genius, my boy, but I am not surprised.”

  “I have only you to thank, my lord.”

  “Nonsense. Congratulations. This will win the favor of the Queen and James’s freedom.” He smiled wistfully at Cassandra. “I am happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Lord Oxford,” she said.

  “No need to thank me.”

  “Come William,” Cecil pressed, “we must speedily back to the palace. The Queen will receive you forthwith, I am sure.”

  “She will be most impressed that you not only accomplished the feat brilliantly, but with many hours to spare,” said Oxford before turning his attention to Cassandra. “And when William returns, I am certain he will bring your son.”

  When Shakespeare and Cecil had left, Cassandra asked Oxford, “And what about your manuscript, my lord?”

  “I am satisfied,” he replied simply. “I am satisfied.”

  “So Shakespeare will take the credit then?”

  “And why should he not?” he inquired in a reasonable tone.

  When Cassandra did not respond he rose slowly and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cassandra forced herself not to run to her son and hug him as he entered Oxford’s house. She had been waiting in the Great Hall for hours, staring at the fire, chewing her nails. The head man, the housekeeper, and a maid hovered in the entryway now too, having gotten wind of the new arrival. Cassandra must for now remain in her character of Ganymede, and could only assume Shakespeare had told James of the situation.

  She stood aside as Oxford went to him and shook his hand. “Glad to see you, James.”