“I will go now,” Shakespeare said.
“Go by road,” Oxford added, “so you do not miss him.”
Shakespeare nodded and disappeared through the door into the Great Hall.
“And you, Cassandra,” said Oxford. “Go make ready for your departure.”
She hurried through the house and to her room. She had just started to unfasten her doublet when something rustled behind her. Before she could turn, a hand clapped over her mouth. She struggled to free herself, but the grip of her attacker’s arm only tightened, and the unmistakable barrel of a gun pressed into her side.
“Hello Cassandra,” Nick whispered harshly into her ear.
The flutter of the curtain at the open window caught her eye. He must have scaled the wall. He was good at that kind of thing.
“Yes, that’s exactly where we’re going. Out the window.”
Before she could cry out, he tied a cloth around her mouth and secured it behind her head, just as they had just done to Essex. “I will kill you if you try anything,” he said. “I would rather you be dead than get away from me again. And trust me, you will never get away from me again.”
He shoved her toward the window. There was a rope ladder attached to the sill with grapples―all perfectly Elizabethan. Yet the gun was anything but. It must have been the same one he’d had all along. He tied a long cloth around her waist and secured the other end around his own.
“Go.” He shoved her toward the window.
It was dusk, a dense fog settling over the city. Nervously, she climbed over the sill, feeling for the first rung with her feet. Once she was a few down, he came, face forward, clinging to the rope with one hand, gun still aimed at her. He was agile and sure footed. As soon as her boot hit the ground, he jumped off and landed next to her. He untied the cloth from her waist and from her mouth.
“Not a word,” he hissed. “We’re going to take a little walk and you are going to act naturally, or you will be dead.”
He hurried her around to the front of the house, obviously thinking it would be quicker to slip out the front gate than for both of them to scale the garden wall. He was right because no one saw them go through the heavy wooden gates that were the entrance to Oxford’s grounds. Once in the street, all was shadow, the fog making shapes that seemed to shift and mutate. They had each taken a step forward into the misty dreamscape, when she wrenched her arm from his grasp and bolted. She ran blindly, her arms out, feeling for obstacles, silhouettes of walls and trees rising up at the last minute before she collided with them. His footsteps sounded loud on the packed earth behind her. She could hear him breathing. If she could find a side street, a detour, she might be able to escape before he was able to take aim and shoot her down. Then a hand closed around her upper arm and yanked her backward.
“I told you not to try anything,” he hissed, his breath hot in her ear. “You must not think I’m a man of my word, but I will kill you, Cassandra. I will.”
He shoved her forward, still holding on tight. The shape of a man in a hat and cloak loomed in front of them. There was a brief clearing in the fog, revealing Shakespeare, hurrying back toward Oxford’s house.
“Cassandra! I mean, Ganymede! Wither go you?”
“Good to meet you, sir,” Nick said, stepping ahead without missing a beat. “I am a friend of the family, sent to escort the Duchess safely from London.”
“I do not understand,” the bard said. “Who is this man?”
“Do not worry, Master Shakespeare, I am fine,” said Cassandra shakily. “This man is indeed a friend.” If Shakespeare thought otherwise, he might attack Nick and get himself shot. She could not let that happen. “I thought you were going to intercept James,” she said, her voice trembling beyond her control.
“I am. But I came back to fetch a lantern. The fog is settling in so heavily I will not be able to make my way there without a light. But, again, Cassandra, I do not understand.”
She reached out, grasped his hand, and squeezed it, then let go.
“Yes, yes of course, I must hurry,” he said as he turned away and disappeared into the fog.
“The great Shakespeare: a dimwit in reality.” Nick pushed her forward onto the street, aiming something that produced a tiny beam of steady light.
She stumbled forward, all hope of rescue gone. They walked on for a minute or so. The urge to try another escape was strong. When they entered a more populated area of the city, the lights from the windows of the buildings might help her find an opportunity. Suddenly, shadows overtook them from behind, elongated, and shivering in a faint light. There was a rush of footsteps. Nick looked around just as the shapes of three men became distinct. The light in his hand switched off.
“Stop!” A voice shouted. It was Shakespeare.
Their faces glowed in the light of a lantern held by Cecil. Oxford was there too, knife in hand.
Nick grabbed Cassandra’s arm and ran, forcing her with him.
“Stop, villain!” Oxford yelled. The whoosh of a dagger sliced through the air toward Nick’s head, then clinked to the ground.
Nick pulled her around a corner, dragging her along as he sprinted down the street. She was completely lost, but he seemed to know where they were going.
“Cassandra!” Shakespeare yelled. They were not far behind. How were Cecil and Oxford, neither of them strong on their feet, managing to keep up with Will? Perhaps it was the same adrenaline, or pride, that had allowed them to overpower Essex.
Nick whirled around, gun in hand and fired. A pinging sound made it clear the bullet had missed his target.
“Help!” Cassandra shouted. “Help me!”
“Shut up,” hissed Nick. He fired again, but the sound of the men’s steady footfalls on the street continued. “Damn!”
“Don’t hurt them,” Cassandra begged. “Think how you could change history. You must stop.”
“Do you really think I care?” He yanked her around another corner and quickened their pace. The houses were closer together here, and faint candlelight shone from the windows. Soon they would be at London Bridge. If he managed to get her to his portal, all would be lost.
“Here I am!” she screamed.
“This way,” Oxford’s voice echoed.
Nick turned and fired again. Oxford shouted.
“No!” screeched Cassandra. For a brief second Nick had let go of her arm and she took the opportunity to run back to the earl.
A bullet whizzed by her head. She screamed and dropped face forward onto the ground. Everyone was shouting now. She crawled toward Oxford, and found him on the street clutching his leg. Blood oozed from between his fingers. Another shot was fired. She cringed. Several feet away the adversaries had collided and were now struggling, grunting, flesh hitting flesh.
“Cassandra!” Shakespeare yelled.
She looked up in time to see the glint of the gun flying in her direction. It clattered nearby. Shakespeare must have wrested it from Nick’s grasp, for now, the actor had the time traveler pinned to the ground and was pummeling him with his fists while Cecil stood by, holding the lamp. She grabbed the weapon and shoved it into the waist of her breeches, then ripped a sleeve off her shirt. She tied it around Oxford’s leg above the wound, the lamp providing just enough light for her to see by. She glanced back at the skirmish. If she could get a clear shot at Nick, she would take it, but he had managed to get the better of Shakespeare and had wrestled him to the earth. He grasped the bard by the collar, about to slam his head to the ground. Cassandra drew the gun and aimed, but Cecil leapt between her and her target, dropping the lantern.
An agonized scream came from the direction of the three men. Shakespeare cried out and grunted, and the heft of a body hit the ground. “What have you done?” Will whispered loudly.
“What I had to do.” It was Cecil.
A gust of wind blew, clearing the mist. As Cassandra’s eyes adjusted, she could see the shape of the man’s slight hump, and his arm extending from his body. In his hand
, he held a knife. “Sir Robert, have you killed him?”
“I do not know,” he panted.
She jammed the gun back under her doublet, out of sight, fumbled her way to Nick’s body, and felt for his pulse. “He is dying.”
“Who is he?” Cecil asked.
“Someone who has been following me since I first arrived in London,” she replied, measuring her words. “I believe it was he who sent me the note in your name, Will, asking me to meet him at Billingsgate Gardens. I have seen him, lurking here and there, but I know not what he wanted with me. He has been a source of fear and anxiety to me but I did not want to trouble anyone by mentioning it.”
“A villain, certainly,” Cecil said. “Whatever he wanted, we must leave him where he lies.” He flung the knife away. “Have you the firearm he wielded?”
“No. It is somewhere here about.” She would either have to throw it into the Thames or carry it back with her. It was an anachronism that could not remain in Elizabethan England. Who knew what they would think of that tiny flashlight if anyone found it?
“We cannot search for it now. We must get Edward to safety. ‘Tis very strange though. I have never seen a weapon that could be fired without reloading,” he said.
“’Tis indeed strange,” she agreed.
“Come,” Cecil said. He and Shakespeare picked Oxford up and carried him in the direction of his house, which wasn’t nearly as far as Cassandra thought they had gone.
The staff sprang into action the moment they saw their wounded master. A boy was sent to fetch a doctor, and Oxford was taken to his bed. His three friends stayed by his side. He was weak, but Cassandra had slowed the loss of blood with her makeshift tourniquet. Please God, don’t let him die. It was too early. Six years too early. The man deserved to live out the life that had been allotted him.
The doctor wasn’t long in coming, and when he arrived, he removed the bullet and wrapped clean rags around the wound. It was agonizing to see it all done without anesthetic or particularly sanitary instruments, but Oxford bore it bravely.
“I have never seen anything like it,” the doctor said once he’d washed the bullet off. He left the room to clean up, placing the bullet in Cecil’s hand.
“What kind of metal is it?” Shakespeare wanted to know.
“I do not know.” Cecil answered, measuring its weight in his palm.
How would Cassandra get it away from them? Perhaps it would have to stay behind. Surely one small bullet couldn’t change the course of history.
“My God!” Shakespeare cried all of a sudden. “I forgot about James. I was on my way to him when I discovered you with your captor.”
Cassandra was stunned. How could she have forgotten about her son?
“Go, Will,” Oxford croaked. “Go, hurry.”
The earl was conscious. It was a good sign. Shakespeare hurried out of the room, but returned a few minutes later with James himself.
Cassandra jumped up. “Thank God!”
“What happened?”
“Your mother was abducted by a strange man, but we have dealt with him.”
“Who is it mother?”
“I know not,” she said, shooting him a look intended to convey, I’ll tell you later.
“Nor I,” offered Shakespeare, “but we have deduced he must have been the one who sent the missive in my name, for her to meet me at Billingsgate that day.”
“And how fares Lord Oxford?” her son asked, worry creasing his brow.
“I think he will survive,” she answered. Then, an idea came to her.
“James, do you have the special medicines you brought from home? I believe there is something among them that will help Lord Oxford heal more quickly.”
“What is this miracle medicine?” Cecil asked.
“I do not know, exactly,” James answered. “We have a woman in our village who knows herbs and plants as no one else. She gave me some special remedies to bring on my trip here. One in particular is helpful in healing wounds and preventing infection. I used it when I was recovering from the blow Master Shakespeare dealt me at my home those few weeks ago.”
Shakespeare shrugged apologetically.
“Here.” James withdrew a small vial of pills from his pocket. “Take this, Lord Oxford.”
The earl opened his mouth and James deposited the pill on his tongue. It dissolved immediately.
“It disappeared like magic!” Shakespeare cried.
“’Tis not magic. ‘Tis science,” James replied.
The color began returning to Oxford’s face almost immediately. Cassandra gave James’s hand a squeeze. “We must be gone,” she said to him. She bent and kissed Oxford on the cheek. “Farewell, my lord…Edward.” She smiled.
He returned a weak grin. “Farewell my beautiful duchess, for I will always think of you as such. I shall see you in my dreams.”
“And you in mine,” she said to him.
She and James left the room with Shakespeare and Cecil. The two men accompanied the time travelers to the door.
“Master Shakespeare,” Cassandra said, taking his hand, “that man had his firearm trained on me when you met us in the street. I could not reveal to you that I was in danger, for I feared he would use it on one of us in that moment.”
“I knew something was wrong when he called you duchess and said he was a friend of the family. If he were a friend of your family, he would know you were not a duchess. And then there was the tremble in your voice.”
“Thank you for saving my life.” She placed a kiss on his cheek.
He put his hand to the spot where her lips had been. “I am saddened that you will not see As You Like It brought to fruition.”
“I regret it deeply,” Cassandra replied.
“As do I,” said James.
“Sir, I’ve come to respect you,” Shakespeare said to James. “I hope our paths cross in the future under the best of circumstances.”
“I return both sentiments,” James said. The men shook hands.
Tears welled in Cassandra’s eyes. “Farewell, Will. Good luck always.”
Shakespeare withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “Adieu,” he whispered.
As she leaned in to kiss Cecil’s cheek, he whispered to her: “You will always be my Rosalind.”
His Rosalind? She stared at him quizzically
He smiled but said nothing.
“Thank you for everything, Sir Robert,” James said to him.
“Take good care of your mother, my boy,” he responded, turning to the younger man. “Now go, quickly, before the Queen’s men think to come here. It seems there are many spies about tonight.”
Cassandra and James rushed out the door, into the waiting carriage. James directed the driver to take them to Southwark.
“Mom, who was man who tried to kidnap you?” he asked once the door had closed behind them.
“It was Nick.”
“Nick? Nick Stockard? He was here?”
“Yes, it’s a very long story. So much happened while you were in the Tower. I will tell you everything later, I promise.”
“This has something to do with the gypsy tale then.”
“Yes,” she laughed wryly.
They were silent a moment.
“What did Sir Robert say to you when you kissed him goodbye?”
“He said I’d always be his Rosalind.” Another moment of quiet as the carriage rattled along. “James,” she finally said. “I think Robert Cecil is the author of Shakespeare’s plays.”
“What? How can that be? I am more certain than ever it is Oxford.”
“Listen to me.” She turned to him, her thoughts gaining traction. “Cecil had the idea to write the play to free you, and he gave Shakespeare the basic plot, though we all added some ideas.”
“So then, Oxford had the plot as well. He could have written the play just as easily.”
“Yes, but this you don’t know: I read both what Shakespeare wrote and what Oxford wrote, twenty four hours before th
e play was actually finished. Shakespeare had almost nothing, ten pages of drivel. Oxford had written almost a complete play by then, but it was terrible. Nothing even close to As You Like It. They both continued to work on their versions that day. That night, Shakespeare said he had finished his. I suppose he did finish whatever version he was capable of, or maybe Lord Oxford told him his manuscript was finished so Will felt assured the play was complete. Anyway, the next morning, Cecil arrived early, before any of us had risen. He summoned us downstairs, and suddenly, miraculously, Shakespeare had in his possession the actual As You Like It word for word.”
“You think Cecil planted it for Shakespeare to find?”
“Yes, and Shakespeare didn’t question the fact because it’s what he expected―that Oxford had left it on the desk for him. He was always giving Oxford sly looks. Now that I think of it, he seemed to always give Oxford credit for his success.”
“That proves my point.”
“No, you see, Shakespeare thought Oxford was writing the plays and giving them to him, but Oxford could never have handed the plays over directly to him―they probably were delivered to Will by messenger. What I’m saying is, Cecil wrote the plays, had them delivered to Shakespeare, and let him think Oxford was writing them. But Oxford never said or implied that he was the author of the plays. He always maintained that he wrote his plays for his own company, Oxford’s Boys, but had to stop because the Queen forbade it. And if the Queen forbade Oxford from writing, Cecil would also be forbidden from doing so. Therefore, he had to find a front man, and that front man was Shakespeare.”
“I can’t wrap my mind around this,” James said, shaking his head. “I never considered the possibility that it could have been someone else.”
“Think about it, Cecil has all the advantages Oxford has: education, knowledge of the law and foreign languages, proximity to court, travel…all the things Shakespeare didn’t have―and which caused that fellow Robert Greene to think of Will as a fraud.”
James sat back in his seat. Cassandra could see he was thinking.
“But you said Oxford practically recited the lines from The Taming of the Shrew word for word when describing an argument he had with his wife,” her son said.
The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Page 23