by C. J. Archer
He picked it up and handed it back to her. "Thank you. You've been most helpful."
"The young lady's name was Lilly Blakewell," Alice said and Min silently cheered her. Alice had no such qualms about questioning Blake right there in the tiring house. "Are you related?"
The stabbing in Min's chest eased. The girl in question must be a relation, not a love interest. She felt her face cool and her hand unclenched at her side, not that she'd realized she'd balled it into a fist until that moment.
"Blakewell?" Croft said, joining them. "As in the pirate?"
Min choked on air.
"Our bookkeeper is a pirate?" Alice said on a gasp.
Blake swore. "Privateer." He glanced at Min. She could only stare like a half-wit back at him. For once, there were no words in her head let alone her mouth. "Lilly Blakewell is my sister," he said to them all. "Lady Warhurst is our mother."
"You're a pirate," was all Min could manage. She simply couldn't get past that piece of information. She did register that his mother had a title but it seemed quite insignificant compared to the fact that he stole from people for a living, and probably murdered them to do it.
"Privateer. I have a letter of marque from the queen and everything. I'd show it to you but I don't have it on my person at this moment."
She gave him a withering glare. How could he treat his occupation so lightly? No wonder he had a jaded look about him, as if he'd seen too much in his lifetime. He certainly had seen too much. And done too much.
"You didn't know?" Alice said to Min.
"No."
"I assumed you were...good friends."
Good friends being code for lovers?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Blake go very still. "Not at all," Min said. "In fact, I know very little about him."
He expelled his breath in a whoosh. What had he expected her to say? That she'd just met him two days before and only then because she'd needed someone to act as the writer of her plays?
"You'll have to tell me the story of your meeting one day," Alice said. "It sounds interesting."
"And what could a privateer possibly want with Lord Hawkesbury?" Croft asked, squaring his shoulders and rolling a long needle between his finger and thumb.
Blake eyed the needle. "That is my personal business, and it has nothing to do with this company."
"But it does. You are part of this company now, for good or evil. Just make sure it's not the latter. Remember, whatever befalls our patron befalls every single one of us too."
Min shuddered and crossed her arms against a sudden cool breeze that fluttered the edge of the curtain. She caught Blake watching her and she looked away.
Alice snorted. "Good Lord, Father, you've been associating with actors too long. Your dramatic heart is showing."
"Can I have some assistance here!" Style shouted from the back of the tiring house where he was changing costumes.
Croft stared Blake down for several more seconds before retreating to help Style. Alice followed him. Min peered out towards the stage and the audience again. Lord Hawkesbury had gone.
"You're a pirate," she said without turning back to Blake. No matter how hard she tried not to, she kept returning to that piece of news.
"Privateer," he ground out. "Why can no one see the difference?"
"Because there is no difference." She threw her hands up in the air. "Tell me, Blake, how many seamen have you killed to retrieve enough gold to satisfy your lust for it?"
He leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. In that stance, the long lean lines of his body appeared elegant and lackadaisical. A false impression because he was certainly neither. "They were enemies of our country." He shrugged.
"They were still people!"
"You forget that we went to war against the Spanish Armada only last year. I captained my ship in the battle, alongside Raleigh. Without us privateers, you would be under Spanish rule by now." The cool, casual tone was at odds with the muscle pulsing in his jaw and the whiteness of his lips. "Is that what you want?"
"That is not the point," she said. But how to make him see that it was all right to defend one's country but to seek out and destroy ships purely for profit was...disturbing to say the least?
The coldness filtering into the tiring house from outside seeped through to her bones and settled there. How had she ever got herself entangled with such a dangerous man? She'd suspected he was no saint but she had at least thought his soul was a good one, a trustworthy one, despite the assurances he gave her to the contrary.
She'd been so wrong.
"Does your...career have anything to do with your presence here and your questions about your sister and Lord Hawkesbury?" she said.
"No. That is a private matter."
"So you've said."
He winced and something akin to pain sliced through his features. "Min, please." He moved to her with lightning speed, not giving her a chance to even flinch. He pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth and cupped her jaw. The unexpected and gentle touch was like a wave of heat, thawing the ice within her.
She had her answer—she'd become entangled with Blake because she couldn't resist him.
"I'll come to you later," he said. "And tell you all."
Her body lifted and she felt like she was floating about the room. "Later?" In her chambers?
But she didn't get an answer. Applause erupted from the inn-yard and Style came up to them. Blake's hand fell away and Min felt the loss of his touch as keenly as she had last night when he'd left her bed.
"You should be pleased," Style said to Blake. He looked like a fat king after consuming a sumptuous meal—very pleased with himself.
The rest of the players came through the curtain and made their way to the back of the tiring house to change. Several clapped Blake on the back. Shakespeare stopped, a grin from ear to ear.
"A first rate effort," he said. "It seems your newfound passion and life experience have paid off."
The glare Blake gave him could have withered an entire field of wheat. Shakespeare's already high hairline lifted further as he raised both eyebrows at Min. She flushed. Had he guessed that Min and Blake had become lovers?
"The audience seemed to enjoy it too," Shakespeare went on. "Everyone was here today. Hawkesbury himself of course, but did you see Marlowe and Henslowe skulking off to the side?"
"Henslowe!" Style's top lip curled into a sneer. "If I see that whey-faced maggot anywhere near my play I'll run him through with my blade."
"Best learn how to use it first," Freddie said from behind the screen where he and some of the other players were changing.
Style pulled at the hem of his jerkin and tossed his head. He hadn't put his hat on so the gesture didn't have quite the same grandiose effect as when the feathers jiggled about. He pointed at the prompt book, sitting on top of the chest where Min had placed it earlier. "Guard that book with your life," he said to Blake. "Don't let those vermin anywhere near it. If they get their hands on it I've no doubt that unscrupulous cock will put on his own version down at the Rose as soon as he can." He then proceeded to lock it away himself.
Edward joined them, dressed once more in his immaculate day attire. "We haven't had an audience that size in years."
"That's because we haven't had a good play for years," said Freddie from the rear door. Some of his white face paint clung to the edges of his temples and his lips were still pink from the stain he'd applied to play Livia. Alice handed him his cap. He slapped it on his blond head. "Who's for a drink then?"
Two of the hired players followed him out.
"You still haven't told us what you think, Blake," Style said. Wells, Edward, Croft and Alice all stopped what they were doing and waited for their bookkeeper's response. Shakespeare was struggling with his ruff and didn't appear to be listening.
"I've told you what I think," Blake said with a shrug. "It's a good play."
Min chewed her lip. One slip, one small hint that she was the author, and
he would ruin everything.
It made her slightly ill to think perhaps he wanted to ruin it. He did seem unnaturally interested in Lord Hawkesbury and not in a friendly way. Did he want to bring about the earl's downfall for something he had done to his sister as Croft suggested? There had to be a connection between the two. Blake's interest in both was no coincidence.
Did he realize that bringing down Lord Hawkesbury would also bring about the demise of the troupe? And of Min's own dreams?
Did he care?
She watched him, trying to garner some clues as to his intentions, but his usual blank expression had returned. The one that gave nothing away. The one that made him appear like the cold, unforgiving man she'd assumed him to be at their first meeting.
First impressions are often correct.
She plopped down on a nearby stool and folded her shaking hands in her lap. Foolish, foolish girl. She'd quite possibly made love to the man who could ruin everything she'd ever wanted.
Blake's narrowed gaze slid to her. She looked down at her hands and tried to breathe in deeply to overcome her sudden nausea.
"What did you think of today's performance?" Style said. "Better than yesterday's?"
"Does it matter what I think?" Blake said. He suddenly looked like he wanted to get away from them all. Not so much a trapped and frightened hare but a caged and angry lion.
"Of course!" Style pouted. "As an educated man, and a talented playwright, I value your opinion."
"Then the performance was fine."
Style almost looked like he would accept Blake's judgment, but then he licked his bottom lip, rocked back on his heels and said, "But...?"
With a loud sigh, Blake picked up a gladius from the prop table. He tossed the shorter, heavier Roman sword from hand to hand, as if getting the feel for it. His own sword remained snugly at his hip.
Style reeled back, eyes wide. The others appeared uncertain as to what Blake intended to do with the blade, except for Shakespeare who merely glanced their way, an odd smile on his lips. As with most of the costumes, the gladius was authentic. A swordsmith had crafted it in the same forge as rapiers and other swords. It could kill or severely injure depending on how the wielder used it. And Min was in no doubt that Blake knew what he was doing.
"The sword fight needs work." He tossed the gladius into the air and caught the blade end, flat side down. He held the handle out to a white-faced Style.
The manager cleared his throat before taking it. "Work?"
"Have you ever been in a real sword fight with real weapons?"
"These are real." Style thrust the point out so Blake could see. Blake had to take a quick step backward into the curtain separating tiring house from stage. Style earned a glare for his stupidity.
"I know," Blake said. "But you don't use them as if they are." He picked up another gladius and beckoned Henry over. "You've got the most moves to do in the sword fight, Wells, the one and only I might add." He shot Min a mischievous smirk which quite unnerved her. One minute he was scowling and looking like he wanted to use the sword on someone, anyone, and the next moment he was playful. Perhaps it was the prospect of violence that had cheered him.
"There's no space in here." He opened the curtain. "Come onto the stage."
"No space for what?" Style said, following him out. Everyone except Shakespeare joined them. The audience had dispersed, only a few inn servants remained, clearing away all evidence of the crowd who'd either gone home or into the taproom. Jane was nowhere to be seen and had probably returned home as Min had suggested she do.
"Practice," Blake said to Style. "You and Wells are going to re-enact the sword fight and I'm going to make suggestions for improvement."
"B, but—."
"Do you want your play to look authentic? Or would you rather have every man in your audience who's ever used a sword snicker at your ineptitude?"
Style's jowls wobbled in indignation. Then he pushed Henry Wells forward. "As you said, Henry here has the most moves. Demonstrate on him."
"Very well. You're Marius," Blake said to the young actor, "and I'm Titus. Come at me as you do in the first scene."
"Second," Style and Min said together.
Blake beckoned Henry to attack him. "Come on."
Henry ran at him, his sword raised in a battle stance. Blake thrust out his own gladius and parried it with what must have been a bone-jarring blow. The clang of metal echoed around the inn-yard. Henry pulled up at the edge of the stage and rubbed his elbow.
"Titus is supposed to engage in the fight," Style said huffily. "Not force Marius to the side."
"That's because Marius did two things wrong," Blake said. "First, he ran when he should have moved with more purpose. It's easy to force someone off course when they're coming at you fast. Second, he was holding the sword incorrectly." He beckoned Henry back. "The gladius is not like a rapier. Hold it like this," he hefted his own blade, "with your thumb here. If it's too heavy, use two hands. Now thrust again, this time without running at me."
Henry blinked at him. "Perhaps you should get a shield. Titus and Marius both have shields in this scene."
Blake sighed. "We don't need shields. We're simply doing this as an exercise."
"I'd prefer you didn't use shields anyway," Croft said from the curtain separating the stage from the tiring house. "The dents are nigh impossible to get out."
"And you need to be mindful of the costumes too," Alice said. "A rent in a sleeve means more work for me."
"We're striving for authenticity, are we not?" Blake said. "A rent here or a dent there is inevitable. Wells, come again."
This time Henry stood his ground and thrust his blade at Blake. Again Blake parried but at least Henry was still standing exactly where he should be.
"Wrist up," Blake said.
Henry repeated the move twice more, and each time Blake dashed the gladius away as if it were nothing more than a twig.
"Good. Now put some shoulder into it. Marius is a big, strong hero and he's defending his woman. Every strike of his blade needs to reflect that power."
Wells tried again and again. On the third thrust, Blake had to dance away to avoid the blade. Of course, Min didn't know that he'd moved aside until she re-opened her eyes.
The other players cheered. One of the servants, leaning on his broom in the courtyard, whistled.
"What's going on out here?" Shakespeare said, emerging from the tiring house.
"Blake is teaching Henry to fight like a man," Alice said.
"Oh dear," Shakespeare said with a laugh. "This could take a while."
"He already came close to injuring Blake," Min said. Far, far too close.
Alice laughed softly. "How could you possibly know with your eyes closed?"
"Blake had to move," Min said. A shiver shimmered down her spine. "If he hadn't..." The thought was too awful to put into words.
"I don't think you have much to worry about. Your friend seems to know how to use that sword the way I know how to wield a needle."
"I hope you're right." Min blew out a measured breath. "But even so, perhaps I'll just go back into the tiring house and tidy up. I'm discovering I rather abhor violence."
"Ho! What's going on here?" the booming, slightly amused voice of Lord Hawkesbury, emerging from the taproom, halted her and the sword fight.
Henry dropped his weapon with a yelp. Blake's grip whitened around the hilt of his.
"We're practicing, my lord," Style said, rushing down the stage steps to join Hawkesbury. "Care to watch? It turns out our playwright has some experience with swordsmanship and has offered to show young Wells how to make the fight scene look more authentic."
"A writer who can also fight?" Hawkesbury inclined his head. "Intriguing. Carry on." He leaned against the wall on the far side of the inn-yard, arms and ankles crossed lazily. An ostler leading a horse moved past the stage and the dusty traveler who'd ridden in stayed to watch too.
Henry picked up his sword. Blake tossed his gladiu
s from palm to palm and beckoned Henry forward. "Wrist up," he said.
Henry stopped, nodded. "Sorry." He rolled his shoulders. "I'm ready now." He tried again. As before, Blake had to move out of the way of what could have been an injuring blow. Henry continued to strike, again and again. After several attempts, his breath came in short bursts and beads of sweat popped out on his brow.
"Titus isn't supposed to get the upper hand," Style said, hands on hips. "You need to stop moving about, Blake. We have our steps already perfectly memorized. You can't change them now."
"Memorized?" Blake said.
"Yes. They're the same as every sword fight in every play that has one."
"Then you need new steps. What I've seen is sluggish at best. No swordsman who wants to preserve his life would move the way your players move up here."
"Ouch," Shakespeare muttered. Alice shushed him.
"Of course we want to be as authentic as possible," Style blustered with a glance in Lord Hawkesbury's direction. "But we have limited time in which to practice new moves."
"We're a little busy learning new lines," Edward said with an apologetic shrug.
"But we do appreciate what you're trying to do," Henry said with an encouraging smile. "At least now I know how to hold the sword like a real Roman. Well, an ancient Roman that is."
Far from looking disappointed, Blake simply shrugged and handed his sword to Croft. Min could finally breathe again. No more fighting.
"I'm off to the taproom," Edward announced. "Who'll join me?"
"Aye," said Henry. "I've worked up a thirst."
"The girl and I have work to do," Croft said, "but I'll join you later."
Alice sighed. Min gave her a sympathetic look. She too should be returning home to work on her father's paper and her new play, but she couldn't leave Blake without speaking to him first.
I'll come to you later.
Later when?
She tried to catch his eye but he wasn't looking at her. His gaze was fixed on Lord Hawkesbury. The earl hadn't moved from his position. He stared back at Blake, a slight frown troubling his handsome brow.
"Do I know you?" he said.