Kissing Shakespeare

by Pamela Mingle

  “Virgil celebrates the majesty of Rome,” Thomas was saying.

  “The Roman Empire?” Will asked.

  “Aye. But ’tis nothing compared to the holy church of Rome. The kingdom of Christ.”

  Can’t they have a normal conversation? I gripped the sides of my chair in frustration. Darting another glance at Will, I caught him looking right at me. Maybe it was only a muscle twitch, but I swear to God he winked at me. Which made me wonder if he was taking Thomas Cook seriously and whether or not he was really on board with the religious program.

  Fulke and his dad went on discussing the earl’s visit. Stephen was talking to his uncle about sheep and pastures and other farming-related things, from what I could hear. Bored, I’d turned to scan the room when a man approaching our table caught my eye. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was Alexander’s steward. He leaned over and whispered in his boss’s ear.

  In a flash, Alexander was on his feet. “Thomas!”

  Thomas wiped his mouth and walked over to Alexander. They had a whispered conversation, with lots of gesturing and frantic looks passing back and forth. Among the rest of us, talk ceased, knives dropped to the table, and everyone stared. The mood had quickly changed from jolly to fearful. Thomas and the steward eventually hurried out of the hall, and Alexander sat down. After a few tense moments, I heard pounding feet approaching through the courtyard. The door flew open and a troop of men barged in, led by the sheriff.

  Seeing that man again made my stomach lurch, especially now that I knew he’d been in Stephen’s vision.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Alexander stood and glared at them.

  “Sir, I am arresting you in the name of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth,” the sheriff said.

  “And may I know what offense I have committed, sir?”

  “ ’Tis one I believe you are well aware of. You have not attended Sunday services for many weeks, in violation of the Act of Uniformity. Nor have you paid your fines.”

  The other men seized Alexander’s arms. He didn’t resist, nor did anyone make a move on his behalf.

  “Can’t you do something?” I asked Stephen, tugging on his sleeve.

  “My lord sheriff,” Stephen said, rising. “Would it not suffice for my uncle to pay the money owed?”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “Stephen Langford, nephew to Master Hoghton.” He gave a curt bow.

  “Well, Master Langford, if you do not wish to end up in a cell with your uncle, stay out of this. It is not your affair.”

  “Indeed, this is too harsh,” Stephen said, stepping forward, really getting in the sheriff’s face. I admired his courage, but in this situation, fear trumped admiration.

  “Stephen!” I hissed.

  The sheriff’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, and two of his men drew theirs. Stephen’s hand flew to his side, and he blanched when he remembered he had no weapon. Still, he didn’t back off.

  “Stand aside, Nephew,” Alexander said. “Pray see to the others.” Two of the men led Alexander out to the courtyard while the rest of us watched, helpless. The sheriff turned his cruel gaze on us, and we waited for him to speak.

  THE SHERIFF RETREATED SLIGHTLY from Stephen, who was at least half a head taller than him. “Where is Mistress Hoghton?” he asked.

  “She is not here at present,” Stephen replied. “Her sister-in-law is ill, and she was summoned to Clitheroe to help with her care.”

  The sheriff grunted. “We have learned there is a Jesuit hiding here. Before we leave, we intend to find him. Family members, and all others who live in the house, come with me. You will guide us in our search.”

  No one denied the accusation or argued. Coward that I was, I didn’t say a word. We all followed him out the door into the courtyard, and from there to the main entrance. I clung to Stephen’s arm, and Jennet, I noticed, stayed close to Will. Fulke and his father, and then the servants who lived and worked in the house, brought up the rear. Fear for Thomas coiled in my stomach, and I hoped he’d found a good hiding place.

  “What else is here besides the entry?” the sheriff asked.

  In the absence of his aunt and uncle, Stephen took the lead. “Nothing of any importance, sir. It is exactly what you see. An entryway.” Stephen returned his severe look steadily, never dropping his eyes. The sheriff signaled a couple of his men to search the small storage rooms off to the sides.

  The rest of us trooped upstairs, moving from passage to passage, room to room. The sheriff’s minions scrutinized everything, including fireplaces, paneling, and cupboards. They pounded walls and stuck arms up chimneys. On hands and knees, they searched under beds and inspected shadowed alcoves. With only a few candles for light, I didn’t know how they expected to see much of anything.

  Meanwhile, the sheriff shot questions at Stephen. “Where have you concealed the Jesuit?” “How long has he stayed with you?” and “To what family does he go next?” Stephen deflected the questions skillfully, shrugging, shaking his head, or saying something noncommittal, like, “Sir, you have been misinformed.” He seemed unflappable.

  By now we’d marched back through the hall, finally reaching the passageway with the chapel. When one of the sheriff’s men swung open the huge door, my heart went into overdrive. Thomas could be hiding there. What would happen if they found him? Would we all be arrested and thrown in the Tower? To my amazement, the room had been completely transformed. It no longer looked remotely like a chapel. No religious objects or paintings were in sight.

  A particularly nasty-looking guy ran up to the sheriff. “The back wall is suspicious,” he said, rapping his knuckles on it to make his point. “It sounds hollow. ’Tis not as thick as it should be.”

  “Look for a hidden latch.”

  While we waited, Stephen draped his arm around my shoulder and I leaned into him. When no one was looking, I whispered, “Were any of these other men in your vision?”

  He shook his head.

  “Where’s Thomas?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said.

  After spending a long time examining, pounding, and rapping on the wall, the sheriff let out a roar of frustration. “Zounds!”

  I’d never actually heard anybody but Shakespearean actors say “Zounds.” I felt like I was in some kind of drama, so it seemed appropriate.

  “Separate them,” the sheriff said to his men. “Peter, take those two.” He pointed at Will and Jennet, still standing together.

  “Wh-where shall I t-take them, sir?”

  “You have dozens of rooms to choose from, fool!” Next, he pointed to Fulke and his dad. “Simon, take this boy and his father to the library.” Simon was the nasty-looking guy. A scruffy black beard sprouted from his square chin, and a fearsome scar curved from one corner of his eye down to his mouth, like a warning.

  “I shall deal with Master Langford and his sister,” the sheriff said, glowering at us. He directed the remaining two men to question the servants.

  “Back to the hall with you,” the sheriff said to us. “You lead, Langford.”

  Stephen squeezed my hand as we dashed off ahead of the sheriff. He set a fast pace and I had to hurry to keep up.

  “Olivia,” Stephen whispered, slowing a little. “Keep walking, but listen. No matter what happens, do not tell him anything.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no matter what happens’?”

  “Do not worry, only remember what I said. You must not reveal anything, under any circumstances. Agreed?”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “I beg you, do as I ask.”

  “All right!”

  “Silence!” the sheriff yelled.

  When we arrived in the banqueting hall, he motioned us to the table, still littered with platters, half-eaten meals, and tankards. He remained standing and made a show of rattling his saber. And I’d always thought that was just an expression.

  “You are papists, like your aunt and uncle?” he began.

  I’d let Ste
phen get that one.

  “We were at one time, aye. Our parents grew up with the old faith, sir.”

  “Just as I thought. Traitors.”

  “That is an unfounded accusation!”

  The sheriff continued as though Stephen hadn’t spoken. “How long have you been staying at Hoghton Tower?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “You, mistress,” the sheriff said, suddenly turning his hard eyes on me. “Have you been to Mass here?” He was in my face now, so close I could see the broken veins spreading out at the end of his bulbous nose. His breath smelled of raw onions and ale.

  “Nay! We do not attend Mass.”

  He reached down and grabbed my bodice, jerking me up in one swift motion. “You are lying, mistress.” His voice was low and menacing.

  Stephen leaped to his feet. “Let her go. She’s telling the truth.”

  So fast it registered only as a blur, the sheriff let go of me and shoved Stephen backward onto the table, rattling the trenchers and spilling ale. As he pulled himself up, brushing bits of food off his doublet, I stole a glance at him. Please, give me a signal! What should I do? But all I saw was a cold glint in his eyes. I turned back to the sheriff.

  “Please, sir, I know nothing of what you speak. ’Tis against the law to attend Mass.” I barely got the words out, because my mouth had completely dried up.

  “What do you know of young Shakespeare?”

  Where did that come from?

  “We only made his acquaintance since our arrival here,” Stephen said. “We know nothing about him other than he is teaching the children of my uncle’s tenants.”

  “What of his relationship to the Jesuit?”

  “There is no Jesuit.”

  The sheriff blanched and moved an intimidating step closer to us. Then he hesitated a moment, like he was thinking things over. “Stay here,” he said, and strode out of the hall. When he was out of hearing range, I rushed over to Stephen. “Are you okay?”

  “Aye, for the moment. Did he hurt you?”

  “He scared me a little,” I lied. I’d never been so terrified in my life. “Why do you think he asked about Will?”

  “It puzzles me. I’ve no idea.”

  “Do you know where Thomas is? Is he safe?”

  “These homes have hiding places. Priest holes, they’re called. I imagine he’s safely hidden in one of them.”

  I nodded, relieved. “Stephen, why don’t we hide? Let’s make a dash for it. They can’t search every chamber in this house!”

  “ ’Twould be cowardly. Things would go worse for the others. Besides, there’s no time; I hear them approaching already.” He took my hands in his. “Remember what I said. Reveal nothing, no matter what.”

  I knew something awful was about to happen, and I must have looked panicked. “Please, Olivia. All will be well,” Stephen said, giving my hands a squeeze before dropping them.

  Why didn’t I believe him?

  The sheriff returned with some of his men, who must have finished questioning Will and the others. He quickly turned his attention to me. “Your brother will pay for every lie you tell me,” he said in a cold and calm voice.

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  Simon, the one who’d been sent to question Fulke and his father, seized Stephen and yanked him to his feet. “Is there a priest living here?” the sheriff asked me.

  I risked a glance at Stephen, who stared straight ahead and would not make eye contact with me. “Nay, sir. There is not.”

  While two men restrained Stephen, Simon punched him in the gut. With a grunt, he doubled over. They jerked him back up as he gasped for breath.

  Horrified, I recoiled under the sheriff’s threatening gaze. “Now, mistress. The Jesuit. Where is he?”

  “I do not know of any such person,” I said, my voice shaking.

  One of the men holding Stephen grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked his head up, while Simon, with his huge, hairy fist, bloodied Stephen’s nose and gave him another punch to the stomach for good measure.

  “I beg you, stop!” I lunged forward, but the sheriff yanked me back. Stephen was choking, trying to get a breath. He sounded awful.

  “Where is the chapel? The vestments? The sacred vessels?”

  “We do not have such things, sir! Not that I am aware of.”

  The sheriff said nothing, merely nodding to Simon.

  This time it was a blow to Stephen’s eye. I stared at him, hoping he’d signal me that I could confess all, but still he wouldn’t look at me. Blood trickled out of his nose, which seemed a little off kilter. A cut had opened up above one brow and was oozing blood.

  “Sir, I know nothing that could be of any help to you. You’re going to kill him!”

  They ignored me, instead delivering more blows when I refused to answer, or didn’t give the answer they wanted. I’d always thought the sounds in staged fights in the movies or on TV were exaggerated. But not anymore. The sound of knuckles striking flesh and bone was appalling. And Stephen, poor Stephen, with no way to fight back or block the punches.

  “You care not for your brother, mistress,” the sheriff said derisively, “or you would cease your lying.”

  Eyes streaming tears, nose running, I felt nearly incoherent by this time. I glanced at Stephen’s face, a bloody, bruised mask. He no longer seemed able to hold his head up, and I didn’t think he could take much more. Wiping my own face with trembling hands, I didn’t think I could either.

  I inhaled a shaky breath. Pulling myself together, I looked at the sheriff straight on. “You’re wrong, sir, I care deeply for my brother. But he is a stubborn man. You’re wasting your time.”

  The sheriff looked like he might pop a blood vessel, and for a moment I thought he would hit me. Instead he turned to his men and, with a sharp glance at Stephen, said, “Let him go.” They did, and he collapsed. Before following the sheriff out of the room, Simon kicked Stephen in the ribs, putting all of his viciousness into it.

  “That’s what we think of you lying papists,” he said.

  I rushed to Stephen. Kneeling beside him, I gently turned him over. “Stephen!” He tried to open his eyes, but his face was so swollen, all I could see were little slits. His breathing was ragged, and I knew the pain must be acute.

  Where was everybody? Somebody, please help me! Then I screamed out loud. “Help!”

  I shook with frustration when no one came running. Grabbing a napkin, I looked around for water and found the bowl used for hand washing. I dipped the napkin in it and dabbed at Stephen’s face. I was able to soak up some of the blood, but that was about all. The cut above his eye should be stitched, and he would need ice for the swelling. If only I had my backpack! I always kept a small bottle of Advil tucked inside one of the compartments in case of cramps. And I seriously doubted there was any ice around here.

  There was nothing more I could do until someone showed up to help me. I rested on my heels and grasped Stephen’s wrist, trying to find a pulse. It throbbed, steady but faint. Hoping he might sense my presence and not feel completely alone, I clutched his hand tightly.

  STEPHEN’S CHAMBER LAY SHROUDED in darkness, except for the soft light from one candle burning in a wall sconce. I had pulled the settle close to the bed, keeping watch over him through the night. Servants kept the fire going, and Bess draped a coverlet around my shoulders. Every time he stirred, I jumped up to see if his eyes were open. I worried about more than his visible bruises. What about internal injuries, those that no one in these times could even diagnose, let alone treat?

  When the sheriff and his men had finally trooped out for good, a servant raised the alarm and soon Will, Jennet, Fulke, and his father found me, still crouched on the floor next to Stephen.

  “God have mercy!” Jennet said when she saw him. “Is he awake?”

  I shook my head, and hesitated before speaking. Should I ask about ice, or would they all think I was crazy? But I had to try to do what was best for Stephen. “Is there any chance …
Do we have any ice?” I finally blurted out.

  “Ice? Whatever for?” Master Gillam asked.

  “Our healing woman recommends it for swelling and bruises.”

  “I shall ask one of the servants to check the underground cellars. I believe there were some large blocks cut last winter.” He turned to a young man and gave some instructions.

  “Pray, let’s remove him to his chamber,” I said, glancing at Fulke and Will. “Jennet, can you prepare a … some kind of medicinal potion? Something to ease the pain?”

  She nodded and hurried away.

  When a servant had brought the ice, I asked that it be broken into small pieces. I wrapped some in a clean cloth and placed it over Stephen’s eyes and nose, catching a few strange looks from those still in the room. Jennet had delivered an infusion of willow bark, which was meant to relieve pain, for Stephen to drink. But so far he hadn’t been awake enough to swallow anything.

  Now, curled up on the settle, I had time to think things over. I didn’t understand why Stephen was so set on saving Thomas Cook, when our purpose was to save Will Shakespeare. Not that I wanted the poor man to die or anything. But with Thomas out of the picture, wouldn’t our problem be solved? Shakespeare, free of his influence, could go on his merry way to London and transform himself into the Bard—with a detour to Stratford to marry Anne Hathaway.

  Stephen shifted and moaned. I removed the sodden cloth from his face, found a clean one, and wrapped it around some fresh ice. After repositioning the ice pack, I jiggled his arm, hoping he’d wake enough to let me know he would be all right. But nothing. No response. I lowered myself back onto the settle. My eyelids grew heavy and I dozed.

  Someone was shaking me, and I jerked awake. Looking up, I glimpsed Bess, her face scrunched into worry lines. It was morning, and an army of people was crowding around Stephen’s bed.

  “Mistress, you must go to your chamber. The physician has come to see Stephen.”

  The doctor, a short, balding man, turned to me. “Did he drink the infusion?”