Love's Labyrinth (33 page)

Did she want to stay here, with Nicholas? As his wife? Was this the final outcome all along? Olivia, Lady Talcott—the words seemed to reverberate over and over in her mind. The portrait in the pub—had Alison been right all along? Had it resembled her so closely because it
was
her?

She sat back, scarcely paying attention as the others talked.

“Well, what do you think, Liv?” Alison asked. “You’re one of the resident experts. How do you think we can get the Queen’s attention?”

At that moment, a laughing group of men invaded the tavern.

“Damn,” Geoffrey muttered. “I knew we should’ve gone to another place. This one’s frequented by too many…”

Olivia raised her head, her eye caught by a familiar face. At once, Shakespeare was by her side, bowing over her hand, his large eyes roving over each face in turn. “Mistress Lindsley, how do you do?”

“As well as can be expected, Master Will.” She felt an unexpected pang of fondness for him. He was so—so human and so kind in every aspect. “These are my—my kinsmen—Master Geoffrey Talcott of Talcott Forest in Kent, and Mistress Alison O’Neill, and Lord Nicholas’s agent, Miles Coddington.”

Shakespeare bowed and nodded to each in turn. “My deep sympathies for your troubles, good gentles. Mistress Olivia was kind to share something of them with me. I stand at your disposal if there’s aught that I could do.”

Raucous laughter broke out from the other side of the room. “What ho, Will, don’t you ever need respite from the ladies?”

“Come, your ale is going flat, even as you dally.”

“Flat ale is a small price to pay for dalliance,” Shakespeare replied good-naturedly over his shoulder. “I’d rather dally than dither like the rest of you lot.” He turned back to her and bowed. “Duty calls, good gentles.”

“Wait,” Olivia said, half-rising. “Who are your companions?”

Shakespeare grinned. “These rogues are but members of Lord Leicester’s Men, mistress.”

“Come here and meet us, sweeting, you’ll see we’re much nicer than half-wit Will.”

“Half-witted, but full talented,” Shakespeare shot back. “Why do you ask?”

“Master Will,” Olivia began, thinking furiously, “you write, do you not?”

“If you can call his poetry writing, sweetheart,” shouted another wit.

Shakespeare shrugged. “As they say, mistress. Doggerel at best, perhaps.”

“That’s not true,” she said with such conviction he turned back to her. “You know it.”

He shifted on his feet. “Methinks you hold me in higher esteem than ever I could warrant, mistress.”

“Have you ever written a masque? Or a play?”

“Oh, aye, our Will’s taken his hand to a few scenes already, haven’t you, Will? Tell her, lad.”

Shakespeare sank down beside her on the bench, his eyes searching hers, ignoring all the teasing shouts. “I have begun to dabble in such things.”

“Would you write one for us?”

He glanced around the table. Geoffrey was listening, a guarded look on his face as if he realized what Olivia was leading to, while Alison and Miles watched. “Good mistress, methinks there’s more to your request than I yet know.”

Geoffrey leaned forward. “We need a way to get the Queen’s attention. She returns to Greenwich less than a fortnight hence.”

“It wouldn’t even require lines, Master Will.” In her enthusiasm, Olivia gripped his arm. “A dumbshow—we’d tell you what to do—tell you what must happen. You know, the play—the play’s the thing—” She broke off, flustered.

Shakespeare stared at her. “The play’s the thing?” he repeated slowly. “What play can you mean? You speak in such riddles, mistress, and yet—” He broke off and stared at her. “Are you to be my muse, mistress?”

She dropped her eyes. Oh, great, she thought. Now what do you say—never mind, you haven’t thought of that yet? “I—I was only thinking that a play within a play might be a way to get the Queen’s attention. And if we could have Leicester give her the letter from Dr. Dee while she’s watching it—”

“By God, that might work,” Geoffrey said. “There’s nothing Her Majesty loves more. Can you do it, Master Shakespeare? I’ll pay—you and your fellows. ‘Tis as good a way as any I’ve heard—what do you think, Alison?”

But Alison was staring at Olivia. “Allie?” Olivia asked.

Alison’s eyes moved slowly from Shakespeare to Olivia and back again. Finally, she looked at Olivia. “I told you, didn’t I?” There was a quiet finality in her voice, which made all three men cock their heads, confused. “That portrait—that picture in the pub. That was
you
.”

THE GREAT HALL of Greenwich Palace was alight with thousands of candles, and the costumes of the courtiers twinkled with hundreds of jewels of every color and description. Olivia looked around, wide-eyed, as she, Alison, and Geoffrey slipped in with the actors and mingled among the throng that clustered like moths about the flame that was Queen Elizabeth of England.

All the accounts of all the history books she had ever read could not prepare her for the reality of the English court, the abundance and the opulence of the feast that was spread out on tables before their eyes. Musicians played sweetly in the gallery overhead, and courtiers mingled, dancing, laughing, drinking, presided over by the Queen herself, who sat flanked by Lord Leicester on the one hand and the Spanish ambassador on the other. Geoffrey had delivered the letter from Dr. Dee to Leicester himself that very afternoon, and Leicester had promised not only to deliver the message to the Queen as she watched the masque, but to inquire himself into the charges against Nicholas.

Elizabeth wore a fantastic gown of silver brocade, heavily embroidered with diamonds and pearls. On her dark red wig, she wore a glittering tiara, from which diamonds winked and sparkled. Against the backdrop of the court, she shone like a pale moon. Olivia’s heart beat faster as the musicians finished their song with a flourish. The dancers bowed and drifted off the floor. A drum roll from the musicians’ gallery and a flourish of trumpets brought conversation to a muted standstill. Even the Queen looked up expectantly. She leaned toward Leicester and whispered behind her fan.

Shakespeare strode out into the center of the hall and bowed low to the Queen. He bowed to each side of the room. “Most Gracious Majesty, noble lords and ladies, sweet people all, turn your eyes to this small space, and let it, for one brief moment, an you will, encompass England’s sunny fields of amber corn.”

Olivia clutched Alison’s arm, and her friend gave her a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be okay, Liv,” she whispered.

“That’s not what I meant, Allie. Look, over there, I think that’s Christopher Warren—the one who set this whole thing up!”

“Really, where?” Alison craned her head.

“Over there by the door—see? Next to the guard? He’s in dark brown—damn. I don’t see him. But the play doesn’t sound bad, does it?” Olivia whispered back.

“Not bad for his first attempt.” Alison winked, as a serving girl shushed them both.

Shakespeare ended his prologue with a flourish, and the other actors leapt to their parts. Olivia scarcely watched the performance at all. She was much too engrossed with watching the reaction on Elizabeth’s face. The Queen chuckled heartily a few times and even slapped her thigh once or twice. The Court erupted in spontaneous applause several times. The musicians played softly in the background. Then the music fell silent.

Elizabeth leaned forward with interest as white-faced players dressed in motley scampered into the center. With deliberate, exaggerated steps, they enacted silently Warren’s offer to Nicholas, Nicholas’s acceptance of it, and the meeting with the Spaniard.

On the other side of the room, Christopher Warren began to sweat. His face paled as the actors continued. The Queen was frowning as the dumbshow went on, and Olivia, peering through the crowd, saw Leicester hand her the rough parchment that contained Dr. Dee’s letter. With a puzzled expression, the Queen broke the seal, scanned the letter, and looked at Leicester, a frown deepening the lines on her face. Leicester whispered something to the Queen. Elizabeth looked at the Spanish ambassador and down at the letter. Through the layers of white makeup the Queen wore, Olivia saw the color unmistakably rise.

She glanced up at the players, who had reached the part in the drama where Nicholas was dragged off to the Tower.

The courtiers closest to the Queen, noticing her reaction, began to whisper among themselves, and the low rustle of voices swept like wildfire through the hall, as the silent actors reached the end of their performance. The actors scurried away, and the musicians struck another note, when the Queen rose to her feet, holding up her hand for silence. The entire room fell silent. Tension quivered through every line of Elizabeth’s body, and when she spoke, her voice echoed to the roof. “Is Master Geoffrey Talcott present?”

There was a moment of profound and utter silence. Then Alison gave Geoffrey a little nudge. He pushed through the crowd of lesser nobles standing at the back of the room, and strode into the center, his boots clicking loudly on the polished parquet floor. “At Your Majesty’s service.” He sank down on one knee, head bowed low.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and glanced at Leicester. “Where is your brother, Master Talcott?”

“He has been detained in the Tower of London, Your Majesty.”

“On what charge?”

“Treason, Your Majesty.”

Whispers swept like wildfire through the room, and on the other side, Olivia caught Shakespeare’s eye. He winked.

“Come with me, Master Talcott, and you, too, my Lord Leicester. We like it not that a peer of my realm should be so imprisoned upon such a grievous charge and we know nothing of it.”

“If Your Majesty will allow—” Olivia looked toward this new voice and saw a dark-haired man push his way into the open space before the Queen. His costume was black like a Puritan’s, but far too lavishly embroidered. His lacy ruff was small, but starkly white against the otherwise unrelieved black, and Olivia recognized him at once from his portraits. Sir Francis Walsingham spoke with a dry and humorless air. “There is evidence. And a witness.”

“The evidence is contrived!” cried Geoffrey.

“Contain yourself, Master Talcott.” Elizabeth frowned at his outburst. “Sir Francis, you, too, then, will come with us.”

Walsingham looked startled, but bowed immediately. “As Your Majesty requires.”

“I have a witness, too, Your Majesty,” said Geoffrey.

“Oh?” Elizabeth paused in midstep. “Who?”

“Mistress Olivia Lindsley.” He turned and beckoned to Olivia.

Heart pounding, throat dry, Olivia glided forward and sank into a deep curtsy before the Queen.

“We know you, chit,” Elizabeth said. “You sang a song for us, and bid us avoid the company of men. ‘Twould have been wise if you’d heeded your own advice, no?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Olivia breathed, scarcely daring to look at the Queen.

“Come along, then, all of you. ‘Tis a tangled coil indeed when dinner must be interrupted to deal with it.”

They followed the Queen from the hall, Olivia clinging to Geoffrey’s arm. The musicians struck up a merry tune, but even they could not disguise the babble of speculation that rose in the Queen’s wake.

Elizabeth led them to a room furnished with one chair on a raised dais and a long table surrounded by chairs. “Now, Master Talcott. My own physician vouches for your verity. What’s this all about?”

As quickly as he could, Geoffrey told the whole story, explaining how Nicholas had believed himself to be the agent of the government, risking himself and Olivia to retrieve the plans for the invasion of England.

Walsingham said nothing. Finally Geoffrey fell silent. Elizabeth looked at Olivia. “Well, mistress? Is all as Master Talcott tells it?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You aren’t so saucy today as you were before. What ails you, mistress?”

“Lord Nicholas is unfairly accused, Your Majesty. ‘Tis hard to make merry when he lies in prison under threat of losing his life.”

Elizabeth did not reply, but her bright black eyes slid over to Sir Francis. “And what say you, Sir Francis?”

“There is a witness, Your Majesty.”

“Who?”

“Sir John Makepeace, Your Majesty. A knight of unassailable reputation, and a Protestant of unparalleled virtue.”

“That well may be,” Olivia burst out, “but why was he there in the first place? We saw him in the church—a Catholic church, Your Majesty.” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, and even Sir Francis started. “Who told him to look for us there? Sir John would no more darken the door of a Papist Church than he would a house of prostitution.”

“Hold your tongue before the Queen, hussy!” Sir Francis burst out.

But Elizabeth burst out laughing. “You have a rare spirit, wench.” She glanced at Sir Francis. “Sir Francis. You agree this is most irregular?”

Sir Francis shrugged. “I would have to speak to Sir John, Your Majesty.”

“Then do so. And as for you, Leicester, Talcott is a friend of yours, is he not?”

Leicester, who up to now had stayed silent, started. “Well, Your Majesty…”

“Do not equivocate, Robin, ‘tis not your head upon the block.”

“He is my friend, Your Majesty.”

That seemed to satisfy Elizabeth momentarily, but soon she looked up with a puckered frown. “This Christopher Warren. Where’s he?”

Walsingham looked up. “He’s here, Your Majesty.”

“Summon him. Now.”

At once Walsingham bowed and went to the door. He whispered something to the guard outside and turned back. “He’ll be here momentarily, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” Elizabeth nodded with a self-satisfied air. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

The minutes dragged. Olivia shifted on her feet and stole a peek at Geoffrey. He glanced at her and winked. Finally there was a tap on the door.

“Enter,” cried the Queen.

A puzzled-looking guard stood in the doorway as the heavy door slowly swung open.

“Where’s this Master Warren?” asked Elizabeth.

The guard bowed. “In truth, Your Majesty, he’s not to be found. He was seen to leave shortly after the play began. He did not look well, according to those who saw him go.”