The Greatest Lover in All England (22 page)

“In Newgate Prison with the rest of the common prisoners.” He took a breath. “You must realize I'll do all in my power to get Sir Danny released.”

She searched his face for reassurance. “Aye, I know you will.” Staggering to a chair, she lowered herself. “Is that what you seek?”

A crumpled wad of paper lay by the window, and with a cry he sprang for it. Smoothing it with shaking hands, he saw what he dreaded. The communication which relayed the news of Sir Danny's capture, and the stains of tears that blurred the ink.

Aye, Rosie was gone. Gone to London to rescue Sir Danny. Gone because she believed Tony had betrayed her by keeping her in ignorance. She would never forgive him for seeking her safety.

“Rosie!” The anguish of his cry sounded through the room and rose to the heavens, and on the dark road that wound away from Odyssey Manor, Rosie heard its echo.

Inside the padded doublet, her father's signet ring hung by its ribbon around her neck. Shivering from cold and fear of the night, she pulled it from its place in her bosom and held it in her hand.

She remembered it all now. The study, the manor, the grounds, the servants, Hal…Hal. She understood his dedication to the manor now, the awe and fright he exuded when he looked at her. She ought to tell of his crime, but she clutched the ring tight and the sharp edges dug into her palm, reminding her of her own shame. How could she destroy a fellow prisoner of Purgatory when she so well comprehended the wretched guilt that haunted Hal's sunken eyes?

Her thoughts made her stumble in the ruts hidden by the night. They made her wish to turn back, yet urged her on. Real guilt for hiding the ring, imagined guilt in the cause of her father's death, guilt for leaving Tony. Aye, she knew she had plunged Tony into a maelstrom of rage and grief. She valued herself, and he valued her, too. He didn't just want her for her property, she knew that, but a man like Tony could always find another woman. A man like Tony had only to crook his little finger, and women would be on him like flies on honey.

But she suspected his need to lay claim to his child transcended every other need. The child she probably carried. The child she was taking away from him with every step she took.

How would he react when he realized she was gone? Would he search for her, or would he go to answer the queen's summons? She thought he might comprehend the bent of her mind in much the same manner as she comprehended his, and seek her in London while fulfilling his duty to the queen and the nation.

And that, too, would be disaster. He needed to concentrate his whole mind on the queen's business. Would he still have the confidence of the finest swordsman in England, yet maintain the wariness of a man marked by greatness for an assassin's blade?

As if in answer to her questions, she heard the thunder of a horse's hooves behind her. It was Tony. She knew it was Tony, and she fled toward the thicket that lay just ahead. Just in the nick of time. As she sprang into the bushes, she felt the tremble in the loam beneath her. She flung herself face first onto the ground and clasped the tough grass. She had to hang on tight, for when the horse and its rider drew close to the thicket, their rapid pace slowed. She turned her head and saw Tony silhouetted against the moonlit horizon.

“Rosie!” he called. “I beg you, Rosie, don't go by yourself. Come to me. I swear I'll take you with me. I swear.” His voice broke, and he spurred his horse on. “Rosie” he called again.

She rubbed her forehead in the cold dirt, trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing. Sir Danny needed her. Tony would only try to protect her, and thus endanger himself. He'd get in her way; she didn't want to be an ornament on Tony's chain. She needed to be in the midst of the action, and Tony—damn him, damn him—had betrayed her by keeping Sir Danny's imprisonment a secret. She hated him for that, and understood why he'd done it, and wished she didn't need to be brave and strong, to vanquish the dark and the phantoms that lurked there.

Holding her head against the ground, she listened as the vibration of the hooves died away, then pushed herself onto her hands and knees. Squinting at the vague forest forms, she thought she didn't remember the tree planted so close to her nose. She looked up and realized the massive presence didn't extend to the heavens, but only to the height of a man. With a shriek, she fell back.

Ludovic said, “You've come out to me at last.”

London
February 1601

“
I will not have
my tooth pulled.” Queen Elizabeth plunked out a tune at her virginal, in too much pain to play with her usual skill. “There's nothing wrong with it. I'm healthy as an English war-horse.”

Tony exchanged glances with Robert Cecil, secretary of state, and realized again how glad he was not to hold that post. As Elizabeth's adviser, Cecil held a position of power, glory, and wealth. Unfortunately, it included the task of persuading the queen that one of her rotting teeth would have to go. A thankless job, but one which no one else had the stomach to perform. Within the confines of Elizabeth's antechamber, Cecil had to bear the brunt of the royal displeasure. Still, he spoke without flinching. “The tooth drawer says we can dress it with fenugreek, and it will fall out.”

“Excellent!” Elizabeth's long, thin face accentuated the puffiness of her cheek, and she pursed her thin lips as if hiding her problem would somehow vanquish it.

“But that might make the neighboring teeth fall out as well.”

The queen's deep-set eyes had circles beneath them, for toothache had kept her sleepless for two nights, but they flashed with vibrant royal displeasure, and Tony wished he were elsewhere. But since his arrival in London, Elizabeth had kept him close at her side. Fruitlessly, he had begged to be told of the concern which brought him to her. Imperiously she declared he was the master of Her Guard, and as such, he should guard her.

“What have I done to deserve such trials?” she cried petulantly. “I vigilantly use the tooth cloths, but to no avail. Still am I cursed with this pain.”

Tony contemplated her with a knitted and serious brow. “I think, Your Majesty, that the gods fear your perfection.”

Her shrill voice deepened and smoothed. “Why are you prating of perfection?”

“When I look upon you, I see perfection. Your long hands, your white skin, the beauty of your eyes, the sharp wit of your mind. I fear the gods punish you for daring to be a woman of extraordinary gifts.”

Queen Elizabeth plucked at her ruff, striving for modesty while acknowledging the truth of Tony's sentiments. Robert Cecil thanked Tony with a nod, although they both knew the queen's blackened teeth owed more to her fondness for sweets than the gods' displeasure.

Wrapping his hunched body deep in his cloak, Cecil returned to the fray. “Your Majesty, you've had teeth extracted before.”

“I didn't like it.” Queen Elizabeth peered at the two
men. “The last time, the archbishop of London had one of his teeth extracted to show me it didn't hurt.”

Tony and Robert Cecil both shut their mouths with a snap and remained silent. Satisfied with muffling her two tormentors, Queen Elizabeth turned back to the virginal and picked out a plaintive, haunting tune.

Did she regret summoning Tony from Odyssey Manor? He didn't think so. He was the weapon she concealed until she needed the use of him. While flattered by her trust, he chafed at her caution. She refused to speak to him of Essex, for she still retained a fondness for the handsome young man. She believed, and rightly, Tony admitted, that Tony despised Essex and wished for his downfall. Despite the application of Tony's finest tact, she took any mention of Essex's perfidy as criticism of her previous foolishness.

But he desperately needed to discuss Sir Danny, and she, in her wiliness, had evaded his every attempt. He had guarded her through Christmas and Twelfth Night, cajoling her, playing cards with her, searching for Rosie at every opportunity, and all the while Rosie's beloved dada had been suffering in prison.

Sir Danny hadn't died—yet. The winter cold bit deep, even in Whitehall Palace, and Tony cringed when he thought of the damp cold of prison seeping into Sir Danny's bones. Worse, for all his bold gallantry, Sir Danny couldn't remain immune to the exquisitely skillful tortures. Tony had done what he could with liberal bribes, but he woke every day afraid he'd hear the news—the news that Sir Danny had died.

And if Sir Danny died, Tony would never get Rosie back. He had tried to find her, but she'd slipped into the London acting world without a ripple. She had the connections to remain hidden, and had chosen to do so.

If he could rescue Sir Danny, Rosie would come
back to him. It was a guarantee for his future happiness, and desperation made him gauche. “Your Majesty, the tooth pains you. Miasma flows from it and poisons your blood and, therefore, must be withdrawn, just as the earl of Essex pains you and must be plucked forth.”

The melody ended in a clash of chords, and Robert Cecil coughed in dismay. He'd never heard Tony fail in tact, and the queen seemed to realize it at the same moment as Cecil. “I know what ails me, my dear Tony. Now what ails you?”

“A heartache, madam, at the injustice which is perpetrated in your kingdom. Right now one of your most loyal subjects lies in Newgate Prison, accused of treason by the earl of Essex.”

“Have you run mad?” Cecil murmured.

Tony ignored him. “Your subject came to me—the master of the Queen's Guard—with information concerning the traitorous activities of Essex and Southampton. I sent him to you with a letter, recommending you listen to his story, and before he could even reach you, Essex intercepted him, charged
him
with traitorous activities, and had him incarcerated.”

Queen Elizabeth leaped off the padded stool. “I know that. Do you think Essex runs this country?”

“Never, Madam.”

“You're jealous of him.”

“I just want to know why you ignored my letter.”

Grabbing his doublet in both her hands, she pulled his face down to hers. “Are you demanding answers from me?”

She might be old, she might be a woman, but she was the queen. His queen. And this time she was wrong. “Did you ever see my letter?”

“Are you demanding answers from your queen?”

“My letter told you—”

She boxed his ears.

He hadn't had his ears boxed since Jean did it when he was a boy. He wanted to roar and shout. Instead he smiled with all his charm and determination. “If you won't listen to me, perhaps you'll listen to your subject.”

“My subject. An actor! Do you think I don't know about the actor?” Her knuckles turned a bony white as she clenched her fists tighter. “Sir Daniel Plympton is his name, and he confessed to being a troublemaker even before the torturer began his work.”

“He fears pain. So he's a coward. Yet he dared to return to London after Essex had marked him for death, for love of Your Majesty and the peace of her kingdom. He came like a tiger and you imprisoned him like a kitten. And why? Because Essex wanted you to. Because you wanted to try to appease that pretty spoiled boy with his honeyed tongue.”

She boxed Tony's ears again. “You could take lessons from him.”

“In betraying my queen? I think not.”

She boxed his ears again. And again. He flinched beneath the assault, for she had a strong arm and a wicked temper, but he wouldn't lift his hand to his queen, as Essex had tried to do when she treated him with similar disrespect. Tony hoped she remembered and made the comparison. He hoped she would follow the instinct that had protected her kingdom for the forty-two years of her sovereignty.

If she did, he didn't see it.

“Get out!” she shouted. “Get out of my sight, and don't come back.”

He bowed. “Sir Danny Plympton will die happy if he can help the captain of this ship we call England steer a safe course through these shoals. He is your most faithful admirer.”

Picking up a gold enamel pot, she shouted, “Go!”

He bowed again and backed toward the door. “Call him before you. Hear what he has to say. I beg of you, madam. Listen to his words.”

She let fly with the pot as he shut the door, and it smashed at the place where his head had been. “Insolent baggage,” she raged. “How dare he speak to me in such a manner?”

Bobbing and weaving like a Christian facing an enraged lioness, Sir Robert Cecil declared, “Sir Anthony Rycliffe is an insolent fool.”

“Fool? Fool?” Queen Elizabeth snatched up a vase and threw it at Cecil's head. Cecil didn't dodge as well as Tony and took the blow in the chest. “Sir Anthony Rycliffe is no fool.”

“Nay, madam, he's a rogue.”

Her rage temporarily expunged, she sank onto a pile of cushions arranged for her comfort. “Aye, he's a rogue.”

“A knave,” Cecil suggested.

“Not a knave.” Exhausted by her tantrum, she closed her eyes.

“Madam, shall can I call your ladies-in-waiting?”

“Nay.” She flapped a limp hand. “Call the tooth drawer.”

Cecil bowed, although she couldn't see him, and hastened to the door. As he opened it, she said, “And Cecil?”

“Aye, Your Majesty?”

“Bring me Sir Danny Plympton. Immediately. I wish to question him.”

 

The Chamberlain's Men and the members of Sir Danny's troupe laughed and quarreled as they drank the evening away at Cross Keys Inn in Gracechurch Street. This was their place; it had always been their place, just
as the Queen's Men gathered at the Bull in Bishopgate Street and the Earl of Worcester's Men gathered at the Boar's Head in Whitechapel. When the winter grew too bitter to perform their plays in the open-roofed Globe Theater, they came and performed in the inn. The innkeeper found it a draw for customers, and for the most part the actors behaved in a seemly manner.

But now he kept a weather eye on them as they debated the most outrageous event in the history of theater.

Lady Rosalyn Bellot wanted to perform with the Chamberlain's Men, and before the queen, no less.

Richard Burbage, leading player for the Chamberlain's Men, peered gloomily into his tankard of beer. “Rosencrantz is a woman now, they say.”

“Aye, she's a woman now.” Cedric Lambeth, fool for Sir Danny's troupe, pulled his fife from a flap inside his doublet and played a tune, one that ranged from deep and masculine to high and feminine, with a confusion of notes in the middle. “We saw her, me and Sir Danny's boys, and she's a woman. Sir Anthony Rycliffe knew she was a woman from the moment he laid eyes on her, I trow, but then he's the greatest lover in all England.”

Dickie Justin McBride, the handsome actor who had been Rosie's childhood torment, stopped drinking in mid-swig. “Who says?”

Cedric wrinkled his brow. “Think 'twas him that told me.”

A blast of laughter from the men on the benches tossed him in a somersault, and he came up grinning.

Richard Burbage shouted, “Sir Anthony sounds like a man with his mind in his codpiece—just where it belongs.”

Finishing his drink, Dickie thumped his tankard hard on the table. “Sir Anthony Rycliffe may be a boasting bas
tard, but he's master of the Queen's Guard. What's he going to say if we let his woman play the part of Ophelia? Not just play the part, but do it before Her Majesty.”

The merriment faded; then a voice from the back, timid and unsure, called, “It's not as if she hasn't played the part before.”

“Aye, but we didn't know before.” John Barnstaple of Sir Danny's troupe excused their previous actions.

“Do you think our ignorance would matter to the Puritan bullyboys if they ever found out?” Dickie leaped onto the plank table and stomped from end to end, shaking the tankards. The men snatched up their drinks as he passed and brayed for him to jump down. Instead, he swirled his short cape and projected his voice. “'Tis the infraction they've been waiting for. They've been saying the theater is the storehouse of sin for all England. If they found out a woman performed the women's roles, they'd point and say that it proved our wickedness.” He glared into each man's eyes as he circled the table. “Verily, 'twould be the truth.”

The speaker in the back sounded curious. “What's so dreadful about a woman playing women's roles?”

Richard Burbage stared into the shadows and said dolefully, “Don't be daft, man. 'Tisn't done.”

“She's made fools of us for years.” Alleyn Brewer, Rosie's principal rival for the lady's roles, stood on a bucket before the fire and waved a tankard of ale. “Why should we help her make a fool of the queen?”

“
She
made a fool of us?” Cedric stood on a bucket behind Alleyn, doing an imitation of the effeminate young man. “She made no fool of me. I made a fool of myself, and I'm sure every man here will second that boastfully.” Alleyn spun around on his bucket and glared, and Cedric said soothingly, “Except you, of course, Alleyn.”

The actors who perched on the tables in the tap
room made little attempt to muffle their merriment as Alleyn spoke. “If the queen should discover that Ophelia's role is played by a woman, we'll lose everything. Our patron, our playhouse, and our livelihood.”

“If Rosie doesn't play Ophelia, we'll lose the man who guided our faltering feet along the path of performing.” Cedric hopped off the bucket and scampered along, mimicking an actor's difficult voyage.

Dickie snorted. “But what can Rosie do for Sir Danny?”

“She'll play Ophelia, and Queen Elizabeth will be so moved she'll grant her a boon.” The soft voice spoke from the shadows at the back. “Rosie will ask for the life of Sir Danny, and he'll be saved.”

Voices hummed as everyone nodded, satisfied with this prediction of the future. Everyone but Dickie.

“Rosie's going to do this? Rosie? The same Rosie who can't act her way out of a sheep's bladder?” Dickie held his ribs. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

The room fell silent. Gazes slid from one side to the other, touching, sidling away. No one wanted to admit the truth of it, but Cedric took the temperature of the room.

“So for fear of the stocks, we should slink away like rat-eating weasels and let Sir Danny die?” He spit in the fire, and it sizzled with a yellow flare. “You're a babe, mewling and puking in craven dismay at the first hint of danger.”