Kathryn Kramer (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nicholas had never moved so fast in his life! Willing
his legs to take long, swift strides, he followed closely on Will Frizer’s heels as the ruffian dodged and darted through the crowd and away from the inn yard. Pushing over rain barrels, vaulting over anything in his way, Nicholas ran until his lungs threatened to burst. Yet the rogue managed to stay just out of his reach.

Changing his tactics, Nicholas used a shortcut and cut across the cutter’s path as he headed across the cobbled street. Nicholas almost caught up with his quarry, but then a rickety hay wagon rumbling out from an alleyway came between them.

Nicholas was exasperated as he watched the rogue disappear from sight. Bloody damn! Where in hell had the bastard gone? Two darkened streets led out of the square, like a Y. Which one had Frizer taken? Nicholas chose the path to the left.

Once away from the inn and the crowd, the streets grew silent.
It seemed that most of the residents of Dover were attending the performance.  Shops had been locked behind their heavy shutters, the cobbled streets had only a few passers-by.   Glancing warily from side to side, he tightly gripped his sword as he pushed onward.

Nicholas came to a haunt for sailors and the like, a dingy, stinking narrow street that overlooked the ocean. Taverns dotted the landscape and boats and ships were as plentiful as fleas on a dog. He wandered about, eyeing the old decaying brick warehouses warily.  He had to be careful lest he be taken unaware.  Something about the area raised the hackles on his neck.
It was just the sort of place where a rat could hide amongst those of his own kind.  And it was undoubtedly here that Will Frizer had gone.

Nicholas was on guard as he walked about.   He was rewarded for his tenacity as he at last spied Will Frizer among a group of  men who were lounging near a signpost.   Now that he was among his companions the ruffian made no attempt at running.  Instead he grinned evi
lly as if welcoming  a confrontation.

"God's eyebrows!" 

Nicholas realized at once that he had walked into a foxes lair.  These were rough and rugged men with the look of cruelty in their eyes, wearing serviceable blades under their short cloaks.  One of them, a red-haired man whose tousled hair hung  to his shoulders, laughed softly.               

"A pleasure it is seeing ye here, old man," the ruffian said, addressing Nicholas whom he assumed from his gray wig to be of advanced years.  "I have need of some coins and I have suspicion yer purse might well be bulging!" The burly thief  placed  his hands upon his thick thighs
,his cold dark eyes squinting against the light of the sun.

"I have no money pouch."  Nicholas had no quarrel with these men, nor was h
e in the mood for a battle when he was so outnumbered.

"Then we will find another way for ye to pay the toll to use this road."  The red-haired man took a step forward, scoffing at Nicholas's rapie
r.

Will Frazier boldly pushed the man back
. "Nay, Robert.  He chased after me. This one is mine.  I would take my revenge," he loudly informed his companions.  "But ye can take yer turn with him when I am through."             

Nicholas was outnumbered ten to one.  Usually one to stand his ground and fight, he broke into a run, this time as pursued and not as pursuer.  Only a fool would take a chance on being killed. He wanted to catch Frizer it was true
, but not at the expense of his own life.  Then his name would never be cleared.  The sound of pounding boot soles sounded close behind him.

"Catch him!"

Weaving in and out, making use of his strength and agility, Nicholas easily outdistanced the men chasing him, but his escape was cut short.  Several two storied buildings loomed in his path, forming a wall at the end of the dark alley.  Now he would be forced to fight.

"Aha!  Now I have you."  The voice behind him rang with malicious triumph.  "I'll cut yer throat and teach yer to chase after me."

Turning Nicholas was relieved to see that only four of the ruffians had bothered to follow him.  Far better odds than fighting the whole gang.

"Cut my throat?  I think not!" Nicholas's eyes blazed as his swordsman's instincts took hold.  In one agile movement, Nicholas sprang forward, his sword poised and ready for combat. He swung at his nearest attacker and had the satisfaction of seeing the man stagger and fall.  "Next!"

The red-haired man rushed at Nicholas's back with a dagger, trying for a quick, crippling blow to Nicholas's right side but Nicholas whirled and parried just in time.  He felt the blades collide and lock.

"I'll take him off yer hands, Robert, if ye can't handle him alone....."  Will Frazier unleashed his own sword, attacking Nicholas on the left. 

The third man rushed forward, but Nicholas thought fast, spinning to smash his fist into that man's face before he could draw his sword.  The man staggered back, lifting his hand to his bloodied mouth.             

The sound of sword on sword rent the air as Nicholas fought two men at one time, swinging his sword fiercely.  Everything seemed to happen simultaneously, registering quickly in his mind.  He no sooner felled one than the third man rose to take his place.  He did not dare take his eyes from the swish of the quick-moving blades
, but though the men were aggressive and brutal they were no match for Nicholas's experience.

"Who are ye?  Where did ye learn to fight like that?"  Will Frizer was amazed.

With a grace that belied his height and strength, he kicked Frizer's weapon aside as if it were naught but a stick. "It seems you thrive on attacking aged prey, Frizer!  Well, I am not yet gray and grizzled."

Nicholas struck out.
Screeching in pain, Will Frizer shuddered beneath the impact of the sharp steel piercing his flesh. Though Nicholas’s weapon was meant to be used as a stage prop,  when wielded by a swordsman, it did the necessary damage.  Frizer reared back, his face suffused with anger as he threatened, "ye bloody old bastard, ye'll be sorry for this!" Scrambling wildly to retrieve his sword he muttered a violent string of swear words. 

"And you will be sorry for your sins." Nicholas stuck out again, this time bringing forth a trickle of crimson from his adversary. 
             

Gone was the cutter
's fierce bravado. Like a wounded beast, Frizer slunk away, making his escape around the corner of an alehouse.  Nicholas started to pursue him, but just as he moved he was tripped by one of the other rogues lying on the ground.  Together they rolled over and over as they grappled.  Nicholas had his hands full, battling with first that man and then another, but in the end he was victorious, watching as the men turned coward and fled just as Frizer had done.

Nicholas had no time to congratulate himself.  Hastily brushing himself off,
and wiping the blood from his face and hands, he hurried off in the direction Frizer had gone.  This time, however, Frizer had truly vanished without leaving even one trace of where he might have gone.  The gathering darkness acted like a cloak to enfold him, hide him.

"Damn!  He's somewhere in this hell hole!"  But where?  Nicholas searched and searched but in
the end had to admit defeat. Will Frizer was gone. He might just as well try to find a shilling in a hayloft.  But  Frizer was here somewhere.  Tomorrow or the next day he'd find him.  Someway!  He had to! He'd come back to  visit the inn yard again and again until he did catch him.

It was late when Nicholas returned to the inn.  There he found the actors gathered together at the table eating, drinking and enjoying their favorite pas
time of all:  talking.

"Nicholas, you had best hurry and take your share while there is still fo
od aplenty."  Shakespeare gazed Nicholas’s way with that mysterious, all-knowing look of his.  "I fear we have eaten the poor inn keeper out of house and home.  The sea air no doubt."   Will  wiped his mouth with the hem of the tablecloth.  "The pigeon pie is delicious, by the way."

Nicholas was famished.  He didn't need any prodding to unleash his appetite.  Fighting always did that to a man, he supposed.  Plopping down in a chair next to the play
wright he relished the dishes set before him.  "The pigeon pie is, as you say, excellent." He expected a scolding from Shakespeare, but true to form, Will made light of Nicholas's actions.

"You held the audience spellbound, Christopher.  It made the watchers feel as if somehow they were part of the action," he said.  "So much so that I just might add that scene to the play."

Shakespeare didn't ask any questions, but Nicholas had the feeling that somehow Will knew what had prompted the sudden chase.  It was as if Shakespeare sensed things, exceeding other men's capabilities.

"The man I went after was a witness to a great wrong." 
Nicholas felt the need to explain, lest Shakespeare think ill of him.  "I had to catch up with him......" 

"And it looks as if you did," Heminges said dryly, eyeing Nicholas up and down.

"Aye, and most obviously he was the loser in the skirmish," Kempe said with a grin.    Grabbing up a large towel he threw it at Nicholas.  "Your face is streaked with blood and grime."

Nicholas looked at Murray Thatcher.  "I was set upon, but I promise you I did not put your sword to shame.  As battered as I may look
, I can tell you that the other men looked far worse."  It took but a few moments for him to realize that Alandra, who usually hovered near her father, was nowhere in sight.  Where was she?

Shakespeare seemed to
read Nicholas's mind as he said, "She is in her room.  Something is deeply troubling her. Something methinks only you can explain.” His voice dropped to a whisper as his eyes swept towards the stairs.

Nicholas followed Will’s
line of vision. Ah, but Alandra looked stunning, as she descended the stairs. Usually one to dress in more subdued hues, tonight she wore a dress of bright green, the full skirt just clearing the ground as it floated over a French farthingale.  Her hair was worn long, unencumbered by braids or fastenings, bedecked with a wreath of tiny flowers. 

There was something strange in her expression. Something that made his blood
run cold. Still, in front of the others she pretended cordiality. "Christopher!  For sooth but you did make yourself the topic of conversation.  No doubt the merchants' wives will make your performance the center of their chattering for days to come.  But the audience was delighted.  Will says you enlivened a dull part of the play." 

"That he did," Will agreed.  "Today's performance was out of the ordinary." 

Nicholas saw their eyes meet, and the look there seemed to send some secret signal. What was going on?

"Aye, I'm
full of surprises," he answered.  "As are you."  He wanted to ask her right then and there if she had let Shakespeare in on his secret, but the room was full.

One by one, however, the actors left the room, leaving only Murray and Kempe behind.   At a signal from
Murray  even Kempe did not tarry and followed Murray up the stairs. .  It was as if Murray sensed Nicholas wanted to be alone with Alandra. 

Alandra was incensed with him, but nevertheless, she dipped the end of the tablecloth in a

half empty mug of ale, then brushed tenderly at a cut on his forehead.  "You're wounded."

"A scratch and nothing more."  He tried to sound gruff, but dear God her touch was like heaven.  Even the sting of the ale was soothed away
.  It took all his will power to pull away from her but somehow he managed.

“And what of the other man?” Alandra asked coldly. “What happened to him? Is he lying in some gutter somewhere, a sword wound marking his back?”

Nicholas was taken aback. “Of course not!”

“At least then he has fared well. Better than
some who have crossed your path.”

She started to leave, but Nicholas grabbed her arm. “BiGod, just what do you mean by that?”

Their eyes fought a frantic duel. Alandra tried to get free of him, but he held her fast. He wasn’t going to turn her loose until she told him what she had meant by her jibe.

“Confess, Nicholas,” she hissed in his ear. “Tell me the truth for once!”

“The truth about what?” Realizing that he had raised his voice, he quickly softened it. “What is wrong with you? What have I done to spark your ire. Tell me!”

“You said Lord Woodcliff died in a fair fight,” she whispered, barely controlling her outrage. “But the word is out that he was stabbed mortally in the back. In the
back
, Christopher!”

“What?” His face paled as he realized what she had said and its implication. “Oh, no!” Once again something, some revelation, sparked in his mind. He remembered the frenzy of that night, how he had briefly turned his head to look at Morgana, how all of a sudden Lord Woodcliff was falling. He hadn’t remembered dealing a blow. Perhaps he hadn’t. “It was someone else!” The truth hit him forcibly. “Someone else must have killed him and left it for me to take the blame.””

“Oh, of course!” Alandra said with sarcasm, yet the look on his face tempered her anger, a look of surprise that he had not the acting talent to feign.