Kathryn Kramer (30 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Though it appeared that the immediate peril to Nicholas was over, the actors were nonetheless edgy as they prepared for their performance at Bath.  Reality had intruded all too harshly in their make-believe sphere, reminding them of just how fragile a man's destiny could be. Beyond the perimeters  of the stage was a real world that far surpassed in harshness, deception and social ambition anything that Shakespeare could create for his tragedies.  Thus, despite the bravado of their resolution to aid Nicholas, there was a look of uncertainty in every eye.  They all knew that Lord Owen Stafford could return to Bath at any moment with his entourage and drastically alter the ending each and every man wanted for this real-life drama.                

Alandra was wary
, too, fearing what might happen if the actors' plans went astray.  Who was this Will Frizer and could he help Christopher?  Christopher had told the troupe that Frizer was a well-known thief and hired murderer, a “cutter.” Had he killed Lord Woodcliffe? And would he kill Christopher? And what about Lord Stafford?  Certainly, he had given up much too easily.  Though most of the actors were certain they had seen the last of Christopher's  elegant enemy,  she and Will  were certain that Stafford would be back.  The  question that worried her was when?

Even so, Alandra maintained a congenial mood as the members of the
company set up for the play.  As she aided her father in arranging the costumes and scenery, she tried to keep their spirits light.

"Alandra!" 

The voice was familiar, jarring her out of her contemplation. “Christopher!”

Even Alandra would hardly have  recognized him in his disguise had she not known already what h
e had planned to do.  Wearing dun-colored baggy breeches, a grotesquely padded doublet to give him a great deal of girth,  a long brown wig and matching beard,  wrinkled  blue hosen and boots, he did indeed look exactly like a groundling, a cobbler by trade.  Clutching a sack of nuts in one hand and an apple in the other, he prepared himself for his "role", strutting about with Will Kempe, who was dressed in equal "splendor" as a tinker.

Screwing up his face, wrinkling his nose,  Kempe cupped his  hand and put it to his mouth, practicing his role as a heckler.  "You whoreson,  you simpleton.  Do you call that acting? 'Tis more stimulating to watch a tree growing."   He puncuated his insult by tossing an orange at Nicholas.  "Your turn."

Nicholas cleared his throat.  "'Tis a bungled performance you give us."

Kempe shook his head so vigorously that it sent his hair tumbling into his eyes.  "Too polite." He was purposefully critical. 

"Too polite?" Nicholas tried again.  "You lackwitted, pie-faced son of a buffoon, you muffed your lines."

"No, no.  Your manner is just too lordly," Kempe shot back.  "You need to be more oafish, Christopher.  Call to mind how you were treated during your first performance....."

Nicholas paused for a long moment, remembering how merciless the crowd had turned when something displeased them, then in a loud  nasal voice he said,  "You call this a play?  In truth I've heard better rhyme from a cow." Outrageously he mimicked Kempe's mannerisms, including spitting on the ground, a most unlordly thing to do.

"Better.  Better." 

Nicholas practiced hurling  insults at the performers, competing with his actor  friend as to who could act the most churlish.  Even his walk was under scrutiny by Kempe, who taught him a bowlegged swagger, a far cry from Nicholas's manly strut.

"BiGod, you're nearly there," Kempe praised.

Nicholas suppressed his laughter as he slowly transformed himself into a "groundling".  Trying to be creative, he let his insults fly,  becoming more experienced with each taunt.  "Actors you call yourselves? "Performers? Forsooth, the ants in the dung pile are more worthy of the name." 

"Good!  Good.  But pepper your comments with profanity."  A string of swear words flowed freely from Kempe's mouth
.

Five of
the young actors, also disguised as groundlings, joined in the game. Insult after insult followed, merged with fiendish oaths, each ribald comment and catcall becoming more riotous than before.  But in the end Nicholas conceded, proclaiming Kempe the winner.

"Oh...?"  Playfully Alandra tugged at Nicholas's beard.  "I would definitely say that it is a tie, for in truth I suspect that you will fit right in with the crowd."  She held forth a mirror so that he could inspect his disguise, laughing as he turned his head this way and that, all the while making faces. 

"Stafford  wouldn't recognize me if I bumped right in to him."  With a loud guffaw he gingerly pinched her behind.

"Christopher!"  Alandra blushed as she realized that Kempe had witnessed his action.

"Just keeping in character, sweetling!  Just keeping in character."  Strange, but in spite of the danger, Nicholas was actually having fun.  At court such laughter was always tempered with caution.  A man never knew, even in the midst of merrymaking, when an enemy would strike, albeit with an air of civility.

"I forgive you as long as I am the only wench that you pinch."

Taking off his cap, Nicholas bowed.  "I promise."

"Then away with you.  Go throw your apples at the stage."  She threw him a kiss for good luck and watched as he zig-zagged his now-ample bulk between several  support beams of the stage.

As usual there was a goodly crowd at the inn yard, perhaps even larger than usual. "Due in part to the excitement of the soldiers yesterday,” Shakespeare said. “ Not only those who love entertainment are elbowing each other for space, but the curious are also here this afternoon."

"Let us only hope that Will Frizer will likewise be here," Alandra whispered, scanning the crowd for a skinny, shaggy-haired
, scar-faced man. 

She played over and over again in her mind the description Christopher had given to the actors, remembering every scar, ever freckle, wo
ndering if Shakespeare was right in his assumptions.  In all likelihood Frizer  was a long way off, still in Dover, and this charade would be all for naught.  And yet if there was even a hint of a chance.  She clasped her hands tightly together in a semblance of prayer as the young man with the placard announcing the start of the play made his appearance.

Her optimism dwindled as
The Comedy of Errors
proceeded, a shortened version of an older play Shakespeare had written nearly ten years ago.   Frizer wasn't in the crowd.  They had been foolish to even think life could be so simple. 

"I don't see Frizer, Will,  but....
.dear God!"  Alandra gasped as she took note of a familiar golden-haired head.  Was she seeing things or was Owen Stafford among those seated in the gallery? Squinting her eyes, she looked hard and long at the nobleman, deciding at once that it was he.  So, Stafford had come to take a look at the actors for himself.  "Will....!"

"What is it, Alandra?  You look as if you have
seen a ghost."

"Oh that I had, for it would be preferable to seeing the man that I do see."  She pointed.   "Owen Stafford!"  So, the guardsmen's retreat had not been a victory for Christopher  after all.

Unlike her, Shakespeare did not seem in the least bit troubled.  "I am not at all surprised, for I had expected as much.  'T will but make our trap for Frizer a bit harder to spring if he shows his face."  He touched her lightly on the tip of her nose.  "But do not worry.  Your Christopher won't be recognized, on that I would stake my reputation."

Remembering his "disguise" Alandra agreed.  "Lord Stafford will not be looking for Christopher in the crowd
. He'll be watching the actors on the stage."

"Aye.  Likewise I would wager that if Frizer is in the audience  sniffing about like some huntsman's hound, his eyes will be focused on the performers."

"But if perchance Frizer does show his face and if Christopher  calls attention to himself by trying to subdue him,  then what?"

  "Such an event might well bode ill."  Will scowled.  "We must make certain that if Frizer is cornered
, our dear Lord Stafford's attention is diverted."

"How can I help, Will?" 

Alandra knew the answer just as soon as the question was asked.  Somehow she had to distract Owen Stafford so that he would not realize what was going on below and have time to alert his guardsmen.  There seemed to be only one way to do that.  Without another thought, Alandra pushed and shoved her way to the gallery.  Moving slowly she pondered her mode of action.

"
Oranges.  Get yer ripe juicy oranges," she heard a young woman call out, peddling her wares.

Alandra was struck with an idea.  "
Oranges, yes!"  Fumbling in her money pouch she came up with a fistful of coins.  "I want all of them." Never mind that the money had been entrusted to pay for the company’s supper that night.

"All of them?"  The woman cocked her head.  "All," she asked again.

"Each and every one.  And your basket as well."  What better way to move freely about the gallery than to masquerade as an orange seller?

"The basket?"  The peddler woman looked at Alandra as if she had suddenly gone mad
, but shrugging her shoulders held forth her wares.  "It will cost you more coins."

Alandra nodded,
giving the woman the requested amount then whisking the basket and oranges from her grip. In order to distract Stafford, she knew  she might have to create a scene when and if the time came.  The oranges would be the catalyst.

Purposefully emphasizing the swing of her hips, she made her way to Lord Owen Stafford's side, unnerved more than just a little when she became aware of the envoy of servants and guardsmen he had brought with him.  A veritable army.  So, he hadn't believed the actors after all.  Like some evil ghost he was haunting the acting company with his presence.

Alandra mimicked the peddler's cry as she passed by.  "
Oranges.  Ripe and juicy, oranges."  She paused when she was directly in front of the infamous lord.

"BiGod, girl, move out of the way.  You are blocking my view of the stage!" 
Stafford's tone of voice was peevish.

"Yes, my lord." 

Bowing her head in a proper show of deference, Alandra hurried to obey, though she didn't move very far.  It was necessary for her to keep Stafford within view and at the same time be able to see what was going on down below in the groundling's section.  So far it was relatively quiet except for the usual  good humored banter between the actors and the crowd. 

Alandra's gaze moved from the stage, to the audience then  to Lord Stafford.  For a long time she just stared at him, watching as he lifted a scented gold pomander to his nose with an air of arrogance that left no doubt but that he was sure of himself. 
So, this was Christopher's archenemy, she thought, and thus her enemy as well.  In a dark red leather doublet slashed at the sleeves and decorated with gold braid, black leather boots, white ruff, black hosen and red and gold trunk hose, he made a handsome picture.  But Alandra knew what deviousness lay behind those almond-shaped blue eyes.   This  man  was responsible for Christopher's ruination and not content with that, now sought his death.

"Let us hope that Frizer was not just telling tales
, for I would hate to think that we had wasted the afternoon for little reward,"  one of Stafford entourage exclaimed.

Alandra tensed, attuning her hearing to the grumbling.  The name "Frizer" reverberated in her mind.

"I would loath the idea of spending our time here among this vermin were it not to bring about the fulfillment of my wishes."  Stafford raised his hand in a gesture of impatience as one of his companions started to speak.  "I know what you are going to say, but my argument stands firm, that I will not leave here until I am certain that Nicholas Leighton is not among the actors.  You see, I don't believe a word of what those gypsy-like devils proclaimed."

"Gypsy?"  Alandra squeezed so tighly on an orange that her fingernails brought forth a spurt of juice.  Oh
, how she wanted to defend her little group, but she dared not.  Instead she merely sauntered up to Owen Stafford again asking, "are you sure you don't be wanting an orange, your lordship?"

Stafford
regarded her with something akin to suspicion as if wondering if they had met before, then as if liking what he saw said, "I will buy one of your oranges if you will sit by me."   He patted an empty space beside him as he flashed her a toothy grin.

Alandra was wise enough to know exactly what he had in mind.  Pinches, pats and open fondling, not just conversation, but although abiding his company was the last thing she wanted to do
, she knew she must put up with the brash young lord, at least for the moment. 

"Maybe I will and then maybe again I won't.  She looked up through her lashes at him.  "I don't even know your name."

"
Lord
Stafford!"  He emphasized his title as if announcing he were king.

"Ooooooh, a lord.  Now fancy that."

Pretending to be amply impressed, she started to sit down when suddenly a movement down on the ground  caught her eye.  Christopher, Will Kempe and a few of the other actors were quickly encircling another man.  Could they have spotted Frizer!  It had to be.