Kathryn Kramer (35 page)

Chapter Forty-Four

Dark walls rose high about Nicholas, so high that the ceiling seemed to be shrouded in gloom.  Bars on the window blocked his view of the sky.  Ominous silence surrounded him, except for an occasional drip, drip drip.  It was damp in the stone room because of a recent rain.  The little bit of air that drifted through the window was musty and held the unwelcome stench of the Thames. 

Nicholas was being kept in a cell in the
Tower of London, which at least was better than the damp, dismal smell of  Newgate. At least Nicholas had that—the illustrious Tower where many other noble prisoners had been confined. To pass the time, he tediously counted them off—Catherine Howard, Sir Thomas More, Lady Jane Grey, Edmund Nevill, even the queen’s own mother, Anne Boleyn. In such scheming dangerous times, the list was endless and the fate of the prisoners was nearly always the same—death.

Nicholas stared around him with burning, angry eyes.  Someday he'd get away from here and woe be to Owen Stafford for masterminding this. Oh yes, he had figured it out.  It had to be
Stafford.  Somehow he had intercepted the message Nicholas had sent, and he had read it before giving it to the queen.  While Nicholas had been chattering with the fools Elizabeth had sent to bring him back, Stafford had located Will Frizer and had paid to have him murdered.  It all made sense.

He
laughed at himself and his own stupidity. He had all along held at least a ray of hope that Elizabeth would at least give him a fighting chance, if he ever returned to court.  He had spent several years in the queen's employ, using his sword arm to save England from her enemies.  That should merit him some consideration, he had thought.  As it turned out, the joke was on him, for Thomas Radcliffe had told Nicholas during their journey to London that Owen Stafford had wormed his way even more strongly into Elizabeth’s favor.

But worse
was the news that there were changes at court.  Nicholas' only hope had been to make use of his friendship with the Earl of Essex, but Radcliffe had said that the earl’s unsuccessful expedition to the Azores during the summer had been a turning point  for the worse in his fortunes. He was in disfavor and his precarious position had caused the court to split into factions.

Radcliffe added that Lord
Burghley too was absent from court due to his severe illness. His son, Robert Cecil, had taken his place as Elizabeth’s foremost councilor and had secured the secretaryship and the chancellorship of the Duchy of  Lancaster. He had used his position to build a strong following in the Parliament.  To further his own ends he was publically calling for Nicholas' head.  It was a sour and bitter "homecoming" for England's foremost swordsman.  Even more bitter when, without  benefit of audience with Elizabeth, Nicholas was thrown into the Tower of London.

He remembered being brought in through the river entrance, Traitors' Gate, looking around in sick despair as the full realization of his fate hit him
full force.  Never had he imagined that he would be within the Towers walls as a prisoner.  Hustled by his gaolers, the yeoman warders, he had been taken to the Lieutenant's lodgings, the headquarters of the officer in command.  There he was "booked in" and assigned a prison room.

Nicholas was not brought to trial, however.  He was released just long enough to be questioned twice by Robert Cecil then  taken back to the Tower.  As days dragged by he had begun to fear that this was to be his prison for many years to come, day following day, month following month.  Forgotten by the outside world. 

Now as he paced his cell, he wondered if there was sufficient evidence to convict him.  He doubted it.  Not unless false evidence or bribed witnesses were used against him.  At the back of his mind was the suspicion that whoever had murdered Will Frizer would be in no hurry to have him talk with the queen. He would be kept cooped up until he was old and gray.

At least he was not suffering. Tedium and boredom were perhaps the worst thing about being imprisoned. That and his loneliness and his longing for Alandra. Any time his eyes closed, it was of her that he dreamed.

If only he hadn’t sent that message. If only he had said to hell with his honor. He would have forgotten about Elizabeth, about England, and grabbed happiness while he had the chance. If only he had truly become Christopher Nicholas. But his fierce pride had been his downfall, his determination to clear his good name. Now the only thing that soothed him was that at least Alandra was safe, far away in Bristol with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.

Alandra stared at the great stone walls of the fearsome fortress.  "The Tower,"  she whispered, feeling a twinge of fear and foreboding.  She could not suppress a shudder as she saw it looming in the distance, guarding the city.  It looked forbidding and frightening..  More so now that she knew Christopher was inside. 

"The full title of the Tower is the
Ancient Palace and Fortress of Her Majesty's Tower of London,"  Heminges was saying, pointing it out to her as if there was any possibility that she could miss seeing its giant limestone towers and turrets.  Built on the orders of William the Conqueror to subdue the turbulent Saxons who were the former inhabitants of London, the Tower dominated the landscape.

Looking at the white tower
, she remembered the many stories she had heard about it in her childhood, for it had a somber history.  It was a symbol not of beauty but of power.  For whoever challenged the authority of the queen the prison cells awaited.

Clutching her father's hands as the play
wagon rolled down the road, Alandra blurted out her naive hope.  "Somehow we will help Christopher escape!"

"Break him out of there?" 
Murray shook his head sadly.  "There is no way we could even attempt it.  The walls are at least eight feet thick.  To enter the castle from the landward side, there are three drawbridges to be crossed.  There are guards at four checkpoints, portcullises, heavy wooden drop-gates.  No, that is not the way to come to his aid."

"Then how?"  Even as she asked the question
, Alandra fantasized in her mind what she would like to do. Kidnap that witch Morgana and have her put on the rack until she confessed to murdering her husband. Or better yet boil her in  hot water such as had once been done to  all those who  tried to breach the Tower's walls.

Murray
pulled at the reins, slowing the play wagon down.  "You, Will Kempe, Shakespeare, Armin and I are going to take lodgings at the Black Unicorn.  Keeping our ears and eyes open, doing a bit of spying, we should soon pick up a few leads that might turn up Tom Banter."

"Or the woman I heard talking that night through the door."  Alandra thought
long and hard, remembering at last that the woman's name had been Bessie.

"Somehow.  Some way, we'll discover something." 
Murray reached over to tug at her hair.  "Get the frown off your face, girl.  We'll soon have Christopher free.  I've got it in mind to see the two of you back together."

Shakespeare
joined them, he too seemed optimistic..  "Truth has a strange way of coming to light.  If we are stealthful, I do believe we can find out what really happened that night and who is to blame.  Then we can get back one of our most valuable members."

"Who was to blame?"
Alandra screwed her face up with disgust. "I know full well. That blonde witch!"

"Or Lord Owen Stafford,"
Murray countered.  "I fully believe 'twas he.  Ambition goads a man to do many evil things."

Shakespeare loosened his hold on his horse's reins and put up his hand.  "It doesn't really matter who was at fault, only that we prove it was not Christopher."

To that end, Shakespeare devised a plot, one that would make good use of the actors' expertise with make up and costuming.  He would put on finery fit for one of noble birth and have it whispered about that he was in search of a "cutter".  A rogue who would sell his villainous services.  He would make inquiry about a specific "hackster", Tom Banter by name, and hope the ploy was successful.

Chapter Forty-Five

Alandra crouched near the inn's window in the chill of the dawn, her brown eyes peering through a crack in the shutters.  The inn
yard was shrouded in the white mist that threatened rain, thus she could see little more than shadows.  Coils of fog drifted about like ghosts; silhouettes ambled about as the workers of the inn went about their daily chores

It was Will Kempe's, Robert Armin's and Shakespeare's assignment to find Tom Banter.  To her had been given the task of keepi
ng watch on the courtyard and to try to locate Bessie, which was proving to be difficult at best.  For some reason, be it fear or stubbornness, the woman was keeping well out of sight. The more Alandra inquired concerning her whereabouts, the more she was met with stern silence.  But Alandra was not the type to give up.

Alandra's night
gown was crumpled, her dark brown hair hung loose around her shoulders, but she hardly noticed.  All she could think about was  Christopher.  All of London chattered about his fall.  To such a proud man, such disgrace must surely wring his soul, she thought..  He was shut up in that cold, damp tower like the animals in the queen's private zoo with only Alandra and his actor friends to save him.  And they would!  God's nightgown, but they would convince Elizabeth to free him..  Somehow. 

But Alandra could not help wonder at what price his freedom would be paid. She knew that despite his promise to remain with the company, he would more than likely return to the court and
Elizabeth.

"Merry-go-up, daughter, you are going to turn into a statue if you kneel by that window much longer," 
Murray gently chided.  "I don't think you even got a wink of sleep.  All night long you flitted back and forth from your bed to that window like a little moth."

"And I'll stay by this window all day if it means accomplishing my goal," Alandra answered
with great sadness.  She shivered.  It was cold in the room, but  she was much too involved in spying to go and get a robe.

"Ah young love.  I wonder if Christopher has any idea just what a loyal little kitten you are."  Striding over to where she crouched
, Murray knelt down beside her and stroked her long dark hair.

"Oh,
Father, we just have to find Bessie.  Her testimony could be so valuable....."   She sighed deeply.  "Do you suppose that we will?  Or is it as John Heminges says, like looking for a pin in a straw stack?"

Murray's smile was as mischievous as an elf's.  "I've been doing a bit of spying myself, listening about in the kitchens.  I heard the cook talking about one of the chambermaids, a woman by the name of Elizabeth Herbert.  A widow in the prime years of her life."   To Murray that meant she was in her late fifties.

Alandra whirled around, hope glowing in her eyes.  "
Elizabeth!  Bessie is often used as a nickname."  It was certainly worth pursuing.  "It might be the woman we are seeking."

"That's what I be thinking which is why I intend
to corner that lady.  She can't hide forever.  This morning I'm going to haunt the halls and hope that I can come upon her when she is making up the rooms." 

"She might run from you.  You might frighten her away if you start asking her any questions."  It was a disturbing thought.  Alandra supposed that the woman's reluctance to be located was because she had undoubtedly heard the gossip about the nobleman housed in the Tower for Lord Woodcliff's murder and was determined not to be in any way involved.  "Be careful, Father."

"She will never guess why I am seeking her out.  Knowing that the cook is a woman who loves to chatter, I gave it out that I am a lonely man who is looking for a wife.  I've heard that this Elizabeth is quite stunning."

"
A wife!"  Alandra was so surprised that she lost her balance and had to steady herself with her hand.

"Chit
chat only," Murray insisted, though there was a shadow of loneliness in his eyes.  "I've found from experience that there are very few widows who aren't hoping to find another husband.  Most of them make it a practice to go "fishing" as I call it.  I intend to turn the tables and be the one who initiates the courtship."

"Fishing? And you think this Elizabeth Herbert will take the bait?" 

Alandra studied Murray, coming to the conclusion that he was actually looking forward to meeting the mysterious widow.  And why not?  For the first time she suddenly realized how lonely her father must be.  Oh, he had her love and affection to be sure, but it wasn't the same thing.  She realized that fully now.  Murray deserved to feel the same happiness she had with Christopher.  

"Take the bait!" 
Murray affected a swagger as he walked around the room.  "And why not?  I was quite a charmer in my day."

"And still are, you old dear!"  Rising to her feet Alandra gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
             

Murray
flushed, dimpling as he said, "We'll soon see.  Ah, yes.  Time will be the judge of me."

And indeed it judged him to be as Shakespeare said, "a marvel".   Muray Thatcher was true to his word of coming face to face with the widow Herbert, a petite and attractive woman with gray streaked auburn hair and a cheerful smile.  With the zeal of a man half his age he wooed her, taking her on moonlight walks in the garden, picking flowers for her to wear in her hair, reciting colorful poems that enumerated on her charms, confiding in her and in turn being a patient listener. It did not take long before he earned the widow's trust and affection.

"Elizabeth is the Bessie we have been looking for," Murray at last announced to Shakespeare and Alandra as they sat at the small table in Shakespeare's room, partaking of dinner.

"Are you certain?"   Alandra breathed.   It seemed too good to be true.

"As certain as I am of being an Englishman!"  Murray toyed with his blackbird pie, obviously deeply troubled.  "She told me about having witnessed the murder of a nobleman."

"Lord Woodcliff?"  Shakespeare asked.

"She did not mention him by name, but the description that she gave me leaves little doubt.  Killed by a fiendish rogue, or so she says."  Murray clucked his tongue, his expression pained. "But woe is me.  How can I betray her so when she trusted me?"

"Will she bear witness that Christopher is innocent?"  

Murray answered Alandra with a nod.  "I am more than certain that I can convince her to do so.  But God help me, if she comes to any harm."  The thought of Will Frizer's fate seemed to be haunting him.  "I wouldn't be able to forgive myself."

"If she speaks u
p, she might very well be in danger.  You must realize that Murray."  It was in Shakespeare's nature to be honest.  "It is the chance that we take."

"Aye, I know.  I know."

There was a look of sadness on Murray's face, giving away the depth of his affections.  There could be no question but that he was coming to have a great regard for the widow Herbert in the brief time they had been together.  But it was also evident by the look he gave Alandra that he put her happiness above his own, above everything.

"Somehow I'll con
vince her to tell what she knows,"  Murray added softly.             

The matter of Tom Bant
er's whereabouts was not so easily accomplished.  Despite Shakespeare's carefully laid out plan, one week passed, then two and Alandra in her impatience grew tired of listening to Shakespeare and her father telling her that there was no choice but to wait.  She wanted to act and act now. They had Will Frizer's testimony, which they had all witnessed, and Bessie Herbert had agreed to speak up on the matter.

Then something happened that
made action imperative. While walking about in the inner courtyard, Alandra overheard some disturbing gossip.   Robert Cecil had called for the execution of Sir Nicholas Leighton.

The very thought of Christopher dying chilled Alandra’s blood
. She couldn’t live without him! But what could she do? She didn’t know anyone at court, had no connections. And yet if she waited, if Christopher was judged and found guilty, what then? She could not allow that! Even if she had to throw herself on the mercy of the queen, she would not let that happen.

The queen!  Of course, that was it.  Alandra's eyes opened wide as she realized just what she had to do.  She'd go at once to
Whitehall to seek an audience with Elizabeth Tudor in the name of the players.  On the pretense of arranging the upcoming play and seeing to the scenery, she'd take advantage of that one moment to plead with the queen and to tell her all.  Surely when Elizabeth heard all that Alandra had to say, she would at least give Christopher a chance.  Dear God, she must!