Kathryn Kramer (4 page)

Chapter Four

The night air was hot and stifling in the tiny room, made even more so by the lack of ventilation.  Alandra lay awake for a long, long time, tossing and turning in an effort to sleep. But she found that it evaded her.  If only the room had a window, she thought.  There was a cool wind blowing outside, but she could not enjoy its refreshing breath.  Windows were for those patrons with shillings jingling in their pockets.  Her father was not a wealthy man by any means, thus they had been given only small, cramped rooms in the inn.  Rooms that matched her father's purse.

"A po
x on that stingy innkeeper!" Alandra swore in irritation, using the curse that always caused her father's rebuke. 

Having been raised around men, with none of the gentling influence
of a woman, she was perhaps a bit rough about the edges, as her father said.  As to that, Alandra had not a care.  Be she unladylike in her manner, she was what she was and determined to be accepted for that.  Yet tonight when the dark-haired nobleman had bent down to help her pick up the costumes she had dropped, she had known a momentary wish to be soft, feminine and most of all beautiful. If only she could have thought of something clever to say to keep him at her side, to charm him.

No!
  She had vowed not to think such thoughts.  A man such as that, a titled lord, was far beyond her position. It did no good for her to dream. A man of that one's ilk would give her no more than a glance.  Hadn't he proved that tonight when he had so discourteously dismissed her.  He had thought she was a nobody and why not?  She was, a foundling who did not even know her real name.

Alan
dra felt a deep emptiness as she remembered that moment when she had learned the truth.  She had been eight years old, inquisitive as children are at that age.  Putting into words the questions that had troubled her for so long, she had bolstered up the courage to ask Murray why she had no mother.   

At first he had h
emmed and hawed, avoiding the subject, but her persistence forced him to answer her truthfully, as he tried not to shatter her world.  He confessed that she was not his real daughter but a child whom he had found along the road in a hand woven basket. Alandra's cries had alerted him to her presence, and he had stopped his wagon to have a look at the wailing child. He then had quickly decided that she would belong to him.

A cast off!  A child nobody had wanted.  Left at the side of the road like
a bag of refuse.  The revelation had stung Alandra to the quick, despite her attempts to hide it. Who were her parents?  Why had she been given up?  Thrown away?  Because they were too poor to care for her?  Or was there another reason?  One which she would never know.  The questions deeply troubled her, coming back to haunt her whenever she allowed herself to think about the past.   

Though Murray Thatcher had always treated her well,
Alandra often felt isolated, alone.  She was bothered by the feeling that she didn't belong.  Not really.  Nor would she ever know who she was or where she came from.   But, she was not so unappreciative that she didn't realize that Murray had raised her as tenderly as if she had been his very own.   For that and a hundred other things, she was grateful.

Kicking off her blankets and bed linens, Alandra rolled over on her back and putting her hands behind her head looked up at the ceiling.  She was content and very happy in her way.  Indeed, she knew there were countless other young women who would have joyfully traded places with her.  Traveling
with the acting company was far from dull, so there was no need for her to complain.  There were always new people to meet and new towns to visit.   The townspeople and villagers viewed the theater folk as something akin to celebrities, as in truth some of the Lord Chamberlain's men were. 

Alandra was proud that such men as Richard Burbage, the acknowledged greatest actor of the company, Robert Armin, a celebrated clown, and Master
William Shakespeare were numbered among her friends.  How many other young women could make such a claim?  It was just that she felt that something was missing from her life, that which was said to make one's heart feel light and gay.

Until tonight
she had been confused as to what her heart yearned for, but now she knew.  She wanted a man to love her so very much that he would risk the queen's anger for
her
.

Closing her eyes
, she thought of the dark-haired nobleman again.  How could she help it?  What woman could ever forget his face?  She could remember the line of his eyebrows, the finely wrought shape of his nose, the crisp thickness of his hair where it waved against his temples.  He had been so close to her, so heart-stoppingly near.  Would she ever meet such a man again?

Turning over on her stomach
, Alandra remembered what she learned from watching the pantomime of the masque tonight; that the handsome raven-haired nobleman and the golden-tressed woman were lovers.   That knowledge unleashed a strange new emotion within her breast. Strange that only seeing the two together could spark such jealousy.

Well, I will not let myself think of it any longer
, she thought irritably.  Someday a man would love her just as fiercely as her elusive lord what’s-his-name desired his pink rose.  He would love Alandra just as passionately, so much so that he would put his devotion in a sonnet.  It was such a delicious thought that she laughed, bringing lines of poetry to her mind.

Alandra's artful musing was harshly interrupted by muffled shouts, curses and the sound of tr
ampling feet outside her door. The jumble of sounds drifted disturbingly to her ears. Bolting from the bed, she pressed her ear against the door in an effort to determine what was going on, but she could only hear snatches of conversation.

"Killed 'im deader than
a doornile 'e did.  Roight in the back.  I saw the 'ole thing, I did.  But I ain't ne'er about to tell.  Someone's 'ead is gonna role and I don't want it to be mine."

"The 'ole plice is swarmin' with guardsmen and such.  Poor bloke, 'e will be caught afore the cock crows in the mornin'."

"So who cares?  Do you think the likes of  him would care about what happened to one of us?  No, I say."

"But he didn't stab him!"  A woman's voice shrieked high amid the baritone voices of her companions.  "I saw for myself what happened."

"But only a fool would tell, Bessie!”

“But…..”

“ You don't know the way of these noblemen, Bessie.  Speak up and your own neck will be encircled by a noose."

"But....but I saw....I heard....."

The voices all spoke up at once, in agitated quarreling so that Alandra could understand no more.  She could discern, however, that someone of importance had been killed right within the walls of the inn's taproom.  How ghastly!  How frightening, and yet murder was common  in this area of town.  Feuds and vendettas were familiar, violent occurrences.  There were bodies aplenty floating in the Thames. 

Nevertheless,
bothered by what she had heard, Alandra said a hasty prayer for the dead man's soul.  She supposed it had been a matter of thievery.  Some poor devil down on his luck, with the look of a pauper about him, had quarreled with a wealthy nobleman over a shilling or two.  A fight had broken out, and in the scuffle the affluent lord had been slain.  Alas, for the poor man accused of the crime! Alandra could not help pitying him, for his fate would most likely be an unpleasant one.  Closing her eyes she whispered a prayer for that man as well.

Returning to the narrow, lumpy bed Alandra tried once more to get to sleep
, but there were too many distractions mingling with her dreams.  The wind which had been fierce earlier but had died down, now gusted again, adding to the tumult.  A large tree outside the room set its many branches in rhythm with the gale, tapping against the outer wall.  The noise grew louder and louder, so clamorous that at first Alandra did not notice the knocking at the door to her room until an annoyed voice echoed it.

"Alandra!  Alandra, are you in there?  Open this door!  Open this door, I say." 

There could be no denying that it was her father who called her.  His raspy voice was one of a kind so wrapping a thin beige cloak about her night dress, Alandra hurried to comply with her father's command.  The dimly lit corridor was now deserted, but even so her father's next words were whispered.

"Get your belongings together, daughter." 

Deep frown lines creased his brow, the blue eyes which stared back at her were dilated with fear, and his trembling fingers pulled at his beard in agitation.

"What has happened?  Father, tell me!" 

Taking his arm, she drew him into the room and closed the door behind them to insure their privacy.

"A
man has been murdered tonight.”

"I know.  I heard the gossip through the door.  But what has that
to do with us?"  The fear that her father had been somehow involved made her own hands quiver.

"Calm your fears," he said a bit more gently, sensing her alarm.  "We are not in any actual danger, it is just that I do not want to become involved in a matter of this kind.  I suppose like all the others I am a coward, but what if someone were to recognize us as having been at the palace tonight, of witnessing all that went on there?  They might suppose we were aware of what happened here as well.  Our being here might very well be construed as being overly suspicious!  God help us if they thought we were involved in some sort of a plot." 

As if his words had exhausted him, he plopped down on a wooden stool near the bed, wringing his hands in the manner he always effected when he was nervous. "Someone killed a nobleman, one who was at Whitehall this very night."

"Who, Father?  Who was killed this night?  Tell me." 

For just a moment Alandra dreaded that perhaps it was the dark-haired nobleman.  Oh, what a loss if that one's heart had permanently been stilled.

"
Lord Woodcliff, advisor to the queen and well renowned through the realm.  The entire courtyard is in an uproar, searching for his assailant."

"Lord Woodcliff?"  She suddenly remembered.  "The
old
man."

Murray
looked at her with an amused smile upending his frown.  "Have a care, daughter.  Lord Woodcliff was a man of but a few years more than myself.  BiGod I hate to think of myself as aged.  Advanced in years perhaps...."  He shrugged his shoulders.

"But who did the deed?"

"I do not know nor do I care a farthing!  I've already packed the wagon so that we may leave this place before we learn more than we want to know." 

Standing up
, he walked in two long strides to the door, pausing to look back at her before he opened it.  "Meet me in the courtyard."

"But won't our hurrying away make us the target of suspicion?"

"We will have to take that chance."  His brows shot up as he suddenly grinned.  "We are theater people.  Has it not been said many times that all such players are unpredictable and eccentric?  In all probability we will be allowed to pass. We will just insist that we are giving a performance early tomorrow morning." 

Forcing a laugh
, he walked through the door, slamming it steadfastly behind him, leaving Alandra to her meditative silence.

Chapter Five

Hidden behind a large rain barrel, Nicholas could hear the sound of running feet and curses.  Cautiously
, he peered out. The inn’s square courtyard was the scene of total pandemonium.  The night's events had drawn a curious crowd who hovered about the guardsmen like moths to a flame, chattering their questions.  They seemed oblivious to the surly behavior of the armed men as they thronged the courtyard, trying to find out what had happened.  Nicholas blessed the guests from the inn, every one, for creating confusion.  For the time being, they were hindering the process of his being found and seized.

How strange, he
thought, that those who had witnessed the tragic events in the taproom were scurrying away, fearing to become involved, while others were attracted to the excitement.  What unpredictable creatures men could be!

"Unpredictable and treacherous," he mumbled beneath his breath as the sight of Owen Stafford came into his line of vision. 

It was obvious by his frantically waving arms and shouted expletives that the scheming lord would leave no stone unturned until he found his quarry.  Bile rose in Nicholas's throat at the thought.  He was trapped like a fox by that yelping hound, and there was nowhere that he could go.  All the exits were being guarded.

Standing frozen in impotent fury
, his eyes surveyed the three-storied inn's buildings  which formed a rectangle around the courtyard, leaving only the heavens above unobstructed.  Escape would be difficult if not impossible.  To make it even worse, there would soon be broadsides  nailed to every tree and post in London and the surrounding countryside proclaiming him to be a hunted man.  Even if he could break free of the inn's boundaries, his fate was precarious. Stafford would waste no time in implementing his plot.  How easily a trap had been sprung.  Too easily.

To find a secure place to hide was his only desire at the moment. 
But where could he go?  Where would he be safe from detection? If only he could reach one of the upper galleries which led to the bedchambers without being detected, perhaps he could hide there for a time.  He quickly put that thought from his mind, however.  His fleeing figure would be illuminated by the torchlights  now being lit in the courtyard.

How could he escape these wooden walls?  Only reason tempered his impulse to act rashly and recklessly.  He could not go far without being apprehended.  What then was he to do?  Indecision goaded his frustration until his eyes lit upon a bright painted wagon in the upper end of the courtyard.  It was hitched up to two horses and ready for travel.  How thoughtful of the owners to leave it unattended.  How convenient!  If only he could reach the open end of the wagon without being seen
, he might yet have a chance of escape. But how was he going to get there without being seen?

Although the wagon was shrouded by shadows Nicholas knew that he could not take the chance of his movements attracting attention.  He needed to create a diversion.  His chance came when the wind, which had been whistling through the roof tiles and shutters
, blew out several of the torchlights. Hurrying, he fumbled about for a large rock and took aim, hurling it towards the rooftop several feet away.

"He's on the roof!" someone shouted as all eyes looked in that direction. 

Stumbling through the darkness, Nicholas headed in the opposite direction, darting in and out between crates and barrels as he made his way toward his intended hiding place.  Upon reaching the wagon, he pushed aside the curtains behind the wagon seat and climbed inside, pausing just a moment.  Feeling relieved that no sound of pursuit seemed to follow him, he smiled, but he knew he was not safe.  Not yet.  He might still be caught.

"Never!" he breathed.  Somehow he w
ould outwit them.  Covering himself with a large piece of canvas, he moved his lips in a silent prayer, a prayer that was seemingly answered as the minutes passed by in silence.  Nicholas became quite pleased with himself, certain now that Owen Stafford would search for him in vain.  How sly he had been to hide himself right under that bastard's nose.  He would prove himself more than a match for Lord Stafford.  That vain popinjay would expect him to use bravado, would no doubt think him fool enough to try to escape on horseback.  Instead he would use subterfuge.

In all probability the player's wagon would soon be wheeling its w
ay out of the courtyard, toward some unknown destination.  Nicholas didn't really care where that was as long as it was far away from here.  He would go as far as the owner of the wagon would take him.  By that time the search would have died down somewhat, he reasoned, and he would have time to plan his next course of action. Stafford be damned!  No man trifled with Nicholas Leighton.

It was surprising
ly comfortable inside the boxed-in wagon, and Nicholas whiled away the time by looking around him.  The sides were paneled, the semicircular top covered with characteristic ornamentation both inside and out.  It was much like a house on wheels.  The top was made of painted canvas, stretched over wooden hoops.  Added wood to the top and sides made it completely weather-proof.  The back had two large hinged doors for easy loading and unloading, the front was open with curtains drawn across to give a small measure of privacy.  Whoever had built the wagon had done so with a loving hand.  For the moment he felt safe.

The complacent security he felt was soon threatened, however.  The sound of angry voices and tramping feet warned Nicholas of danger as a group of men passed by the wagon.  Fearing discovery, he clutched his sword, determined to go down fighting
.  Then he heard a raspy voice arguing.

"I have seen no one," said the voice.  "Would that I could help you but I can not."

"A man was murdered here.  Lord Woodcliff by name."

"A tragedy to be sure, yet I knew the man not at all.  As you can see by my garments I am but a simple man."

"Why are you in such a hurry to leave?"

"I am by trade a player, a member of Lord Chamberlain's men.  You have heard of them, have you not?"  A grunt was the answer.  "We are giving an early morning performance, our last in
London.  I am at the moment on my way to meet with Will Shakespeare, a playwright and actor of great renown.  We are to begin our summer tour to Sussex and Kent."

Sussex
and Kent!  Nicholas could not have been more blessed, for those counties were his own destination.  This wagon offered him a haven from those who sought him, and at the same time he could sneak right onto his own lands without anyone being the wiser.  Traveling with such a group as these players would keep him safely out of sight.  Who would notice him amidst such gaily garbed men?  It would give him time to think and to plan.  Somehow he would clear his name and regain his favor with Elizabeth.

             
"Shakespeare?" a  grumbling voice was saying.  "The name means naught to me.  Ha.  Actors. Playwrights.  A scurvy lot if you must know.  A blight on the good name of London, I say.  Better to let 'em be on their way.  A troublemaking bunch if ever I saw 'em.  No wonder the mayor wants to close all the theaters down."

"I beg your pardon."  The man with the raspy voice was obviously annoyed.  "My players and I have spotless reputations.  We bring joy to the crowds."

"Your kind brings together thieves and whoremongers and contrivers of treason who corrupt innocent minds.  The brethren of the city should be in church, not joining in lascivious gawking."  Nicholas thought that this man was in all probability a Puritan, for his words and opinions said as much.  They had always been enemies of those whose work was in entertaining others.  An interfering lot.

"Aye, you are right, Ned.  They are instruments of the devil."  A second man thought to add his voice to the matter.  "Get you gone, we have had enough trouble here."

Nicholas thanked the men silently for such a command.  It seemed that just this once bigotry and narrow mindedness had won the day.  He held his breath in anticipation, exhaling in relief as he felt the floorboards bounce and sway as the movement of two people jostled the wagon while they settled themselves on the front seat.

"We'll be leaving then.  Don't want to stay where we are not wanted, don't you agree, Alandra?"

"Let them pass through!" a voice ordered.

The swaying of the wagon soon proved the  occupants had hastened t
o take advantage of that dictate.  Thanks be to God that the guardsmen had not thought it necessary to search the wagon!

Nicholas was exhausted and the rocking of the wagon as it moved along the bumpy Southampton roadway toward
London Bridge nearly lulled him to sleep.  Closing his eyes he listened as his companion travelers mingled their voices in conversation.  He heard the familiar raspy male voice and paid little heed, but the melodic voice of a woman caused him to listen intently.  Low and soothing, so different from Morgana's shrill tone, the voice charmed him and made him wonder about the woman's appearance.  Would her looks match the voice?  If so, then she would have the face of an angel!  Despite the danger he was in, he found himself besieged with curiosity, wanting just a glimpse of the woman's face.  Remembering how Morgana's high, grating voice was ill-suited to her looks, he decided that this one would most likely be as ugly as a hag.

"I told you 't
would be a simple matter, daughter.  They were as anxious to rid themselves of us as we were to be allowed to go.  Puritans!  I loath the lot of them.  They have caused us nothing but trouble.  Stirring up the mayor and aldermen against us, threatening to have all the plays in London discontinued and every theater in London pulled down about our heads.  If it wasn't for good Queen Bess, God bless her, I fear they would make good on their words."

"Never, Father.  Never!"

"Oh, but they would if not for the queen.  As it is, they have done their damage, sending a letter to the Privy Council, making a list of misfortunes the city is enduring by having actors in its midst.  They speak of us as if we were naught but mice or rats, BiGod.  Purge the city of us indeed.  Because of t
hem
Will has planned a longer tour than usual so that we will be gone while the furor dies down."

"Oh, but in a way I am glad.  I love the countryside in flower.  Just think of all the places we will visit and the many people we will meet.  And we will be among our friends.  Can we ask for more than that?"  There was a lilt of laughter in the woman's voice, charming Nicholas anew.

"Leave it to you, Alandra, to view the matter with an optimistic smile.  Ah, girl, that's why I love you so.  Could any man have been as blessed?  We will speak no more about this matter of the Puritans."

The young woman was a cheerful wench, Nicholas thought with a grin.  He heard her humming a tune and was overcome with the curiosity to have a look at her.  Maneuvering himself towards the front of the wagon
, he pushed aside the curtain just an inch and peered out, startled by the vision that met his eyes. 

Hair a dark, rich shade of brown framed a perfectly lovely face, of which he was afforded only a view of the finely molded profile. 
But as she turned her face towards her father, Nicholas saw long, thick black lashes shading cheeks as pink as the petals of a rose.  Never had Nicholas seen such soft, unblemished skin or such full, sensuous lips which seemed to have been made just for kissing.  She was beguiling, entrancing, yet with a look of innocence. A flower just ripe for the plucking.  All in all she was a tempting morsel and Nicholas could not help thinking how much she teased his appetite.

"Perhaps this journey
will not be as tedious as I had first supposed," he whispered to himself, leaning against the side of the wagon to let his fantasies take flight. 

His musing
s were sharply put to a halt as he remembered that it was his lusting after another woman that had  been his ruin.  Had he not the sense of a goose?  Had he not learned a lesson tonight?  Women could at times be nothing but trouble.  If he were wise he would keep his distance from this one no matter how pretty she might be.  Besides, he did not plan to remain with these people for very long.  At the first opportunity he would procure a horse and ride full haste to his lands.

The sudden jolt of th
e wagon wheels jarred him and reminded Nicholas that he had been in one position too long.  His arms and legs felt cramped and stiff and without a second thought he stood up, trying his best to stretch his aching limbs and bring back the blood to his feet and hands.  Unable to stretch to his full height, lest he bump his head on the top of the wagon, he contented himself with a stooped posture as he more closely took inventory of his surroundings.

The wagon was
filled with a hodgepodge of wood and pasteboard set pieces.  Trees, rocks, arbors and a throne or two were scattered about, and there was even a large monstrosity painted to resemble a castle turret.  There were boxes and crates of costumes folded carefully so that they would not even have one wrinkle.  The sight of such garments reminded Nicholas of his plight.  He could not stay dressed in his own doublet and hosen, for although he had changed clothes before going to the inn to meet Morgana, he knew these garments would be described on the handbills and broadsides being circulated.  Surely he could find something in the boxes of clothing to wear until he could manage to find more suitable garments. He busied himself in searching through the meticulously folded costumes and was so intent in his exploration that he did not see the eyes which peered through the curtains of the wagon, widening in surprise as they caught sight of him.  Nor did he hear the sharp intake of breath.  Only when he felt the impact against his skull did he realize the danger and by then it was too late.  Reaching out, groping against the all-encompassing darkness which engulfed him, he knew total helplessness as he slumped to the floorboards.