The Rogue's Princess (20 page)

Worried for Tom, Kit finished donning his costume of the merchant’s son, suitor in the play for one of the widows. He hoped it was merely a hangover that was keeping his drinking companion at home and nothing more serious. There was as yet no sign of plague this year, but strange disappearances were often the first hint. Tom had always managed to show up on time before, even if he was nursing a crushing headache.

Still, that was none of his understudy’s fault. Kit decided to rally the new actor before nerves struck.

‘Hillo, ho, Dad!’ Kit called cheerily to Will Shakespeare. ‘How d’you like your new strapping son.’

Will smiled and shook his head. ‘All I can say, lad, is that my goodwife must’ve danced the shaking of the sheets with my lord’s fool.’

He’d walked into that one. Will had the knack of turning the tables on a man.

Seeing the hour was almost upon them, Will began putting on Saxon’s costume. Kit helped him find the various parts in the trunk – rich gown, false stomach, long grey beard.

‘Saxon’s going to catch it hot for this.’ Kit buckled on the wide gold belt to hold the cushion in place.

Will adjusted his paunch. ‘Aye, Burbage will be down upon him like a Fury crowned with snakes.’

Kit snorted. ‘You speak poetical, Master Shakespeare. I didn’t know you were a man of learning.’

‘Little learning and less wit, according to my goodwife,’ he replied modestly.

‘I think the lady underestimates you.’ Kit twitched the back of the merchant’s cloak into place. ‘Burbage is talking about giving you a trial as a writer.’

Shakespeare’s eyes woke with a glint of fire. ‘He is?’ He grabbed Kit’s wrist in a surprisingly forceful grip. ‘Put in a good word for me, will you? He holds you in high esteem. It’s hard for a plain man like myself to make entry to the profession when there are so many plaintiffs and only one judge.’

‘Meaning aspiring playwrights and Burbage?’

‘Aye. His ears ring each day with the poor scribblers from the shires who swear they can write the next triumph. A word from you would raise me above the common pleas and mayhap bring a favourable verdict.’

‘I’ll do that – though I pray he does not cry “guilty” when he reads your submission. Are you sure you have a play in you? ’Tis not everyone who understands stagecraft. I’m happy to give you any pointers along the way if that would help.’

‘Aye, Master Signpost, that might well be of use to me. I’ll give it some thought.’

Kit wondered if the thrum of affectionate teasing in that last speech had been only in his own imagination. The stubborn set to the man’s jaw told him that Shakespeare did not really need his advice; the older man already had his course set and was just waiting for a fair wind to make sail.

The trumpets sounded from the tower.

‘Our cue, Dad.’ Kit took Will Shakespeare’s arm to steer him to the right side of the stage for his first entrance.

‘Aye, readiness is all,’ grinned the actor.

Returning for a brief while between scenes, Kit discovered that the messenger had come back and already spilled his cargo of news to the other actors.

‘What! Saxon’s been arrested? By whom? And for what?’ spluttered Richard Burbage, half in his next costume. ‘I must tell my father.’

‘It has to be debt,’ said Appleyard, the elderly player now only taking very small roles as he could not be relied on to remember long speeches. ‘That boy always runs in bad company. They play for high stakes.’

Kit shivered as the hairs prickled on the back of his neck. There was another possible explanation – one involving treason. He had anticipated such an outcome when he had dragged Tobias from the clutches of Babington and his crew. He hoped he had moved swiftly enough to mask that particular scent on Tobias’s trail. But he feared Tom had not been so lucky. He would have to warn his brother, suggest he get well away from London. Such wildfires of suspicion had the habit of consuming all in their path.

‘Know you something of the matter?’ Will Shakespeare asked in a low voice as he changed next to Kit. His sharp gaze must have read the thoughts flitting across Kit’s face.

‘I’d prefer not to say.’

‘But you know in what company the lad has been running of late?’

‘Aye. Not good.’

‘Vile politicians the three of them and your friend Saxon has not so much brain as earwax betwixt his lugs.’

Kit offered no defence for it was true.

‘I pray that he squeaks clear of their traps or it won’t go well for us.’ The actor nodded to the men of the troupe. ‘Soot lingers even when the fire is smothered.’

The man’s world-weary tone made Kit realize what he had already sensed: that Shakespeare had years of experience on him and a deep knowledge of humankind, very likely trouble with the authorities too by the sounds of it. ‘Your advice to a fellow player, Will?’

The sparkle came back to the actor’s eyes as he approved the young man’s willingness to learn. ‘If taken, play the fool and speak an infinite deal of nothing. If they try to capture a cloud, they’ll come away with nothing for their pains.’ He tapped his head. ‘Earwax may yet save your friend. It’s the clever fellows like the pair of us who really have to worry.’

They did not knock when they came for Kit. The first he knew was that he was on the floor, a sword pressed to his neck.

‘Get dressed, Master Player, there’s someone who wants a word with you.’

Seven men in dark cloaks filled his small chamber. If Kit had thought to make a run for it, he would not have got very far. Despite the warning of Saxon’s arrest, he hadn’t anticipated this when he went to sleep, thinking himself clear of the matter, but now it had come there was an awful inevitability about the summons.

‘Oh, Master Turner, whatever do they want with you?’ sobbed Dame Prewet, restrained at the door by one of the men. ‘He’s a good boy, sir,’ she implored the leader. ‘Like a son to me, he is. He’ll go quietly, just don’t hurt him!’

Her plea worked for the sword lifted and Kit rose to his feet. He pulled on yesterday’s clothes lying where he had dropped them at the end of his bed. ‘I’ve no idea, dame, why they have come, but the sooner I go the sooner I’ll be back.’ He tied his money pouch to his belt. Any Londoner knew a sojourn at Her Majesty’s pleasure required bribes. He didn’t have much coin so prayed this would be but a brief stay. ‘Pray send word to Master Burbage and my other friends if I do not return by morning. They will want to know where I am.’

He didn’t want to mention names before these men, but hoped she understood he wanted her to alert his brothers. If this trouble had reached out to encompass him, it might well swell to grab them next and they had to make plans to get clear. A player was small beer; an earl and his noble brothers were like the finest wine to those tasting for plots.

The men marched him at the double through the quiet streets of sleeping London and, ironically for Kit, past Mercy’s very door on the bridge. If anyone were stirring, they had more sense than to get in the path of such a determined party. They stopped only to gain admittance to one of the last places Kit had ever intended going: the Marshalsea prison in Southwark.

‘Well, well, who do we have here?’ asked the gaoler, a square-jawed brute of a fellow, holding a lantern up to Kit’s face. He did not look a tender guardian for his wards.

‘Christopher Turner, vagabond player, to await Sir Francis Walsingham’s pleasure,’ replied the chief of the guard.

‘Do I put him in with the other one, or keep them separate? I’m right full at the moment, what with all these Catholics that keep creeping back into the realm. I swear this place has more of ’em than Rome.’

‘Apart. He is wanted for questioning. We’ve got to keep them from colluding.’

Other one?
Kit prayed most fervently that it wasn’t Tobias. Bastard that he was, Kit did not think himself a person of enough importance to hold official attention long, but the legitimate brother of an earl was another matter entirely.

The gaoler led Kit to a small cell half underground. Gads, it smelt like a sewer. Kit covered his nose with his hand.

‘In you go, Sir Player.’ He shoved Kit down the single step on to the foetid floor. ‘Make yourself at home.’ The gaoler chortled at his own wit before taking the light with him.

Kit saw enough of the cell from the lantern light to know there was a pallet in the right-hand corner. He groped his way to it and patted the covers, fearful of what his fingers may encounter. It was not occupied by anything other than bedbugs as far as he could tell. He chose to sit on the cover rather than risk lying down. Tomorrow he would see what he could do about paying for clean bedding and a better cell; this night he would have to make do.

Staring into the dark, he was struck with the absurd urge to laugh. But a few hours ago, his biggest problem had been how to woo a shy maid; now he was dodging a charge of high treason, the penalty for which really did not bear thinking about. Hanging, drawing and quartering – making death a blessed relief after inflicting every cruelty on the body; all this carried out in front of a jeering audience who ate, drank and made merry while the condemned man was forced to watch his own innards …

Kit vomited in the corner, then collapsed back on his pallet.

God above, if his damsel was going to run shy of him, this
would be an excellent moment to choose to do so. Indeed, he hoped all those he loved steered well clear of him. Ships on the rocks offered danger only to those who sailed too close in the hopes of pulling them off. He prayed Will would keep a firm hand on Tobias as his younger brother would be just the sort to try a desperate rescue. His best hope lay in the whole matter fizzling out like a fire with no fuel. Tobias rushing to his side would be oil on the flame.

14

Tobias was still lazing abed in his comfortable chamber in James Lacey’s splendid Broad Street town house when Will and James barged into the room with no ceremony.

‘Kit’s been arrested,’ Will said abruptly, throwing back the heavy velvet bed-curtains.

‘Jane heard word privately at court from Robert Cecil,’ confirmed James, running worried hands through his shock of chestnut hair. ‘She sent a message immediately.’

Tobias wished he could be one of those who woke up alert. His brain felt more like it was wading through cold porridge. ‘When? Why, for God’s sake?’

Will checked the room was clear of servants. ‘Walsingham has a scheme in the making and he is adamant that no one will upset it – something to do with the Queen Mary. He is ruthlessly pruning off any offshoots, as he puts it, from the main stock. Kit has become such a one.’

Tobias began dressing. ‘But this makes no sense! Kit has nothing to do with plots or politics.’

Will shook his head. ‘It seems we are wrong in that. A number of witnesses have come forward to say they saw a man of his description in the company of one Tom Saxon, player,
and a set of the most dangerous men in England, Babington and his confederates. They are staunch Catholics and caught up in some drunken dream of rescuing Mary from her prison and putting her on the throne.’

Tobias stopped halfway through pulling on a boot.

‘Whatever is afoot at Chartley with the Scottish queen, Walsingham does not want the theatres involved stirring up trouble in favour of her cause, so he’s moved secretly against the players. No one is to know they have been arrested. The word is being put out that they have been imprisoned for debt – a plausible enough story considering our brother’s way of life. It is only thanks to Jane’s position in the Queen’s household that we’ve heard this much.’

Tobias threw his boot at his oldest brother. ‘You don’t know Kit at all if you say that. Kit’s saving to be wed – not gambling his gains away in the stews.’

James intercepted the boot and threw it back. ‘Have some respect, sprout. That’s the twentieth most important man in the realm you are throwing your boot at. And what’s this about Kit wanting to be wed? Why haven’t we heard of this before?’

‘Rather a moot point, I would say, if he’s in the Marshalsea.’ Will pulled a stool up to the table under Tobias’s window. ‘I think you have some explaining to do on behalf of our brother. If he’s been living like a model citizen, how come people have seen him with an arrant traitor?’

Gads, there was no way to say this gently. ‘That was me.’ Oh dear, that came out ill. ‘What I mean is that I fell into drinking with that crew earlier in the year. Kit discovered what was happening, opened my eyes to the dangers and sent me packing.’

‘God’s bones, Tobias, how could you be so stupid?’ spluttered James, looking for his own missile to throw at the youngest Lacey boy. ‘I can’t believe you’d be so dim-witted! Are we safe, Will? Need I recall Jane from court and take a leave of absence on one of her estates? God knows the babe provides us with excuse enough.’

‘I didn’t mean to get you in hot water!’ protested Tobias. ‘They were just men I met down the tavern, not a conspiracy.’

Will’s anger was of the quieter, more dangerous sort. ‘Did you tell them anything about us?’

Tobias was determined to make a clean breast of this confession. ‘Nothing, but that you do not like Ralegh.’

Will shrugged this off: if not liking Ralegh were treason, then most of England would be guilty. ‘You did not say I would be sympathetic in any way to a plot to put Mary on the English throne?’

‘No, I swear by my own salvation, Will, I did not. I will say that to whomever you wish, put my name to anything you want me to sign.’

‘I take it the person in the witnesses’ accounts is you and not Kit?’

‘Aye. You know we look much alike.’

‘And he is bearing the blame.’

‘Saxon is much deeper in with those fellows. If there’s any plot, he’d be the one to know about it.’

‘And will be wanting to spread the blame to take the heat from himself. Who better than a player with the unusual link to court through his blood-tie to us? We make much better suspects for those looking for a conspiracy than a couple of actors. By all that’s holy, Tobias, you’ve made a fearful mess of things.’

Wracked with guilt, Tobias still felt he should defend himself from the charge that it was entirely his fault. All he’d done was have a drink with the fellows like scores of others. ‘I think you should remember, Will, that it was you who wouldn’t help me out in February. If you’d settled my debt then, I would never have been at Kit’s to meet these men.’ Ah, pox on it, that sounded petty. ‘I pray your pardon: I don’t mean to blame you. I only drank with the Babington set; I never discussed anything beyond ale, women and dice – in roughly that order.’