All the Queen's Players Page 7

  “Come.” He strode off after the departing players, and Rosamund gathered her cloak around her and followed quickly. Will Creighton joined the tail of the procession, chatting with a young apprentice who had played one of the female parts. He seemed familiar with the players, Rosamund reflected. He certainly behaved with the confidence of one accepted by the troupe.

  They went out in a crowd, jostling and jesting, onto Bishopsgate, and made their way to the Black Cock tavern. It was busy with theatre-goers, all in high spirits. Voices were raised in greeting as the players entered the taproom, and Ned Alleyn doffed his hat with an elaborate flourishing bow in acknowledgment. Her brother seemed well-known to the groups of drinkers, Rosamund observed. They called him by name and he responded with a laughing word or two. A small man emerged from the shadowy corners of the taproom, shabbily dressed in a greasy doublet and worn hose, but his eyes were bright with intelligence and he greeted Walsingham like a long-lost friend.

  “Ah, Tom . . . Tom Kyd, the playmaker,” Thomas declared, flinging an arm around Kyd’s shoulders. “We have much enjoyed your words this afternoon, my friend, but see here, I would have you meet a potential rival, my friend from Cambridge, Kit Marlowe. He has a play in the making.”

  Tom Kyd regarded Kit with a wary suspicion. “ ’Tis a hard life and pays but little. Let me see your words.”

  Kit reached into his doublet and produced a sheaf of closely written pages. “See what you will.”

  Kyd examined the first page. “This is no play,” he declared, “ ’tis the obscenities of Ovid unless I’m much mistaken.” He continued to read even as Kit stood watching him with a grin on his face and a gleam of malice in his eyes. “ ’Tis a most excellent translation, sir,” Kyd said after a few moments. “For all its obscene content. But you should have a care who reads this. Obscenity and heresy go hand in hand these days and receive much the same treatment. They both go to the fire.”

  Kit laughed and took back his pages. “It is a work of scholarship for all that. But I mark your warning, sir, and it shall be read only by those of an open mind. Thomas, here, is much taken with it.” Kit turned his grin onto Walsingham, who stood beside him. “Are you not, Thomas?”

  “It is indeed a work of scholarship,” Thomas said. “But best kept for the eyes of those who would appreciate it. Come, let us go to the back room, where we may drink in private. Do you accompany us, Master Kyd?”

  “Most willingly.” The party moved into a room at the back and Rosamund followed, keeping close to her brother, who seemed to choose to ignore her presence. At least he showed no inclination to introduce her. She guessed that either she was cramping his style somewhat, or he had the notion that if no one acknowledged her, it would be as good as if she weren’t there at all. Either way, she could do nothing about it. He took sufficient notice of her, however, to provide her with a cup of canary wine, while the rest drank flagon after flagon of good burgundy, and she sat on a stool in the corner content to listen to the conversation, aware even through her absorption of Will Creighton, wine cup in hand, leaning against the wall alongside the door.

  He seemed totally absorbed in the company, his sharp-eyed gaze roaming over the group, resting attentively on whoever was speaking. It seemed to Rosamund that he was absorbing every word, every gesture, with a hunger that she understood. He wanted to be a part of this world as much as she did. And it would be a lot easier for him, she reflected wryly, than it would be for her female self.

  After a while she noticed the pages that Kit had read from earlier discarded upon the table. One sheet was blank on the back, and almost without thinking she took up a quill lying nearby and began to draw the scene in front of her as she listened to the lively discussion.

  Kit Marlowe was having a heated argument with Kyd about the mechanics of blank verse. He was far from tactful in his comments on the play he had just heard, and finally Kyd, goaded, demanded that he prove himself by reciting some part of his play Tamburlaine.

  Kit jumped onto the table in the middle of the room, the company gathered around, tankards at their lips, cheering him on, as he launched into verse:

  Villain, art thou the son of Tamburlaine

  And fear’st to die, or with a curtle-axe

  To hew thy flesh and make a gaping wound?

  Hast thou beheld a peal of ordnance strike

  A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse,

  Whose shattered limbs, being tossed as high as heaven,

  Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes,

  And cans’t thou, coward, stand in fear of death?

  He raised his tankard and drained it, his face unnaturally flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded. “So, thus speaks a man who cares only for power and ambition to his son, who sees the folly in such obsession.”

  “It sounds a bloody play,” Ned Alleyn observed, stroking the hilt of his sword. “Is there a part in it for me? We have need of new plays. Tom Kyd here cannot keep up with the demand.” He gave the other man a not-too-playful buffet in the shoulder. “The Spanish Tragedy and this young Prince of Denmark are fine enough, but the audience grows restless after the second or third showing.”

  “I do what I can,” Kyd grumbled, holding out his tankard for a refill.

  Kit jumped down from the table and called for more wine. Someone else called for venison pie, and Rosamund finally cast aside her cloak. It was hot in the small, crammed room, and no one gave a damn who she was or why she was there. She was also hungry and the prospect of venison pie set her mouth watering.

  “Ah, friends, I thought I would find you here. Ned . . . Thomas . . . Kyd, what an afternoon that was. A majestic performance.” The exuberant tones came from a new arrival, an elegantly dressed gentleman with fine cobweb lace at his throat and wrists, the hilt of his rapier glittering with diamonds, his gloves edged with pearls.

  Rosamund instinctively took a step backwards into the shadow of her corner. This gentleman might well be one who should not see her in this company. Her brother had risen to embrace him, then gestured to Kit. “Kit, you must make the acquaintance of Witty Tom, another Tom, I fear, but we manage to keep ourselves apart.” He laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Tom Watson, here is Kit Marlowe, a playmaker, translator of Ovid’s obscenities, poet, wordsmith. Kit, here is Witty Tom, poet extraordinaire, a composer of the pastoral verse, the most elegant translator from the Latin. And a veritable madman when the mood takes him.”

  Thomas Watson bowed with a flourish of his feather-adorned hat. Kit followed suit, saying, “An honor, indeed, sir, if you are the author of the Passionate Century of Love.”

  “The very same,” Watson said with a pleased smile. “You are acquainted with my verse?”

  “Intimately,” Kit said. “Thomas, call for more wine. Master Watson has a thirst.” Kit tucked his arm into Tom Watson’s and drew him to a seat on the far edge of the bench at the table in the center of the room.

  Rosamund thought her brother looked less than happy at this development, but he signaled to the innkeeper for more wine to be served with the venison pie. The pie was brought in, steaming beneath its golden crust, and the company moved to the table, jostling for places on the benches.

  “Why, this is a fine sketch indeed.” Ned Alleyn, about to take his place, caught up Rosamund’s discarded drawing, holding it up to the lamplight. “It seems we have an artist in our midst.” He held it high for the others to see.

  “ ’Tis me to the life, I swear it. And there ’tis you, Tom Kyd, all besplattered and besmirched with last night’s dinner.” Laughter rose around the board, and Tom Kyd protested even as he brushed ineffectually at the vivid pattern of grease spots on his doublet.

  “Whose work is this?”

  Rosamund, sitting next to her brother, blushed crimson. Thomas gave her a startled glance, then said, “Oh, my little sister has some talent in that direction. But ’tis hardly courteous, Rosamund, to draw a man without his knowledge.” He frowned at her.

  “On the
contrary, Thomas. The best and most truthful likenesses are caught when the subject is unaware.” Thomas Watson smiled at Rosamund as he examined her sketch. “You are indeed skilled with a pen, Mistress Rosamund. A faithful rendering of the scenes from the play would be of much help to the actors, to remind them of the staging in past performances.”

  He turned to Burbage, who was already delving into the pie. “What think you, Burbage? How many arguments would be saved if you had in front of you a faithful rendering of the staging of last month’s Spanish Tragedy, or some such?”

  “You have a point there, Tom, a point indeed.” Burbage nodded to Rosamund, the first time he had acknowledged her. “You must bring your sister whenever you come, Thomas. If she’s willing, she can sketch as the play unfolds.”

  “Unfortunately that won’t be possible,” Thomas said, passing his sister a spoon and trencher. “My sister is destined for court and there’ll be no more theatre outings of this kind.”

  Rosamund’s pleasure in the compliments faded at this; however she held her tongue and the rest of the company lost interest in the subject in favor of venison.

  Will Creighton, who had not been invited to the board, set down his wine cup and turned to leave, but Ned Alleyn called out cheerfully, “Come eat, Master Will. Thomas here has loaned his purse and I daresay he’ll welcome you at the board.”

  “As long as he doesn’t stir up any more foolish trouble,” Thomas declared, slicing again into the pie crust with his dagger. “Burbage has troubles enough without that.”

  Will bowed towards Thomas, saying, “I venture to suggest, sir, that if a group of ruffians attempted to slice your purse from your belt, you’d give them a fight for it.”

  Thomas hesitated, then a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I daresay I would. And you gave Master Marlowe here a welcome opportunity to put up his fists. Come, take a place on the bench.”

  Will thanked him with a smile and swung a leg over the bench beside Rosamund, who moved up obligingly. “My thanks, Mistress Walsingham . . . it is Mistress Walsingham, I do have it right?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  “You do,” Rosamund said. “But should we meet at court, I would prefer it if you didn’t mention my presence here.”

  Will accepted a tankard and a slice of pie before saying, “I am entirely at your service, Mistress Walsingham.” He glanced sideways at her, his bright blue eyes full of laughter. “Your brother must be a most complaisant guardian to accompany you into this den of iniquity.”

  Rosamund couldn’t help an answering smile. “He’s not exactly my guardian, that position is taken by my elder brother, who, alas, has little interest in it. Thomas perforce takes on the role when the mood suits him.”

  “And when it doesn’t, he leaves you to your own devices. That must be very convenient.” Will drank deep from his tankard, regarding her over the lip with the same laughing eyes.

  “It is,” she agreed with a chuckle. “Most convenient except when he remembers convention again.”

  “Well, it’s to be assumed it won’t be convenient for him to watch over you too closely at court,” Will observed, watching her closely, eyebrows raised.

  “I understand that life at court is sufficiently rigid and constrained to do his work for him,” Rosamund responded lightly, helping herself to another manchet of bread.

  “Superficially, yes,” Will agreed, his eyes still on her, reading her expression. “But it is not beyond the average courtier’s powers to find ways around that if they so choose.”

  “And do you so choose, Master Creighton?” Rosamund felt as if she were walking on dagger points. She’d never conducted such a devious conversation before and it made her feel wicked and sophisticated. An invitation to mischief was in every word, and she could hardly wait to accept it.

  “It depends on the incentive, Mistress Walsingham.” His gaze held hers for a moment, then with a quick grin he raised his tankard to his lips.

  Chapter Six

  CHEVALIER ARNAUD DE Vaugiras stood naked over the woman on the bed, looking down at her with a half smile. “I must say, ma chère Agathe, your late husband certainly taught you well when it comes to satisfying a man.”

  The woman moved languidly on the silk coverlet, her ivory skin a startling contrast to the crimson beneath her. “Leinster was a savage, Arnaud. A barbarian of the first water.” She shuddered delicately. “I could not begin to tell you the things he made me do.”

  He laughed. “You have no need to tell me, ma chère. You demonstrate them so beautifully. And neither do you need to waste your breath in protestation. I know what you like, and presumably so did Leinster.”

  Agathe tugged at her hands, bound to the pillars of the poster bed. “Let me loose, Arnaud.” He bent and untied her and she sat up, rubbing her wrists. “He knew nothing about me. I was thirteen when I was married to him, a mere child. An innocent girl.”

  Arnaud chuckled. “And you will tell me he depraved you with his debauched tastes in the bedchamber.” He went to a sideboard and poured wine from the silver flagon into two silver cups.

  “It is easy enough to corrupt an innocent child who is totally within your power,” Agathe declared, taking the cup he offered her. But her eyes, a deepest blue, narrowed with sensual memory.

  He shook his head, a cynical twist to his thin, well-shaped mouth. “I doubt you were ever an innocent, ma chère. You are barely twenty now.”

  She sipped wine and made no attempt to dispute the statement. Leinster had certainly taught her how to please him, but he had also taught her to acknowledge what pleased her. She had not mourned his death on the hunting field, but she had missed much of the sensual excitement of their marriage . . . until she met Arnaud. And then she had realized how lacking in finesse Leinster had been. Arnaud was an adventurer, suave and sophisticated, rich enough to indulge his whims, a well-connected courtier welcomed in every set, envied by many, respected by even more. Agathe adored him, could refuse him nothing, but she knew that she didn’t really know him and suspected no one ever had or ever would.

  Sometimes she toyed with the idea of marrying him, but never seriously. The life of a rich widow suited her well, and she knew that marriage to Arnaud would give him total control over her person and her considerable wealth, a control that he would exercise to the full. No, she loved being in his bed, his body drove her to the edge and beyond of ecstasy. She could never get enough of him, whatever his mood. Sometimes his lovemaking could be almost gentle, but always there was the hint of violence beneath the artful caresses, and for as long as she had that and her independence, then she had everything she could want.

  Now her gaze was speculative as she regarded her lover. “Something made you more than ordinarily fierce tonight, mon cher Arnaud. Who angered you?”

  A shadow passed across his eyes. “Why would you think that?”

  For answer Agathe rubbed her wrists again. “You bound me tightly, mon cher. And I know that look in your eyes by now. Something, or someone, aroused your wrath most powerfully this evening.”

  The chevalier turned away and she gazed hungrily at the lean, muscled strength of him, the ripple of muscles in his back and buttocks. He was an athlete, a horseman, a swordsman, and it showed in every move he made.

  He picked up a night robe from a stool and shrugged into it. “I saw an old enemy this afternoon,” he said almost casually. “I didn’t care for the memories.” He refilled his wine cup.

  Agathe slid off the bed, drawing the crimson silk coverlet around her shoulders. She trod the waxed oak boards to stand beside him. “Who was it? Do I know him? It was a man, yes?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Yes, ma chère, you need have no fear. No woman has ever bested me.”

  “And this man did?” She was fascinated, unable to believe that anyone could get the better of the Chevalier de Vaugiras. “How? Where?”

  “Oh, in Paris some time ago.” He shrugged. “I prefer not to think of it.” Reflect
ively a fingertip touched the thin, white line beneath his chin.

  Agathe reached up and traced the line with her own fingertip. “He did this, yes? I always wondered how you acquired the scar.”

  He slapped her hand away, turning on her, his hands moving to her shoulders. With a swift movement he pulled the coverlet from her and bore her backwards to the bed. She fell onto the white sheet, fear and excitement warring in her eyes. She never knew when this mood took him quite how the bout would end and she reveled in every twist and turn.

  The morning after the theatre, Rosamund found herself once more in the antechamber of Sir Francis Walsingham’s office on Seething Lane. She wore the second of her new gowns, a tawny damask over a cream underskirt. The green kid slippers and gloves went as well with this gown as the other, as Thomas had been pleased to point out. The remainder of her possessions were in the leather panniers in the corner of the room. Thomas, much the worse for wear after the previous evening, was slumped on the bench awaiting the secretary’s summons.

  Before it came, however, a booming voice lifted in teasing mockery came from the corridor outside the antechamber. “Ah, Mortlake, you’ve the look of the graveyard about you, a green and wasted air. What debauchery have you been about?”

  The manservant who had shown them in answered huffily. “I’ve no inclination to debauchery as well you know, Master Watson. I leave such diversions to my betters. Are you to see Sir Francis? Should I announce you?”

  “No, don’t trouble. I’ll just put my head around the door.”

  “Indeed, Master Watson, but there are others with appointments who await his excellency’s attention.” The servant’s voice was stiff.

  “Ah, then let us see who it is. I shall be the judge of whether they warrant taking precedence.” The door of the antechamber was flung wide and the poet Tom Watson loomed in the doorway, a tall, big-shouldered man with a jocular expression and a wicked gleam in his eye. He looked none the worse for the previous evening’s drinking, and his handsome brown velvet doublet edged in gold lace would have graced any royal court.