The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Read online

  Water lapped with a tranquil rhythm at the hull of the vessel creaking down the Thames, yet the gentle rocking, the lullaby of the waves, and the snug furs that kept Cassandra warm in the small cabin, were doing little to calm her nerves. James had hired a high-end barge for their journey, a long boat, wider than most, with a cabin in the center made of wood and glass―elegant looking, but poorly constructed so that wind whistled in between the gaps where the windows met the walls. The passengers sat on two cushioned, high-backed benches that faced each other. The botehier, the person who owned the barge and commanded the two oarsmen seated at the back, was a loud, shabby fellow with several teeth missing and offensive personal body odor.

  It was dark. They’d left at seven after a light supper in order to get to the palace by eight. A lamp swung hypnotically from the front of the boat. Cassandra stared at it as if it would somehow lull her into a state of relaxation. It wasn’t working. Her palms were sweating, her mouth was dry, and her fingers nervously drummed the side of her chair. James seemed no less anxious, his knee shaking almost imperceptibly up and down.

  As the river meandered toward the south, the homes of the very wealthy studded the riverbank, faint lights winking in the windows of the stolid mansions, lawns sloping to meet the water, where torches burned at the ends of personal quays that harbored their watercrafts. Soon Whitehall palace came into view, an enormous, sprawling series of buildings and towers, all festively glittering. James had mentioned that this palace, at the time the largest in Europe, would be nearly completely destroyed in a fire in 1698. For now, however, the grandeur of its presence as seen from the water was another of those enchanted moments, preserved from ancient histories of kings and queens, that would be little more than myth someday.

  An array of yeoman guards was on hand at the quay to escort the guests inside. It was fascinating to see that the Beefeaters, as they would come to be known, were dressed now, exactly as they would be five hundred years in the future, when their position would be that of ceremonial guards of the Tower of London. They wore the same red uniform which rather resembled a knee-length dress, trimmed with black and gold and emblazoned with the royal coat of arms. They sported red stockings, black shoes topped with red and white buckles, white ruffs around their necks, and flat, black hats festooned with red and white bands upon their heads. These men, whose duties were far from merely ceremonial, protected the Queen and her palaces with unwavering dedication.

  After the smelly boteheir helped his passengers out and onto the quay, where he would remain docked until they were ready to leave, one of the guards ordered Cassandra and James to follow. They walked briskly behind the red-clad fellow through an intricate maze of halls to the Presence Chamber―a less impressive space than the elaborate façade of the palace exterior had led her to expect. The walls were covered with oak paneling and embroidered tapestries, much like in James’s house, only more ornate, making the space seem small and cluttered. Banners hung from the ceiling, and the windows were curtained in ponderous satin. Brass candle rings dangled low from above, and there were sconces and candelabra along the perimeter of the room, none of which were particularly effective in lighting the place up. The claustrophobic feeling was made all the worse by the crowd of courtiers and ladies who stared at her and James as they entered, and the mixed smell of unwashed bodies and strong scented oils only added to it. Musicians played on pipes and lutes but no one danced. Did James feel as unbearably self-conscious as she did?

  “Master Burbage!” her son joyfully cried, clearly relieved to see someone he knew.

  She turned to see the actor entering the room with a lady on his arm. Burbage was festively attired in mustard yellow stockings and trunkhose, and an olive green doublet embroidered with a geometrical pattern of golden thread. He had a bright white ruff about his neck, and a long silver chain draped about his shoulders. He wore a cape of brown velvet, a tall hat to match, and high leather boots, holding his own against the wealthy courtiers who seemed to compete with each other for the most sumptuous costumes. Burbage’s date was dressed in bright red and wore an excessive amount of makeup. A sickeningly sweet scent of rose oil emanated from her. Her breasts bulged out from over the top of her bodice, and her elaborate hairdo looked suspiciously like a wig. Might she be a prostitute?

  Shakespeare peeped from behind Burbage and friend, clad in his traditional black. His eyes met Cassandra’s. He hurried to her, bowed, and kissed her hand. “Dear lady, you are exquisite tonight.”

  The compliment served to ease her tension a little. The golden-hued gown she wore had turned out well indeed, though the ruff pinned into place at the back of her neck and along the sides of the low neckline was horrendously scratchy, and her breasts were squashed upwards by the flat bodice, making it hard to breathe. Her hair had been arranged by Mistress Flint, held back from her face by glittering combs and a fine silk snood. Shimmery threads sparkled on her puffed sleeves as she raised her hand to place it in the crook of Shakespeare’s offered arm.

  A tall man of perhaps sixty approached, dressed conservatively in subtle tones of grey. He had once been very handsome, it was clear, though now his hair was mostly silver and thinning. His cheekbones were high, his nose aristocratic. His hazel eyes sparkled with an appealing glint, and he smiled with a mouth that held the hint of a former sensuousness. He was tall and slender and walked with a slight limp.

  “Lord Oxford,” Shakespeare declared. He and Burbage bowed, and James followed suit.

  “Will,” Oxford said. He grabbed him in an embrace. “My dearest boy, it has been too long.” His gaze moved expectantly to Cassandra’s face.

  “The illustrious lady I wrote you about, Duchess Von Schell.”

  “Not even a description such as that of Will’s could do your beauty justice, my lady.” He bowed deeply as he kissed her hand. He smelled of bergamot and mildew.

  The woman attached to Burbage’s arm coughed.

  “Mistress Turnbow,” Oxford said, “it is a pleasure to see you again.” He looked as if he were afraid she would infect him.

  She shot him a forced smile.

  “And Master Burbage,” Oxford said, turning to him, “the foremost actor of our time. How I enjoyed your Henry the Fifth. A brilliant production, never seen better.”

  “It is all in the words,” Burbage replied, nodding toward Shakespeare.

  “Yet it is you who brings them to life,” Oxford replied.

  Burbage smiled with a slight bow of his head. “You have not met Master James Gwynne, Duchess Von Schell’s nephew. He hails from Cornwall.”

  “It is an honor, my lord,” said James.

  “I do not detect the slightest Cornish accent,” Oxford said. “Yet there is something else in your speech. Were you raised abroad?”

  “I had my education in France, yes,” James replied. He had made up the story of his being from Cornwall because, being such a far-flung place, it would be hard to trace his family name, Gwynne being more or less typical of the area. However, speaking with a Cornish accent would have made him stand out too much so he had forgone it in favor of the London cadence.

  Cassandra observed her son as he chatted with the earl. James cut a dashing figure, dressed mostly in blue from his doublet to his trunk-hose. Both the body of the doublet and its sleeves were striped with gold trim, with a gather of white linen around the neck and wrists. Through the slits in the bulbous trousers peeked a lining of golden silk. Tonight, he wore tan boots of fine calf-leather that came up well over his knees, leaving a small gap of blue stocking between them and the trunk-hose. He sported a leather jerkin, or vest, over the doublet, which matched the boots, and a tall hat with a wide brim of the same color and material, cocked rakishly to one side, adorned by a brown ostrich feather.

  The men had been continuing to talk about Europe. Finally Oxford turned to Cassandra. “I hear you are from Austria, my lady. Will says your husband and I knew each other in our youths, but I do not recall ever knowing a Hermann Von Sche
ll.”

  Oops, she should have thought that one through better. “It was a very long time ago. He said he met you in England, when you were children.”

  “Well, my memory is not what it once was. Yet, are you English, or Austrian?”

  “Originally from Cornwall, as is my nephew. I have been living in Austria since I married, twenty years hence. Though it is my home, still, I relish being back in Britain.”

  “‘Relish,’ is that a German word?”

  “I―” she looked to James for help.

  “She sometimes throws in those odd terms,” her son covered easily with a laugh. “I think she means she adores being back in her homeland.”

  “You are very charming, Duchess,” Oxford remarked as his attention was diverted for a moment by two extremely good looking blond men across the room who bowed slightly in the earl’s direction. He nodded a greeting.

  “Who are they?” she inquired.

  “Two very famous courtiers,” he explained, “though perhaps not to a foreigner such as yourself. Robert Devereux, the Second Earl of Essex, is the taller man. The other,” he added with a derisive snort, “is Henry Wriothesley, the Third Earl of Southampton, Essex’s obedient cur.”

  “But I have heard of them,” Cassandra replied. “Essex is involved in the campaign against Ireland, yes?”

  “More than involved,” Oxford replied with a grimace. “In spite of the Queen’s resistance, he’s trying to talk his way into the post of Lord Lieutenant. Can you even imagine?” he scoffed. “He thinks he can succeed against the great Irish chieftain and his army where others, much more skilled in battle, have failed.”

  “Isn’t Lord Southampton the man to whom Master Shakespeare dedicated two of his most renowned poems?”

  “Renowned indeed,” he said with an edge of bitterness to his voice. “So you do know something of Henry,” he went on sardonically. “He and I were once great friends, you know.”

  “Did he do something to displease you?”

  “He took up with that simpering brat, Essex.”

  This was obviously a sensitive subject and perhaps not one to pursue at a festive occasion.

  Shakespeare bowed deeply toward the two men, and was rewarded with smiles and bows in return. Another courtier approached him and began to chat, while Oxford turned away from the whole scene with a disgusted face.

  James drew Cassandra aside. “History rumors that Oxford and Southampton were lovers and had a falling out,” he whispered.

  “So he’s bisexual?” she nodded her head toward Oxford who was now talking to Burbage.

  “Not uncommon in this day, anymore than at any other time in history, just not talked about.”

  “But Southampton is so much younger than he is.”

  “When did that ever stop anyone?”

  Could it be possible that the two famous poems, as well as Shakespeare’s many sonnets, were written by Oxford and published under Shakespeare’s name as a cloak for his amorous intentions? On the other hand, Southampton supposedly was, or had been, a patron of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. She was about to ask James his thoughts on this when suddenly a fanfare sounded from the hall.

  Everyone turned to look while the musicians abruptly ceased playing. Two trumpeters led a contingent of guards into the room. The Queen, in full regalia, appeared behind them, a bright red wig on her head which only emphasized her severely receding hairline. Her face was plastered in white with two round spots of rouge on each cheek, painted red lips, and severely arched eyebrows drawn on in black. The make-up did nothing to hide the fact that, at the age of sixty-five, Elizabeth was already an old, old woman.

  The monarch’s gown was silver, dripping with necklaces of pearls and diamonds. Sapphires ornamented her hair, and emeralds dangled from her ears. An enormous and intricate ruff rose around her head and face as if it were a frame. Light danced off the many facets of her ornate jewelry so that she resembled something altogether other-worldly: a fairy or a witch, or maybe an absurd combination of the two.

  Everyone in the room dropped low in a bow or curtsey, their eyes on the floor, the men whisking off their hats and holding them to their hearts. With a great swish of skirts and a wash of perfume and body odor, Elizabeth, followed by an entourage of advisers and ladies-in-waiting, moved through the chamber. Cassandra stared at the ground, waiting for a signal to rise. A pair of silver slippers came into view and stopped in front of her. She tentatively looked up into the horrible crackled whiteness of that face. It was not smiling.

  “Who is this?” Elizabeth demanded in a whisper that carried across the entire chamber.

  Oxford stepped forward. “Duchess Cassandra Von Schell of Austria, Your Majesty.”

  “You may rise.” The old woman tapped Cassandra’s shoulder with a fan. “I have never heard of a Von Schell in Austria.”

  “My husband was duke of a small and insignificant realm,” Cassandra croaked, her heart in her throat. “He is recently deceased. I return to your kingdom a humble servant....” She reverted her gaze to the slippers while her voice trailed off.

  “You are obviously not of royal blood or we would be cousins, however distant.”

  “No, I am a commoner. Duchess by marriage only. Forgive my impertinence at daring to appear in your presence.”

  “She is my guest,” Oxford said.

  “I should have known, Edward. You shall make me regret allowing you back at court. You could never resist a pretty face, could you?” A smattering of laughter echoed around the room. The Queen’s visage broke into a broad and nearly toothless grin. She waved at her audience before continuing. “Yet neither can I.” She jutted her chin toward James. “Who is this newcomer?”

  A small fox-faced man dressed all in black eased out from his position behind Elizabeth. He said in a low voice, “I felt it would be no harm to extend the invitation, at Lord Oxford’s request, to both Duchess Von Schell and her nephew, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you, Robin,” Oxford said with a sneer. “Your Highness, This is James Gwynne, of Cornwall. He is recently become a patron of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

  James knelt on one knee and kissed Elizabeth’s outstretched hand.

  “Ah, a person with money,” she said. “This we like.”

  Again, abundant laughter from her minions.

  “Where exactly in Cornwall?” Elizabeth asked. “I have been to that mysterious land of my ancestor, King Arthur, in my progresses. I know it well.”

  Cassandra glanced at James but he rose and answered without missing a beat. “Cardinham, Your Highness. Do you know it?”

  “I know of it, as I know of every village and hamlet in my realm. But I have not visited there.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “How does your family come by their means?”

  “My father―my aunt’s brother―and my grandfather are merchants. The family has gained money through toil and thrift.”

  Elizabeth relented with an approving nod. “Good English stock,” she declared.

  “I come bearing a gift for Your Highness,” James said, bowing again. He withdrew a flat, leather box from a pocket in his cloak.

  “Oh?” She held out her hand impatiently. Cassandra had almost forgotten about the gift.

  “From my aunt and myself.” He handed over the box and Elizabeth greedily grasped it to her bosom. She then lifted back the top to reveal a magnificent ruby glittering in a pendant of gold. It was attached to an intricately woven chain of the same metal. Shannon had sent it with them. Its value in sixteenth century measurement was tremendous.

  Elizabeth actually went speechless for a moment. “Is it from Austria?” she finally asked, regaining her composure.

  “It is,” Cassandra replied.

  “You have pleased me.” The old woman turned her attention from the jewelry, to focus fully on James, appraising him like a side of beef. “You,” she simpered, placing a finger on his shoulder, “my beautiful creature, are my new pet. You will sit with me.” She roped her arm through Ja
mes’s and led him away to the dais at the far end of the room, throwing a triumphant glance at the Earl of Essex. Seeing his face cloud with resentment, she smiled and then turned away from him. A stool was brought and placed on a step below Elizabeth’s chair. There James sat, looking stunned. His panicked eyes sought Cassandra’s.

  Now what? They were each on their own.

  “Edward,” Elizabeth commanded in a loud voice, “dance with the Duchess.” She gazed imperiously around the room. “Master Shakespeare.” She looked down her nose at him. “I do not know why you are even here. You should be busy composing your next masterpiece.” Even as he nodded and gave a short bow in acquiescence, she turned her attention to a new target.

  “And Master Burbage, you may be my favorite actor, but the next time you bring a slattern into my presence you will end up in the stocks.”

  Burbage, eyes wide, hurriedly flicked a hand at Mistress Turnbow who scuttled out the door.

  “Music!” commanded the Queen.

  The musicians resumed playing while Essex stormed from the room, Southampton close on his heels.

  Oxford, his expression a mixture of triumph and bitterness, watched them go. He composed himself with a sigh and turned to Cassandra with a courtly smile. “It seems you have been entrusted to me, Duchess.”

  She tentatively placed her hand on his proffered arm. He proved to be an excellent dancer. She and James had been provided lessons and had, as much as time allowed, practiced the more popular dances, but her skills were shaky at best. Fortunately, her partner was adept, and she was able to follow him without too many missteps. She could only hope that any awkward moments would be written off to her having been out of the country for two decades.

  She needn’t have worried. Shakespeare immediately claimed her for the following dance, but after a few bars, she stopped. He was not a skilled dancer and she had no idea how to proceed without solid guidance. “Forgive me, Master Shakespeare,” she said with as gracious a smile as she could muster. “I am afraid my slippers are too tight. Do you mind if we stand to the side?”