His Dark Lady by Victoria Lamb

Robert, Robert. She allowed herself another moment of childish dismay at his betrayals and lusts, then moved on. Her toothache. His presence. The decision.
    ‘Tell him to go,’ she muttered. ‘I am much recovered and do not need him to … Tell him to go.’
    Lady Helena’s eyes were sympathetic. She was a good girl. Not like some at court. ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ she agreed, and removed herself from the room.
    As soon as the door had closed, the pain flared up again. Elizabeth’s tooth became the centre of her being for one exquisite moment of agony, then the rest of her jaw caught fire. She buried her head in the pillows again, stifling her moans.
    If only Robert was here, she thought, to let her squeeze his bare hand. That would help to distract her from the pain. Or he could play thimblerig to infuriate her, switching cups around too quickly for her to remember which one hid the gold coin. Or juggle apples on one leg, laughing, until he sent the fruit rolling across the floor. Or peel and slice the least bruised one, feeding it to her on the tip of his dagger with studied intimacy.
    But she must keep him at a distance now. He was no longer hers. It was hard remembering that. And becoming harder with every day that passed.
    ‘I can’t thank you enough, Will. I can’t be a player short for a court performance, and this part calls for a “handsome young man of Italy ”.’ John Laneham nodded as Will laughed. ‘I know, I know! But you were the only player under twenty-five I could find in the city who can carry a line and isn’t otherwise engaged tonight.’
    Laneham handed over the other shoe and watched critically as Will forced his too-large foot into it.
    ‘Sorry about the tight fit, lad. Gerrard had a smaller foot than you.’
    ‘How did he die?’
    ‘Foolishly, just as the drunken sot lived.’ Will looked up and Laneham made a face. ‘He fell off a ladder during a performance at the Cross Keys. Snapped his neck clean in two. Don’t you do the same, you hear me? I can’t afford to keep buying in new players. He was meant to be climbing over a high wall to woo his lady, but if you don’t think you’re up to it—’
    ‘I’ll be careful.’
    ‘Good lad.’
    John Laneham threw him a richly embroidered, fur-lined cloak that seemed smart enough until Will looked at it closely. Then he spotted the loose seams and realized it needed a trip to the seamstress. Or else the midden, he thought, recoiling from the smell.
    ‘You have a play roll for me?’
    ‘Here.’ Laneham took a battered play roll from the roll bag and handed it across. The parchment was torn in places, and marred by scribbling and greasy fingerprints. ‘This was Gerrard’s. The lines are simple enough. “I love you, I want you to be my wife,” and all that. You could crib them in half an hour, which is about all you’ve got before the performance starts. You play a young Italian who’s sick with love. That can’t be too much of a stretch for you, even for a man who’s sworn off women.’
    Will smiled. ‘Alas, my reputation as a happily married man …’
    ‘Now don’t blaspheme, lad.’ But Laneham grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come to me after the play, there’ll be two shillings in it for you. And a jug of ale, too.’
    ‘No wine?’ Will glanced about the high-ceilinged room with its gilt walls and expensively leaded windows. ‘I’ve no wish to sound churlish, but I expected more hospitality from the palace of Whitehall. Is it true what they’re saying, that the Queen’s coffers are empty?’
    ‘Be content with the ale and the two shillings, lad, and keep your mouth shut around court. You should think yourself lucky to be working here at all.’
    ‘It will be good to have money in my pocket again, not just a promise of it.’
    ‘Oh aye, the money’s good for us Queen’s Men, for all it’s a new company. And I don’t doubt there’ll be wine aplenty for the fine courtiers, as there always is when