ROMANTIC VENTURE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

London was heavy with the pungent summer smells of rotting garbage and unwashed citizens. Dominic Warbrooke, having completed his business in the city, was anxious to travel to Islington. That urge, however, was coupled with a certain reluctance. He did not know why but guessed, in his more honest moments, that he feared deeply the rejection of the one woman whom he wanted above all others. He had always thought of women in terms of momentary diversions from the real business of living. Now, in his thirtieth year, he discovered that he was like any callow youth in his longing for the fair Maurette.

He could have easily enforced the bargain they had made. He had every right to enter the estate at Islington and take the chit by force. But he recognized the fact that he did not want her that way. He wanted her soft and breathlessly ardent as she had been the night that she had told him of her love. He could not hope to win back that aspect of her with brute force. The heart of the self-willed and fiery Maurette must be won with other means. The fact that he wanted to win her heart surprised him.

It astonished him that he wanted her to come to him trembling with adoration at his touch. He wanted her as he had never wanted any other woman, but the satisfying of his lust was secondary to his need to feel her gentle compliance in his arms. He knew that he could force her young body to wild responses - he had done that more than a few times with eager but frightened wenches - but from Maurette, he longed even more for the response of her innocent young heart.

He paced his stifling suite in a well-appointed inn on the Strand, wavering between thoughts of taking her with uncompromising force and of wooing her gently with patience and gallantry. He could ride to Islington today, but, in his impatience of the moment, he would probably frighten her beyond repair. He must take the time to settle his blazing instincts. He moved about the hot room like a heat-prostrated panther. Perhaps if he went out, he thought, he could cool the fire in his soul.

. Dominic Warbrooke entered the dim parameters of the Mermaid Tavern at Cheapside in London and sat at his usual table. He preferred this tavern for its clientele. On any given day, one could find Ben Johnson or John Donna or Master Beaumont among others. These were men of wry wit and varied humors. As a body, they constituted a decidedly spicier company than did the gentry at the Blounton Club. Those good men, with their perfect manners and single-minded thinking, had bored Dominic early in his stay in London. Here, at the Mermaid, a rousing debate was always a potential element with such free thinking company.

Dominic was not disappointed on this particular afternoon as a vibrant crowd of young intellectuals entered and took over the atmosphere of the dim tavern, filling it with a life and vitality that only men of audacious bravado and impetuous overconfidence could engender. These men were pioneers in their own way. They were the creative geniuses of the time, and some maintained that their reckless abandonment of traditional values would one day topple the established and venerated status quo. Even in their presumptive impudence, however, these men had no such sullen wishes. They wanted simply to he left to their spirited and unsparing wealth of philosophies.

Dominic admired their courage as much as he admired the queen's support of them. Elizabeth, it was said, had an actor's heart, and that was why she supported the artists inhabiting her realm. It was in a mood of deep contemplation, that Dominic watched and listened to the spirited conversations that surrounded him. His reflection was interrupted by a voice speaking his name.

"Lord Warbrooke?" said the melodious voice from just above. Dominic looked up to find a face that was vaguely familiar to him. "I would not violate your contemplation, sir, except that I would make myself known to you," said the young man. "We met in London on a dark night. There was a pretty horse and an equally pretty lad named Dan. My confreres and I were on the road to Islington."

Dominic smiled and stood in recognition of the young actor. "You were Will, were you not?"

"I was and am," said the actor amiably. "William Shakespeare." He bowed low in greeting.

"When you greet me in such a way, you make me as old as our good Catherine of France," said Dominic, vaguely embarrassed. "Please join me," he added, pulling out a chair for the actor. "I thought you had left London to establish quarters in the country."

Will smiled as he settled himself in the chair and ordered a tankard of ale from the pretty tavern wench who smiled at her handsome young client. "Alas, we were forced to abandon country matters for this day. We are in the city to buy some cloth and tend to the realities of our profession. 'Tis sad but too true that the intrusion of the mundane stuff on life must on occasion interrupt our glamorous and poetic occupation." He laughed softly. "In truth," he added, accepting his ale, "we have need of a lad to take the place of our present one who plays the ingenue. We had great hopes for that young lad you spirited away from us the night we made your acquaintance in London."

Dominic regarded Will with a jaundiced grin. "That was no lad, good master, and you know it."

"Do I?" Will inquired tranquilly. "I must tell you," he said, sitting back and sipping at his ale, "I had the pleasure of meeting a young lady in Islington who resembles that boy. I thought they might be brother and sister but learned she was of gentle birth, and so I could not imagine that young ruffian who rode in our cart to be her brother."

"Did you question her on it?" said Dominic, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I did," said Will solemnly. "And I learned something of a similar flight that the lady undertook to escape the terrible clutches of the notorious Silver Raven."

"Why did she wish to escape him?" Dominic asked.

"Ah," said Will with feigned sorrow, "That is a sad story. 'Twould seem she feared him greatly. He is a rough gentleman, you see, and fearsome in his appearance. He is bold and ungentle in both his habits and his appointments. He is big and brawny and wears rough clothes. And" - Will leaned into his companion and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper- "to obtain the favors of women, he must hold them at swordpoint."

Dominic threw back his head and laughed. "He sounds a perfect rogue."

"No one, good Warbrooke, is perfect," said Will gently "And this Raven fellow least of all. I told you, the girl becomes separated from her wit's when his name is mentioned. The thought of him sends shudders down her supple spine."

"What would you know of her supple spine, master?" Dominic said grimly, his laughter suddenly gone.

"Rein your ire, sir, I only imagine it to be so." Will chuckled. "In any event, why does it bother you if I should know the condition of her spine?"

Dominic sat back heavily. "I love her" he said simply. William Shakespeare shrugged an elegant shoulder "In my lexicon, love is the conqueror of all. Ill feelings are but fleas upon a bear when love is truly present. Contracts come and go-and marriage is, in truth, but a contract-but love is forever."

Dominic looked deeply into William's eyes and sighed disconsolately. "If that were only the thinking of that young maiden you met at Islington."

William's heart grew large within his chest with immense joy as he smiled down into his tankard. "It is," he said, his only slightly above a whisper.