The Tudor Prince

THE TUDOR PRINCE

Elizabethan Era Romance

CONSTANCE KENT

Copyright 2018 Constance Kent

Writewood Creations Publishing 2021

All rights reserved.

This publication remains the copyrighted property

of the author and may not be redistributed for commercial

or non-commercial purposes.

ISBN 978-1-988003-57-3

Cover image by sandr2002

Cover design by Writewood Creations/Canva

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

From the Publisher

THE TUDOR PRINCE

About the Author

Just for You

From the Publisher

My Guilty Pleasure novels are standalone historical romances of emotionally-charged forbidden love. The Tudor Prince is set in 1588 Elizabethan England where Avery Weller flouts the law that forbids women on the stage. Lord Nicholas Blackstone, Master of the Revels, has been hunting her for months. But when the handsome lord catches up with her, he makes her an astonishing offer that draws her into a deadly royal secret.

Books in this Series

The Pirate Lord

The Maiden Bride

The Dark Regent

The Lovers Trilogy

THE TUDOR PRINCE

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May...

Shakespeare

Prologue

THE PERFORMANCE was nearing the end. The author of the piece of tripe Nicholas Blackstone had been forced to sit through would soon take the stage to receive his accolades, be they coins or rotted vegetables. Blackstone cared not. The playwright was not his quarry.

He slipped around the edges of the building to the players’ entrance and ducked inside. Moving swiftly and noiselessly, the Master of the Revels traveled the warren of corridors, peering in one room and then another, seeking his prey.

He was not recognized. If one was going to catch a rabbit, one had to dress the part. He wore the garb of a carpenter, as stage carpenters were plentiful. What was one more among so many?

A tightly closed door at the end of the hall held promise. He stepped up to it quickly and lifted the latch. The door swung open on a dressing room filled with a riot of costume and color. A candelabra set before a mirror shot golden light over the small room.

The girl did not hear him enter, occupied as she was with untangling a lace.

She was naked to the waist.

Nicholas froze. His eyes could not be induced to tear themselves away from her beauty. The delicate bones in her back and shoulders. Her fluted waist. The ripe full lift of her breasts. Her disarming, unaffected, utterly unconscious innocence transfixed him.

"What the devil?"

He snapped out of his reverie. Beg your pardon, miss. I’ve lost my way. Are you one of the players then? I heard Lord Chamberlain’s Men employs women on occasion. I didn’t like to think it could be true.

The girl, Avery Weller rose slowly to her feet. She did not cover herself or reach for her robe as Nicholas expected she would. Instead, she reached for a rapier.

If you don’t like to think it could be true, then it is not true. We poor females must adjust as gentlemen see fit. Never fear. Perhaps I am their mistress. Perhaps I am their good luck charm. What I am not is such a fool as to not recognize the Master of the Revels when he comes barging into my quarters! She tilted the tip of the rapier against his chest, aiming the point at his heart. State your business, Lord Blackstone or be gone from my sight.

His business was arrest. He had her trapped. The evidence of his eyes convicted her.

Nicholas pinched the tip of the rapier between his thumb and forefinger and guided it away from his heart. There will be no need for that. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

What then, my lord? she asked. What do you want with me?

Her head tilted to one side, waiting for his reply. When one did not come, Nicholas witnessed a soft look of confusion come over her face and her eyes locked with his.

Heat crawled up Blackstone’s neck. She was naked and he was blushing.

Will you grant me one favor, Mistress Weller?

Her lips glistened and plumped. Her eyes darkened. They were alone, alone as he had never felt before with a woman.

Yes, my lord.

His heart hammered wildly. He bent his face to hers, scarcely knowing what was happening to him, and kissed her softly on the mouth.

Her mouth and his lingered together for several seconds of bliss before she broke away.

Avery lifted her eyes to his. Her breasts taunted him. Her lips condemned him.

If I see you again, I will arrest you, Nicholas breathed.

He spun on his heel and strode off down the corridor.

She never spoke of it. He never heard the tale repeated, nor was he mocked or jeered for being disarmed by a half-naked girl who trod the boards at the Globe, scoffing the very law he was charged to enforce.

Avery Weller kept the secret of their kiss and as time passed, Nicholas wondered why she had kept it.

Chapter One

London 1588

LORD BLACKSTONE’S coach rolled past Avery Weller huddled in the doorway of the theatre. She shrank out of sight, drawing the hood of her cloak down over her face. Treading the boards was against the law for a woman and her nemesis, Blackstone, was the chief prosecutor of that law. Avery waited until his fine conveyance had passed by before stepping out from the shelter of the doorway and into the driving rainstorm.

She could almost picture the man inside the black and green contraption lumbering through the muddy streets—Lord Nicholas Blackstone, Master of the Revels and a nasty lying hypocrite who would torture her and throw her into prison if her occupation was ever discovered.

To keep one step ahead of him, Avery had learned far more about Blackstone than he knew about her. She knew where he lived in London Town and had even performed a madrigal at his house last Christmastide. She knew other things about his lordship, a bureaucrat who prided himself on morality and enforcing the rule of law—but not on chastity as it happened. He kept many mistresses. He could afford them, being a man of great wealth. But then all of London knew about his wealth.

His recklessness, however, was less widely known. Many of the players in Lord Chamberlain’s Men said Blackstone had a death wish with his physical daring, which amused Avery greatly as she shared his lordship’s wish. His zealous campaign to rid London’s theatres of female players through raids and abrupt closures had driven her into a state of near-constant penury.

What the devil—? She watched in horror as Blackstone’s coach slowed its lurching progress and then came to a stop directly ahead. Avery held her breath. The door swung open and his lordship leapt out into the rain. He faced her with a scowl. Avery drew the hood of her cloak down lower and feigned not to see him.

You there! Madam, I would like a word. Now, if you please.

Damn his eyes!

It was not a request though he framed it as such. Her already empty stomach cratered even further but there was no evading the command. Avery lifted the hem of her skirts and hurried to the waiting carriage.

Months later, after she’d lost everything, she thought back to that moment of standing in the rain and the carriage door mysteriously opening. She should not have got inside; she should have invented an excuse, but danger is only obvious in hindsight.

In the moment, any female with a sense of self-preservation gets in out of the rain.

AVERY HAD become a regular player in Chamberlain’s Men along with Will Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson. Those were the only three she had trusted with the truth about herself. From the others in the company, Avery took care to conceal her identity—a feat of disguise that was much easier to pull off than she had imagined. She had been with them for six months when the first attack occurred. The Master of the Revels fined the playwright and nearly closed the theatre when he determined Marlowe’s play contained a treasonous message.

That had been a nearly fatal blow to Avery’s pay packet. The contretemps led to eviction from her rooms when she couldn’t make the rent and Shakespeare and Marlowe became skittish about casting her. She hid out in the chorus for the remainder of the season, well out of sight, costumed as soldiers, messengers, boy heralds and on occasion, a lady’s maid.

The pay was low but the quality of the food and camaraderie was high. Acting was preferable to whoring and she would kill before she allowed Blackstone take it away from her.

Nevertheless, Avery was unnerved by the manner in which his jet black eyes were fixed upon her. She sat across from him on the hard bench, trying to remain calm. The seconds ticked by in silence. Rain pelted the carriage and turned the streets to rivers of mud and waste. Blackstone was aptly named, she thought. His hair was as black as his eyes. The Revel Master had a lean brown face and full thirsting lips. Though he was but nine and twenty, fine lines had formed at the corners of his eyes that revealed signs of strain.

He has brought the strain upon himself, Avery thought pitilessly as she waited for him to speak. His lordship was powerful, enigmatic and solitary. Kit Marlowe, (who had given the subject some thought) summed up Blackstone’s problem in one word: Rich.

A servant of the Crown who was blessed with power but no wealth could be bought with a tankard of ale. But a man with both power and wealth was untouchable. Such a man was immune to bribes and beyond the influence of the theatrical managers who sought his approval. The only thing Blackstone attracted was fear.

Well, his money and power did not intimidate her. Though she had no idea what Blackstone wanted with her, riding in his coach was infinitely preferable to running in the rain. Avery removed her thin cloak and wrung it out on his boots.

Nicholas Blackstone did not blink. Good morrow, Mistress Avery Weller.

She nearly fell off the seat. You remember me.

Of course. Do you imagine I am in the habit of accosting strange young women in the street? I have been tracking your movements for several months.

Given his reputation, she had every reason to imagine he was in the habit of accosting young women, but Avery kept her usually sharp tongue in check. Instead, she shook her cloak out, spraying water droplets over the compartment. Blackstone did not flinch.

Well then, what can I do for you, your lordship?

His coal black hair was scraped back off his broad forehead; greased with pomade made popular in France. He wore a black velvet doublet trimmed in dark green, a stiff white ruff around his neck, and black breeches. On his feet were leather boots that reached to the knee. The short green cape he wore was thrown off his shoulders, shoulders so broad they seemed to take up the width of the seat.

Are you engaged this evening?

Avery bristled. If you hope to catch me out, sir, it will not work. My evening’s activities are of no concern to the Office of Revels.

You and I both know that is not true, Mistress Avery, but I am not enquiring in an official capacity. My interest is personal. I need a young lady of quality to accompany me to a Masque this evening that is being held at Court.

She touched her cheek to cool it. I cannot help you, sir. I am not a lady of quality—

No, but you know how to act the part of one and that is all I require. His eyes narrowed. Do not trifle with me, madam. I know all about you. You have been performing with Chamberlain’s Men for months, engaged by Marlowe, and that’s not all. You have a long history of passing yourself off as a lad to unsuspecting impresarios who risk their licenses when they put you on stage. I have refrained from having you arrested but that could soon change.

If I do not do what you ask—that is what you mean, isn’t it? Extortion! Spit it out! Do you mean to arrest me if I refuse you tonight? Even for Blackstone, the threat was injudicious.

Aye, he answered with icy finality. If you do not do as I ask I will have you arrested and thrown in the darkest hole in Christendom.

Too appalled to answer, Avery fell silent. Blackstone leaned back against the seat with a triumphant glower. Even when he won he looked miserable.

Avery crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him through narrowed eyes. "I am much aggrieved, my lord. Of course I would be delighted to accept, but as I have nothing suitable to wear to such an occasion, regretfully, I must decline."

I have anticipated you.

The coach rolled to a stop and a boy in green livery darted forward to open the door. Good day, sir! I have been watching out for you. Is this the young lady?

This is Mistress Avery Weller. Miss Weller, this is Peter. He will escort you to my tailor who has a gown ready-made for you. It only needs fitting. The woman who makes the costumes for the theatre handed over the gown you wore on stage three nights ago. I had to tell her why I wanted it and then I had to bribe her to keep her silence. You shall owe me the amount.

The pock-marked boy dressed in livery assisted Avery from the carriage to a wooden walkway in front of a fine building. Nicholas Blackstone leaned forward.

The lady will need undergarments and footwear, and everything in between. And Peter, see if something can be done about her hair while you are at it. Charge the expenses to my account. I’ll return for her in two hours. Mistress Weller, I shall expect to find you waiting.

She opened her mouth to object but the door slammed shut and the carriage pulled away lumbering down the rain-drenched street.

AT NINETEEN, Avery Weller was too old to interest men seeking a mistress and too poor to interest men seeking a wife. She was the only child of a cobbler and his wife, and had lived a happy, adventure-free life until her parents died in the plague that had swept through London.

Her plan to take over her father’s business had been quashed by the Guild, and then conflict with a corrupt city official led to the building itself being sold out from under her. The excuse the official gave for pocketing the profit was that her father had died owing taxes—a lie that Avery could not forgive.

She was soon homeless but not before getting her revenge. On the day the official was moving his brother into the shop a mysterious fire broke out and burned the place to the ground. Avery had watched the carnage from a safe distance and was delighted when the official’s eyebrows were seared off in the blaze.

In the aftermath, she still had to make a living. Wellers were natural born performers, with a long history of busking as bards, minstrels, jesters and back alley jugglers. Thus, it was as natural as breathing to don a disguise and join a theatre troupe to earn her way.

Good-looks ran in her family, as well as a disposition for petty crime. Avery had inherited both. She was blessed with her Scottish mother’s pale complexion, dark hair and her father’s blue eyes, but in her disguise as a boy, her smooth skin and heart-shaped face was an impediment to survival. She went to great lengths to be indistinguishable from the other lads.

To further protect her identity, Avery avoided romance altogether, a feat she thought would be easy until a number of young ladies fell in love with the boy thespian. To counter act the threat of being groped backstage, she invented a case of syphilis for which there was no cure. The ladies continued to adore their boy hero, but from a safe distance.

As for love, Avery was too busy keeping body and soul together to even think of it.

§

BLACKSTONE’S COACH arrived two hours later as promised. The rain had stopped but the streets were drowning in mud. Avery lifted her fine new skirt and gingerly picked her way over the boards to the waiting transport.

The apparel he’d had made for her was exquisite, the finest Avery had ever worn and that included her stage costumes which were not nearly so fine, leading her to wonder what role she was being asked to play. The cut and fabric were costly, but the style and colors were muted as befitting a lady of privilege....

But not a noblewoman, she mused aloud. Courtesan? Spinster? The long lost daughter of a duke?

Blackstone’s dark head was bent over a scroll of parchment. What is that? he enquired but did not look up when she climbed into the carriage and sat down opposite him.

Who am I supposed to be tonight? A performer is commonly given a script to follow.

There is no script. You shall have to improvise. He looked up to scrutinize her dress and his expression warmed slightly from mild distaste to curious approval.

My man did well. You look … presentable. To answer your question, I shall introduce you as the daughter of one of my father’s knights, a man who served him well. You are returning from France where you have received your education. That is all you need to know.

I need to know a good deal more. What is the name of my father?

Sir Weller of course. For the sake of clarity, let’s keep it simple. Your father served my father, Lord Blackstone of Kent, now deceased, as his trusted advisor for many years.

"Ah, so I am not nobility but I am well-born like Lucetta in Will’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Wonderful. I understand completely." Avery couldn’t help it;