by Kage Baker
"Why, she is with child."
Nicholas came to a full stop, gaping at him. Master Darrell eyed him wryly.
"Ah, that was how London did receive the news; then the folk all tore their caps off and cried huzzah, and blessed her name. As I think you will too, sir, being a prudent man."
"But…" said Nicholas.
At this moment Sir Walter emerged from the house and came springing nimbly down the steps, ready for his midmorning trot around the garden (per Joseph's orders). Master Darrell peered at him, and it was his turn to gape.
"Sweet Jesu, man, thy beard is red! How hast thou grown young?"
"It is a restorative physick, recommended by my personal physician," said Sir Walter airily. "Run along with me, for I may not stop, and I shall tell thee more." Master Darrell clutched his hat and panted off after him. I tugged at Nicholas's hand.
"My love, be of good cheer. The queen is old. A child is impossible."
Horror was slowly dawning in his eyes. "But if she brings forth an heir to the Spanish prince, then farewell England's liberty."
"She won't," I said, treading on thin ice. "She can't. I know it, love. She'll die."
"And what if she doth not die? Or what if she should die, and the child live?" Nicholas clenched my hand. "An infant crowned and the Inquisition to stand as regent over us all? This must not be." His grip was painful. I wanted to tell him about Mary's ovarian tumor and the hysterical symptoms, but all I could say was:
"Your God would not desert England so. Consider well, love, the late Queen Katherine bore but the one live child and that was Mary. All the rest died babies. Have faith. Pray."
"I cannot pray for the death of a child," said Nicholas wildly.
I racked my brains. "Hear me, love. My father has tended gentlemen of the Emperor's court and heard them tell tales current there, from the very spies come from England. And the saying is, that the Queen is so troubled in her monthly courses, and so subject to swollen distemperatures of her womb, that they doubt she could have borne a babe even when she was young."
"If the Emperor believed that, why did he send his son to marry the old cow?"
Well, that was a good question. "It's only dropsy," I said. "I'll stake my life on it."
"So thou mayest, and so may we all," growled Nicholas.
Later we heard rumors he liked better: that beaten Spaniards were leaving the country in droves, having failed to make their fortunes in this unpleasant country, and that their prince wished bitterly he could go with them. All true, according to our radio commentator.
We poor Spaniards, though, were stuck in an English winter. The bare fields like a gray sea frozen. The sky all lowering slate. Lead, steel, silver weather. The smell was oppressive. I don't mean that it stank, though there was a lot of death in the smell, and it wasn't the normal mortal reek of men and beasts. It was a cold, black kind of smell. It urgently needed jolly wood smoke to cover it, and piercing sweet winds off the sea to carry it away.
Visually winter was beautiful, especially if seen from behind thick windows and with a good fire at your back. The bleaker it got, the more the mortals in the household seemed to want to go out and rush around in it, especially after the snow started. No wonder the damned things died.
Yes, snow utterly failed to charm me. On the day I first saw snow, the Ilex tormentosum was fruiting at last, and I had crunched through frozen puddles to get at it, had wrapped myself in every garment I possessed plus a cloak of Nef's, smelling of goat though it did. For those sharp branches with their distinctive oblong berries I braved frostbite and an increasing atmospheric disturbance niggling at the edges of my sensory array. Nicholas, holding the basket beside me, looked perfectly comfortable in his ordinary clothes.
"This same holly we cut in the summer, I well recall," he observed. "Why do you take it again? Is there a particular virtue in the berry?"
"Oh, yes." I thought of diseases yet unnamed, in lands yet unknown. How to explain to him about Taxol, or Vinca rosea? "Blessed virtue. Their quality distilled will do more than garland thy house at Christmas, I'll tell thee. It's said the common kind keeps witches out; these will keep out Death himself."
"A likely story." He shifted the basket to his other arm.
"Well, it's true," I grumped at him. "Would I be out here in this filthy cold to get them, if it were otherwise?"
"It maketh thee look a spirit." He peered at me dreamily. "The leaves so green and the berries so red, and thy little blue hands and blue wrists and little angry blue face. I think if I tumbled thee under this green bush now, thou'd vanish like an ice cloud."
"Then should Friar John find himself out in the cold." I backed away a pace, just in case he intended to try it. Though he did look so handsome, with the frost bringing up the color of the good hot blood under his skin. He leaned down and lifted my chin in his own warm hand.
"Well, one must be prudent," he said, and kissed me. He radiated such heat it was delicious, and I leaned in to him and we could have kissed and kissed like that forever. I could have, anyway. I suppose his back would have gotten tired. As we came apart to breathe, something drifted between us. It was followed by several other somethings, white and falling swiftly. It looked exactly like the excelsior we used to kick around in heaps near the transport pad at Terra Australis, from the supply crates that were unloaded there. Of course, this was impossible. I frowned at the things, which were dropping everywhere now, and said:
"Where are all the feathers coming from?"
Of course I knew my mistake as soon as one of them touched my bare skin, and a second later I blurted, "It's snowing!" in dismay. I made a grab for my basket. But Nicholas had it, and he was staring at me in a mixture of alarm and delight.
"Thou knewest not what it was," he said. "Thou hadst never seen it before."
"Of course I have," I lied, getting the basket away from him. I had seen it in movies and paperweights and holos, and I had even done a five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of a winter landscape once, but it hadn't prepared me for the reality. "I spake in jest. Come away now, quick. We must to the house."
"Thou'rt frightened." He paced along beside me, leaning down to look at me. "Sweetheart, it is but snow."
"So it is; and even in England folk must have enough sense to come in out of it, must they not?" I came to the end of the hedge and could see no garden anymore; only outlines rapidly obscured by the flying white. I panicked. "Where is the house?" I wailed; then my infrared cut in, and of course the house was the flare of light seventy meters northwest. Nicholas at my side blazed like an angel. He reached out for me.
"Peace, love, peace!" he called. "Follow my hand." But it was his light I followed, all the way back to Iden Hall. Contrary to the expectations fostered by literature and art, i) snow does not fall in beautiful crystal kaleidoscopic flakes, and 2) it does not fall silently. It sounds like rain, only stealthy.
"Still blue," Nicholas marveled, helping me out of layers of cloak by the fire in the great hall. "They tell no lies that call thy Spanish gentry bluebloods."
Actually in my case it was antifreeze, but I looked haughtily at him. "Well, I shall not so chill my blood again until the spring returneth. This snow is a horrible marvel."
"Oh, but snow is a merry thing in England." Nicholas spread out his hands to the fire. "Many jolly country pastimes may be had, at the year's dark end. You may sled upon snow, or walk through snow to your neck deep, or make some defense and fight battles with snow. You may go skating on frozen millponds and with good fortune not drown."
"You go skating on frozen millponds," I told him firmly, and we kissed, right there in front of a servant that was bringing big logs into the hall, and parted then. I had risked my fingers for Ilex tormentosum, and it had to be preserved for the ages.
Nef's room smelled like Nef's cloak, only more so.
"And how is our patient today?" I inquired, holding my nose as I went in.
"He's the sweetest, cleanest little baby in the world," Nef said. "And he's mu
ch better, thank you."
He looked better, sitting there nibbling on a corner of the brocade coverlet. The Graft-O-Plast had come away from the wound, and fur was growing back; the horn buds were obdurately two, as nature intended, and not one, as the fantasy of man demanded. "How nice," I said without enthusiasm. "Say, do you mind if I open a window while I work?"
"Yes." She didn't look up from the magazine she was reading. "It's snowing, in case you hadn't noticed."
At least it was warm in there. She hated the cold even more than I did and had built up a roaring fire on the hearth. I opened my credenza and resolutely set out my specimen prep slides. "So, what are we listening to?" I nodded at the radio.
"Pierre Attaignant memorial concert," Nef answered. "It's been going on for hours."
"Then I haven't missed the news."
"Nope."
"I've never seen it snow before." I switched on the ultravey.
"Lousy, isn't it?"
That was yet another set of bransles, a voice announced, sounding slightly desperate. And with that we conclude this afternoon's segment of our tribute to the most prolific publisher of dance music of his time. Our thanks to studio musicians Dorin, Mark, Lucan, and Aristaeus of Thebes. Now for the news.
News story of the hour: the first snowfall of the season has begun over southern England. Those of you stationed up north, of course, have already been experiencing nippy weather, and more of the same is expected over the next two weeks, as the cold pattern settles in over northern Europe. If you're having difficulties picking up our signal, we recommend you tune in at 9 PM for our special program on how to construct amplifying antennas out of common household items.
BZZZT! A burst of interference drowned Newsradio Renaissance.
"Sounds like you need to tune in to that one," I remarked. The signal screeched and then came back:
Newsmaker of the Hour: Number one topic with the man in the street appears to be the unexpected return to England of Reginald, Cardinal Vole, after more than a quarter century in exile. A former humanist, this rabid Catholic has been petitioning the Queen since the start of her reign for absolute restoration to the Catholic Church of all monastic properties confiscated during the reign of Henry the Eighth. Since most of these are now in the hands of the private sector, Pole's return is expected to galvanize resistance among members of the Council.
News from the Continent: the Emperor Charles's health continues to worsen, and the Prince Consort has expressed concern, but any return to Spain has been ruled out at this time due to the Queen's pregnancy, supposedly now in its third month. This isn't stopping his countrymen, of course, and the official count of Spaniards leaving England this week was…
"Those lucky, lucky guys." Nef shook her head.
"You're not serious. You want to go back to Spain?" I looked over at her, incredulous.
"Anywhere but here."
"I thought you were all hot to get up to Northumberland."
"If I could actually get out of here and go there, I'd be happy. It's the waiting that I hate. I hope at least I'll have some Blue Albions to work with, after all this."
"Blue Albions? Is that a kind of beer?"
"No, dummy, it's a cow," she said in disgust.
"Aren't you a little worried by the news?" I flipped a slide. "I mean, with this religious fanatic descending on England."
"No. Who cares what the monkeys do? We know how it all comes out in the end, anyway."
"But not how it's going to happen. Don't you find it interesting to follow the politics? Here's Mary with this Council dead set against her. How's she going to push through her pro-Catholic legislation? We know it's going to happen, but at the moment I can't see any way. Aren't you curious?"
"Hell, no. If I want to find out something that badly, I'll access a tape."
"Well, I think it's fascinating."
"You sound like a cultural anthropologist." She tossed her magazine aside.
"Gosh, excuse me."
"How's my little pal?" Nef leaned over and picked up the unicorn. "How are we feeling? It's almost time for our favorite show!"
"You were the one who said I had to learn to cope with mortals."
"I didn't mean you had to take them up as a hobby." She dandled the unicorn. "I remember when you couldn't stand the idea of coming to England. The New World, that was all you talked about, morning, noon, and night. Changed your mind, haven't you?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "England does have its charms."
"Get a load of her! We know the charm she's talking about, don't we?" she told the unicorn. "It's big, and it has a busted nose, and it looks like a horse."
"Oh, he does not." I jammed a slide in the wrong way and had to pop it out. "So where would you go if you had the chance? If you could make the Doctor station you anywhere you wanted?"
"India," she said right away, looking wistful. "No question. Anywhere in India. Or, maybe, Greece; Greece is swell." She kissed the unicorn's nose. "You'd like it there, wouldn't you, sugar face."
"Pleeeease!"
"Ssh. Ssh." She jumped up and turned up the volume. "It's time for the livestock report!"
But another crackling roar of interference rose, only slightly louder than her wail of protest.
Snow fell. And fell. Cardinal Pole came back to England and was welcomed with great ceremony by the Queen and our prince. Things started happening quickly, and it was worth braving the smell in Nef's room to catch the news broadcast every day.
Poor Mary. Our prince was not such a great actor, and she must have been increasingly aware that the honeymoon was over. But Cardinal Pole was sympathetic and attentive, and had big plans for a Counter-Reformation in her kingdom.
"This is crazy." I went into Joseph's room, having left Nef pounding on the sputtering radio and screaming at it. "They can't turn the clock back thirty years. They'll never bring it off."
"You wait." Joseph shook his head. He had taken to listening to the radio broadcasts with me, snow static and all, as the big soap opera got moving. "You'll see. They'll get help."
"From whom? The Emperor's going to die soon and so's the Pope."
"You'll see," he repeated. "Do a fast scan if you don't believe me."
I didn't want to do that. It was riveting, spell-binding to watch history as it unfolded. Why spoil it by fast-forwarding to the end? Besides, there were other stories to follow. A snowbound manor house is its own many-layered play, full of intrigues, confrontations, and twists.
It had gradually dawned on just about every inhabitant of the hall, thanks to Joan's intelligence reports, that Nicholas and I were sleeping together. Master Ffrawney averted his eyes from me any time we were in the same room, but all the others seemed rather relieved. Angry young men are uncomfortable to have around, and apparently getting laid regularly did wonders for Nicholas's temper. And what better way to quench a young firebrand than to have him fall in love with a nice Catholic girl? There were a few raised eyebrows over Joseph's apparent complaisance, but he was a foreigner, after all, and anyway people were too busy watching the other scandals to question it much.
The laundress continued steadfast in Sir Walter's bed, but somewhat less securely as his regeneration advanced. Indeed, she began casting slit-eyed glances of hate at Nef when their paths crossed, though that was seldom, and Nef barely noticed anyway. Now that I come to think of it, maybe the laundress's animosity didn't stem from a jealous heart after all. I certainly wouldn't have wanted to have washed Nef's linen, full of essence of unicorn as it was.
Nef, meanwhile, continued to respond to Sir Walter's efforts just warmly enough to get to keep the unicorn in her room. They flirted ponderously at table, and I believe things got physical once or twice. She was interested in his livestock, he in her noble lineage. Joseph and I had to invent a long string of Castilian ancestors for her and write it down so she could memorize it, because she was no good at making things up on the spur of the moment herself. Though she was good enough at home electronics�
�
Bloodcurdling screams in the night!!
I sat bolt upright in bed, scanning in a two-kilometer-wide radius. Nicholas was up and on his feet, staring. When another volley of shrieking sounded in the dead winter night, he strode to the door and opened it, and leaned out looking downstairs into blackness.
"What, help, ho! Is it fire?" someone on the second floor was shouting.
"What's the matter? Be there thieves again?" yelled somebody else, from belowstairs. There was no reply, but the screams died to hysterical sobbing, and a second voice from the same location was now heard making soothing noises.
"My master!" One of the servants came pounding up to the second-story landing. "Are you murdered? Is it the Spanish doctor?"
"Stay thou, Rose," Nicholas told me. He made a hasty descent, and in a second I could hear him beating on Sir Walter's door. "Sir Walter! Open, sir, if you can!"
I shivered and pulled the covers up around me. The weepy voice was moaning incoherently:
"It were on the chimney! O Jesu and St. Mary save us, I saw it!" To which the other voice—why, it was Sir Walter—replied in a hissed undertone:
"Peace, now, Alison, peace! Thou hast had no more than a dream! Hush! Thou hast roused the house, silly wench!"
"But I tell you it was the Devil! I saw his black wing!" the laundress (for it was she) shrilled.
"Sir Walter!" Nicholas couldn't hear the old man's frantic attempts to shut her up. "In God's name, sir, do you live?"
"Aye! Aye!" Sir Walter shouted in annoyance.
Mendoza! There was a dark shape pressed to our tiny window. I nearly screamed myself.
"But what's amiss, sir?"
Let me in, for God's sake, it's freezing out here!
"There is naught amiss! I merely… er, merely…"
I jumped up and opened the window. Nef's face, inexplicably upside down, stared in at me.
"Sir, are you held to hostage?" demanded one of the servants who had gathered in a small throng with Nicholas.
"Oh, God, I'll never get in through this," whimpered Nef through clenched teeth. "Can you break out the frame?"
