by J. C. Hanna
A sorrowful pain stabbed at Elizabeth. The foreboding that she felt as a woman ahead of taking the crown, and the summoning of the sense of loss that she felt as a child each time she heard those familiar notes played, or the sickly-sweet words tenderly sung, came about her in a torrent. She got up and moved to a nearby window. As she gazed through the rain splattered, uneven glass, across to the building where her mother had been a prisoner before her execution, the pain intensified. In the distance, illuminated by foundering torchlight was the spot where the French swordsman had brought her mother’s life to an end in one mercifully swift, and deftly delivered blow. Her father’s fickleness, and the cruel intent of her mother’s enemies, the only true guilt on display on that treacherous, blood-soaked day.
The tune played on and cut deeper. Too deep for the young queen to bear.
“Boy! I no longer require your presence,” Elizabeth called, to the harpist. There was no anger in her voice, but the command was firm.
The music stopped instantly. There was a controlled, if somewhat nervous clatter from the adjoining room, followed by gentle footsteps; and then the sound of a door closing softly. She was alone. The most powerful person in England; the most powerful woman on Earth, and she was alone and feeling more than a little melancholy. As she turned away from the scene of so much sorrow she was hit by a spike of alarm when a figure stepped out from a shadowy corner of the room. The alarm quickly expired.
“John,” she said. “How long have you been lurking?”
“Not long, Majesty,” Dee replied. “When I heard that awful tune, I thought of sadder times. I knew that I would find you back there. Who else but your fool could bring you back to a happier place? So here I am.”
The queen smiled.
“You know me too well, John. And I think you no fool. No matter; what is done is done. It did serve to remind me… There is the matter of my father’s will. My Lord Dudley thinks that I should burn it. I am of a different mind. I want it proclaimed throughout the city. And then in every church in the kingdom. I want every man, woman, and child to hear the final wishes of the great Harry. After that, we can burn it.”
She smiled playfully. Dee smiled back at her as he took hold of her meaning—she would give the impression that she was intent on following her father’s demands and then do her own thing once she took the throne.
“My father controlled my life when he was alive, and long after he died. I think the time has come to lay Old Harry and his demented aspirations to rest. If I should have no issue of my own, then I will decide who reigns when I am gone. His record in that regard stands crooked against all common sense.”
“Majesty,” Dee said, in submissive agreement.
“John, please. You alone have protected me against the darker intentions of men, and of the demonic; I will always be your grateful Bess.”
Dee smiled again.
“My Lord Dudley will be ill-pleased to hear that,” Dee said, impishly.
“Dudley will be pleased to hear whatever I deem pleasing for him to hear,” she said, before smiling wickedly.
“Very good, Bess. I will leave you to your thoughts. But thoughts of happier times? That you must promise to me.”
As Dee bowed, the queen dismissed the gesture with a wave of her hand. He left the room and headed out into the cold, wet night. In another corner of the room, a figure stirred. Elizabeth moved across the chamber and she sat down in a high-backed chair next to a roaring fire.
“Either make yourself known to me, or be gone,” she demanded.
The demon stepped out from the gloom. The queen remained perfectly composed as she turned to face the cloaked figure.
Chapter Seventeen: The Ambush
England, 418 A.D.
As dusk turned to night, Rufus set a fire, and grandfather and grandson sat around the flames eating oatmeal cakes and hard cheese, in silent contentment. The air was warm and slightly damp as the earth around them slowly released the stored heat from the daytime and a little rainwater from a short-lived thunderstorm. Rufus had explained to a captivated Patrick that the fire was to ward off wolves, wild boar, and creatures of less natural distinction.
They turned in for the night. Patrick had listened intently for what seemed like an eternity for the old man to fall asleep. A low, animal-like, half-snore, half-growl, signalled to Patrick that he was free to take the wilder thoughts that were running through his mind into the forest for an adventure.
For half of the night’s darkness, Patrick wandered deeper and deeper into the forest in search of his elusive sprite. Every thrilling minute speckled with the heart-stopping sounds of twigs breaking under unseen feet; of the cries of hunters and prey in their deadly dance; and of many terrifying moments of absolute silence—a still hush foreshadowing some terrible calamity, that did not come.
As the night began to turn, and the race towards the dawn gained pace, Patrick finally found what he had been searching. In the near distance, no more than fifty paces away, he saw a light in the undergrowth. As he approached the silvery-white light he grew excited to the brink of calling out with joy—there was not only one light, there were many lights. The spectacle utterly spellbound Patrick.
Patrick’s eyes strained to keep up—seven fairies? Eight? Ten? The little streaks of tireless energy were moving too fast. Suddenly, one of the creatures came to a stop and it turned to face Patrick. The creature did not fear Patrick as the first fairy he encountered had. The creature knew its place—the daytime belonged to the humans, but the night-time belonged to it, and it feared nothing in the darkness. The fairy rushed towards Patrick without warning. Patrick took two steps backward, snagging a gnarly root in the process and falling to the ground, hard. As he looked up he found himself face to face with the tiny creature. The fairy slowly tilted its perfectly proportioned head one way, and then the other way, as it appraised the human child. Patrick held his breath.
“What variety of human are you? You are very short. Why are you alone in this place? What do you want? What is your name?” quizzed the fairy.
“I… I…” started Patrick.
“I… I… is no name, not even for a human. And such a small and insignificant example of your kind, at that,” replied the fairy.
“Leave the boy be,” said a second fairy. “He is simply curious. He has neither net nor bag. He only wants to see. He is not here to hunt, or to capture.”
“As if this little thing could capture me!” said the first fairy, dismissively.
“No sir,” said Patrick, in protest. “I would not do such a thing! I just… I just…”
“This boy is an idiot,” said the angry creature. “I say that we kill him quickly and feed him to the foxes. They are none too fussy when it comes to mealtimes. And surely no others of his kind would come in search of such a dim thing as he?”
Patrick tried to move away from the creature.
“Enough, Tarish,” said the more reasonable of the two fairies. “The boy has come to visit, and to learn. He will soon be on his way. There is no spark of ill-intent in his eyes.”
“You do not speak for us all, Tal,” said Tarish.
“But I do speak for my father, and the last time I saw him, he still wore the crown of our kin. Now, stand aside. I want to hear what our new friend has to say for himself.”
“I do not want to cause trouble,” said Patrick.
Patrick slowly stood up. Tarish watched him closely, with suspicion and disgust. The fairy edged forward and then back, again and again; he was poised to fight or to take flight, as the boy’s actions dictated.
Before the tense exchange had a chance to continue, there was a sudden burst of motion from somewhere nearby.
“Humans!” screamed one of the fairies.
“I knew it!” Tarish snarled. “We should have killed the boy when we had the chance. When he tells the others that we are here, they will never leave us in peace.”
The encounter ended abruptly, and the night spilled in on the scene
as the little creatures vanished in a flash, taking their light with them. Patrick sighed with relief, and yet at the same time, a part of him wished that the encounter had lasted just a little while longer. His attention turned to the approaching sounds from the surrounding trees. Where he had expected to see his grandfather, frantic and angry, two strangers appeared.
“No signs of the little folk,” one of the men said, in an accent that Patrick could not place. “But I suppose he will do. Tie him up and gag him. His people may be nearby. If we slip away quickly, we will be halfway to Ireland before anyone notices that he is missing. He will not fetch much as a field slave, but we might be able to pass him off as a house slave, or a girl. House slaves are hard to come by. Girls, scarcer still.”
Patrick’s blood ran cold on hearing the stranger’s words. He turned to run, but it was too late. A large, rough hand, ingrained with dirt, grabbed Patrick by the shoulder and spun him around. A second hand, in the form of a fist, made contact with the side of Patrick’s head. Patrick fell to the ground. The night-time grew unnaturally dark until finally, a deeper darkness took him completely.
Chapter Eighteen: The Deal
Tower of London, 14th January 1559
The air in the queen’s rooms at The Tower was stale and heavy with odours of decay—the dry rot that penetrated the wooden beams of the ceilings and walls; the mildew that dusted the paper wall hangings, and portraits, in a fine white powder; an unseen rodent slowly decomposing beneath the floorboards.
As Elizabeth sniffed the air with sly, inoffensive caution, she could clearly detect a new foulness to add to the already grim bouquet. It was the smell of putrid flesh—the rotting, maggot-infested head on a spike; the decaying bodies in the open plague pits by the side of country roads. It was a smell that the queen was acquainted with, and one that she feared gravely; though she never expected to encounter it in her intimate quarters.
“Come forward,” said Elizabeth, as if commanding a servant. “I would look upon the face of my executioner.”
The creature immediately responded to the stern invitation. It walked with a barely perceptible lightness of foot across the room, before sitting surely in a chair opposite the queen. The creature’s every unspoken gesture established its status—she may be queen, but it was something much more important and powerful.
Elizabeth smiled warmly when the demon sat down—if the thing meant to end her life, at least she would deny it the satisfaction of witnessing her terror.
“I fear that I have been in this same position before,” said the queen. “I hope for your sake that the outcome is a little different from that moment past. My man, Dee, has made this place fast against your kind. If you raise a hand in anger contrary to me, then you will be met by the true death.”
“I am not here to hurt you, Majesty. Nor am I here to perish. I have watched you with interest since you were a small child. I have been greatly impressed by your intelligence and by your bravery. The human race is unremarkable; but you, madam, are truthfully an exception to that general observation. I have come to you to make you an offer. It is an arrangement that should be of great benefit to us both.”
“Then state your business. I have a busy day ahead of me, and I need to rest. Though I must warn you, sir, I have been tested to distraction by the machinations of many noblemen these past few months. My patience for trading is wearing thin.”
The demon pulled back the hood of its cloak to reveal the full, hairless, contorted horror of its domed head and greying skin. Sunken eyes of yellow glowed meekly, like dying embers. The queen maintained her composure in the face of the horrific revelation. She tried desperately to lessen the frightful sight before her by drawing on a lifetime of stored horror. The creature looked no worse than some of the wretched, pox-scarred subjects that she had greeted as she processed through the streets of London earlier that day. As for its ability to come and go as if from nowhere... Its supernatural nature was no more astounding than the spectres she had encountered in some of the palaces and grand country homes where she had stayed as a princess. And John Dee could affect such a trick as easily as he poured wine from a bottle.
“You fear me not, my lady?” asked the demon.
“The only fear that you hold for me is death. I turned my back on fearing death many years past. If you plan to turn me, then your efforts shall be in vain. Dee has a plot in place. He has my blessing, and my command, to execute that plan. If you should turn me, he will end my life. So again, I say; state your business, and then be gone from this place.”
“I have not come here to kill you, or to turn you, or to try to inspire fear in you,” said the demon, in a low, gravelly voice, that echoed about the back of its throat. “But it is true that I would have destroyed you some time ago when you first became monarch. It was a moment in time when your death would have suited my needs. That moment has now passed. Much has changed in this realm, and in the realm unseen that darkly mirrors this world. I have come here to make you an offer, plain and simple.”
“I do not make pacts with devils,” snapped Elizabeth. “And a devil whose mind is so changeable could never be trusted. You say that in a yesterday my death would have suited your purpose and that today it is not so? What then of my tomorrows? How, sir, could I ever trust the word of such an unpredictable mind as yours?”
The demon ignored her determined protest.
“I will guarantee peace in your kingdom for the next twenty years. At the end of that time, you will give me your soul, and your realm. You have already made many agreements to keep the peace in this land that your better angels judge distasteful; the Vicar of Rome’s hand will conduct your coronation, and you will allow it, in the interests of harmony. A simple promise from your lips now and you will sit on the throne twice as long as your sister. In that golden age, you will be free to rule as you see fit. All that mean to harm you or to control you, will be frustrated, or they will be destroyed. This is my offer and my promise.”
The queen stood up. She walked towards the fire. She turned around to warm her back against the flames. Despite her bravado, her mind filled with uncertainty and fear. The fear was not inspired by what deadly fate might befall her at the hands of the demon; the fear welled-up because she found herself seriously contemplating the proposal. Her reign had only just begun and already she was facing threats from every quarter. Twenty years of security against all threats was something that any new ruler would foolhardily dismiss out of hand. Was the demon any more ungodly than Dee and his esoteric ways? Or the blessings that she had so freely accepted from those of the ancient faith as she made her way from Hatfield to London? She reasoned much in those few moments as she stood silently in front of the roaring fire. Hell’s fire, she mused, if she seized the demon’s hand in friendship.
“Thirty years, and we have an agreement,” she said, with utter confidence.
The demon moved from the chair to a position directly in front of the queen in the blink of an eye. It grabbed her right hand, whipped it up sharply towards its face, and then bit into the soft flesh. It then bit into its right hand. Locking bloodied hands, the demon grinned.
“It is done,” crowed the creature.
“Now that the deal has been struck, perhaps you can tell me what has changed since you tried to have me murdered at Hatfield, a mere two months gone?” Elizabeth asked, casually.
The more information that she could tease from the creature in that moment, the more likely it would be that Dee could put that knowledge to good use if she felt the need to end her freshly struck agreement with the malevolent thing.
“If truth be your guide to peace, Majesty, so be it. My children, my army, they feed and they grow strong in the carnage of war. With your death, a war in England would have ignited. On the night of your planned assassination, I saw at labour a greater prize than war. John Dee has no idea just how powerful he can become. With my help, he will fully embrace and control that power. When I am the master of this realm, Dee will belong
to me. As will his power. Dee is worth one thousand armies of the undead in the war that is to come.”
As the queen glanced over the creature’s shoulder as it revealed its plans, she witnessed a young woman walk out from a panelled walnut wall—a trick of the light thought the queen. The black-haired girl drew a sword from where it was sheathed about her back. The girl rushed towards the demon. As the girl swung the blade, the demon moved. The sword stopped abruptly, a finger’s breadth from the Queen’s head. Branna pulled her sword back as she spun around. The demon had gone. She turned back smartly to face the queen.
“Did it hurt you?” Branna asked, in a demanding tone.
Elizabeth concealed her wounded hand in the folds of her dress. Branna scanned the queen’s neckline. It was unmarked.
“No child. You arrived in time. Though I would be interested to learn from where you came? And who sent you?”
Branna turned and walked away, leaving the queen’s questions unanswered.
“I command you, speak!” ordered the queen.
Branna turned sharply to face her.
“Your mother faced diverse false accusations so that her enemies could secure a legal execution. They even tried to include witchcraft in that very long list of charges. That charge was dropped as your father feared it would make him look desperate and irrational.”
“What of it?”
“It was the only charge that they could have honestly laid at her feet. That creature was drawn to this place on the night before your mother’s execution. It made her an offer. Your mother refused the pact, even though it would have saved her life and restored her to the throne. Not as queen, next to your father, but in place of your father. Eternal life, and absolute power. She turned her back on those things in favour of her soul.”
