by Robin Jarvis
Looking no older than she had that night one hundred and seventy-five years ago, when she lay close to death with the smallpox, the daughter of Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn was a handsome woman of noble proportion. In all the uplifted world, and the old that had been left behind, there had never been anyone like her. Her long, oval face with its high forehead, aquiline nose and thin, firm mouth displayed the Tudor qualities of strength and determination, but the subtle intelligence which schemed and smouldered in her large dark eyes she had inherited solely from her mother.
Brindle beheld her and his senses swam. In his travels to remote spheres he had not encountered anyone in whom such eminence or immortal majesty was so naturally invested. For the first time since his night boat had crashed its way into Malmes-Wutton, he felt inferior and plebeian.
Unable to endure her arch scrutiny any longer, he bowed his head. Behind, Lord Richard ground his teeth together, saddened to see him fall under her enchantment as so many others had done before.
Encased in a frosty aloofness, the Queen stirred, the taffeta of her gown rustling in the fallen silence as she raised a slender hand to greet them. Then she spoke. Her voice was crisp and clear, tempered with a highborn confidence that was both adamantine and beyond disputing.
“You are well come to Our humble realm, Excellency,” she declared. “We are most honoured to have you in Our midst. It was an unhappy misfortune which cast you to so distant an isle, for We could have enjoyed your company earlier had you been sent to a place closer to Our royal person.”
The Iribian detected a criticism of Lord Richard and the spell dissipated.
“Gracious Madam,” he said, lifting his head and knotting his brows. “I have been shown only courtesy and kindness. If it were not for the mercy and benevolent charity of Lord Richard Wutton, I would have perished.”
The Queen’s composure was nettled and for the first time she cast her eyes over the figures still aboard the night barge. “Glad am I to hear it,” she announced gravely. “No subject of Mine would dare show offence to so important a visitor to these shores as yourself, Excellency. No matter who they be or whom they have known.”
For a moment her face grew scornful, then the mood melted and she beckoned to Thomas Herrick to assist her from the exquisite unicorn. A mechanical ermine, covered in snowy fur, sat dutifully upon her lap and she passed it to one of her attendant ladies as Herrick took her hand.
“You have done exceeding well, Sirrah,” she commended him when her satin-slippered foot touched the blue cloth in a swirl of embroidered petticoats. “Your Prince shall not forget it.”
Herrick pointed his toe and made his expert bow. “I exist only to serve,” he said.
“Would there were others who loved their Sovereign the same,” she answered in a loud voice, with a darting glance at Lord Richard. Then, turning to Brindle once more, she summoned him to join her.
The Iribian left the gangway and ascended the stairs to stand at her side.
Elizabeth bestowed a cordial smile upon him. “In honour of your arrival, Excellency, a banquet has been prepared. Let us repair thither and you shall sit with Me. I would know the reason of your coming and why you did choose My realm above all others. Was it because the Almighty is not a Catholic?”
She laughed and the rest of the court fell in with her mirth, but Brindle stood apart.
“I am from Iribia,” he informed her. “Whatever you may …”
Her raised hand silenced him. “Speak of it at table,” she said firmly. “The tale will be the sweeter accompanied by sugared dainties.”
Brindle understood that she did not want anything further to be said before so many people.
“As you wish,” he agreed. “And Lord Richard and the children?”
The Queen’s smile faded and she lifted her hand dismissively. “A place will be found for him, yet I would not weary your young companions any more. They look as pale and drawn as evening shadows.” The hem of her gown swept over the steps as she spun around and lured Brindle after her. “To the banqueting house then,” she proclaimed. “There is much I desire to learn.”
With a brisk, purposeful stride she led him through the sea of people and Lord Richard and the apprentices crossed the gangway, only to see the crowd surge away from them, pulled in the Queen’s magnetic wake. The trumpeters were dismissed and both the unicorn and the lion were taken to the treasure house, where they were stilled and locked away securely.
“Did you ever see anyone as beautiful as She?” Henry breathed, but Adam made no answer. His suspicions of Brindle were uppermost in his mind. Was the Iribian as noble and heroic as he appeared? What if there was a hidden, sinister side to his nature?
Richard Wutton grumbled into his beard, then observed that the Queen’s privy councillors were waiting for them at the top of the steps. At the forefront of that stern-looking group stood Sir Francis Walsingham and Sir William Cecil, and the master of Malmes-Wutton resigned himself to a tiresome confrontation.
Among that intimidating gathering, Adam recognised a white-bearded man and, standing at his side, was a squat figure made of copper.
“Doctor Dee and Lantern!” he cried, running up the steps to meet them. “I hoped I would see you here.”
The old astrologer bowed solemnly and his mechanical secretary did the same. “Did I not foretell that providence would throw us together again?” the Doctor said, the corners of his snowy moustache lifting. “I must confess, even I did not expect it to be so soon.”
“If time permits,” the boy suggested, “perhaps I could see your library.”
“Nothing would please me more,” Doctor Dee told him, “if, as you say, time permits for a visit to Mortlake.”
“Praise be,” Henry groaned as he joined them. “What a joyful treat that will prove.”
Hearing his flat, unenthusiastic tone, the astrologer regarded him darkly. “A sceptical star guides your destiny, Master Wattle,” he said. “Perhaps I will cast your horoscope and see to what grisly demise your insolent young life shall come to.”
That silenced Henry and Doctor Dee returned his attention to Adam. “Alas, there is no time for such pleasantries,” he lamented. “Her Grace is no lover of children and so you must be denied attendance at the feast this night. Lodging has been prepared for you in the palace. Lantern will usher you thence, if you would care to follow him.”
The apprentices looked uncertainly at Lord Richard, who gave his assent with the briefest of nods. So Adam and Henry left the terrace, guided by the tubby copper secretary who proceeded in front of them, hopping and skipping under a covered walkway to demonstrate how well the repair to his knee was holding up.
When the children were out of earshot, Lord Richard approached the councillors. Dressed in his habitual, stark black, Sir Francis Walsingham greeted him with a predatory glint in his eyes. “A singular visitation,” he said, brushing aside the courtesies. “You will tell me all you know of this strange emissary.”
Lord Richard had been stealing himself for a quarrel with Her Majesty. One of her minions, albeit the notorious head of her secret service, held no fear for him now. “You mean to say you have not already been told?” he asked with mock surprise. “Dear me, Walsingham – your web is not so tight as I believed. Pray enlighten me – have you caused the death of any worthy masters of motive science in the two weeks since last we met?”
Walsingham’s hooded eyes glowered at him but, before he could retaliate, the anxious William Cecil intervened. “My Lords,” he said, “lay past conflict aside. Recriminations must needs wait. This visitor, Richard – where does he come from? Why is he here? Will he side with us against France and Spain?”
Lord Richard pulled away from them in disgust. “Death and war!” he snapped. “Why are your minds so hot for the shedding of blood? Have we learnt nothing?”
“You are polluted with the ideals of the weak and naïve,” Walsingham said with cold disdain. “Did you not hear me at our last meeting? Never ha
ve relations with the Catholic powers been so hostile. We are teetering upon the brink of war, Lord Richard. The ambassadors are denied entry to court and they were forbidden to attend this gathering. Yet they, like the common people, know of it and have heard the rumours of your outlandish guest. The agents of our enemies will balk at nothing to deprive Englandia of any advantage this ‘heavenly messenger’ might give.”
Lord Richard shook his head as if the Queen’s councillors were infants. “Brindle is no more an angel than I am,” he scoffed. “I’m mightily saddened at your credulity, Sir Francis.”
“I speak not of angels!” Walsingham snarled back. “Do not paint me with the ignorance of the mob. Yet I do know that his night boat is unlike any within this uplifted world; perhaps he possesses other devices that would be new to us and to our enemies.”
“What devices?” Lord Richard demanded.
“Weapons!” came the stinging reply. “He will have weapons.”
“Then you don’t know Brindle,” Lord Richard returned. “He is a dealer in fragrance, not a soldier. A reaping hook is all he bears.”
Doctor Dee interposed between them. “Her Grace must not be kept waiting,” the old astrologer said. “Let us to the banqueting house. You may continue your squabbling there.”
Richard Wutton marched away from them and the councillors hurried behind him – except for Walsingham. Alone at the top of the steps, the face of the Queen’s spymaster grew even more austere and unyielding.
“Nevertheless,” he muttered to himself in a voice of silken menace, “though Wutton’s guest be a seller of daffydils, he will still have knowledge of weapons. Knowledge that he must reveal unto me, or verily I shall have it wrung from him.”
And with that he strode after the others, leaving the terrace deserted, save for the petals which drifted over the blue cloth in the cooling summer airs.
Across the crowded Thames, reclining in a chair covered with velvet cushions, upon the deck of an elegant night barge, the Count de Feria, Don Gomez, lowered his spyglass and considered what he had seen.
“Ho, Lizabeth,” he chortled to himself. “So, You play at the virgin again. What a drearsome performance that is, no? Again with the unicorn, again with the stupid ermine and all that white …! Holy Mother of God! Too many symbols – why She always dress in allegory and metaphor? Of the hat, is best I say nothing.”
The Spanish ambassador was an impish-looking man, swarthy and saturnine in appearance. His hair and neat, pointed beard were dark and the clothes he wore were of the richest black, leavened only by the jet beads known as bugles, which glittered over his doublet like a thousand miniature versions of his own twinkling eyes.
“What did you make of their celestial visitor?” the figure standing behind his chair asked.
De Feria looked up at him and, with a ready wink, said breezily, “Is a great ape of the Indus, shorn of hair and tamed to wear hosen.”
Alvaro de Quadra, the grey-haired Bishop of Aquila, despised the ambassador’s levity and stared through the bustling river traffic to survey the sprawling palace. “Do you not rage to be banished from court at this momentous hour?” he demanded. “Who can tell what sinister and injurious intelligence these English will gain from this person?”
De Feria continued to smile, but all frivolity was quenched – deposed by a chilling stillness. “No,” he stated suavely. “I not rage. I have learn not to let fury rule my head and shut out reason. He who rages, loses. My anger, he seethe and simmer and I stay strong. Oh, Alvaro, if you knew how I am detesting of this ignoble heretic and Her repulsing subjects. Yet the chief hate I brew for Her – illegitimate daughter of a despotic king and his lewd courtesan. Soon She taste the stew of my loathing, then it will scald and roast Her.”
The Bishop nodded in heartfelt agreement at this damning condemnation. “What of the visitor?” he asked.
“No profit must She gain from this,” de Feria vowed. “I will do all in my power to thwart Her. I will plot and conspire – already a pretty idea I have.”
Sucking the air through his grinning teeth, the Spanish ambassador grimaced sharply and pressed his fingertips to his cheek. “Saints defend me,” he moaned. “The hole in my tooth, he no like the stabbings of this cold air. We go make ready.”
“Ready?” repeated Alvaro. “What do you propose, Don Gomez?”
The Count de Feria stretched out his legs and settled into the cushions as he gingerly probed his teeth with his tongue.
“Lizabeth’s ‘angel’,” he said eventually. “He either depart with us this night for Spain – or he die here.”
CHAPTER 4
The Queen’s Salamander
The banqueting house of Whitehall Palace was a huge timber building, boasting two hundred and ninety-two windows and covered in canvas that had been cunningly painted to resemble stone.
With the Queen at his side Brindle entered, and his keen senses devoured the feast of vapours which wrapped themselves about him.
Thomas Herrick’s long letter to Elizabeth had spared no detail. From the moment she received it that very morning, she had been at pains to ensure her mysterious guest would find much to delight him. A frenzy of preparation had ensued. The banqueting house had been swept clean and rosemary-scented water sprinkled over the floor, while perfumed bellows had blown juniper smoke into every corner. Great quantities of pansies – her favourite flower – had been culled from the palace gardens and brought in to keep the air sweet, and garlands of greenery festooned the walls.
The Queen herself was wearing a silver pomander, hanging from her waist upon a slender chain, and when she studied Brindle’s savouring features, she knew it was well done. “Come sit beside Me,” her usually forthright voice invited with coquettish glee. “You will tell Me of your Iribia and the balms that you trade.”
Brindle allowed himself to be drawn deeper into the great room.
Countless candles had already been lit and the bright arrowheads of their flames sought out the gold plate displayed to impress visiting dignitaries and gleamed in the field of stars painted on the ceiling. Tiers of benches ran along the walls while, at the farthest end, upon a low stage, a table stood at right angles to them. At the centre of this elevated board, beneath a cloth of gold, was a velvet-covered throne and it was to this that the Queen took Brindle.
As the favoured courtiers, including Thomas Herrick, came streaming in behind them, Elizabeth seated herself and bade the Iribian to occupy the chair on her right.
“You no longer believe I am a herald of your God,” Brindle stated.
The Queen’s large eyes appraised him, weighing up how best to deal with this remarkable guest. “I have forbidden the archbishop to attend,” she said candidly. “That alone should tell you. I perform the role My subjects expect of Me. It is they who, for the present, hold you divine. Your presence amongst Us was impossible to cloak and keep secret, Excellency. Out there on the terrace, I did what was expected. I am My people’s anointed Prince – as head of their church, I must not be seen to grudge your arrival.”
“And yet?”
Elizabeth gave an evasive smile. “I have not decided the ‘yet’,” she answered. “It may be you are a French spy and this an elaborate deception.”
“I am no spy.”
“No?” she teased. “I fear that the tally of things you are not will be o’erlong before the evening is done. But now I am concerned lest you think My welcome was wholly false. I would you know that I am highly pleased to receive you into My land – from wherever you hail.”
Richard Wutton and the Queen’s privy councillors were the last to enter the banqueting house. Lord Richard had been hard-pressed by many questions and was feeling in need of a strong drink. By the time they assumed their seats at the raised table, Brindle had told Her Majesty the tale of how his night boat had burst into the Malmes-Wutton firmament.
“And are We to expect any more of your kind thundering into Our skies?” she asked. “I like not that prospect, how
ever gallant and pleasing your society might be. Our protective heavens are not wasp traps; We cannot have them littered with shipwrecks.”
The Iribian assured her that no others would be arriving. “These islands are unknown to my race,” he said. “Chance alone carried me hither and left me marooned, without hope of rescue.”
“A tragic plight,” the Queen concurred. “To be isolated and beyond aid. I too have known times of black despair. You must pray, Excellency. The Lord God delivered Me from a prison unto a palace – He may do the same for you.”
Brindle’s brows slid together. “Perhaps it is best if Your God leaves me here,” he murmured.
“You sink into melancholy too easily,” she berated him. “I could furnish you with a vessel to seek out your home and open trade links with your kind.”
“Your night boats are not made for such long journeys,” he answered gravely. “Besides, I do not think You would find the arrangement either beneficial or to Your liking.”
Elizabeth’s head reared. “Surely there are sufficient fragrances of note in My kingdom worthy of exchange,” she protested.
The Iribian wavered before making a reply. “Oh, indeed,” he said. “The scent of the bloom you call the rose would be most highly revered. I did hope to reward Lord Richard by giving him the monopoly with my people. He would have become the wealthiest and most important man in this uplifted world.”
This answer did not please the Queen at all and beneath the table her foot began tapping irritably. Wearing a frosty expression, she avoided the impudent grin which had fixed itself to Richard Wutton’s face and continued. “Does no other scent please you?”
Brindle let his eyes wander the crowded room and his nostrils trembled hungrily. “Oh, yes,” he admitted carelessly. “I have discovered another, a thousand times more rare.”
“May I know of it?”
The balm trader closed his eyes and when he replied it was as if he were speaking from a fair dream.
