by Robin Jarvis
“It is a most subtle yet enticing aroma,” he murmured, the blue stone of his torc glowing pale at his throat. “Outside the range of any perceptions save those of an Iribian. It is an unparagoned scent and one I never thought to find again. The original source was exhausted many years ago when I was young and now, in the sphere of my home, the smallest measure of the stuff is valued beyond price.”
“Yet you have discovered a new supply, here – in My realm?”
“Oh, yes, Majesty,” Brindle breathed. “There is an abundance here. A whole new vein to quarry.”
“This is the most splendid of tidings,” she cried. “And you believe your kind would be interested in this fragrance?”
The nostrils in her guest’s unusual face began to glisten with moisture. “If they knew of its existence,” he whispered, “no power living could keep them away. Of all the bouquets scattered throughout the great garden of the immeasurable darkness, there is but one peerless scent. To me and my kind it is sacred.”
“You fascinate me. Why does this nonsuch odour have this hold over you?”
“Plants and beasts have odours,” Brindle said. “This is a hallowed distillation of essence. It is everything to us: restorative, heal all, heart’s ease, renewer of strength, repairer of wounds, anodynous mender of hurts. Once savoured, its virtue can never be forgotten and the soul weeps in torture to revel in it again. For an Iribian there can be no truer euphoria, no higher state of being, and too long now has my life trudged the melancholic mist without it.”
The Queen listened with mounting astonishment. “All that eloquence for a smell,” she uttered, waving the pomander under her long nose.
“Battles and wars have been fought for the merest catch of that scent,” Brindle told her. “Our history is burdened and stained with terrible, demented campaigns.”
“Do you hear that, Walsingham?” Elizabeth said with a glance loaded with meaning. “Battles and wars.”
“I am glad that our visitor is not a gardener only,” her spymaster answered with a sideways look at Richard Wutton.
“Yes, well, leave that for the present,” she commanded before turning back to Brindle. “You must assist and guide Us in the construction of new ships, Excellency. Vessels capable of traversing the great distance to your home. I am already a tanner and tinsmith, weaver and shepherd – a dealer in perfume is a situation I would add to the list most gladly. Consider it a bargain then, should you contact your folk; the Sovereign Prince of this realm will be the One to benefit by the new commerce. Such a contract is only deserved and honourable.”
Brindle stared at her aghast. “You do not want this covenant,” he warned. “This is a thing best left in shadow.”
“Do not presume to know My wants, Excellency,” she retorted. “I do not think Philip of Spain would make so generous an offer. He and his cardinals would have had you burned for a snouting devil if you had suffered the misfortune of foundering in his realm.”
The Iribian wrenched his eyes away and drove his senses to seek out the innocent scent of the cut flowers. “Your pardon, Majesty,” he said thickly. “Within my heart a war is raging. You cannot know how tempted I am by Your offer, but my conscience grapples with itself. If I yield to my desire then I am lost and damned forever.”
The Queen’s foot tapped more rapidly. “Let your heart not rage over long, Excellency,” she told him, before raising her voice above the buzz of the general chatter and calling out, “Bid the Tizzys serve. Our glasses are empty and the plates are bare.”
In the royal household, among the various mechanical musicians and fanciful beasts, there were many constructed servants who performed the menial tasks. To show the measure of her wealth and prestige, however, Elizabeth the Queen also owned a number of more sophisticated mannequins. To honour her, they were modelled upon her image. The most common type, of which she had twenty, were the Tizzys. These wooden figures executed the mundane duties of serving at meals and fetching food from the kitchens. The second form of mechanical was that of the brass Besses. There were five of these, and it was their responsibility to tend Her Majesty’s extensive wardrobe, caring for the hundreds of fabulous gowns in her possession. Lastly, there were the two jewelled Elizas which remained always in the Queen’s bedchamber as trusted ladies in waiting, under the supervision of Katherine Ashley.
From the corners of the banqueting house where they had been standing motionless, a dozen Tizzys stepped forward bearing jars of wine.
Carved into the likeness of Elizabeth as a young girl, the Tizzys were dressed in the green and white livery of the Tudors. In the centre of each high forehead the emblem of the double rose formed their stilling crests. They moved silently about the room, filling up the empty vessels and bringing out the comfits and elaborate sugar sculptures known as subtleties.
“Tell me, Excellency,” the Queen resumed, “what think you of this palace? ’Tis the largest in the whole of Europe. It was greatly altered and augmented by my father; there is a splendid, full-length portrait of him in the mural of the privy chamber which you must see.”
Lord Richard had downed his first goblet of wine and was wiggling a finger at one of the Tizzys when he overheard Elizabeth’s words. “Friend Brindle cannot interpret flat likenesses,” he piped up. “No matter who they’re of.”
The members of the council hissed at him and Doctor Dee placed a warning hand upon his arm.
Before the Queen could remonstrate, Brindle tried to appease her. “And what of Your mother?” he asked. “Are there paintings of her also?”
He could hardly have said anything worse and Lord Richard spluttered into his newly poured wine.
“No,” she said in a voice of whetted steel. “There are none of her.”
“No full-length ones at any rate,” Lord Richard burbled into his goblet. “Perhaps just the head.”
Fortunately, Doctor Dee had coughed over this last remark and the Queen did not hear it.
“Now, Excellency,” she said, “I have steered the talk too long. My good advisors greatly crave speech with you.”
One of the Tizzys stepped on to the platform, bearing a dish of sugared spices and fruit preserved in syrup, and began serving these dainty sweets to the guests.
“You spoke of war, Excellency,” Walsingham began with interest. “Doubtless your armaments are as exceptional as your night boat.”
“My craft bore no arms,” Brindle answered. “We are forbidden to do so.”
Walsingham pressed his fingertips together and his interrogating stare jabbed from beneath his hooded eyelids. “Yet you have knowledge of weapons and engines of destruction?” he urged.
Brindle nodded reluctantly. “I am versed in their making.”
“How efficacious and devastating would they be?”
“How devastating do you wish? I know of fire globes which could raze this palace to the ground in moments.”
The other councillors murmured in disbelief but Walsingham squirmed with pleasure. “You will share this knowledge?” he demanded.
“And damn my conscience further?”
“This is a holy war. If you help rid us of this Catholic infection, the Almighty would smile upon you.”
Brindle shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to involve himself in the petty politics of this realm, yet how could he avoid it now he was compelled to remain here?
Over the rim of his cup, Richard Wutton beheld his unease and saved him from Walsingham’s rapier gaze by musing aloud, “What I never could understand is this. If the Almighty despises the Catholics as much as you insist He does, why did He include them in the Beatification?”
The Queen’s spymaster turned a face on him that made Lord Richard return to his wine. Seeing his cup drained, the Tizzy took up the jar and, with a slightly trembling arm, replenished him.
“A globe of flame,” Elizabeth marvelled. “You seem very much acquainted with that element, Excellency. Your night boat descends and you fall from its fiery interior, and now you
talk of these destroying heats. Ah, I have it – you shall be my Salamander. That is what I name you.”
From the look on Brindle’s face it was clear he did not understand and he turned to Lord Richard.
“Doctor Dee!” The Queen called, brusquely cutting through her guest’s confusion. “Explain.”
The old astrologer cleared his throat and leaned across to Brindle, impeding any comment from Lord Richard. “The Salamander,” he began, “is a creature of the old world which was believed to thrive in the domain of fire. Her Grace is wont to bestow upon Her favoured ministers and courtiers names best suited to their natures or position.”
Elizabeth slapped the table. “Just so!” she exclaimed. “Sir William Cecil is my ‘Spirit’, Walsingham, my ‘Moor’ …”
“And what of your ‘Eyes’?” Lord Richard’s voice broke in.
There was an awful silence and everyone shot frightened glances at the Queen. This time he had gone too far. Robert Dudley had been Elizabeth’s Eyes. No one had so much as mentioned him in front of her for fourteen years and all held their breath, dreading the imminent wrathful reaction. Her Majesty’s face was a vision of white-lipped fury as she glared at the master of Malmes-Wutton. For an instant, Brindle believed she would explode with wrath and strike the man.
But Lord Richard’s words had stripped away those fourteen years and in her mind she was sitting in a pavilion on the bank of a lake within the isle of Kenilworth. An artificial moon was climbing into the night sky and she was in the embrace of the one true love of her life. It was her own voice which spoke the affectionate name.
“My Eyes,” she heard herself whispering. “Oh, my sweet Eyes.”
The arms of her memory clasped her tightly and she cast back her head as his remembered lips caressed her throat.
As swiftly as it was summoned, the past vanished and the Queen crushed the old emotions she had kept hidden these many years. Lord Richard’s brows were raised in censure and her temper came scalding to the surface.
“God’s death!” her voice rumbled like a gathering storm. “I will stomach no more! Get out, Sirrah – go away from me before I do that which I should have done fourteen years ago and separate a traitor’s head from its shoulders. Go – be off. I am sick of your sour puling.”
Draining his third goblet, Richard Wutton rose from the table. “It is my great joy to leave, Your Grace,” he announced. “The sooner I quit this place the happier I shall be.”
Brindle showed signs that he would join him, but Lord Richard bade him stay. “You have not been given leave, friend,” he said with a genial smile. “You must remain at the Queen’s pleasure, till She has done with your company.”
With that he left the banqueting house.
Watching him depart, composed and dignified, it took all of Elizabeth’s formidable will to keep her temper under control.
“The man is an imbecile,” Walsingham commented.
“But a righteous and honourable one,” Doctor Dee added.
“The most dangerous kind,” the spymaster returned tartly.
Her hands clenched, the Queen dragged her attention away from the open door. Now she could deal with the Iribian freely, without interruption from that stupid, stubborn man.
“You have not drunk of your wine nor touched the comfits,” she observed. “Do they not please you?”
Still gazing at the entrance, Brindle could sense Richard Wutton moving through the palace.
“We are not accustomed to ask a question twice,” Elizabeth rapped sharply.
Brindle started. “Your pardon,” he said. “My thoughts were with Lord Richard – he commands much respect from me.”
“And My fare does not?” she persisted. “Have you seen the subtleties? There is one in the shape of Paul’s Church, and another is of the unicorn upon which I rode to greet you.”
She signalled the attendant Tizzy. The mannequin walked unsteadily to fetch one of the sculptures.
“I do not find nourishment in the same way as You,” Brindle stated to the Queen. “I meant no offence.”
“What an extraordinary people you are!” she exclaimed. “To thrive upon scent alone. Perhaps I should make you my head gardener.”
“Perhaps You should,” he answered.
Laughing, she turned to Doctor Dee and demanded, “What do you make of my Salamander? Have you consulted the stars on this matter?”
The astrologer fingered his white beard. “Yes, Majesty,” he said. “They are full of portent and signs of great battles to come. They have shown a great burning in the heavens; a Spanish ship will soon be blazing – above this very isle.”
“Listen to that, Walsingham!” she cried in delight. “Your fears are over. Ah, here comes one of the subtleties. See, my Salamander, it is cunningly crafted into the shape of a dragon, another dweller in the flames.”
Carrying the heavy dish upon which the sugar paste dragon was mounted, the Tizzy ascended the platform and tottered towards the throne. The plate shook in her wooden hands and the sculpture began to shudder and crack. The mechanical’s erratic walk declined into a drunken lurch, then before anyone could stop it, the Tizzy flung the large dish straight at the Queen’s head.
Leaping from his seat, Brindle threw his hands forward and caught the plate, just inches away from Her Majesty’s face. Fragments of shattered sugar paste exploded across Elizabeth’s pearl-encrusted gown and every voice in the room was stilled.
The Tizzy was shaking violently now, the mahogany sections of its body juddering and shivering with wild, uncontrolled convulsions.
“Jesu!” the Queen bawled. “I will have no shaking sickness in my household!”
Rising from the throne in her fury, she strode up to the quaking mannequin and brought her fist thumping down upon the Tudor rose set into its forehead. The smiting blow was so powerful that the Tizzy was knocked off its feet and went crashing backwards, falling to the floor with a clatter of limp, motionless limbs.
“Take that palsied doll away and burn it!” she commanded. Turning to Brindle, she added, “My thanks, Salamander. If it was not for your quick action, more than My gown would be ruined.”
“It was nothing,” Brindle assured her.
“The saving of the Queen’s person must never be considered ‘nothing’,” she countered. Then with a light laugh she dispelled the tension and cried, “Look, My Lords – your Queen has a new favourite. Master Herrick, look not so crestfallen. Tell Me, My fire dweller, do your people know aught of dancing?”
“Your Grace?”
The Queen clapped her hands and called for the mechanical musicians to play. “Before this night has ended,” she vowed to the Iribian, “you shall be well versed in all steps.”
The music began and Elizabeth of Englandia led Brindle into the centre of the room to commence his first lesson.
Behind them on the platform, two more Tizzys silently lifted the stilled mannequin in their arms to carry it outside. Before they could perform the task, however, Walsingham stopped them and summoned Doctor Dee to his side.
“There is too much coincidence in the timing of this shaking sickness for my liking,” the spymaster said.
The Doctor agreed and carefully removed the mechanical’s face to inspect the internals. “Nothing appears amiss,” he muttered.
“What of the ichors?”
The astrologer ordered the other Tizzys to turn the figure over, then he unlaced its green and white bodice and removed a wooden plate from the mechanical’s back.
“The red and yellow humours are balanced,” he said, peering inside. “The green and black seem …” his voice dropped and he sucked the air in sharply. “See what we have here,” the astrologer whispered as he removed a small spherical phial filled with an indigo liquid.
Walsingham’s face darkened. “It is the same venom that Tewkes used in Belladonna, my horse,” he said.
“That which turned it into an unstoppable killer,” the Doctor nodded. “We have been most fortunate, S
ir Francis. This evil juice did not have chance to complete its assassin’s work – hardly any of the fluid has been spent. If the Queen had not stilled this Tizzy when She did then it would surely have murdered Her. Weapons more effective than a mere plate would have been used.”
“Undoubtedly,” Walsingham murmured. “Either on Her, or the Iribian. I find myself wondering just who was the intended victim.”
Doctor Dee cast his bristling gaze about the banqueting house, glancing suspiciously at the gathered courtiers who were watching the Queen instruct her visitor in the art of dance.
“Verily,” he said softly. “We are beset by enemies. Who knows where the next blow shall fall?”
Lantern had shown Henry and Adam to a poky little room at the far end of the palace. Glumly, the boys peered into the cramped darkness that was lit only by a single rush light. The chamber was dirty and unswept, containing just two wooden stools and a heap of filthy straw for them to sleep on. Over the walls and ceiling, the crumbling plaster was speckled with black mould. There was not even a window.
“Witch spit!” Henry cried in disgust.
Doctor Dee’s copper secretary looked abashed.
“There are prisons and dungeons that could put this place to shame,” Henry continued. “Are there no other rooms?”
Lantern shook his head in apology.
“It’s not his fault,” Adam told Henry. “I don’t think we’re supposed to feel comfortable – we’re not wanted here.”
“Well I can’t sleep on that straw,” the boy objected. “It looks as though it’s jumping.”
Adam turned to the mechanical secretary. “Will we be getting anything to eat?” he asked. “We haven’t had very much today.”
Lantern’s round green eyes shone brightly and he made a quick bow before trundling into the corridor, miming that he would return as soon as possible with their supper.
Grimacing, Henry sat on the stool and propped his head in his hands.
“Not fair,” he complained. “We’re missing everything. Brindle and Lord Richard will be with Her Majesty now and look at us. I didn’t come all the way to London to be caged in a grubby hole.”
