by April White
“You’re good now?”
He nodded. “Maybe a little tipsy, but fine.”
“You couldn’t find anyone sober?”
He laughed. “There isn’t anyone sober. They don’t have tea yet, and the river water is foul, so it’s either ale or wine.”
Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. I was still drinking the last of the water we’d brought with us from the St. Brigid’s storage cellars. Archer draped my cloak around my shoulders and fastened it at my neck, allowing his fingers to trail lightly over my collarbones. It raised delicious goosebumps on my skin, and he smiled. He kissed me softly and I might have melted a little, but then the business part of my brain kicked in and I pulled away.
“Let’s go find Ringo.”
Pancho was right about the one guard at the Beauchamp gate. He was asleep on a stump just inside, but the gate was locked and the keys were attached to his belt, just out of reach. I was already a couple of feet up the wall and looking for my next handholds when Archer passed me and signaled that I should get down. I glared at him, but his glare had teeth and was therefore scarier, so I did what he wanted and jumped back down to wait outside the gate.
It was a high wall, two very tall-ceilinged stories, but the stone and mortar was old and rough. It looked like exactly the kind of climbing I’d love to do if I wasn’t carrying about fifty pounds of skirts on my body.
Archer made it over with only a couple hesitations, and I didn’t hear him at all until he suddenly appeared on the other side of the gate, bent over the sleeping guard. Archer had a lock-pick’s touch with builder’s hands. They weren’t rough, but strong and substantial, and yet he barely rustled the silk of the guard’s jerkin as he pulled the keys off his belt.
I wrapped my skirt around the lock to muffle the click as Archer opened it. He had put the keys back on the sleeping guard’s belt before I was done refastening the chain around the gate.
Pancho seemed slightly bemused by our nefarious break-and-enter activities, but wisely stayed quiet through the process. I knew we were going to have to deal with finding his brother at some point soon, but the only thing on my mind then was getting to Ringo. I whispered into his ear, “The Royal Apartments.” He didn’t hesitate, but stuck to the shadows of the Beauchamp tower. I had tried to spell it ‘Beecham’ on the map, because that’s how Pancho pronounced it, but was corrected by him in that tone people reserve for little children and the especially stupid.
We clung to the edges of the buildings until we caught a dark shadow from the White Tower. Then, one at a time, we made a dash across the dirt courtyard to the other side, where a big stone building ran down toward the river. I’d only seen it on old maps because it didn’t exist in my time. It was the Royal Apartments.
Pancho led us to the side closest to the White Tower. “The queen’s apartment is up there,” he whispered into my ear. That gave me a chill. Those were the same rooms Henry VIII had decked out for Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, when she was crowned queen. And the same place she stayed right before he had her head chopped off. It made me wonder how the Lady Elizabeth was sleeping these days.
“’Ello mates.” I nearly left my skin hanging on a shrub when Ringo appeared right behind me.
I wanted to hit him, so I threw my arms around him and whispered in his ear. “Scare me like that again and I’ll murder you where you stand.”
He gave me a strange look and stepped back from my hug. “Let’s go in so we can talk.” His whisper didn’t carry beyond our little group. Ringo was good at the clandestine stuff and was nearly noiseless as he led us to a tree near the side of the building.
“Guards at the doors, so up we go.” Ringo leapt up into the lowest tree branch and held out his hand. I didn’t need it until my damn skirt got hung up on a knot and I had to reach down to free it. He dropped my hand as soon as I was stable, then reached for Pancho. I was already at the second floor window by the time Archer was off the ground, and I dropped inside the dark room to help Ringo push Pancho across the narrow gap. Archer and Ringo leapt easily into the room, and Ringo silently closed the mullioned glass window behind us. He put a finger to his lips, then led the way through a massive gallery to a tiny room off to the side. When the door was closed behind us he finally spoke in a quiet, normal voice.
“Got yer torch, Saira?”
In fact I did. It was the only good thing about the huge skirts. There were deep pockets to store things and plenty of fabric to hide the bulk. I knew it was a big risk to carry my little Maglite, but it was like my security blanket and I’d take my chances.
I set it, business-end down, on the floor and clicked it on. “Are there windows?”
“No. This is the pages’ chamber. They don’t get things like windows.”
“Why would pages need windows? They’re only ever in their room long enough to sleep.” Pancho sounded genuinely confused.
I was about to bite back, but Ringo beat me to it. “Ye’d think differently if ye’d ever been one.”
I shone the little light around the room. There was a woven rush mat on the floor, a longish table with some benches pushed up against the wall, and a couple of bedrolls stacked in a corner.
“What manner of fire is that?” Pancho was staring at the Maglite with fascination and fear. But his little noble superiority had annoyed me, so I ignored him. “Can this room be secured for Archer during the day?”
Ringo pulled a heavy iron key out of his pocket. “Took the liberty of borrowin’ this once I’d found it. No pages here without the court, an’ though the Lady takes ‘er walks in the great hall, none think to look in the servants’ rooms.”
My eyes narrowed at him. “You’ve been here a day and you know all that?”
He looked away. “Been busy.”
I looked him up and down. He wasn’t hurt that I could see, but he was acting weird. “So it was true. Elizabeth actually came for you?”
Archer spoke authoritatively. “You can’t call her that to her face, Saira, not even here. ‘My Lady’ is about the least title you can get away with until the queen declares her heir.”
Pancho stared at Archer. “Why would the queen do that though? She’ll marry and have her own children. It’s why Thomas did what he did. ‘Twas the only way to take England back from the Catholics.”
None of us said anything. What could we say? ‘Your brother’s life was wasted because Mary will die childless in four years.’ No matter how I felt about the kid, I wasn’t cruel.
So, I avoided the conversation altogether and turned my attention back to Ringo. “Have you had much chance to talk to her?”
“Just long enough to convince her I wasn’t the one trying to kill her.”
Pancho stared. “How’d you do that?”
Ringo included me and Archer in his very direct gaze. The intensity of it made me squirm. “She described a vision where she saw me bein’ tortured by a bishop. I told ‘er I hadn’t heard about the torture bit, but we’d come to stop the bishop hurting ‘er.”
My heart pounded in my chest. I felt about five inches tall. “I’m sorry, Ringo. I didn’t … couldn’t …”
“Couldn’t be honest before askin’ me to come wi’ ye? Somethin’ bein’ dangerous is different than it bein’ a foregone conclusion, don’t ye think, Saira?”
I stood stock-still in the direct line of Ringo’s fire. Archer came up beside me protectively. “I should have told you. It was my vision.”
“But she knew it an’ she did the askin’.” Ringo directed his clear, laser-sharp gaze back to me. “I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t ‘ave come, but I should have known what I was goin’ t’ face.” Ringo rubbed his head wearily and I knew a word or touch from me would be entirely unwelcome.
“Do ye know when she finally decided to trust me? When she asked what Immortal I was descended from. When I said none, she looked relieved.”
What was left of my confidence pretty much pooled around my ankles. What the hell were we doing here?
“I’m
goin’ t’ bed. You lot stay away from her apartment. Ye’ll have to pass by me t’ get to ‘er anyway, an’ I won’t ‘ave it. Not tonight.”
He tossed me the key before he turned on his heels and left the room, taking a giant piece of my heart and crushing it under his feet as he went. My temper flared in self-preservation. I hated being wrong. Hated it with a fierceness that made me want to lash out at him for calling me on it. But the same instant the anger flared, it died and left me cold and shaky in its wake.
Archer put his arm around me, and all I wanted to do was sink into it and let him take away the guilt. But he couldn’t, so I didn’t.
“I’ll be back.” I left my Maglite on the floor where it gave a small glow to the room and made the pages’ quarters feel almost warm against the chill that was creeping through my veins. Archer twitched, like he was going to step in my way, but then seemed to think better of it and let me go without a word.
Guilt is the one thing that’ll send me into self-loathing, and thus I avoid doing things that make me feel guilty. But I failed this time. And the whole thing had very disturbing echoes of me trying to protect Archer from the knowledge that he’d become a Vampire. Ultimately, it was always the lie that really hurt.
Archer once said the aura of omission was a blue/green color and he’d seen it around me more than just a couple of times. What if I only told the truth, and I told the whole truth, regardless of who I thought might get hurt from it?
What if I just said exactly what I meant all the time?
The consequences of that couldn’t be worse than how I was feeling now.
I wandered around the edges of the great hall. My wandering might have looked a little bit like lurking to the average person, but I couldn’t help the instinct I seemed to have been born with. I supposed felines, like my large predator cat-shifting father, were more slinky than lurky, but I was feeling about as far from feline slinkiness it was possible to get. If I could have slithered, that would have been a little closer to the truth.
I was surprised to find a small chapel at the end of the Great Hall. I didn’t think the royals would have wanted such a constant reminder of their sins as they drank and debauched their way through history. There were candles on a table just inside the door, and I took one back into the Great Hall where the embers of a fire still smoldered. I’d seen what it took for the innkeeper to light a fire with a tinderbox, so I got why they never really let things burn totally out. I lit my candle, went back into the chapel, and slotted the wax taper into a holder on the altar. The small room looked warm and pretty in the flickering candlelight, and I sat down on a bench to take it in.
The ceiling was the best part. Carved wood and painted with tiny stars, it felt like something out of a fairy tale instead of an unused chapel in a fortress that had become a prison. I leaned back and stared up at it, letting the beauty drown out the noise in my head.
“I believe you may have lost your way.” A soft voice came from the shadows behind me. I spun to find the speaker, but saw no one.
Until she stepped forward into the flickering candlelight.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth Tudor was reed-thin and maybe only an inch or two shorter than me, which made her look a little like a Whippet. Her long hair was loose, and she wore a dark blue gown with embroidered gold thread that was probably simple for her, but to my eye looked like a ball gown.
I realized I was staring, and I fumbled a bow that was a cross between a nod and falling in a hole. The expression on her face was a mix of imperious haughtiness, interest, and a little bit of humor in her eyes. Thank God for the humor, even if it was at my expense.
“My … Lady. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I wasn’t ready to see her yet. And absurdly, I wanted to honor Ringo’s ban on talking to her tonight.
“You’ll stay and tell me who you are.”
Yeah, no question about it. This woman was born to be queen. There was absolutely no other option in the world but to obey her, and if I did my math right, she was twenty-three years old.
“My name is Saira Elian. And I’m …” I fumbled again. She didn’t seem to have any love of Immortal Descendants, but my truth-telling vow kicked in and I took a breath. “I’m a Descendant of Time … and Nature.” I didn’t usually do that. Didn’t own my mixed-blood status out loud. I had no idea what they did to mixed-bloods in this time, so it was a gamble. But I hoped being something that was outside the usual lines of Descendancy would work in my favor with someone who wasn’t pleased with Descendants.
I had the sense that she was studying me, looking at me from the inside out. But she was a Seer, so maybe it was possible. The silence was totally unnerving and my confidence was beginning to puddle on the floor when she finally spoke.
“Why have you come?”
Her question couldn’t have been more simple, but I had no idea how to answer it. The scary part was I’m not sure I ever really knew the answer, even before leading us here to a time when we could accidentally, yet epically, screw things up.
“You’re in danger.”
She stared at me like I was standing in front of her buck naked. “Of course I am. Now more than ever. They could poison my wine, murder me in my sleep. My sister could sign an order and my head would be removed quite permanently from my shoulders. Presumably none of these things is remarkable enough to warrant a visit from whence you came?”
“There’s a bishop. Actually, he used to be a bishop, but he still uses the title.”
“Your point?”
Sometimes imperiousness is just rude, but I didn’t think saying that to the future queen of England was going to get me anywhere. “My point is Bishop Wilder is here, now. He wants something from you, and we’re not totally sure what it is. My guess is he wants your blood.”
She scoffed. “The queue forms to the left.”
Okay, maybe I could like her a little bit. I smirked, and she answered with one of her own. But the humor was gone with my next words. “Your actual Seer blood. He’s …” – I thought vampire might be a concept too laced with mythology – “one of Death’s Descendants. He has discovered that something in his own blood seems to allow him to absorb the powers of other Descendants when he … consumes theirs.” I was treading on the edges of too much information, or at least science that was way ahead of Elizabeth’s time, but she didn’t flinch. Her gaze stayed locked on mine so steadily that I thought she would be an awesome poker player.
“You believe he wants to drink my blood?”
Yes, it did sound ridiculous to anyone not brought up on old black and white Bela Lugosi movies. “He kidnapped my mother a few months ago and drained her of nearly all her Clocker blood. Drinking it is how he was able to come to this time.”
Ha! Made her eyes widen a fraction. She was good, but I was better. I decided to put away the mental high fives and go back to honesty.
“You are clearly a powerful Seer. I don’t know what you can do, but because Bishop Wilder has painted a target on you I have to assume it’s because he wants your skills.”
Her gaze was steady. “You’ve explained why this bishop is here, but you still haven’t said why you are. Revenge, perhaps? For your mother?”
Well, that was interesting. Had I traveled back in time almost five hundred years to dish up a little payback? Put that way, there was a lot to pay back. My mom, Archer … my dad. “He killed my father too.”
“Ah, so it is personal.”
I felt like I was clenching the honesty card in my teeth. “Maybe, yeah. But not totally. I wouldn’t have dragged my friends here to fight my battle.”
“And the young man with you whom you disdain so much? Who is he?”
“Pancho didn’t come with us. We picked him up on the way.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “Not the Wyatt pup. The other one. Tall. And dark.”
I stared at her. “I don’t disdain Archer. I barely even know what that means.”
“You seem to care little for his concerns
, yet you expect he will follow you without question. He’s clearly besotted with you, yet you choose the young and charming Ringo with whom to share your thoughts, though apparently, not even he gets the full extent of your honesty. You seem to care nothing for this Archer’s heart when you ride roughshod forward without a thought for his desires.”
My eyes felt like saucers in my head, and I was doing a fair imitation of a statue.
What. The. Hell?
I couldn’t stop it: the explosion. It just … happened.
“You know, your Highness, or High-and-Mightiness, or whatever you’re called, you don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. Whatever you’ve Seen in your visions isn’t who I am, and nothing, not even your royal blood, gives you the right to judge me on how I love people.”
I managed to break free of the freeze-lock on my muscles and stomped out of the chapel as graciously as a three-year-old having a tantrum.
My heart was still pounding as I sprinted down the length of the Great Hall and slid around the corner to a long gallery. I stopped in a window alcove, sank to the floor, and clutched my knees to my chest.
The roaring in my head burned down to a dull throb.
I just yelled at the future queen of England. Probably the most powerful woman of her time, and I snapped like a pissy toddler who didn’t get her way.
It occurred to me that if we survived this madness I should probably get out of Dodge and not come back when Elizabeth had some real power. I wasn’t too high on her Christmas list at the moment.
But there was a tightness in my chest that still felt like anger.
Or was it indignation?
That thought made me oddly uncomfortable. Indignation always seemed like the last stand of the guilty, and I didn’t want any part of her words to be true.
They weren’t. They couldn’t be. I didn’t treat people that way. Definitely not the people who loved me.
My heart rate slowed to something that wouldn’t make the charts blip as that last thought replayed in my brain. The people who loved me … who loved me. Why not ‘the people I loved?’