Connecticut Vampire in Queen Mary's Court

by Hall, Ian

  “Very well.” The Queen reached behind her throne and brought forth a small purse, which she handed to Paget, and he to me. “You are indeed an asset, Master DeVere. Yet you bring little history with you.”

  “Again, I remind you of my grandfather’s association with your mother. Family loyalty stands for everything.”

  “And you arrive at my door at an august moment.”

  “Chance and fortune, Your Majesty. I was held by another family in Remagen; a personal dispute. I escaped and crossed the channel just in time to hear the bells tolling Edward’s death in Rochester.”

  She stuck out her hand, palm down, and I leant forward, kissed her thin, bony knuckles, and walked backwards towards the door. “Sir William? Take him to Fakenham, introduce them, they will be neighbors soon.”

  Aware that the whole ‘Fakenham’ thing could have been a code for chopping my head off, I kept very alert as I walked the corridors of the small country house. “Who’s Fakenham?”

  William Petre looked a stout old geezer, red-faced, and very paunchy. “Peter Fakenham is in charge of Queen Mary’s, eh, underground movement.”

  “And why will we be neighbors?”

  “Oh, it seems her Majesty has taken a shine to you, you may even get a position out of it.”

  “Explain.”

  “Fakenham will oversee the internal workings of the Privy Council, and bring to heel all those who stand in the Queen’s way.”

  “He’s the hired muscle?”

  Petre laughed. “I’ve never heard the term given to the Sheriff of London, but it fits.”

  “Sheriff of London.” I mused over the title. “I’ve not heard it used before.”

  “It doesn’t officially exist, but he will have a good-sized staff, and a budget directly from the coffers of the Privy Council.”

  “If it doesn’t exist, how can it have power over the Privy Council?”

  Sir William laughed. “You miss the point, DeVere, it is because it does not exist that it has power.”

  He stopped at a door, knocked, and waited.

  The thick wooden door slowly opened from within. A tall slim man stood in the doorway. Dressed in doublet and hose, he had long black hair, full beard, and eyes of the darkest brown. “Sir William?” Slim features made him look rather rat-like.

  “Fakenham,” he nodded. “This is DeVere.”

  “Come in, come in.” Fakenham walked further into the room and I followed, only to realize Sir William had left us alone. I closed the door behind me.

  I stood inside a small book-lined room, with a single table and two chairs. Fakenham sat down, and indicated I take the other.

  “So Jane Grey is at large?”

  I nodded. “As far as I know. The girl in the Tower proved not to be Grey.”

  “You know Grey?”

  I shook my head. “No, I have never met her, but the occupant of the room was known to me from a previous encounter.”

  He paused, his eyes on mine. “You tell the truth.” He looked at my face carefully. “Quickly!” he snapped his fingers. “Tell me a lie.”

  I frowned, but hit back with some ease. “I’ve met you before.”

  He blanched, then a grin spread over his face. “Where?”

  I loved word games, reminded of old reruns of ‘Whose Line is it Anyway’ with Drew Carey. “You’ve been at my father’s farm in Whittingham.”

  “I’ve never been to Whittingham.”

  “Yes, you have. Your father took you to the fair each summer. We played in the cherry orchard.”

  “I like you!” Fakenham began a small laugh that blossomed into a loud, resonating chortle. “You’re good. Tell me five things. Two of which must be lies.”

  I balanced a quick, witty reply with some reticence. “My name is Richard DeVere. I am twenty-four years old. I was born at sea, and spend my best time there. I have a very large scar on my side where I got hit by a stray lance, and I could slice out your heart and have it on the table before your guard standing outside could save you.”

  “Who says there’s a guard outside?”

  “You do. You exude far too much confidence in the face of an armed stranger.”

  “The guard?”

  “He’s probably six feet tall and big, but he can’t stand still; I heard him creaking the floorboards.”

  Fakenham leant over the table, a big grin on his face. “Tell me five more. All must either be lies or the truth, no mixture.”

  Again, I weighed my answers, deciding on lies, or what I could pass for lies if pressed. “I’ve broken the maidenhead of a Princess. I’ve been to Ireland. I’ve lived in Ludlow Castle for a year. My mother died in childbirth. My father was a good man who liked the strong liquor far too much, it killed him.”

  “Hmm, you’re a cool fellow under pressure, DeVere. I like that. How good are you with a sword?”

  “Reasonable.”

  “And yet you didn’t use it in the Tower?”

  “Swordplay has its uses, but it gets ‘involved’ sometimes. I needed to deal with a more numerous force. I had no time to get involved.”

  “How did you get her out?”

  “Over the side. Big, long rope.”

  “How did you get her out of the country?”

  I then knew he’d witnessed the whole audience with the Queen; probably through a secret room behind the audience chamber.

  “By ship, to France. Does the Queen know you listen in to her conversations?”

  He looked at me again, like his eyes devoured me. “Very well. I’m convinced. You’re my kind of man. The Queen was right to send you to me, you’ll work just fine.”

  “So I passed the interview?”

  “Flying colors.”

  “What do I do?”

  “First, get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you ride to London to ready the city for the coming of its Queen.”

  He remained sitting while I rose.

  “My room?”

  “The big guard will show you.”

  We exchanged smiles and I left.

  Next morning, I gathered what men remained under my command, and all twenty of us walked under instruction, first to Witham, to alert the bailiffs there, and on the next day to Chelmsford, to pass instructions to a band under a man called Charles Minton. On Queen Mary’s entrance into London, each band of men had an area to clear, each had a part of the route to guard against mischief.

  Three days’ march took us to Wanstead near Stratford, to await the arrival of the Princess Elizabeth, Mary’s stepsister. It seemed such a slow pace, but I used it as a resting period.

  When we neared Wanstead, even I grew nervous. I’d read a little beyond Catherine’s time, and knew Elizabeth would one day become Queen of England. Here, in this town, I awaited the greatest monarch the world had ever seen, the great Queen Elizabeth. I settled my men, gave them money to spend, and sped off into London.

  It took less than an hour to get to Tower bridge; north side. My large ‘X’ above the arch still looked fresh, but no reply from Steve. I returned to Wanstead before my absence was discovered, had a few glasses of half decent wine, then hit my hard bed.

  In the morning, my initial instructions carried out, I relaxed. My men had all taken advantage of my generosity, and seemed to be unable to handle any kind of injection of cash without spending it on drink or whoring, or a bit of both.

  From Wanstead I walked along the ‘London Road’ for a mile or so, and met a carriage coming east towards me. No guard, no fanfare. I stood in the centre of the road, my hand up, hopefully halting the carriage.

  The driver did indeed bring his carriage to a halt.

  “Who travels the road?” I asked, walking around the side of the four horse team.

  “The Princess Elizabeth,” the man said with some disdain.

  “No armed guard?”

  “We were offered none.”

  Then, looking out from the carriage’s open window, I saw King Henry the Eighth’s face.

  Now
the face actually sat on a girl’s shoulders, fair enough, but despite her Boleyn genes, the Princess looked her father’s double.

  “Your Majesty.” I approached, then gave a bow. “I am Richard DeVere, sent here by Queen Mary to guide you to Wanstead, where you will meet, and join her triumphant entrance to the city.”

  “Master DeVere.” Her small head bowed slightly in the window. Curly ginger hair had been swept back and held in place by a myriad of pins. Her dress looked dark, although I could not see but the throat of it.

  But her eyes were Henry’s; a sharp piercing blue. And what she lost in good looks she made up for in sheer electric energy.

  “Am I in need of an escort?” Her eyes flashed the challenge at me.

  “Regardless, I will provide one.” I grinned and jumped on the running board of the carriage. “On, driver!” I turned to peer inside. No ladies in waiting, no guards. I suddenly felt so sorry for this frail creature that would one day defeat the might of the Spanish Armada. “At your service, Your Grace.”

  I tried for a kind smile.

  “It is difficult for a dog to remain loyal to two masters.” She gave me a look reminiscent of her aunt, the Princess Margaret, and I longed to tell her so. For a moment, I hung on to the rail of the carriage, and wondered at Margaret’s fate, silently cursing the gods of time-travel.

  I poked my head inside the carriage, and Elizabeth shied away slightly. “As long as the two masters live, a dog must remain loyal to both father and son equally, but when the father dies, surely the son will remember the dog’s loyalty, and reward him correspondingly.”

  I lifted my head out of the carriage and enjoyed the ride back to Wanstead. I had made my first approach to the future Queen of England.

  Chapter 7

  August 3rd, 1553

  London Embraces a Queen

  With little sisterly love abounding around the procession, Mary began her entry to the city.

  The Queen, as she now styled herself, looked quite magnificent; she rode sidesaddle, a dark purple dress flowing onto a horse blanket of cloth of gold.

  A line of Lords rode in single file behind her. Then the Princess Elizabeth, then more royals until you lost sight of them; a show of strength for the world to see.

  Walking along my part of the route, I watched first for assassins, then troublemakers, then drunks. And there were many of the latter.

  To their credit, Londoners did come out to greet their new Queen by the thousand, but I had witnessed the same procession, albeit from a different direction just a few months ago, and the comparisons were quite drastic.

  Back when Prince Arthur entered London, the people looked genuinely happy. The ones cheering Mary today appeared almost relieved. Having just concluded a huge civil war just sixty years before, the thought of another one had obviously weighed heavily on their hearts.

  But trumpeters still trumpeted. Choirs outside churches sang happy, uplifting hymns.

  At Aldgate, on the Whitechapel Road, stood the Mayor of London, a large gold scepter in hand, blocking her entry.

  To my utter amazement, when she neared him, the crowd hushed. You could have heard a pin drop.

  “My Queen, by the powers vested in me, you have permission to enter the city.” He handed the scepter to Queen Mary, who bowed her head, laying her hand on the golden rod.

  “I accept the city of London, and ask that you march with me to Westminster.” She pushed the golden scepter back into the hands of the Mayor, who stood as the procession passed, then fell in line behind Princess Elizabeth.

  I watched the Lords and Ladies, not expecting Keith Fallon to be among them, but paying attention all the same. When the actual procession had totally passed by, some of the crowd followed, shuffling slowly along the road. I joined the throng, keeping my senses tuned for dissent, for any sign of disharmony, but found none.

  “Richard!”

  I spun round, looking for the source of the call, to see Steve Fraser on the roof of a house, waving down at me. The relief in seeing him felt palpable. I turned and pushed my way off the street, and met him by the roadside.

  “When did you arrive?” I asked.

  “Just the day before yesterday. You?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  His face looked full of excitement. “I landed in a moor, and I even saw Stonehenge on the way here!” He smiled. “I got to Tower bridge early this morning, and saw your mark on the wall. I figured I’d be as well watching the parade, and maybe you’d be here somewhere.”

  Walking off Whitechapel Road, we soon found a busy tavern, where we caught up on each other’s stories. Just two days into 1553, Steve still had the wide, open eyes of a child as he sat. “It didn’t take any acclimatization, but it sure felt funny running so fast to get to London,” he said, drinking deeply on his ale.

  “Have you fed yet?” I asked.

  Steve shook his head. “That’s one area I might need pushed a little bit.” A serving wench passed and asked if we needed anything. “Although I could sink my teeth into her!” Steve remarked after she’d gone.

  “That’s all you need.” I grinned, watching her considerable butt weave its way round the tables. He certainly seemed to like the larger woman.

  “So what’s next on the agenda?”

  I told him about Fakenham’s instructions, and my new job in town. “I learned from the last time, you need power here. Fallon got the best of me because I didn’t have friends in high places.”

  “So we’re not going after him directly?”

  “Not right now.” I shook my head. “The position with Fakenham looks like giving me a leg up in London, and I’ve got three months before Lady Jane starts moaning and coming back from Edinburgh.”

  “So where do I fit in?”

  “You’ll be my ‘man’,” I said. “The job entails just walking behind me, doing what you’re told, and watching out for any weapons coming in our general direction.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Unless we’re alone, you don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, or unless something urgent is happening.”

  “Sounds fair enough.”

  “My backstory so far; I got held in a jail in Remagen, and we escaped on a ship to Dover. We arrived the day they started tolling the bell for the dead King Edward.”

  “So the less I say, the less I can put my foot in it.”

  “Basically, yes. Keep your lips sealed, but keep alert, these might be ‘backward’ people compared to modern men, but they’re not stupid. They’re just as quick, and have played this power game for centuries. We’ve both got a lot to learn.”

  That evening we arrived at the Tower of London, and were admitted properly though the gate. Fakenham met us on the grassy lawns inside.

  “Anything to report?” he asked.

  “Absolutely nothing,” I replied, dismissing Steve from my side with a slight wave of my hand.

  “Good.” Fakenham began to stroll round the inner wall of the Tower. Torches burned brightly at intervals, and although darkness fell fast, I could still see to walk. “I have a new problem. Her Majesty has arrived in the Tower, but so have a host of delegates from Spain.”

  He listed names far too quickly for me to remember them.

  “The worst is Simon Renard de Bermont, the name means ‘fox’ in French, and he’ll have that nickname when we speak of him.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Not well, but my man does, within reason.”

  “Good.” He gave me a questioning look. “I need to know what they’re up to.”

  “Very well, do you know where they are right now?”

  “They are with the Queen as we speak, in the White Tower. They move quickly, these Spaniards. Because of Edward’s Protestant ways, the Spanish have been closeted inside their villa; Haxtun House, near Westminster. But now, released into a new papist regime, they flock like bees around the honey. I would not be a bit surprised if on
e of them is already in league with the Queen.”

  “How much in league?”

  “Bedding her.”

  “Oh.” For the life of me, I could not imagine Queen Mary in bed; she seemed to have not a sexy side to her character, none that I’d caught a glimpse of.

  “I am annoyed at myself, Richard, for not seeing this Spanish invasion from afar. I have erred, and allowed them influence. I will not be caught napping again.” He stopped and turned to me. “Your mission is to find out what’s going on in Haxtun House.”

  I recognized a dismissal when I saw it, gave a slight bow, and left.

  Steve caught my motion, and quickly fell into step beside me. “You look energized.”

  “How good is your Spanish?”

  “Not bad, why?”

  “Because we’ve been given our first ‘Mission Impossible’, and the tape self-destructed a few minutes ago.”

  So we stood near the gates for about an hour, until four dark-cloaked figures strode confidently out of the Tower. “I think those are our men,” I whispered.

  Walking far behind them, hidden in shadows and darkness, we followed them all the way.

  Haxtun House stood on Hamberley Street, and from my mental map of London, just a stone’s throw from Westminster Palace. Three stories high with a frontage of a hundred feet; it looked quite an imposing building.

  The four men disappeared inside.

  “Circle the house,” I said, looking at the many dark windows, watching for lighting. “Look out for guards, dogs, whatever. I’ll wait here.”

  Steve sped off while my eyes passed back and forth on the front of the building.

  Light, second floor, middle window. I smiled inwardly at my cunning. Then a servant closed the curtains, dashing my hopes of an easy job.

  Steve returned. “No dogs, no sign of guards.”

  A plan began to formulate. “Servants? Kitchens?”

  “At the back.”

  “Okay, scout out the kitchen for me; see if there are any good looking girls working here. I can’t see these guys going without sex, and I can’t see them using whores. Find out what you can, and meet me on that wall.” I pointed. “Second floor widow.”