Connecticut Vampire in Queen Mary's Court

by Hall, Ian

  “Is there any here I have not called?”

  Silence met his question.

  “Drink one!” he roared as the first of the wenches passed around us, dispensing a silver goblet. I smelled a mixture of mead and brandy inside. “Cups to lips!” he roared. “Drink! All down the hatch, all at once!”

  I swallowed and let the liquid burn into my throat and chest. Some coughed, at which some laughed.

  The process got duplicated three times, and after the third drink, I could feel a slight buzz in my head at both the strength of the liquid, and the speed of the delivery.

  To be honest, from that moment on, we caroused like a bunch of drunken oafs at a brewery. We were led to the back of the chapel, where we sat on the bank against the wall. We watched jugglers; we watched dancers, and even a small play.

  Forced to drain our goblets at regular intervals by the command of the Master at Arms, we soon were horribly inebriated, laughing at the least thing. But then, we soon sobered up.

  Dropped from above, a downpour of dirty water from the Thames. After the initial shock, I didn’t mind it, although the evening had dropped in temperature a bit.

  “Oh what a shame!” the Master cried. “Now you’ll have to get out of your wet clothes!” We were led to the barracks, and each put in a small cell. “Strip.” He gave the same instruction at each door.

  I had little option but to do as I had been told.

  Leaving my sodden clothes in a pile on the floor, I sat on the only item in the room; a small wooden bed. In fact my cell reminded me of a monk’s room; austere, and barren.

  When the door opened again, a girl entered, crossed to me and stood.

  “Is she agreeable with you?” the Master of Arms asked from the doorway.

  “Yes, sire.” I mean, the girl did not look unattractive. Another girl took my clothes, and left the room. Then, with a glint in his eye, the Master at Arms shut the door, locking it securely.

  I listened for a moment, then heard a similar locking noise further down the corridor.

  Then I motioned the girl over to the bed. “You, my dear, have altogether far too many clothes on.”

  To which she just curtseyed. “Yes, sire.”

  I wasn’t really sleeping the next morning, when the doors were opened, but I had no need to feign surprise when we were paraded naked along the corridor and out into the morning air.

  Talk about chilly. And embarrassing.

  We were marched into the chapel, where a large bath of water sat. Lord Arundel, similarly naked, sat on a chair at one end of the large bath. It all seemed rather surreal.

  Arundel’s tones reached us easily. “Gentlemen, it is custom when a new monarch is crowned, fifteen men who have served the new monarch with distinction are inducted to the Order of the Bath.”

  Holy crap.

  “The new knight is dunked headlong, as a symbol of the washing of the eternal soul. Once he walks from the bath, he kisses the shoulders of the King, symbolizing the King’s knighting sword. The whole ceremony has been conducted in the nude as long as records are available.”

  Holy crap.

  “Because this is the first time England has crowned a Queen, I will take her majesty’s place.”

  I watched as young men’s names were called, they stepped into the bath, immersed themselves, got out the other side, kissed Lord Arundel on the shoulders, then knelt in front of him.

  “Richard DeVere.”

  I stepped into the lukewarm water, then slid to the bottom of the tub. On emerging, I got out of the tub and kissed both shoulders of a very naked Lord Arundel. Shaking with emotion, I knelt in front of him, head bowed.

  I felt his fingers touch my shoulders.

  “Arise, Sir Richard.” He spoke clearly.

  Holy Crap.

  Chapter 14

  September 30th, 1553

  Once a Knight is Enough

  “So how does this help my anonymity as a spy?” I leant over the table, definitely not pleased with Fakenham’s apparent humor at my recent rise in society.

  “Sometimes, my lord, your station will open doors,” he said, still smiling. “You had the DeVere name already, so close to the Earl of Oxford’s De Vere. I think your title will aid you; your man Steven will be your anonymity.”

  I felt simultaneously stymied and heady. My basic level had been forfeited, my normalness thrown away, and my usefulness gone forever. Yet, I now stood, a Knight of the Bath, and a step closer to level standing with Baron Exeter.

  I turned and left Fakenham’s office, my anger diminishing.

  Today, a Queen would be crowned, and I, as a new Knight, would witness it from close quarters.

  Westminster Abbey looked far more gaudy than it did in 1501, when Arthur married Catherine, but my heart didn’t really feel in the game.

  From my privileged position, I felt in a good vantage point to watch Princess Elizabeth, the newly made heir to the throne. Once Mary had eliminated all papal barriers to her ascendency, she’d also squashed those of her stepsister.

  Princess Elizabeth sat next to their mutual step mother, Anne of Cleeves; King Henry’s last wife.

  And she looked radiant; as far as a gaunt, fair-skinned redhead could.

  Once the cathedral had begun to clear, I followed Elizabeth, from the gates of Westminster, to the coach she boarded, to the applause of the people behind the lines of soldiers. Without asking permission, I climbed inside.

  But something felt wrong.

  A dull ache I’d had in my head for the last few hours began to rapidly surface. I looked at Elizabeth’s questioning stare, only to manage a grimace in return. My stomach began to heave, and vomit grew in my belly. With the absolute certainty it would soon be erupting from my mouth, I immediately exited the carriage, landed on two shaky legs, and staggered towards the crowd.

  To say I heaved my guts up would have been a massive understatement. One, I didn’t think I had that much actual food inside me, two, as I doubled over and retched, my entire being threw itself behind every choking spasm, racking my body in horrific pain.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ceased, leaving me in some peaceful echoing place.

  I looked up to see the procession slowly passing me, and no one paying me the slightest attention. Good.

  Due to my sudden illness, I ducked out of the rest of the coronation celebrations. Keeping myself to the absolute periphery, I scanned the crowd for scraps of conversations, listening into the world for a while.

  It didn’t take long for a pattern to emerge; the Queen stretched her muscles, already repaying her country for the Protestant ravages of Henry and Edward.

  All over London, she had ordered the mass arrests of prominent Protestant ministers. John Bradford and John Rogers lay in the Tower, alongside bishops John Hooper, and Hugh Latimer. As I scanned the gossip, I wondered where I’d been over the last few weeks, then realized with the kidnapping of Jeanne Renard added to my normal schedule, I’d been working quite hard recently.

  But how could I have missed the arrest of Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury? I had just witnessed the coronation of the Queen, and never questioned why he’d not been present at such an event.

  Shaking my head, I made my way back to our rooms at the King’s Head, finding Steve Fraser looking rather white behind the gills.

  “Talk to me.”

  He smiled at me. “Mistress Renard has stopped eating.”

  She lay sleeping. “How long has it been?”

  “Two days.”

  Boy. I’d dropped the ball, sure enough. “How about you? You look kinda pasty.”

  “I’ve not fed for almost a week.”

  “Why forever not?”

  He looked guilty. “Well, the last time I had the maid at Haxtun House, you know…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I went too far.”

  “How far?”

  He looked really sheepish. “Far too far; she’s dead.”

  “Okay. We
’ll deal with it, don’t worry.” I held my hand in the air to stem any further revelations. “First we’ll deal with Madame Renard. If we lose her, we’re kinda fucked.”

  I sent him downstairs to order three bowls of whatever they had, and three large glasses of wine. I turned to Jeanne Renard, and shook her by the shoulders. “Wake up, come on. Despertarse, avivar. Ne pas de dormer.” We’d stuck to a few basic Spanish and French commands that seemed to work.

  Steve returned as she sat up in bed.

  “Où est mon mari?”

  “Ne’st pas de parle, madam,” I said, and she stopped talking. I placed a spoon at her mouth, but she held it resolutely closed. “Comer, eh, manger.”

  And at last she allowed the spoon passage between her lips.

  Once we’d got her fed, and the wine finished, she walked in circles in the room for an hour. Then we put her to bed, told her to sleep, and I got Steve out of the door.

  In my heart I wanted to run four hundred miles to Edinburgh, claim my Lady Jane Winterbrooke for mine, and settle down to a life a little more peaceful.

  “First things first.” I shook my head, and we both headed into North London.

  I found a good looking tavern, a comely wench, and gave Steve a warning word in his ear. Fifteen minutes later, he appeared.

  “You did it right this time?” I asked.

  “Yes, I don’t know what happened before…”

  “Maybe just hit her one time too many.” We walked back into London. As we made our way into the town proper, I began to get a very uneasy feeling; if I indeed had spidey-sense, it activated. I suddenly pulled Steve to one side of the road, and pressed him into an alleyway.

  The rumble started far away, but soon grew. Horses, and a lot of them.

  As they thundered past I counted twenty-five. All dark steeds, all dark black-caped men. I sniffed for vampire but caught nothing on the wind except the unmistakable smell of the sea; these men had just come off a ship.

  “We follow,” I said, and we set off in pursuit, keeping a safe quarter mile distance from the last rider.

  The troop stopped in the Kingsway, just north of the Tower, where half the troop dismounted, walking their horses through a small arched alleyway. At a silent command, the rest moved on at an instant canter.

  “Professional soldiers,” I whispered under my breath.

  It did not surprise me that the rest of them headed directly for Haxtun House. I’d debated on their origin as we ran behind, and only the Spaniards had both the money and resources to put this together so quickly. Okay, we’d poked a leak in their spy ring; now it seemed they were shoring up the dam.

  “That’ll make getting to the secretary more difficult,” I said, not really expecting an answer.

  “No, he’s in my pocket,” Steve answered confidently. “He’s French, and he thinks Renard is the biggest traitor France has ever spawned.”

  I stood impressed. “When do I get to meet him?”

  “Whenever you like; I can get a message to him tonight if you want.”

  “Even with another fifteen guards milling around?”

  “No sweat.”

  “Okay, mister smarty-pants.” I grinned. “Tomorrow night, in The Lark, in Clerkenwell.”

  “Got it. See you back at the King’s Head.”

  “Okay.” At least his feeding had gotten rid of the funk he’d been in.

  My report to Fakenham the next day told of our newcomers. “Spanish and well disciplined,” I said. “They look like crack troops, the very best.”

  “So we up the stakes with Renard.” Fakenham fingered his small pointy beard. “He’s still reporting to the Queen that Princess Elizabeth is not attending mass. What shall our next note say?”

  I let out a small sigh. “She’s dead?”

  He shook his head definitively. “Oh, no. We must be more cunning.” I let him think for a moment. “We shall tell him his wife will arrive in London this week.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “We won’t tell him when, where, or by what means.”

  I got it immediately. “He’ll try to cover all the possible avenues, and those soldiers will be dispersed for weeks. Clever,” I admitted.

  “I’ll get the note to him.” I made to leave, then turned. “Eh…”

  “Yes?” Fakenham snapped.

  “I meet Renard’s secretary tonight.”

  “Good, keep me informed, Sir Richard.” He stood slowly, and gave a slight bow.

  Grinning, I swept from his chambers.

  I’d taken note of the The Lark, set on the main road to Ipswich, as I’d passed on Queen Mary’s procession into London. An unimposing building, yet slightly off the main road, large enough to find a secluded place to talk.

  I waited in a corner facing the door, a rather interesting brandy in front of me. The wench had called it Spanish trove, so I assumed it had been smuggled. Another goblet sat on the other side of the table, waiting.

  I recognized Etienne Quiclet even without his friendly vampire escort. A short man, with sharp dark features; it seemed black hair grew everywhere on his body. From a distance, he showed thick, bushy eyebrows, moustache and beard, then closer, the trend continued, encrusted on the back of his hands like he wore dark furry gloves.

  He sat at my table, and Steve crossed to another part of the room and sat down.

  “Monsieur Quiclet.” I indicated he should drink.

  “To whom do I speak?”

  I grinned as I said it for the first time. “I am Sir Richard DeVere, servant of her majesty, Queen Mary.”

  He nodded, suitably impressed, then sipped the brandy, and his eyes indicated its quality pleased his palate.

  “Etienne Antoine Quiclet,” he began, his accent heavy with rasping French. “I am secretary to Simon Renard, Ambassador to King Charles of Spain.”

  “Yet you are French, are you not?”

  “Oui, I was born in Paris.”

  “And you now ally with the Spanish?”

  I saw the scorn sweep over his face. “I am French, sir. I hold no allegiance with the Spanish pigs who pay my wages.”

  I dropped a small pouch onto the tabletop. “It is gold. Take it, bury it, hide it, spend it on ladies, I don’t care. From now on, I pay your wages.”

  He opened the top of the pouch and looked inside, nodding appreciatively. “Indeed you do, Sir Richard. What do you want of me?”

  “For now, you make certain this letter gets to the desk of Simon Renard.” I passed our letter to him. “On his desk, mark you. Not anywhere else.”

  “The contents do not incriminate me?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. I don’t place my men in harm’s way, Monsieur Quiclet.”

  “Very well, I will do as you wish.” He rose, gave a small bow, and drained his goblet dry. “Your servant, Sir Richard.”

  I heard the words, the title, and I decided I actually liked the sound of them. And of course, Fakenham had been right after all; in some circumstances they did weight the game on my side.

  Chapter 15

  October 6th, 1553

  Watching the Anthill

  The newly-arrived Spaniards dispersed like ants looking for food. I could hardly contain myself, and although Renard still attended the Queen daily, he seemed more subdued than normal, and let’s face it; that had been the whole point. But it did seem a lot to put in for such a small reaction from the man. To give Simon Renard his due, he really seemed focused on his goals, and it had taken a lot to even get a hint of distraction.

  Then I got summoned to the Queen.

  Arriving at Westminster Palace within minutes of her command, I expected a queue. But no wait this time; straight in, just me and her, but I knew Fakenham would be listening.

  “Your new standing seems to agree with you, Sir Richard.” Mary’s smile looked genuine enough, and I bowed and did the grateful speech, although my heart wasn’t really in it. “And we now have the correct Lady Jane Grey in the Tower.”

  “Y
es, your majesty, it all has turned out rather well.”

  “Fakenham has been altogether skimping with the facts of her recapture.”

  “It proved a difficult time, Your Majesty.”

  “But where had she been held?”

  I had no option but to tell her. “At Exeter Castle, Your Majesty.” I said, hoping she’d be satisfied.

  “And under whose power?”

  “The Baron of Exeter, Your Majesty.”

  “Hm. I seem to recall it an appointment of my grandfather, was it not?”

  “I am unsure of exactly how long the title has been in force, Your Majesty. I have never been good at that kind of thing.”

  “And has the Baron been questioned?”

  “Again, Your Majesty, you’d have to look for answers further up the food chain. I just snatched the Lady, and brought her back to you, at the Tower.”

  She gave a slight smile, the first of our meeting. “Yes you did, and of that we were grateful.” She gave pause for a moment, and I waited patiently on her next move. “So what would you say if I told you I wanted you to snatch another woman for me?”

  “I would be pleased to do so. I serve you, Your Majesty.”

  “Then I have another job for you. There will always be rebels, Sir Richard, and we must be on the watch for them. But rebels rarely revolt without a titular head, and to get that head, they must petition the head’s owner.”

  I nodded, waiting for the punch line.

  “It’s all very well watching my stepsister and her courtiers, but if we could remove her for a time, a year, say, we would leave the rebels without a cause.”

  The Queen only had one stepsister. “Do you think Princess Elizabeth plots against you?”

  “No, I don’t, but I know others do. The Duke of Suffolk, Lady Jane Grey’s father, is in constant rebellion. And he has friends; perhaps including your Baron Exeter.”

  So I had to kidnap Princess Elizabeth. “Where do I take her?” I asked.

  Now she smiled. “The walls have ears, Sir Richard, and although I trust them now, that might not always be the case. You, sir, will decide on your own, telling no one of her real destination.”