by Hall, Ian
I could see her bite her lip under the scarf. “Promises, promises.”
We dismounted to cross London Bridge, taking a good hour to walk a few hundred yards. The streets were very busy, and we needed to ensure we didn’t lose our ‘tails’ before we’d even got out of London. On the south side of the bridge, with Fakenham’s men just yards behind us, we rode slowly south.
The same evening, we stopped at Guildford, taking a room at a wayside inn.
For the first time, Cora and I were together alone as vampires. “Do you want a night alone, or would you like to feed together?” I asked.
“Oh, I think we could add another to the feast,” she replied.
So we did.
And for three days and nights, we led Fakenham’s hapless tails towards Exeter. Each evening, our bodies danced a merry decadent waltz together, twice with a third, helpless party just to feed on. Then, after sex on the third night, as a big old moon looked down on us, we left by the rear entrance, and ran laughing back to Kensington.
Time to look at the diary.
We had seven days until the other me rescued Fakenham from the Tower.
“We’ve got a fair bit of gold now,” I said to Abigail who’d been very happy to see our return, although the look on her face had been suspicious to say the very least. “I think it’s right to meet him after Richard the First leaves him, and reward him further, don’t you?” I liked the new name for the earlier me.
She nodded. “It seems he was always good to you two.”
“You could also give some to Eleanor,” Cora said, “King Henry’s policies didn’t leave them much.”
I gave the farm girl a long stare, my gaze followed by Abigail. Once turned, a vampire takes characteristics from her master. Seems Cora had begun to come out of her shell.
So that’s what we did.
I zipped across to Wales and left an anonymous donation on Eleanor’s altar, then zipped back, a satisfied grin over my face the whole way.
Then I lay in wait outside Richard the First’s north London tavern, and watched Peter Fakenham walk off into the night. I followed him for half an hour just to make certain he didn’t do anything suspicious, but he beat a steady path east towards Norwich. Running on the road and catching up quickly, I called out to him.
“Peter?”
He spun, sword in hand, ready for action, then seeing me, relaxed considerably. “You gave me a fright.”
“Sorry.” I handed him a small leather pouch. “There’s a hundred gold there; stolen French coins. Be careful where you spend them.”
Even in the dark of the night, I saw the tears in his eyes. “You have been a good friend, Sir Richard.” He bowed, turned, and walked away.
There seemed little point in prolonging the moment, so I ran back to Kensington.
Chapter 32
April 7th, 1554… again
The Beginning of the End… Again
After she’d taken a quick look inside and ensured both Richard the First and Steve were inside, Abigail gave the letter to a grubby boy, and sent him into the King’s Head tavern. He would ask for ‘DeVere’, and then get back outside.
‘Dearest Richard, I am travelling home in the spring, as soon as the roads ease. I am well, and in good spirits. I will travel with my new friend, Joanna Lockhart. We will be in London soon. JW’
Abigail whisked the boy away as soon as he’d set one foot outside.
To be honest, I’d have loved to have stayed outside, watching the confusion on my own face as I ran the streets, looking for the boy. But the chance of the sick feeling proved too great; we had to tread very carefully from now on.
Then, that night, Abigail padded quietly into my bedroom, clad only in the obligatory gossamer nightdress. I immediately sat up, anticipating sex with the buxom woman, but she sat on the side of the bed, instantly deep in conversation. “You get sick when you get too close to yourself.”
I nodded, although she wasn’t looking at me.
“And yet you think you’ll be able to operate normally inside the small theatre?”
We’d cased the joint many times. “It is kinda small, but it should be all right.”
“So I want you to tell me how far you have ever got to yourself.”
“The closest was at Queen Mary’s coronation.”
“How close?”
“About thirty yards, no more.”
“There’s not much more room than that in the theatre.” I sat silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. “I want you to think very carefully. When you’re on the stage, being held by Exeter’s goons, exactly when do you begin to feel sick?”
I considered for a moment. “Almost as soon as I got caught by the goons.”
“So you were there in the theatre to see it all.”
“Yes.”
“Now, again think carefully. When you were feeling sickly, being held by the goons, do you think You have enough strength and composure to accurately fire a bow?”
Wow. Now that had been a question.
I dispensed with my initial ‘of course I will’ answer, and gave it considerable thought. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Then who fires the third shot?” she snapped at me. “Who fires the third arrow?”
Damn. We were so close to zero hour, and only now she came out with this? My thoughts raced. Mind you, better to think about it now, not in the actual theatre.
“I don’t know.”
Then she grinned. “I do.”
I looked at her confident, assured smile. “Why, you wily old goat!” I tickled her, watching her chest bounce under her thin nightdress. “You’ve worked it all out.”
But I also wanted an answer, so I stopped, waiting.
“Where did Steve go that night?” she asked.
“He never turned up.” I said quickly, her question stymied me. “I’d never really thought about his absence.”
“Did he regularly go missing at important times?”
I shook my head vehemently. “No, he’s as reliable as dirt.” Then, before she could speak, I knew the direction of her logic. “Steve’s the third shooter.”
“Yes, he is.” Her hand fished under the coverlet, finding my lap easily. Although my mind still raced, she soon had my thoughts elsewhere.
The next day, we debated how we’d contact Steve.
Ultimately, diverting him right at the end seemed the right thing to do. On the ‘last day’, he seemed to be pretty missing anyhow. Waiting for Quiclet’s message, waiting at the back of Haxtun House, delivering the note to Richard the First at the King’s Head, then nothing.
I mean, we had a big window of opportunity.
So, on the day in question, April the fifteenth, knowing Richard the First would oversleep in the King’s Head, Abigail woke Steve early, and brought him to Sloan House.
“What the fuck?” he said as he walked into the dining room. “How did you get here so quick?”
The universe changed for Steven Fraser that day.
We all sat around him, each telling him part of the story. At one point he even whizzed back to the King’s Head, just to see me sleeping there. His face on returning looked a picture.
At noon, we sent him back to wake me up, then excuse himself, saying he had errands to run.
“Errands to run,” I repeated, making certain he’d got the wording correct. “Then get back here for the next part of the story.”
And off he went, waving goodbye to me, to go to the other me, and wake him up.
Wonderful.
We spent another hour with Steve, then sent him up to the Lark, for his final instruction from Richard the First.
By mid-afternoon, he stood back in Sloan House.
Abigail went to the King’s Head to leave the final note.
‘Regency Theatre. Sundown. Come alone. Q.’
On her return, I decided it time to lay the final plans.
As the afternoon progressed, we went over the procedure time and time again.
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We looked at plans of the theatre, marked our positions.
I ran through each phase of the action like the director of a play.
Scene one; Renard’s meeting with Exeter. Renard leaves stage center.
Scene two; My descent from the rafters, only somehow to kill the wrong man.
Scene three; The usual bad-guy diatribe; James Bond style.
Scene four; Renard’s return, knife at throat.
Scene five; Exeter’s final words, engraved in my mind…
“You really never were a real adversary to me, Richard. Always too easy, always the patsy, never the star. Maybe next time, huh?”
Scene six; The arrows.
We changed into dark clothes, doublets and trousers for all. We readied our bows, picked our best arrows.
And with excitement at such a height you could almost touch it, we set out for the theatre.
Keeping our distance, we watched Richard the First arrive at the building.
“Some time passed before Renard and Exeter arrived, so we’ve got a while,” I said quietly. As the three padded past me, I touched hands, shoulders. “Good luck.”
I gave them a good ten minutes to get into their positions, and remembering the other me would be high above the stage, I carefully followed.
The inside of the theatre lay in near darkness, the lights from the shielded candles shining onto the stage and curtains.
I crouched at the very back row and waited.
The tension felt incredible.
Then, just as I thought it would never begin, Renard arrived. Walking boldly down the slope to the front seat of the theatre, he sat down. He never cast a look to anywhere but the stage.
Then, in the lights, a figure walked slowly across the boards; Keith Fallon, the Baron of Exeter, appointed thus by Henry the Seventh. He wore a dark doublet and grey tights, his smile under his wide-brimmed hat, lit by the focused candlelight.
He bowed suitably theatrically. “Monsieur Renard,” he said, his voice easily carrying across the empty seats.
I watched the same play I’d witnessed six months ago. Renard got to his feet and walked to the stage, looking up at Fallon’s grinning face. “How do plans proceed?”
“We have the key players in place,” Fallon said, taking off his hat. “In one week they will rise at my command, and openly proclaim Elizabeth Queen.”
I looked up, hoping to see myself up on the platform, but my view lay hidden by a high curtain.
“That is indeed good news,” Renard said. “Are you certain of your support?”
“Oh, I’m sure. My powers of persuasion are quite remarkable.” Knowing how the play ended, Fallon’s grin amused me.
“I need Elizabeth to be openly in command.” Renard paced back and forth, his face looked dour and concentrating, his hands behind his back. “I need her to be openly at the head of the rebel army. When Queen Mary’s army forces their surrender, there can be no dispute over her guilt this time.”
Even though I knew the words and I knew the plot, it still sent a chill down my spine. The coup for Elizabeth would be destined to fail before it began; it had been planned that way.
Exeter clasped his hands together. “Oh, I have already rehearsed the ‘surrender’. These fools have no stomach for a fight.”
“Good. How many men will rise?”
“About two thousand. A good enough sized force to burn and pillage London, but small enough to be ‘overcome’ by the sudden and welcome arrival of Mary’s army.”
“King Charles will be eternally grateful, Baron.” He bowed, ready to leave.
“Just remind him to show his gratitude in yellow metal!” Then he stood on the stage, his hands on his hips.
I knew I would soon leap, but I watched for Exeter’s switch, knowing it would happen before my eyes.
With my heightened vampire senses, I saw Exeter dash backwards, grab a limp body from a waiting servant, and dash back, standing the man exactly where he’d been just milliseconds before.
Then he sped off the stage and up the center aisle as I fell on the teetering cadaver to plunge my sword into his shoulder.
The man I’d struck hadn’t even been alive. I’d focused so much on the jump, I truly had fallen for Fallon’s trap.
The cadaver fell forward, and I saw my triumphant smile fade.
Like a tragic comic, my expression changed to fear.
Bam. Two vampires, one from each side, grabbed me, and I struggled in vain at their grip.
“You really never were a real adversary to me, Richard. Always too easy, always the patsy, never the star. Maybe next time, huh?”
His last words, still to be spoken, had a far more poignant meaning now.
Chapter 33
April 15th 1554… again
A Tragic Comedy
As Richard the First arrived on the stage, I felt my stomach surge. Then looked up the captive on the stage reciprocated the feeling.
I waited for Fallon to appear. And waited. Then, again, just as I thought it had changed, he began his slow, triumphant walk down the aisle.
“Why, who do we have here?” Reaching the stage, he nimbly jumped onto the polished wooden boards. “Why, it’s Richard DeVere, my time-travelling friend.” He looked down at the dead body on the stage. “Did you think you’d got me, Richard?”
“Fuck off, you bastard.” I couldn’t help seeing it as a play, and trust me, I wasn’t portraying much of a strong character here.
Then Fallon reached forward and grabbed him/me by the chin and squeezed my jaw tightly. “No, dear friend, it’s you who shall fuck off. But this time, when you come back, you’ll bring me a present, or your friends will die, and I mean die!”
I wondered how long he’d planned this. Wondered how many times he’d practiced the speech. “I’m bringing you nothing, you arrogant bastard.”
He shifted on his feet, his movements filled with nervous tension. “Oh, you will. If you don’t bring me an iPod, pre-filled with world history, and a solar charger, I will end the Lady Jane, I will certainly take the head from the shoulders of your accomplice. I mean, he’s not quite got the hang of this vampire stuff yet, has he? Oh, and your good Princess Elizabeth? She’ll fucking burn in a fire in front of you if you don’t do this!”
I wondered just how much harm he could do, already knowing the history of the world.
“Why don’t you just go back and get it all yourself?”
At last I’d spoken against him with a little gumption.
“And lose what I’ve already gained?” Fallon shook his head. “Don’t be a fucking idiot, Richard. Why would I take the chance? You have a reason to return, you’ll find some way to do it.”
I could see Richard the First beginning to rise, showing signs of resistance. “Okay. So what if I agree? How do we play this? You’ve got to send me back, how are you going to do that?”
I knew what came next, and it didn’t make the moment any easier to watch. The appearance of Renard at Fallon’s side looked like a punch to Richard’s stomach. I couldn’t see the actual knife, but I knew it where it had been held; tightly to the neck by the third goon.
“Oh, I think this one will be important enough to send you back, don’t you?”
I could see my last struggle against my captors. I saw my heart fall.
I saw my last vein of hope die like an extinguished flame.
Sadly, I watched as resignation set in to my core.
But looking on I held on to hope. Hope that history couldn’t change.
Then Fallon backed away, reaching the edge of the stage.
I realized I crouched in a cold sweat, and I mean wet through. I waited for the final words.
“Remember, Richard, iPod, or they all die.” He shook his head. “You really never were a real adversary to me, Richard. Always too easy, always the patsy, never the star. Maybe next time, huh?”
I waited. Nothing. I looked around the theatre. Nothing. In a panic, I rose from my crouched position, read
ying an arrow to my bow.
NOTHING!
Then from the seats I heard the whisper of an arrow being loosed.
I looked at Exeter’s back, now lit so brightly by the candles at his heels.
NOTHING!
Then the air was rent by the sound of tearing sinew, as the first arrow struck; its green feathered tip quivering in Fallon’s back.
I remembered the look on his face; the fear, the shock of a plan gone awry.
Crouching in the shadows I mentally applauded. “Take that, you bastard,” I whispered with a grin.
Arrow two landed, slightly above the first. Fallon’s body rocked against the impact.
The third arrow proved so accurate it split the shaft of the first, and Fallon’s legs gave way. His knees began to buckle under the weight of his rocking torso, his back arching, his arms raised.
I stood up and fired my own arrow at the man holding Renard, happy to play my own small part in the performance.
It all seemed to be in slow motion. Exeter’s body took ages to fall onto the dusty wooden floorboards.
Then Richard the First winked out. Pop. One moment there, held by the goons, the next gone.
I stepped forward, the aisle in front of me leading down to stage right.
Then I stopped, my body slowly starting to shake in fear.
It began as a nervous twitch, then grew into a tremble that shook me to the core.
For the lights from the stage had started to shimmer slightly.
No, this could not be. Onstage, in front of me, I already rocked under the effect of the shimmer. Richard the First stood, ready to travel back to the present.
And yet the shimmer grabbed my body and shook it violently.
“No!” I yelled, very conscious that the sound might never have left my diaphragm.
I splayed my feet farther apart to achieve balance against the rocking floor. I dropped my bow.
“No!” I shouted in vain as the ‘shimmer’ began in earnest.
But I focused on the play as the world collapsed. I kept my eye on Fallon’s descending body. As the stage swayed from side to side, I saw his body slowly fall to the boards, then shatter into a million pieces like one of the effects on The Mummy or something.