September 23rd, 1553
Etienne Quiclet
Steve returned from Haxtun House with a huge grin on his face.
Bigger than normal.
“I think I can bring Etienne Quiclet to our side.”
“Renard’s personal secretary?”
“The very same.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“Well, I was over there last night, you know…”
“Yes, get on with it.”
“And he took the worst of verbal beatings from Renard. Seems our little letter has gotten to him.”
I nodded, not able to help looking at the peacefully sleeping Jeanne Renard in my bed. “Or he’s got a confirmation she’s missing.”
“Whatever. But he came into the kitchen, ranting at the cook that he was going to bring him down, get him back for his abuse.”
“So what’s his weakness? Booze? Women?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
“Good, we have to strike while the iron’s hot on this one.”
I took my haul to Fakenham that day. He looked very, very interested.
“It couldn’t come at a better time. Our Queen writes to the Pope, asking every marriage of her father be expunged, apart from the first one to her mother, Catherine of Aragon.”
“It seems but a small move forward.”
We walked through a small door at the back of his office and quietly made our way through the ‘secret corridor’ to the listening post behind the Queen’s chamber.
Through the small peephole, I could see Renard standing alone with the Queen, they were in their favorite position, staring at the newly arrived portrait of Phillip, hanging on her wall. Their tones were low, obviously aware of the possibility of our hearing.
After wasting half an hour, we returned to Fakenham’s office.
“Even the Queen now conspires in secret,” he said with disgust. “We must hit Renard with another message. Shake him up a bit.”
So, later that day, we sent the next message.
‘We have both the actor and the Lady. The child grows in her belly. We would talk. Z.’
I zipped past Renard in a corridor, slipping the note into his tunic, then Fakenham and I watched from afar as he eventually found it. In the crowded anteroom, he looked around, trying to identify the reverse pickpocket, then slowly read the note. I swear I could see him pale from over a hundred feet away.
Walking away, we grinned like schoolboys.
“How is your houseguest?” he asked once the mirth had receded.
“She’s fine, healthy.”
“Intact?”
“Oh, yes.” I hoped my facial expression would expunge any thoughts of us interfering with Renard’s wife. We could both get our fun elsewhere.
“Remember to keep up a dialogue with Elizabeth.”
“I will.”
It wasn’t difficult for a vampire to keep a hostage. I mean, we simply took command of their motor functions. The prisoner needed no bonds, had no urge to attempt escape, and ate and drank when told. To all outside viewers, they were simply houseguests.
Steve, although still not having much experience, kept Jeanne Renard under the strictest control. I had no need to fear any sexual activity between them, Mistress Renard looked very ordinary, one of the plainest women I’d ever seen, and most evenings Steve popped round to Haxtun House on Hamberley Street to gather more information. He seemed to be able to control his feeding; he never exhibited any symptoms of lack, so I never felt the need to remind him.
The news from Haxtun House proved very interesting. Renard remained the sole Spanish Ambassador to London; with Jean Scheyfre’s recall, he had been left with just three assistants. That night, those three were packing their bags.
Steve’s face looked ecstatic. “They’re all leaving; Giacomo Soranzo, de Montmorency, and de Marnix.” He could hardly contain himself. “We did it!”
It seems our plan had succeeded. “Now all we have to do is rid ourselves of Renard, the head fox.”
The next evening, after nightfall, I returned to Elizabeth. This time I entered without passing the guards at the gates. Having already been there on my previous visit in 1501, Lambeth Palace proved much easier than Westminster to navigate; with just one building devoted to accommodation, I found Elizabeth’s room without trouble. A light shone from under the door. I knocked lightly.
“Yes?”
“Richard DeVere,” I said into the angle of door and casement.
I heard the soft padding of her bare feet, then the sound of a latch being lifted. The door opened, and I pushed it gently.
Elizabeth stood, a cape pulled temporarily round her shoulders, a candelabra in one hand, the other hand behind her back.
“You have no need for dagger, Your Grace. May I come in?” I glanced up and down the corridor.
She edged away from the door, and her dagger came into view; a long-handled device. “What brings you?”
“I will call from time to time, Your Grace. I am your ally, and always will be.”
She stood near her bed. “I have never had a man in my room before.”
“Your Grace, the day will come when many will present themselves so.”
She gave a wry smile. “Perhaps. I had a visitor today, but perhaps you know this?”
“The Frenchman doing business for Spain.”
“The same.”
“What did he want?”
“Well, at first, I thought he just wanted to go over details of Queen Mary’s coronation, but he soon strayed from topic. He seemed quite distracted, and hopped from one subject to another with some regularity.” I grinned inwardly, imagining the turmoil we were committing his mind to. “But he did suggest I leave court more than once.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes, it seems funny, he mentioned his wife twice, and directly afterwards, looked at me very strangely, almost as if he expected a reaction from me.”
“Yes, that does sound strange.” I bowed. “I will call again, Your Grace.” And I left, a huge smile on my face. Renard had indeed panicked, striking out in every direction.
It felt wonderful.
With the coronation on the first day in October, just four days away, our focus shifted. Leaving Steve to babysit Mistress Renard, I went through the arrangements at Westminster Abbey, just as I’d done for Arthur and Catherine’s wedding fifty years before. Except for me, it had just been months.
Then on Friday night, Fakenham, on a rare trip outside of the Tower, caught my eye, and I wandered over. “Get yourself to the Tower. Report to the Master of Arms.” I gave him a questioning look, but he waved me away, and snapped, “Go!” before I could argue.
I crossed the threshold of the Tower gate and got directed to the northern courtyard. About ten young men milled around outside the chapel, not quite talking, but many looked excited, and some apprehensive. The chapel of Saint Peter had been rebuilt by King Henry, just a few years ago, and looked by far the newest of the whole building, the stone still shining tan, not having been weathered by the centuries.
I approached the group. “Why are we gathered here?” I asked the nearest man, a young servant I’d seen in Mary’s quarters more than once.
“We are not allowed to discuss it,” he said, partly turning away, partly looking around, to see if he’d been seen.
Just then, the Master of Arms in full dress uniform arrived with three serving wenches, a sight not often seen in the Tower. Each carried a tray of silver goblets.
“Gentlemen!” the Master of Arms called us all to attention, is if we weren’t paying attention. “Tomorrow is the eve of the coronation of Queen Mary the first. God save the Queen!”
And we all echoed his chant.
“When I call your name, you will answer: ‘Here and present, Master at Arms.’” Then he unrolled a scroll, and read from it.
“Thomas Blakeny, William Schofield, Robert Rochester,…”
As each man’s name got read aloud, the reply of acknowledgement sounded.
“…Richard DeVere,…”
Although not exactly expecting my name for some reason, I got the response out smartish. “Here and present, Master at Arms!”
My name had been called, and I felt conscious my face also now held that look of expectation shared by my companions.
“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.