Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis

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      Hurriedly, the two strangers were escorted into the palace of Hampton Court where their anxious guide introduced himself as Sir William Cecil, trusted adviser to the Queen. Hastening through the straw-strewn corridors, he rapidly acquainted them with the distressing news.

      “Eight days,” he announced, herding them past more guards and up a flight of steps. “Eight days She has lain abed. There is naught Her own physicians can do.”

      Their faces still muffled and hidden, the visitors listened but made no reply.

      “The German doctor, Burcot,” Cecil continued. “He claimed smallpox, but there are no eruptions. She called him a fool and had the impudent fellow thrown out. Yet now a fever has Her and all are sorely afraid. I almost summoned that knave to return till I was minded of you.”

      Briskly they passed through room after room, where grave-faced courtiers waited and watched, but Sir William and his mysterious guests swept by without acknowledgement.

      “Even now the crows are gathering,” the lord muttered.

      In a grandly furnished bedchamber they halted. There, before a guarded doorway, Lord Cecil turned his grim, grey eyes to the tall newcomers.

      “Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “into your care I entrust the hopes of Her subjects. For if you falter, then England will be flung into chaos and war. Above all else, do not fail Her.”

      With that, he motioned the guards barring the way to stand aside; then, thrusting the door wide, he entered. Behind him the two strangers exchanged a meaningful glance and a violet gleam shone within the deep shadows of their broad-brimmed hats. Into the private bedchamber they stepped.

      The room was smaller than the one they had left, but still richly adorned. Fine tapestries covered the panelled walls and sumptuous velvet drapes surrounded the carved oaken bed. But, although fresh rosemary scattered the floor, the air was thick and sickly. Crowding that place, and screening the figure upon the bed, was a crowd of austere-looking officials, each murmuring in despair-ridden, funereal voices.

      At the sound of Lord Cecil’s entry all heads turned and they stared questioningly at the two figures behind him.

      “Fellow councillors,” Sir William addressed them with a curt nod, “these are learned Masters of Physic, foreign scholars of whose skill I have heard much excellent report. I have asked them hither to see what may be done.”

      “Foreign?” repeated a stern-featured man, stepping closer to appraise them. “From whence?”

      Cecil raised his hand. “Does it signify, My Lord Sussex?” he asked. “They are healers, let that be enough.”

      The other man glared at him. “I will not allow it,” he hissed. “That German knave was rashness enough. Our enemies have many eager servants. Are you mad, Sir William?”

      “Her own physicians are confounded,” Cecil answered, glowering back. “What then? Consider carefully, My Lord, She is without issue and as like to die.”

      Pulling away from him, Sussex returned his hostile gaze to the strangers. “Make yourselves known,” he demanded. “Remove your sodden wrappings that we may see what manner of men …”

      Before he could finish, a snarling voice rang out within the room. Pushing his way from the bedside strode a young man almost as tall as Cecil’s physicians. “Be still!” he cried. “Leave your wrangling outside this place, for I will have none of it here.”

      Gripping the hilt of his sword, the Queen’s favourite, Lord Robert Dudley, cowed Sussex’s remaining protests and bade the visitors welcome.

      “If you truly have wisdom in this matter then I beg you to spare Her,” he said. “Say only what you require and none shall hinder you.”

      Silently, the physicians moved forward, passing between the troubled councillors until they stood at the foot of the oaken bed.

      At last they saw her – a slender woman lying beneath an embroidered coverlet – and their violet eyes glittered brightly.

      In the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and sixty-two, only three years since her coronation, Elizabeth Tudor was dying. She had indeed contracted the smallpox and, although her skin was as yet unblemished by the customary spots, the remainder of her life could be measured in hours. Propped up on the pillows, her oval face was deathly pale and framed by dark rivers of hair, made wet and lank by the sweat which streamed from her high forehead.

      At either side of the bed knelt her two most trusted attendants, Lady Mary Sidney, Lord Robert’s sister, and Katherine Ashley. The women had been praying for their mistress’s immortal soul, but now they looked up at the physicians imploringly.

      “The bloom of health is withered from Her face,” Dudley mourned. “The fires I have known to blaze copper and golden in the strands of Her hair are extinguished. So it is with Her spirit. Tell me truthfully, Masters, are you come too late?”

      Shifting their attention from the stricken figure in the bed, the strangers regarded him steadily.

      Finally they spoke. Through the high, muffling collar of his cloak, the physician at Lord Robert’s side said, in a strong and forceful whisper, “Death possesses every joint of your Sovereign Prince. If we are to aid Her we must proceed at once.”

      The Queen’s favourite stepped back to give them room, but the strangers shook their heads and in one movement raised their gloved hands as a signal for everyone to leave the bedchamber.

      “Permit us to work alone,” came the insistent whisper. “The room must be clear and СКАЧАТЬ