“But that would mean—”
“The end of our world,” Gerbert finished.
London: The Blackfriars
Chapter Thirty Four
"You failed me!"
A red damask shoe sailed through the air. Matthew tilted his head just before it struck. The shoe continued past his ear, knocked a bejeweled armillary sphere off the table, and came to rest on the floor. The interlocking rings of the sphere spun around in their fixed orbits in impotent frustration.
“I wanted Kelley, you fool. Instead I got the emperor’s ambassador, who told me of your many indiscretions. When he demanded to see me, it was not yet eight o’clock and the sun had barely risen.” Elizabeth Tudor was suffering from a toothache, which didn’t improve her disposition. She sucked in one cheek to cushion the infected molar and grimaced. “And where were you? Creeping back into my presence with no concern for my suffering.”
A blue-eyed beauty stepped forward and handed Her Majesty a cloth saturated with clove oil. With Matthew seething next to me, the spiciness in the room was already overpowering. Elizabeth placed the cloth delicately between her cheek and gums, and the woman stepped away, her green gown swishing around her ankles. It was an optimistic hue for this cloudy day in May, as if she hoped to speed summer’s arrival. The fourthfloor tower room in Greenwich Palace afforded a sweeping view of the gray river, muddy ground, and England’s stormy skies. In spite of the many windows, the silvery morning light did little to dispel heaviness of the room, which was resolutely masculine and early Tudor in its furnishings. The carved initials on the ceiling—an intertwined H and A for Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn—indicated that the room had been decorated around the time of Elizabeth’s birth and seldom used since.
“Perhaps we should hear Master Roydon out before you throw the inkwell,” William Cecil suggested mildly. Elizabeth’s arm stopped, but she didn’t put down the weighty metal object.
“We do have news of Kelley,” I began, hoping to help. “We did not seek your opinion, Mistress Roydon,” the queen of England said sharply. “Like too many women at my court, you are utterly without governance or decorum. If you wish to remain at Greenwich with your husband rather than being sent back to Woodstock where you belong, you would be wise to take Mistress Throckmorton as your model. She does not speak unless directed to do so.”
Mistress Throckmorton glanced at Walter, who was standing next to Matthew. We had met him on the back stairs to the queen’s private chambers, and though Matthew dismissed it as unnecessary, Walter had insisted on accompanying us into the lion’s den.
Bess’s lips compressed as she held back her amusement, but her eyes danced. The fact that the queen’s attractive young ward and her dashing, saturnine pirate were intimate was apparent to everyone save Elizabeth. Cupid had managed to ensnare Sir Walter Raleigh, just as Matthew promised. The man was utterly besotted.
Walter’s mouth softened at his lover’s challenging stare, and the frank appraisal he gave her in return promised that the subject of her decorum would be addressed in a more private venue.
“As you do not require Diana’s presence, perhaps you will let my wife go home and take her rest as I requested,” Matthew said evenly, though his eyes were as black and angry as the queen’s. “She has been traveling for some weeks.” The royal barge had intercepted us before we’d even set foot at the Blackfriars.
“Rest! I have had nothing but sleepless nights since hearing of your adventures in Prague. She will rest when I am through with you!” Elizabeth shrieked, the inkwell following in the path of the royal footwear. When it veered toward me like a late-breaking curveball, Matthew reached out and caught it. Wordlessly he passed it to Raleigh, who tossed it to the groom already in possession of the queen’s shoe.
“Master Roydon would be far more difficult to replace than that astronomical toy, Majesty.” Cecil held out an embroidered cushion. “Perhaps you would consider this if you are in need of further ammunition.”
“Do not think to direct me, Lord Burghley!” the queen fumed. She turned with fury on Matthew. “Sebastian St. Clair did not treat my father thus. He would not have dared to provoke the Tudor lion.”
Bess Throckmorton blinked at the unfamiliar name. Her golden head turned from Walter to the queen like a spring daffodil seeking out the sun. Cecil coughed gently at the young woman’s evident confusion.
“Let us reminisce about your blessed father at some other time, when we can devote proper attention to his memory. Did you not have questions for Master Roydon?” The queen’s secretary looked at Matthew apologetically. Which devil would you prefer? his expression seemed to say.