me with Robin in the front, shielding me from scrutiny. I peer round them as best I can.
The barkeep is big, large-bellied, and ruddy-skinned with ano-nonsense air befitting his trade. He wipes his hands on his leather apron and nods in our direction.
“You’ll be wanting the White Hart, three doors up, sirs. Fair custom there for you and the lady.”
Without so much as a blink of the eye, Walsingham shoots out a hand, grasps the man by the throat, and in a perfectly pleasant tone says, “We’ll be wanting your back room. You’ve no problem with that, have you?”
The barkeep outweighs Walsingham by several stone and tops him by half a foot. In a contest between them, the outcome should be a foregone conclusion. Moreover, we have an attentive audience. Patrons shift in their seats as one or two appear to consider involving themselves. Robin is about to intercede when I put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
I have seen the look in Walsingham’s eyes, as has the bar-keep. Cecil’s new man may appear to be a mild, thoughtful sort, but he possesses the temperament of a true fanatic—cold, implacable, and utterly without conscience. Ordinarily, I distrust such men, but I can make an exception when they are deployed in my service.
The barkeep having managed a strangled assent, Walsingham releases him, nods cordially, and leads the way toward the back. What interest we have managed to arouse evaporates like water on a hot stone. At first, we appear to be approaching a solid brick wall. Only as we near it do I see the dark curtain covering the entrance to a private room. We step through to discover far more gracious surroundings—polished tables set with comfortable, high-backed chairs such as would not be amiss in my own chambers, fresh rushes on the floor, the warm glow of beeswax candles, and—most startling of all—several alcoves containing low platforms heaped with pillows that to my eye appear garishly foreign.
“Keep your hood up,” Robin murmurs, and I see why. Several of the faces I glimpse are at least vaguely familiar. It takes me a moment to realize that members of my own court are present, as are several wealthy merchants also known to me and one or two foreign ambassadors.
Robin turns up the collar of his cape, mindful that he, too, may be recognized. Dee and Walsingham have no such concern. The latter being newly returned to my realm, he has no need of circumspection. As for Dee, no one would account it in the least strange that he appears in odd surroundings or amid dubious company.
We arrange ourselves around a table. A boy dressed entirely in black, his face schooled to blankness, approaches and inquires as to what we will have. The men order but I am distracted, watching the other occupants of the room. I can pretend no familiarity with what goes on in taverns, but in the revelry of the court there is always good cheer, whether real or manufactured. I am not accustomed to the quiet pervading this room or the strange placidity of its occupants. Surely they should be playing cards, gambling, groping barmaids, or some such? Instead they sit or lie stretched out on the pillowed platforms as though lost in dreams. I am bewildered.
The boy returns bearing a carafe of Rhenish wine, several tankards of ale, a serving of sausages, and something I have never seen before, a small, crystal vial set alone on a pewter plate. Walsingham pays, startling me with the amount of coin that changes hands. I do not pretend to know the price of everything, but I have a decent enough sense of how to run a household to realize that the outlay is extravagant.
“Why so dear?” I ask, hoping he will infer that I do not reimburse unnecessary expenses.
He gestures at the little vial. “Do you know what that is, Majesty?”
When I reluctantly confess that I do not, he explains, “It is the most prized creation of the alchemist Paracelsus, a tincture of milk of poppy combined with alcohol and various other substances,
The barkeep is big, large-bellied, and ruddy-skinned with ano-nonsense air befitting his trade. He wipes his hands on his leather apron and nods in our direction.
“You’ll be wanting the White Hart, three doors up, sirs. Fair custom there for you and the lady.”
Without so much as a blink of the eye, Walsingham shoots out a hand, grasps the man by the throat, and in a perfectly pleasant tone says, “We’ll be wanting your back room. You’ve no problem with that, have you?”
The barkeep outweighs Walsingham by several stone and tops him by half a foot. In a contest between them, the outcome should be a foregone conclusion. Moreover, we have an attentive audience. Patrons shift in their seats as one or two appear to consider involving themselves. Robin is about to intercede when I put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
I have seen the look in Walsingham’s eyes, as has the bar-keep. Cecil’s new man may appear to be a mild, thoughtful sort, but he possesses the temperament of a true fanatic—cold, implacable, and utterly without conscience. Ordinarily, I distrust such men, but I can make an exception when they are deployed in my service.
The barkeep having managed a strangled assent, Walsingham releases him, nods cordially, and leads the way toward the back. What interest we have managed to arouse evaporates like water on a hot stone. At first, we appear to be approaching a solid brick wall. Only as we near it do I see the dark curtain covering the entrance to a private room. We step through to discover far more gracious surroundings—polished tables set with comfortable, high-backed chairs such as would not be amiss in my own chambers, fresh rushes on the floor, the warm glow of beeswax candles, and—most startling of all—several alcoves containing low platforms heaped with pillows that to my eye appear garishly foreign.
“Keep your hood up,” Robin murmurs, and I see why. Several of the faces I glimpse are at least vaguely familiar. It takes me a moment to realize that members of my own court are present, as are several wealthy merchants also known to me and one or two foreign ambassadors.
Robin turns up the collar of his cape, mindful that he, too, may be recognized. Dee and Walsingham have no such concern. The latter being newly returned to my realm, he has no need of circumspection. As for Dee, no one would account it in the least strange that he appears in odd surroundings or amid dubious company.
We arrange ourselves around a table. A boy dressed entirely in black, his face schooled to blankness, approaches and inquires as to what we will have. The men order but I am distracted, watching the other occupants of the room. I can pretend no familiarity with what goes on in taverns, but in the revelry of the court there is always good cheer, whether real or manufactured. I am not accustomed to the quiet pervading this room or the strange placidity of its occupants. Surely they should be playing cards, gambling, groping barmaids, or some such? Instead they sit or lie stretched out on the pillowed platforms as though lost in dreams. I am bewildered.
The boy returns bearing a carafe of Rhenish wine, several tankards of ale, a serving of sausages, and something I have never seen before, a small, crystal vial set alone on a pewter plate. Walsingham pays, startling me with the amount of coin that changes hands. I do not pretend to know the price of everything, but I have a decent enough sense of how to run a household to realize that the outlay is extravagant.
“Why so dear?” I ask, hoping he will infer that I do not reimburse unnecessary expenses.
He gestures at the little vial. “Do you know what that is, Majesty?”
When I reluctantly confess that I do not, he explains, “It is the most prized creation of the alchemist Paracelsus, a tincture of milk of poppy combined with alcohol and various other substances,
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