The Queen's Viper Read online

  After two months of further questioning, Queen Mary had sent her politically cataclysmic half-sister from the Towyr to Woodstock, far from Court and the public eye. True to her word, Viper accompanied Elizabeth. When they arrived in the late spring, Viper bemoaned the derelict palace. Queen Mary showed no intention of repairing the virtually inhabitable building. Instead, the queen had ordered Elizabeth to reside in the Gate House, an old servants' residence within a short walk from Woodstock’s main crumbling shell. The Gate House was a dilapidated prison for a discarded princess.

  Elizabeth’s spirit dampened with the heavy spring rains. She had been denied her ladies to brighten her spirits. As such, Viper found that she played nursemaid to Elizabeth’s increasingly frequent depressive episodes. The immortal feared that melancholy would take her queen-in-waiting before she could put Elizabeth on the throne of England and find the amulet whose location eluded them at the Towyr.

  Every insult perceived by Elizabeth became an ear-piercing feud between her and Bedingfield. Viper longed for the day when Bedingfield would trust Elizabeth enough to let her take her brisk walks in the ratty field without a small army at her heels. At the very least, that day would be quieter.

  A stag crunched through the underbrush near Viper. The animal regarded her without flinching. She thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in the beast’s eyes. His ear flicked to the left at the same time that Viper heard men approaching the treeline from deeper within the forest. She cast her glamour of invisibility around herself before they saw her.

  “Behold that beast!” whispered one man in the group of three. “He must be twelve hands high.” By the simplicity of their clothing, at least two were peasants. Viper recognized Archibald by his azure blue doublet, the uniform of Bedingfield’s retainers. He often accompanied the cofferer, Thomas Parry, to the village to procure supplies.

  “Keep your arrows for Bedingfield and his men,” said Archibald.

  The third man waggled his stumps at the first man who spoke. “Mark me fingers well, Nicholas. The queen does not take kindly to poachers on her land, e’en if her royal visits hath declined over these many years.”

  Archibald weighed in his opinion. “Gryffyth speaks the right of it. My arrows hunger more for Catholic meat than royal venison.”

  “Catholic or Protestant, it matters not to me,” Gryffyth said with a barking laugh so loud it scared off the stag.

  “God’s blood, Arch, only you could find a man to stand with you who hath no loyalty, save to himself,” said Nicholas.

  “I hath a loyalty to the fingers the queen’s men chopped off, and I mean to strike back at her. If putting Archibald’s Protestant princess on the throne doth give Queen Mary grievous insult, then I am a man upon whom you can count.” Gryffyth slashed at the air, a sword strapped to his hand and forearm with leather fastenings. “The queen’s punishment hath seen fit that I shall not draw my bow as long as I live. By the Heavens, I swear that I shall sink my blade true.”

  “Remove your bindings for now, my friend, lest you cut off your manhood when you piss.” Archibald patted him on the shoulder.

  “Patience,” Nicholas said. “We cannot o’erthrow Bedingfield alone. They number one hundred to our three. Soon, my brother and his compatriots shall join us. When night a-comes, we will surprise Bedingfield and his men by our stealth, and keep the odds in our favour.”

  Viper, unseen by the conspirators, listened to Nicholas detail his plan to free Elizabeth. Her mind raced. Their actions could start a civil war. The immortal had witnessed the commoners’ love for the Protestant princess. Humaines knelt in prayer, offered gifts of sweetened breads and flowers, and cheered for Elizabeth as she travelled through the countryside from the Towyr to Woodstock. Elizabeth’s aeir bolstered the life-magic of those in her proximity. Viper had no doubt that she made the right decision to protected Elizabeth until the young woman could claim her throne.

  Nicholas posed a significant obstacle. If he instigated an attack against Bedingfield, a man loyal to the Crown, Elizabeth would be blamed. The queen would lock Elizabeth in the Towyr again. This time, however, Queen Mary might chop off her sister’s head. Viper would lose the one humaine who both improved the aeir of Viper’s prey, and who could help find the mysterious amulet that awoke distant memories.

  The thought of meeting failure before her new future had begun infuriated Viper. She had to stop these men. Viper moved closer so slowly, her muscles burned. The growing ache in her body told her that she needed to feed from at least one of these humaines. An insidious desire that she hadn’t felt before demanded that she kill all three.

  Nicholas strode unknowingly towards Viper. “Rest yourselves here. I am going to shake the dew off the Lily.”

  The predatory immortal followed Nicholas behind a large oak while the men turned away. Viper stalked him from a short distance, calculating the best moment to strike. He unfastened his sword belt and laid his weapon on the side of the tree.

  The buck Viper had seen previously bounded past with the rest of the small herd. The animals provided a convenient distraction, their noise loud enough to muffle Viper’s assault. She slammed Nicholas into the tree trunk, catching him off balance. The impact knocked the wind out of him. His sword clattered to the ground. She jumped into the tree with him under her arm, hand clamped over his mouth.

  Viper braced herself on a branch and wrapped her legs around Nicholas’ lower limbs. She pinned his torso to hers until his ragged breathing slowed and his body went limp. The humaines below were none the wiser about their unconscious leader. Viper cradled Nicholas in her arms, a picture of lethal serenity as she drained his aeir.

  After several minutes, his conspirators noticed his absence. “Hath you not finished watering the trees?” Gryffyth said over his shoulder, a smirk on his face.

  The forest, alone, answered his ribald jest. Gryffyth traced Nicholas’ path until he stepped on the man’s sword. “The beggarly scoundrel!”

  Archibald caught up with him. “What ails you?”

  “We hath been hoodwinked!” Gryffyth showed Archibald the apparently abandoned sword. “I warrant that he left us to bring the guards herein. Mayhap he wants to take your place as Bedingfield’s livery man.”

  “Though I be a true Protestant, I would not like to meet my end in an unfair fight,” Archibald said, arms crossed to make his point.

  “Nor I, least of which by the deception of a coward. I shall make my retribution against the queen some other way. Come, let us make haste to the village. We shall not stay here and be set upon like penned geese.”

  Had either man peered into the tree, they would have seen the Daoine Tor draining Nicholas. His aeir flowed into Viper through the elldyr creft wrapped around his body. She heard the men speaking, and the sounds of their retreat, however, she was so enraptured as she engorged herself, that she paid little attention. By the time she finished, Gryffyth and Archibald were far enough away, that they couldn’t hear her dump Nicholas’ corpse on the ground.

  Viper landed soundlessly on the underbrush, seeking out the other mortals. She caught fragmentary glimpses of their aeir through the trees. A shadowy longing stirred beyond the reach of Viper’s conscious thought as she focused on Archibald. He carried two swords now, his and Nicholas’.

  She examined her options carefully. Although Viper was unskilled in hand-to-hand combat, she believed she would defeat the two men and their three weapons. However, if she killed Archibald, then it might arouse suspicion among the servants at the Gate House. Humaines were accustomed to the frequent death of peasants, for they often had poorer health. Indentured servants, such as Archibald, lived longer lives than the poor who etched out a living in the fields. Therefore, if Bedingfield’s servant Nicholas went missing, the Nobleman might be wary of a political coup d’état (not suspecting his own man of treason). Bedingfield would further curtail Elizabeth’s meager freedom.

  The immortal repressed the newer, corrupted hunger, unsatisfied by her feeding
upon Nicholas. She slung his body over her shoulder and headed away from both his companions, and the Gate House. She would leave his body far enough away from Woodstock that if anyone came upon his rotting corpse, they wouldn’t be able to connect his death, or his plot, with Elizabeth.

  The night sky blanketed the stone Gate House by the time the Daoine Tor sought out her queen-in-waiting. Viper heard Elizabeth’s shrill tantrum well before the immortal entered, unseen, into the building through the small kitchen. The door to Elizabeth’s room at the top of the worn flagstone steps stood ajar, flanked by two guards. Bedingfield hindered Viper’s view of the wide, Irish oak beams that supported the indigo blue ceiling. Viper stood behind him, her enchantment keeping her invisible to the men, and peered over his shoulder at Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth had her hands on her hips. “My good Sir,” she said, her voice stouter than the Lord who crowded her doorway, “I demand of thee a quill and paper! I cannot abide by this isolation any longer.”

  “Your Highness, I hath been charged to keep you safe from interference.”

  “Thou hast authority over my every movement. Were I any more secure, I would be a jewel locked in a box.” Elizabeth threw her hands into the air. In four strides she moved to the opposite side of the narrow room, rubbing her knuckles against her temple.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” Bedingfield began, moving closer, “you are a ward of Her Majesty and I mean to keep you safe.” Viper slipped passed him and observed the interchange from a corner of the room with swirling eyes, and claws ready to defend Elizabeth, if needed.

  “A ward? Thy head is full of bombast. No, Sir, I am kept here a prisoner and refused any form of appeal.”

  “A princess who is not a prisoner need not write for appeal.”

  “And what of the daughter of a king who is kept a pauper? I hath not my Ladies to attend me, nor any luxuries of comfort befitting royalty. E’en when my father did not want me at Court, I was not treated so shamefully. I hath not e’en the freedom to choose my own books to read.” Elizabeth’s tone morphed into one of despair. She kept her back to him and gripped her small writing desk, its surface bare, save for her psalter. “Oh, would that my sister, to whom I owe my life, could see my troubled state. The guilty are loose and the innocent enclosed.” Elizabeth’s violently fluctuating aeir proved to Viper that the humaine’s melancholic state was not a pretense to gain Bedingfield’s empathy.

  “I serve my queen as she hath commanded,” Bedingfield replied. His decision hadn’t changed, but his eyes softened. The man’s inner turmoil made his crimson aeir hang heavy over his heart.

  Elizabeth faced him after a long pause. Her face bore the disposition of a queen.

  “Go to thy men, Sir, and take thy haggardly conscience with thee. I can no longer abide thy sycophancy.”

  Bedingfield was unable to challenge the princess’ demand. He bowed curtly and walked backwards out of the door.

  As he pulled it shut, he paused. “Your Highness, mayhap you would like the cook to send up some honey tarts after evening Mass? You supped little today.”

  Elizabeth retreated to her shuttered window and stared out in silence. Her aeir trembled with fury. When she didn’t answer, Bedingfield shrugged his shoulders and sealed the room.

  The princess howled in frustration and threw her psalter at the door. The book sailed at Viper’s head, unbeknownst to Elizabeth. Viper caught it before it collided with her.

  “Careful, my queen-in-waiting,” Viper said, her voice low. “Thou art in possession of too few books to read.” The psalter floated in front of Elizabeth. Viper materialized, book in hand.

  Elizabeth snatched her psalter from Viper. “Where hast thou been?” she hissed, eyes narrowed.

  “I hunted in the countryside,” Viper lied. She had given careful thought as to whether or not she would reveal her escapade in the forest to Elizabeth. If she remained ignorant of what Viper did in the forest, Elizabeth could not be made to confess. Nor could she scold Viper for her decision to kill Nicholas instead of letting him enact his plan. “The longer we stay here, the farther afield I must search for sustenance. What rumours would thy captors sprout if Bedingfield’s men died by my hands?”

  “They would not know.”

  “Thy mother was accused of witchcraft. If untimely death follows thee because I feed upon the humaines in thy home, so will thy name be accursed.”

  “Home? This is no home!” Elizabeth sank onto the edge of the single bed. “Did you not hear my gaoler? He hath no intention of letting me beg of my sister to improve Woodstock. I am a princess sequestered in these servants’ quarters, a building so small that the household staff must live in the village.” The psalter dropped onto the bare floor with a soft thud. “I should hath known this would be my end. Women are never more evil than when they are under threat by another woman. Edward never treated me this way.”

  “Strange that thou art bitter-hearted about Mary, with whom thou hath grown up, yet so forgiving of the half-brother whom your father favoured.”

  “I mourn the boy Edward was, and the king he could have been.” Elizabeth’s face tightened, as it always did when she spoke of her family. “My father brought Edward to Hatfield Place when I was young. The boy was most phlegmatic. Father thought the country gardens of Hatfield, not the air of London, would remedy Edward. Though he loved me and tolerated Mary, I know that Father saw his past, and his future, in his son. One afternoon, when Edward was much mended, Father and his retinue went a-hunting in the forest. I was allowed to entertain the boy-prince.”

  Elizabeth smiled wickedly. “Father preferred that our Catholic half-sister be kept away from the future King of England. Edward fell as he played. I brought him to the fountain and did bathe his little hands. ‘A prince’s hands must to his subjects stay clean,’ said I unto him. He found the water so amusing, that he threw himself into the pool with merry abandon. Then, he stopped, bowed to me and asked, ‘Can water drown a good prince?’ I replied, ‘Only if the prince orders the water to drown him.’ To me, Edward was ever that freckled boy splashing in the fountain, commanding the water out of the basin, and holding Court with the fish.” Elizabeth paused, the smallest sob caught in her throat. “When Edward took ill with consumption, I wanted to be by his side. Such an act of love could mean my death. I was, by my mother’s unfortunate life, well-schooled in Court politics. Edward was a king who might die, and were I at Court upon his death, ’twould seem that I coveted his crown. Hence, I kept away. Turmoil at Court severs royal heads, and I am much attached to mine. I did not see my brother afore a most atypical pox claimed his life.” Elizabeth’s heavy sigh stirred the strands of her auburn hair. “How I wish he had not died.”

  Viper touched her finger to her lips. When she pulled away, flames of purple elldyr creft drifted from the tip. She opened the shutters and traced her nail across the diamond-shaped glass set into the lead frame. The immortal etched words into the pane:

  Much suspected by me,

  Nothing proved can be.

  “Commit this mantra to memory, Elizabeth. Speak and act with no other intent. For if you show any allusion of harm towards thy sister, thy life is forfeit.”

  9: Clare

  Berkshire, west of London.

  June 4, 2012: early morning.

  The morning sun rose into cloud-smeared skies; unsettled weather for Viper’s unsettled mood. London had devoured the medieval countryside. Landmarks and buildings Viper knew had been entombed in concrete. The scabs of modern humanity crusted over the city that once had been her home. Journeying westwards out of this modern monstrosity didn’t improve Viper’s spirits. The eastbound M4 motorway fed London its daily meal of steel and glass, stuffed with morsels of human. Drivers and passengers carried on in both directions, mindlessly following their daily routines. They couldn’t see Viper standing on the rear seats of a cherry-red convertible with a silver jaguar figurehead projecting from its front. If they had, they would marvel at the magic that allowed her to stay
upright in the speeding vehicle.

  Ivy raced towards the village of Sunninghill, weaving skillfully between cars. Owain occupied the front passenger seat, wearing a coordinated tweed jacket and dark trousers, markedly different to the garish mash of colours he wore previously. Graeme and Dhillon tailed them in a kelly green vehicle that the Scotsman called a “classic 4 seater.” Dhillon explained major changes in England’s countryside as they drove, his voice piped into the convertible by a two-way radio mounted on the dash.

  Ivy leaned left as she negotiated the curve for the Egham by-pass. Viper adjusted her footing to compensate for the sharp driving angle with ease.

  “Mr. Henry-”

  “Owain, please,” Mouse interrupted. He worked on a device he’d called a computer tablet, fingers tapping the screen. When Mouse spoke with his staff, he remained the assertive Owain Henry, though informal now. The letterhead on his screen read, Dr. Douglas Thorton, Chief Psychiatrist, Longwood House for Girls.

  Ivy cleared her throat and started again. “Owain, I still don’t see why your,” she paused with a glimpse in the mirror at Viper, “companion can’t ride properly.”

  Viper laughed inwardly. To taunt the woman, Viper thumped the side of Ivy's chair as if regaining her footing. She enjoyed the leathery creak of her newly acquired burgundy-red Doc Martens boots.

  During the night, the immortal’s exploration of London brought her to Camden Market. The open countryside of Elizabethan Camden had been buried under human progress. Instead of a solitary inn named The Mother’s Halfway House, Viper found several roads, row houses, shops, and the crammed together stalls of Camden Market.

  Here, Viper encountered a man in stale, urine-soaked clothes outside a shop named Revival Survival with hand-written signs in the window that read, “The Best Gothic & Victorian Styled Clothes.” His skin bore the acute jaundice of liver failure. She watch him pry open the door with a crowbar. The hefty physical effort ruptured the bulging varices in his esophagus, and he vomited copious amounts of blood. His aeir almost extinguished before the Daoine Tor absorbed his precious energy. When she finished, she draped his body with the Union Jack flag and entered the store, completely naked. Viper browsed through the eclectic clothes that hearkened to the eras of human life she had missed. Each item made her simultaneously curious and sad.