The Blue Enigma - An Elizabethan Spycraft Novella: The Red And The Gold, #7

By Duke Pierce Reade

Lizzy and her young protege Lovelace must face the intrigues of espionage while navigating a dismissive, male-dominated Council to save the Queen - and Shakespeare!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duke Pierce Reade
• Release date: Nov 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393811718

Duke Pierce Reade

Duke Reade Pierce is an historian, futurist, researcher and writer living and working in a small office high above the street in Chicago where the clamor within those canyons of steel and glass are both an irritant and inspiration, and the sunsets are spectacular.

Book preview

Episode 1

1573

THIS WAS NOT THE FORMAL dance.  In fact, it was only one of many held that week.  Dancing was something Elizabeth loved and Her Majesty’s 40th Birthday Week was filled with them.  Held in one of the smaller ballrooms of Hampton Palace, this particular affair was The Queen’s Country Dance, and plain brown and soot gray dresses were the specified attire.  A tricky task for Ladies of Court, and a race for the bottom as it were, for no one wanted to come dressed nicer than the Queen.

One rather garish looking maiden stood out from the crowd.  With absurdly appointed blue green eye paint, a lavender wig, a dress made from indigo rags, and an irritatingly shrill voice, it seemed to the guests that this was part of the entertainment.  Queen Elizabeth, however, spying closely on her guests as she danced, wondered from whence this creature came.

The courtiers and courtesans enjoyed the festivities more for the networking opportunities than for the exuberant exercise of it all.  But of course few were as fit and athletic as the Queen herself, save a handful of her Ladies in Waiting who would do ten lively Galliards together with the Queen in their undergarments every morning to invigorate the body, as Elizabeth was fond of saying.  As the music paused, Elizabeth exited the dance floor with Brockett in tow, he all flushed and winded, she not.  Reade was waiting eagerly for the next round and his turn on the floor with his childhood pal Bess, who now happened to be Queen of England.

Another ‘Jenny Pick Your Posey’ dance, said a smiling Thomas Reade as he reached out for the Queen’s hand.  Brockett grinned at his lifelong friend as he held the Queen’s hand just a bit longer, teasing that he would not let her go easily.

Even the Queen must take pause, dear Tommy, said a flirtatious Elizabeth as she playfully slapped at Brockett’s grip.  Thomas glanced across the room at young Mistress Stonehouse whom he had put off for several dances in his wait for Bess for a Galliard or two.  The Queen noticed and made a gesture toward the doe-eyed brunette who looked desperate and afraid all at once, urging her to wait patiently.

How will it look, Your Grace?  She waits on me still, said Reade who, being a well-practiced bachelor, was unskilled in his interactions with the fair beauty who had fallen for him.

Ahh, ha-ha, you’ll get no pity from me, Tommy, said Elizabeth.  I can see she loves you and would wait until the end of time.  It is you who grows impatient to touch me, is it not?

His face reddened with embarrassment at such a suggestion, true as it were.  As he again looked across the room an upstart Squire took Mistress Stonehouse by the hand and flung her out to the dance floor, her eyes begging rescue by Reade.  He was in a quandary, no doubt.

Couples danced a swift trot as Brockett and Reade continued to talk with their Queen.  The mood of the day was joyful, another get-together of celebrities, yet it was an odd sight.  The nobles in garments of yeomen, peasants and milk maids, and the staff still dressed in their formal attire, an irony not lost on Brockett.  It is all so topsy-turvy, he thought.

A very large man entered the room.  Brockett eyed him warily as he made his way along the perimeter of the dance hall and in their direction.  His head was the size of a wine keg and it towered a full arm’s length over the tallest tattered hat and puffiest hairdo.

Perhaps they should move, suggested Brockett.  Perhaps they should now dance, suggested Reade.  But it was too late; the giant man was upon them.  The Queen’s Guard began filing through the rear door, quietly, preparing to intervene.

My Queen, Your Gra...Majes...Your Majesty, began the giant as guests all around stopped to watch and listen.  Both Brockett and Reade stepped between the Queen and this mountain of a man, and her Guard steadily approached from the rear.  But she knew who he was and tenderly cautioned the others to allow him way.

Your Majesty, I have c-c-come here to...day for...to...I have come here to-day, he stammered, unsure of his memorized lines, his nerves belying his outward appearance.

Please, good friend, said Elizabeth with as kind a voice she could gather as she looked up at him, Do continue in your own way and time.  Some in the crowd stirred and murmured but were quickly reproached by a cold glance from the Queen.

I am Edmund Cornewall of Burford Castle, my Queen, and I have wr-ritten a poem for...on the occasion of your birthday, said he, and then paused a long time before reaching into his vestment and retrieving a paper with the verse written upon it.  He read it aloud.

The rolling hills of Shropshire,

So beautiful and strong.

The flight of gold winged goshawks,

O’er the blue skies of Berkshire.

The beauty of a winter frost

‘Cross the treetops of Kent.

The majesty of Dover

Her face so virgin pure.

All of these, and more,

My Queen doth outshine

And rule so fair and just.

May she do so for all time.

So lovely, my Gentle Giant of Salop, said the Queen as she touched his sleeve and all the courtiers and courtesans took their cue to applaud the sonnet.  You are titled the Baron of Burford, are you not, Lord Cornewall? she asked.

Some call me ‘The Stout Baron’, Your Grace.  My father was the 9th Baron of Burford, he said with a bow that took his face closer to the Queen’s own, yet still she looked up at him.  It had been obvious to his father that Edmund should study the military arts when at age ten the boy was a full foot taller than his father, although this was not so obvious to Edmund himself.  Even as a boy he preferred music and poetry, becoming an accomplished musician in his own right.  He even had stringed instruments custom made to fit his enormous hands.

Well then, she said loudly enough for all the nobles to hear, You are recognized by your Queen as the 10th Baron of Burford, good Lord Cornewall."  This was a necessary formality, she realized, as the title had been issued in tenure by none other than King John to Lord Wigmore Sir Hugh Mortimer, whose grandson Sir Knight Richard Cornewall inherited the title, and recognition of the tenure was required with each issuance thereafter.  The Queen had studied her family history in depth and knew he was due.

Ahh, Walsingham.  You must meet these old acquaintances of ours, said Elizabeth to a short and wiry man who approached.  He wore all black, plain to be sure, but quite possibly his normal daily attire rather than the costume of a yeoman or peasant for the occasion.

Brockett and Reade, I presume, said Walsingham as he reached out a hand to each.

So you know them, said the Queen.

Only by reputation, and I surmised who was whom by observation, he replied.

And what, pray tell, gave you the impression I was Brockett? asked Reade in an attempt to trip the stranger up.

It was quite simple.  I realized that Brockett, being a merchant marine as it were, would be far more conditioned by the sun, good Monsieur Reade, said Walsingham, indicating he was not fooled in the least by Reade’s attempted deception.  You, sir, are pale in comparison, he added, bringing a very slight smile to Brockett’s face.

Our friends John Brockett of New Brockett Hall and Thomas Reade of Barton Hall, this is Francis Walsingham, our new Secretary, said the Queen formally.

The three men respectfully bowed to one another as she added, Walsingham will attend to the safety of our person and the integrity of the Church of England.  We wish you to closely acquaint yourselves.

The Baron awkwardly shifted his weight onto his walking cane, which itself reach the height of Walsingham’s whiskers.  He was unsure whether he had been given leave to retreat from the Queen’s presence, whether he was meant to overhear such rapport, or what to do at all.  Sensing his unease, Brockett turned to him and posed a question.

Tell us, good Baron Cornewall, is it true that Burford Castle is full of secret passageways and hidden rooms, as I have heard?  This was a clever way to probe into the current Cornewall loyalties to Rome, as they had in the past been devote Papist and proud of their heritage as crusaders.