~o~
A chill January morning dawned upon the city of London. The air was bitterly cold, leaving the streets nearly deserted. The city folk kept to the warmth of their homes and ventured outside only by absolute necessity. The edge of the pearly horizon was rapidly flooding with crimson light, declaring that the sun was to rise at any minute.
Lord Walsingham stood in front of a splendid tall mirror that occupied one of the corners in his bedchamber. He was already fully dressed, and all that was left was a matter of arranging his robes. A dark voluminous garment, consisting of several layers of heavy ornate silk, it undoubtedly amplified the striking air of his persona.
Sir Francis smiled lightly as he felt hands running down his shoulders and back, straightening out the folds. Reflected in the mirror, he could see Victoria stand on her tiptoes as to get a better view of his left shoulder. She wore his burgundy dressing gown over her bare body, her long hair flowing loose about her figure. Since her duties required her presence at much later time, she opted to help Walsingham dress before doing so herself.
"I must say, my dear, you wear it well," Sir Francis said as she came around to face him.
Victoria's cheeks flared to match the color of sun rising outside. Coyly, she tried to close the robe around her.
"Come now, my Lady," Walsingham said, his smile widening, "I shall have none of that."
He reached out and parted the robe anew, uncovering much more flesh this time around.
"Why is it that you blush?" he continued, his eyes roaming leisurely over her exposed body. "You are young and quite beautiful. I see no reason to be bashful. Youth is fleeting, my child. Embrace it and make use of the gifts it offers."
"Another lesson, my Lord?" Victoria asked, looking up.
Walsingham gave her another look.
"Yes," he said slowly, "why not?"
She was terribly good at it, learning these new lessons. Three weeks had passed since he had taken Victoria under his wing, and he had not once regretted it. So far, she had proved herself an excellent pupil, picking up quickly on the things that pleased him most.
Walsingham had rarely met such a submissive and patient creature. Being a mistress to His Grace also meant conforming unconditionally to His Grace's habits and appetites, which would prove not an easy task for most. Lady York was to come whenever she was summoned, and to leave without question when dismissed. At times, Walsingham would not call upon her for days, or, when circumstances changed, he would send for her three or four times a day. Even their meetings differed; if he so desired, he could toy with her for hours, or if he chose, it was over in a quarter of an hour, after which he simply fell asleep, without so much as a word to her.
Sir Francis did as he pleased, but also, from a corner of his eye, he noted her demeanor. His craft was based upon the keenest knowledge of human nature and his sharp talent for observation. Having sharpened his skills for countless years, applying them regularly had become his very nature. In Victoria's case, he observed her for mere curiosity's sake. Walsingham watched her carefully for any sign of commonplace female frailties, such as petulance or jealousy, or even things as simple as tetchiness.
So far, though, he had to go without, for as unusual as it was, she had exhibited none. Every time, Victoria would gratefully accept whatever he had in store for her. In no way had she ever uttered even a single word to establish her terms. Therefore, no matter what disposition he was in, Sir Francis always made sure he spared her an affectionate kiss or a fond touch.
"Forgive me, my Lord," Victoria said, "I simply can not help it. From the very childhood, every woman is taught that the nakedness of her body is only hers to see."
"That is most admirable," Walsingham replied, "for a wife of a chaplain. In my bedchamber it will do you no good."
"Is there a remedy that you know of?" Victoria asked, gazing hopefully up at him. It was clear that pleasing him had become a priority over the rules of conventional propriety.
"Yes, I know just the thing," Walsingham said, smiling crookedly his yet another victory over her virtue.
"What would you have me do, my Lord?" Victoria inquired.
"I would have you stand before me," Sir Francis said, stroking her cheek with the back of his palm, "slowly removing each and every garment from your body; I would have you walk or dance before me with not a stitch on your person, and I would have you enjoy every moment of it, with not a tinge of blush upon your cheeks."
He looked into Victoria's eyes. They were open wide in shock.
"All in good time, my girl," he added to ease her worry.
With this, Walsingham slipped his hands underneath the robe and pulled her closer. Moving the robe off her right shoulder, he trailed a row of kisses all the way up to her lips, from time to time nipping slightly at the soft skin. Yes, Victoria still blushed at her nakedness before him, but how she enjoyed whatever attention he chose to lavish upon her! Her lips opened readily as he captured them in a crowning, deep kiss.
Even this simple girl's company required compensation. He administered her payment in the only type of currency he knew her to desire, namely affection. It was but a simple matter for him, for he could stage scenes of divine passion for the sake of even those who he greatly despised, if his duties so required. While his eyes burned with desire, his body primed and ready to awe, his heart and his head remained forever cool, heedful of the goal at hand.
It was even somewhat pleasant for him to splurge his affection upon someone as in need of it as his young mistress. Walsingham knew that his every kiss, gesture, or simple word of praise would not go overlooked. His kindness was the only charity she required, and Sir Francis was never a man to deny a damsel in need. In the end, it all had little meaning, for whatever emotions he let loose on the surface, they never troubled his heart, which was an impregnable stronghold, a keep more guarded than The Tower itself.
"Go," he ordered gently, pulling away from her.
"Will Your Grace require my presence tonight?" Victoria asked. She was still holding onto his hand, showing a very timid, humble unwillingness to let go of him.
Walsingham thought for a minute.
"No, not tonight," he replied. "I have much to be getting on with."
He smiled kindly upon seeing Victoria visibly upset at such turn of events.
"Tomorrow," he told her, "we shall continue with our lessons. I see much improvement in you, yet your sufferance still leaves something to be desired."
"Do you expect it would take much time to overcome?" Victoria asked, already quite at ease with his critical notations.
Walsingham's steely eyes sparked.
"Much, much time indeed," he replied quietly.
With a last kiss that sent quivers down Victoria's spine, he was gone.
~o~O~o~
The sun that rose shortly after brought no warmth. As Walsingham walked through the corridors, the stone walls radiated an icy chill. Roaring fires that were lit in the huge grates of all the big halls of assembly, had barely the strength to warm the rooms themselves, what to speak of the halls that connected them.
Even in such hard times, ladies and gentlemen of the court would not succumb to despair. Taking the frost as an opportunity, they used it to flaunt their new fashions. The gentlemen wore splendid cloaks in order to keep warm; gesturing proudly to the fur that lined them, they boasted their hunting conquests. The ladies gossiped in small groups here and there, hiding their delicate, gem-covered hands in fox or mink stoles.
Among such uplifted moods, the spymaster alone looked out of place. He strode brusquely through the palace, his usual dark robes setting him spectacularly apart from the colorful crowd.
Moths, he thought in disgust, moths, not men. Just like moths that filled the air on midsummer's eve, devoting their short age to frivolous, silly pastimes and flapping their wings all day long, the courtiers cared very little for any problem that was any manner of profound. They neither thought nor cared for what the next day would bring, simply deriving satisfaction from having dressed better than their neighbor or having had more luck in a game of cards. Now, for moths such attitude was quite natural, for no great intelligence could possible fit into their minute heads; yet for men, such squandering of human life was unforgivable.
Shaking his head surreptitiously, Walsingham proceeded towards the Queen's chambers.
~o~O~o~
A daring ray of sunshine that fell on top of the Queen's head, frolicked among the jewels of her headdress. Rubies and emeralds shimmered fiery red and brilliant green atop the Queen's bright-red wig. A magnificent peacock quill, tall enough to tickle the royal cheek, swayed elegantly back and forth as Her Majesty signed her name on yet another document. A stack of six or seven parchments, already initialed, lay on the table.
Forcefully dotting the "E.R." on the parchment, Elizabeth I looked up at her spymaster, who stood patiently by her side, holding one last scroll in his hands.
"Will that be all, Sir Francis?" the Queen asked. The question bore an unmistakable air of contemptuousness, for she could see perfectly well that he was not yet done. She reclined in her seat, propping her head on her arm, looking visibly bored. Her quill, which matched perfectly with the blue sapphire silk of her gown, idly stroked her willowy tender neck.
Walsingham gave her a covertly disapproving look, the sort of look a lazy pupil would get from a disgruntled schoolmaster. Elizabeth was, no doubt, turning into a fine monarch, yet she felt no need to think through every little detail, not thus far. Things she deemed irrelevant quickly lost her attention.
"You are yet to address the concerns," Walsingham said firmly, "regarding Mary of Scotts, Majesty."
Elizabeth looked up, her eyes blazing.
"I have addressed them, sir," she said to him, irritation obvious in her tone, "and I have dismissed them."
"May I express my opinion, Madam?" Walsingham asked carefully.
"Speak," Elizabeth said abruptly, straightening defiantly in her seat.
"I think that perhaps your dismissal of them was premature," Walsingham pointed out brazenly. "In this case, we are not dealing with rumors or hearsay. My information is based on facts alone, and they are, alas, not in our favor. It would be foolish to ignore them."
"Are you calling me a fool, sir?" the Queen asked dangerously, her delicate palms balling into fists upon the gilded armrests of her chair. The quill she still held in her hand, broke in her grip.
"I would not dare to insult my Queen." Walsingham bowed as Elizabeth tossed the quill aside. "However, it is my business to guard Your Majesty against mistakes that can later cost you your throne, or even your life."
Having said that, Walsingham bowed even lower. Without seeing her face, he knew that at this very moment she was staring daggers at him, perhaps deliberating whether the rack or the iron maiden would be more suitable to punish him for his daring. As much as she sometimes detested his frank, unflattering way of dispensing advice, she did appreciate that he alone spoke his mind, without adding even an ounce of flattery. Yet, this appreciation frequently took a secondary place to her volatile Tudor temper, her anger rearing at his frankness. Often, he paid for speaking the truth by enduring a hearty slap of her royal hand or even a slipper that, despite her angered state, was thrown in his direction with surprisingly good aim. Sir Francis had learned to tolerate this, for the only way to advise the young Monarch was to bear the wave of her rage as it crested, and then find his way to reach the Queen just as she came down from the heights of her fury.
"She is my relative," Elizabeth spat, "a queen of royal blood and you would have me lay her a trap! Why, you will be asking me to place her into the Tower next!"
"In due time, if it is necessary," Walsingham replied with a tiny nod.
The Queen scoffed, her eyes blazing.
"You, sir, have no respect for royalty," she spat. "You torment me constantly with your irksome sermons, you have been after the very blood of my cousin Mary from the very time you first opened your mouth. I am not surprised, though," she continued somewhat venomously, "for you have once soiled your hands with royal blood and have not thought much of it."
A lesser man would have reddened at the upsurge of exasperation that took place within Walsingham. To have done that meant to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she had gotten a rise out of him, something she labored at relentlessly, and he would never allow that.
"If you permit me, Madam," Walsingham spoke at last, "I would like to remind Your Majesty that familial ties mean very little for princes. As strong as the blood ties are, the desire to rule is stronger still. The kind of respect you mean to show may cost you your crown. Do not forget, should Mary ascend to rule, England would be plunged into a religious war. The fires would burn once more, and thousands of your good people would suffer. So what is the wellbeing of one person, even a royal one, compared to the stability of an entire country, entrusted to you?"
Elizabeth gazed at him as though charmed. As he spoke, Walsingham's words gathered momentum, and what started as unemotional advice, culminated in this sentence, spoken with great passion. Always tactful and collected, the spymaster rarely let his emotions show.
"I ask of you, Majesty," Walsingham continued, "to consider the situation carefully. It had come to my attention that many Scottish Lords are unhappy with Queen Mary's union with James Hepburn, presently the 4th Earl of Bothwell. A single provocation will be enough to instigate a rebellion against her, which can lead to her imprisonment. Your hands shall remain clean, for the Lords would be the ones bestowing judgment. Be mindful, if one day Mary chooses to try and claim England, I can give you my personal assurance that many Catholics shall flock to her banner. What say you to that, Madam?"
He knew he had already made his argument. He also knew that she had nothing to reply, for nothing could topple an argument that convincing. However, she was both a woman and a Queen; it was possible to convince her, yet it was impossible to make her admit that she had been convinced.
"We shall think on it, Sir Francis," Elizabeth said, reclining back in her chair and adapting a leisurely look once more. Raising her hands, she clapped trice. "Kat!" she called. Lady Kat Ashley appeared promptly in the doorway and bowed to the Queen.
"If you please, Walsingham, now leave my presence," Elizabeth smiled. She had evidently invited a third party for the mere purpose of witnessing her treatment of him. "I must confess, I have had quite enough of you."
Sir Francis raised his eyebrows.
"As Your Majesty wishes," he said, bowing elegantly. He was irked, although he did not let it show. "We shall think on it" was the type of answer he could not question, yet he knew well enough it meant that things would remain as they were.
Walsingham turned around and left.
"Those Italian fabrics," he heard Elizabeth order, "I wish to see them."
~o~O~o~
Rustling, a pile of parchments tumbled off the desk, scattering documents over the stone floor. The movement of air, created by the fall, made the candle flame flicker. Walsingham let it pass unnoticed, absorbed in his reading. For the umpteenth time, he perused every document, every scrap of paper he had ever collected on the case, for even a single sentence might help tip the scale in his favor.
He knew that Mary desired to be more than a Queen of Scotland. He also knew that this desire would be coveted strongly by her ambitious new husband. If something was not done soon, this double aspiration might prove dangerous. Although they wed in Protestant manner, causing an uproar among the Catholic nobility of Scotland, Mary was still a great deal more Catholic than Elizabeth. Endorsed by Rome, as well as Spain, who never shied away from meddling in English affairs, Mary could prove a much more serious adversary than Elizabeth realized.
There was only one hope. An ambition that strong could not remain hidden. There had to be some record, some evidence of it among all the letters and reports he ever received, something he could present to the Queen to finally make his warning concrete. Even a single sentence would be enough. Yet, so far, he had found nothing…
Abandoning his search, Sir Francis rose from his seat. Pacing brusquely in his study, he let his thoughts run free. Nothing was definite, however in politics the slightest of delays could prove fatal. He needed to act, yet his hands were tied by the Queen's indecisiveness. His agents in Scotland were ready and waiting. The coded letters with detailed instructions, addressed to them, were already written and sealed. Yet, without the royal permission, he could not proceed.
This enforced idleness agitated him immensely. Above all, he considered the absence of tangible evidence to be his personal failure. For anyone else it might have been easier, but for this man, who had never failed, it was sheer torture. There must be something, he thought, something that might change his luck, something he had not seen or had forgotten he had seen.
Despite the study being barely warm enough, his head was burning. Walsingham strode toward the window and threw it open. Blissfully closing his eyes, he let the crisp, fresh wind wash over him. Throwing his doublet open, he unfastened the top of his shirt, letting the cool air soothe his chest.
Granting himself a moment's rest, he leaned against the windowsill, observing the falling snow dancing in the night air. Below, he could hear the clinking of armor, coughing and hushed voices, as guards cursed the bitter cold. The smell of the mead they evidently used to ward off the frost, wafted through the air.
The deep, clear voice of the bell upon the clock tower cut through the night. Drowning out all the other sounds, the bell rang repeatedly, gravely counting to twelve. After the last stroke fell, the silence continued to ring. The snow settled quietly on the windowsill. Midnight, and still he had nothing…
Walsingham straightened abruptly and resumed his pacing, leaving the window open…
~o~O~o~
The next morning, nonetheless, met him triumphant. His nightly vigil had paid off as Walsingham had at last found what he was so looking for. His spirits could not have even be dampened by the rapidly growing ache in his head, which he attributed to his sleepless night.
As he passed through the halls, people hurried to clear his path. The conversations wilted or became hushed as he walked by.
"There goes Walsingham," he heard one lady whisper to another behind an open fan of ostrich feathers. "Looks something terrible today, does he not?"
"He looks as terrible today, as he does always," her friend replied with a titter. "Mind you, it is not his looks that make him interesting. At night, all cats look gray."
"Look – yes, feel – no," came the first lady's reply and the two exploded with giggles.
This conversation did not surprise him. More than a fair share of women in this hall, at one time or another, had the opportunity to test his skill. While some of them were, no doubt, insulted by his refusal to let them spend the night, none of them left his bedchamber disappointed, for his abilities compensated in spades for his lack of interest.
Elizabeth was somewhat surprised to see him return, bearing the same request she had declined the day before. Tilting her head, topped with a miniature crown tucked snugly amidst the red curls, she looked at him expectantly, very much ready to resume yesterday's battle.
"Remind me, Walsingham," she taunted. "What is it I pay you for? Like a bad penny that returns to the owner after being cast off, you return to me every morning, bearing the same news. Perhaps, from now on, I shall pay your wage in pennies instead of sovereigns?"
"As you wish, Majesty," Walsingham replied, not taking the bait, "but only after you read this."
Looking doubtful, the Queen received the parchment. Evidently, it was a copy of a letter, written by Bothwell to one of his close friends. A section of it had been underlined in scarlet ink. It read:
"… I supremely recommend you, my dear friend, to visit a Jew by the name of Ishmael, shall you ever doubt the good fortune in your life. On the fortnight, I visited his dwelling, where he performed a ritual of old to make my fortune known. After doing so, he became greatly awed, falling to his knees before my person and proclaiming that he had seen a crown upon my head. Mindful of my prospects, I inquired him whether it was a crown of Scotland. He denied it, saying that the crown he had seen is of much grander value. In a hushed voice, he foretold that I shall rule one of the greatest countries in the known world, confirming the feeling I have born inside of me for some time now. Therefore, I shall move at once and make my first step towards the crown that is already mine. All that separates me from it is time. She will deny me no more, for she is no longer in a position to do so…"
"Who is that 'she' he speak of?" The Queen lifted her head abruptly. Walsingham noted that, at last, her face bore no trace of jest. At last, she had seen what he had seen long ago.
"I do believe that that woman in question is Queen Mary herself," the spymaster replied.
"And what is it he wishes to receive from her?" Elizabeth continued.
"If Your Majesty further examines the letter, you will find that it is dated not a week before the nuptials of Lord Bothwell and Queen Mary of Scotts were held," Sir Francis supplied.
"Why would she not deny him?" Elizabeth asked again.
"Of that, Majesty, I have no clear explanation," Walsingham said. "However," he continued, allowing himself a thin smile upon seeing her frustration, "if I am allowed, I could venture a guess."
"Go on," the Queen ordered, her face belying her impatience.
"As you well aware, Madam," Walsingham said, "the relationship between Queen Mary and Lord Bothwell is most obscure. According to the letters Mary had written to her sister, sometime in the end of April she was abducted by Lord Bothwell and his men on her way from Stirling to Edinburgh, and forcibly taken to Dunbar Castle. Her description of the incident is most obscure, yet I can deduce that his conduct with her was most improper. That, combined with the testimony of Mary Stuart's own lady in waiting, who described that the Queen soon after developed an aversion to food and required looser garments, leads me to believe that she took pregnant after the abduction. Therefore, Bothwell knew that should he ask for her hand, Mary would be forced to agree to his proposal, if she desired to legitimize their unborn child. He was sure of it, since a Queen, whose rule is so precarious, cannot allow herself to produce a bastard."
"All that I see so far," Elizabeth spoke, "is that Mary Stuart is a victim of a man's crime, not a perpetrator of one."
"Having had the taste of proper rule in France, Mary shall never be satisfied with her volatile throne in Scotland, where she is distrusted and disliked by many. In the eyes of Catholic Europe, she and she only, is the rightful heir to the throne of England. Her relationship with Bothwell, which began long before the abduction, is now strengthened by marriage. She is quite changed towards him, reportedly showering her new husband with much care and affection. I have not a doubt that her own desire to rule England, reassured by the upstart of a husband she now adores and encouraged by the Pope, will sooner or later lead her to act against you." Walsingham held a pause. "Need you more evidence, Majesty?" he asked as soon as he felt that his silence was long enough to produce the desired effect.
For a minute, the Queen gave no reply. Then, her hand came flying up in a demanding gesture.
"Your parchment," she ordered.
Immediately, the document was procured and laid in front of her. Dipping the quill into the inkpot, Elizabeth placed a resolute signature upon it.
"You have won, Sir Francis," she said, laying down the quill and leaning against the back of her chair with a small smile.
"It is not my personal victory that I seek," Walsingham replied, bowing, "but Your Majesty's victory, which is also a victory for England."
"Very well," Elizabeth said dismissively, adapting a jesting tone once more. "Now, go rest, old man. By God, you look dreadful today. The mere look of you is scaring away my ladies."
It was evident that, after giving into him, she nonetheless desired for the last word to be hers. Having won his argument, Walsingham did not mind indulging her. Once again, he bowed in compliance and turned to leave.
The last messenger was long since gone, carrying the precious letters of instruction towards Scotland, yet Walsingham found no peace. Pacing in his study once more, again and again, he went over the coded instructions he had sent and predicted their outcome.
So far, everything was simple. The Lords in Scotland were in much discontent. All that was required was a knowing nudge in right direction. Just like a skilled logger would know exactly which way the tree will fall, a politician as expert as Walsingham knew precisely what needed to be said and done if he desired the Lords to rebel against Mary's authority. As soon as the letters reach the few men in Scotland faithful to him, the game could begin.
However, there was no time to celebrate. Returning to his desk, Walsingham picked up a scroll and resumed his work. Document after a document, letter after a letter consumed his attention for the most part of the day.
Although it was no more than four in the afternoon when he had finally lifted his head, the winter sky outside darkened rapidly. As the euphoria of having finally remedied the situation had subsided, a feeling of great fatigue came flooding over his whole body. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on the task at hand.
After half an hour, Sir Francis was forced to admit defeat. Words lost their meanings, drowning in his growing headache. Perhaps, he thought, an hour or two of rest would do him some good, before another night of labor began.
Lighting a single a candle, Walsingham extinguished both candlesticks on his desks and retired to his bedchamber.
~o~O~o~
He awoke with a start in complete darkness. A lone candle on the bedside table must have gone out. He knew not what time it was, yet he knew that something was badly amiss.
The nap he took did not only fail to alleviate his headache and weariness, but instead it made them worse. The pounding in his temples had intensified, his head vibrating with pain. Stars were blossoming in front of his eyes, violently bright against the surrounding darkness; they grew and then exploded to be replaced by dozens of others. He could feel that his entire body was aflame.
At last, he was able to recognize that the symptoms he experienced earlier were not to be attributed to the wakeful night alone. Walsingham remembered the previous evening when he, heated by his pacing and his excitement, opened the window to take in the air. Distracted, he failed to see the potential danger such an act could bear.
Somewhere, on the edge of his burning mind, he remembered that any minute now, Victoria was due to walk through his door. He needed to send Jerome and tell her not to come. He had no desire to expose himself in such vulnerable state.
The need to get up, or at least to summon his servants swirled about his consciousness, distorted by the rising heat. In the end, he had to give in. The room quivered in front of him, the vivid colors flickering and fading abruptly. He closed his eyes tiredly, for such explosion of color caused his head to pound unmercifully, and fell into unconsciousness…
~o~O~o~
A cooling touch of a soft palm made him open his eyes. The room was now lit, and Sir Francis could barely make out a Victoria's concerned face though the chaos of swirling stars. So, she had come after all…
"Jerome!" he heard her call out. "Come here, quickly!"
Footsteps thundered in his aching head. Although he could not see the boy, he could deduce that he had come, for a moment later, Victoria addressed him.
"Run and fetch a doctor," she spoke urgently. "His Grace has a high fever."
No response came. Walsingham guessed that Jerome must have been most unwilling to follow orders from someone of such low stature in the presence of his master.
"Do…" Walsingham forced himself to say, "as… as she says…"
It was all that was needed. The sound of footsteps returned as Jerome must have run off to fetch Master Tobias Shaw, Walsingham's personal physician and the only man alive His Grace would entrust himself to in such weakened state.
With Jerome's departure, Walsingham once more remained alone in Victoria's company. The best way to measure this woman's mettle, Walsingham chuckled mentally, closing his eyes. Now, when he lay disabled in her presence, would she remain the same, or would she cast aside the mask of meekness to reveal different aspirations.
He felt a tremor of movement as she must have gotten up. The noise of ripping cloth was followed closely by clinking of china and the sound of pouring water.
A wet cloth, which was placed on his forehead momentarily, relieved him immensely. The fever took a step back, tiredness promptly taking its place.
"There," he heard Victoria speak gently, as he felt her hand on his.
Just before the slumber overtook him, Walsingham could have sworn that he felt her lips upon his. He knew not for how long their tender touch had lingered, for he fell asleep soon after and knew no more.
~o~O~o~
The room melted in the heat of his fever as he opened his eyes unthinkingly. The walls of stone wobbled like melted wax, ready to fall at any minute. Sir Francis could hear nothing over the hammering in his aching head. Whenever he shut his eyes, bright whirling circles and bursting stars danced in front of him, making Walsingham sick to his stomach and worsening his headache. For that reason, he was grateful for his frequent lapses into unconsciousness.
As though through a thick veil of fog, Walsingham could feel himself being handled by faceless hands, for his delirium prevented him from recognizing their owners. He felt hands rub ointment on his chest, change a compress on his forehead, or supply him with water when he found the strength to ask for it. Whoever that must have been, they seemed to have been constantly present by his side. He felt hands flutter about him continually, striving to provide him with the most comfort.
From his early childhood, Sir Francis frequently spent weeks on end on the sickbed. An elder son, he could have been the third, were it not for his mother who miscarried twice before he was conceived. Despite the poor woman spending four months in confinement for the sake of the child, this third precarious pregnancy ended early. Born about four weeks before his time, the child looked overly small and had visible difficulty breathing. Fearing for his survival, his father, Sir William Walsingham, baptized his long-awaited heir within half an hour of his birth. However, against all odds, the boy survived. After a month of excruciating uncertainty, the doctors finally declared that the child would live. One of them predicted that the newborn's weak lungs would continue to cause problems as long as the child should live. Yet even that ominous prediction could not dampen his parents' high spirits, for they finally had managed to produce a child.
Very soon, nearly three years after their dearest Francis was born, they had learned that the doctors' warning could not be ignored. That early spring, a cold breeze must have gotten him while he played outside under the vigilant eye of his nurse. What started with a mere cough, quickly took a turn for the worst. For three weeks, the child's life remained in danger. As before, Francis recovered, but his parents never treated him the same. He was precious to them, and from that very time they treated him as though he was made of glass. He was not allowed to run, climb trees, or play in the puddles. Athletics were out of the question. Francis was not forbidden, yet strongly discouraged from spending a long time outside. Every time he wished to step out, he was bundled up for dear life. Walsingham had clearly remembered Lady Joyce once having a hysterical fit, when, wishing to take a stroll in the garden on one a summer evening, he had forgotten to put on his fur-lined cloak.
Alas, these measures were not enough to keep Francis from ailing. Commonly, he fell ill three to four times a year. After each lapse, the measures for guarding his wellbeing became ever more constricting. As he grew, Francis found them progressively more irksome. Not allowed to do whatever was natural for every small boy, Francis turned to books. Having few friends growing up, the boy's character formed to be a somber and thoughtful one. Pretty soon, he craved no more play or walks; he merely wised to be left to his reading.
He got his wish when he was eleven. With the birth of his brother, William, Lady Joyce's vigilance weakened as she fawned over her newborn miracle, for her youngest was born absolutely healthy. Proud to be an older brother, Francis was also grateful to William for his newfound freedom. Fortuitously, his periods of ill health had shortened, also becoming fewer in number. Whenever he was forced to return to bed, he looked upon it philosophically, accepting it as a part of his being. Gradually, he had grown to accept it, getting more and more used to it as time flew by.
Acceptance, on the other hand, did not make it easier to live with. Every time Sir Francis took sick, it was never limited to the runny nose or sore throat. Lying on his sickbed, he hoped that the disease would not go as far as his lungs, limiting itself to a few days. The opposite meant living hell: weeks upon weeks spent in agony and fever, gasping for every breath. He had been there already, five times too many, and wished not to increase this number.
But he also knew that this was out of his hands. Not in the hands of God, for he believed not in such things, but in the hands of his physician, who had many times restored him to health from such an abysmal state.
Closing his eyes tiredly, Walsingham returned to the realm of bodiless voices and bizarre visions…
~o~O~o~
The eyelids of the sleeping man fluttered open. The lights in the bedchamber were very dim, yet still it disturbed his eyes a great deal. It must have been nighttime, for the windows were uncovered, yet no light came through.
Sir Francis slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. As he did so, something fell off his forehead and onto his lap. He looked down. It was a white linen cloth, still damp, evidently intended to sooth his fever. Walsingham's muscles ached unmercifully, objecting even the slightest strain. He felt very weak, swirls of feverish fog still churning about his thoughts, yet he felt much, much better compared to what he felt before.
Examining his surroundings, he saw Victoria sleeping in an armchair by his bedside. Her outfit bore unmistakable signs of neglect. Her yellow dress was creased, with a few stains scattered across the fabric, one of which was unmistakably blood. Her hair was arranged into a loose braid that fell off her shoulder and onto her lap. An embroidery hoop was tipping precariously from her fingers. A prayer book lay open next to her on the small table. All this suggested that she must have spent a long time by his bedside.
It was something unexpected for Walsingham to see her there. She was not his wife, who was obliged to be by her husband's side come what may, not a nurse, who was paid for every hour spent by the sickbed, and definitely not a nun, who pledged herself to serving God and all His creatures. It was out of the pure kindness of her heart, that Victoria spent hours, perhaps days tending to him. Sir Francis had already seen that in her nature, but to see it unfold in front of him was something entirely different.
Or was it more than mere kindness? As of late, he began to notice the way she looked at him or the way she sighed every time she had to leave his presence. Victoria had probably fallen fast in love with him, for he was the only one who showed her the gentleness she so yearned for. Pity, Walsingham thought, that he had not thought of it when he took her in. He had no desire to see her so attached, since it would make it hard to part from her, once her presence wore dull.
The hoop slid another inch from the woman's fingers. Sir Francis grabbed it before it fell. The tremor of his interference had woken Victoria. With a light gasp, she sat up.
"F-forgive me," she stammered, hastily rubbing her eyes, "I must have dozed off."
"How long was I ill?" Walsingham asked, lying back down. Even a small action had drained him completely.
"Three days," Victoria replied, laying her hoop aside to adjust his pillow. Her soft hand touched his forehead. It was most peculiar, for she was much younger than him, but the kind weight of her palm felt as though the one of a mother. "I had come to answer your summons and found you lying upon your bed, burning up. Master Tobias did all he could, before he recognized he had no choice but to let the blood."
"Sure," Walsingham whispered with a humorless laugh, "what else would he do? Modern physicians would bleed even a dying man in hope to save him."
"It worked," Victoria said quietly. "He lanced the vein in the early morning. It is near midnight now and your fever is no more."
"Have you been here for all of it?" Walsingham asked. "Have you no fear of blood?"
At the mere mention, Victoria's face tinged with green.
"Someone had to hold the basin," she whispered.
"Jerome could have attended to that," Sir Francis said.
"It is not a man's job to sit by another man's side," Victoria said.
"But it is not yours either," Walsingham continued. He had already seen the answer in her eyes, yet he desired to draw it from her own lips. "It is the duty of a wife and you are no wife to me."
It was a harsh statement. If she felt anything for him, it was meant to force it to the surface. However, this verbal strike was meant rather to provoke Victoria, than to genuinely affront her.
"Yes," Victoria replied. Her eyebrows twitched painfully at his words, but otherwise she had showed no reaction, "but, as my experience shows me, duties of the one can be taken upon by the other, if they so wish. It is your duty to bed your wife, yet you choose to bed another. It would be my duty to sit by my husband's side if I had one, yet I chose to sit by yours. One fine turn deserves another."
Although she had expressed herself in her usual humble tone, the words she used sounded unmistakably wounded. This poor woman sat by his side for three days and just as many nights without leave. Good as Victoria was, she was only human. She was too careworn and fatigued to be able to retain a perfect composure while faced with such severity. On the other hand, his ruse had worked well, exposing exactly the emotions he suspected her to harbor.
Yet, Walsingham thought as he observed her picking miserably at the spot on her sleeve, he had no authority over her heart. However poor or dependant a woman might be, her heart would still be her own. Victoria allowed him a free rein over her body, so would he not let her heart be? If she loved him, why not let her? It could do him no harm. Taking pity on her, Walsingham smiled as he sat up once more.
"Come to me," he said kindly, extending his hand.
She looked up.
"My Lord?" she asked, sounding puzzled. Her voice trembled slightly as though she was but an inch from dissolving into tears.
"Come," he repeated, motioning for her to follow his invitation.
Clearly looking as though she doubted that any good might come of it, Victoria left her seat and climbed onto the bed. As she sat next to him, still staring at her knees, Sir Francis grabbed her lightly by the chin, tipping her head up, and looked into her eyes. His smile widened for a moment, just before he placed a long kiss on her lips. Victoria replied timidly, as though doubting she truly had the right to it.
"What is it, my Lord?" she asked after he broke the kiss.
"My gratitude," Walsingham replied softly.
Only a man as practiced with women as Sir Francis was, could maneuver the situation so well. Only a minute ago Victoria looked as though she might cry, but now she was grinning again.
"You are most welcome," she replied softly. Taking up his right hand, she looked over the healing puncture on the crook of his arm. Apparently pleased with what she saw, she looked up at him again.
"You must rest, my Lord," she urged gently.
"So must you." Walsingham lay down, pulling her to his side. "Commonly, I do not allow women to sleep upon my bed, unless they have earned that right. Taking your state into account, I could agree to a postponement. Perhaps in a few days, you can settle you debt."
"It would be my pleasure," Victoria replied, turning to her side and wrapping her arm around his chest. Like any weary person who also happens to possess good health and a clear conscience, she fell asleep quickly, her light breath rippling the lace trim upon the neck of his shirt.
Just before closing his eyes, Walsingham thought of the woman who once again slumbered by his side. Victoria was still but a mistress, an instrument for his pleasure, yet her devotion had touched him. It was just a diminutive change, yet he could no longer see her as a mere toy. It was not much at all, but considering the person she managed to touch, it was a great accomplishment.
~o~
