Chapter 11: "The Price of Dark Ambition"
Walsingham had been aching for a good drink all day, and while he was used to his companion stalking he did not expect what he found that that evening. Cecil was hissing and cursing with one hand raised to cover one side of his face. It actually concerned him to see the younger man in such obvious discomfort.
"My God, Cecil," said the spymaster, "what happened to you?"
"I was assaulted," Cecil croaked sickly at him.
"The Queen said there was a thief in the house," said Walsingham, "was it them?" The royal coach shot him a glare as if he had just suggested they try walking on air. When blood trickled out from beneath his hand, Walsingham practically lunged at him to grab his wrist, pulling it away to inspect the damage. Three deep, crimson marks went from the side of his nose, across one cheek and down to his jaw-line. They skin on either side of each cut was bruised, puffy and sensitive.
"Did you…bother a cat?"
"No!" Cecil squawked. "It was an unholy beast! The blasted thing came out of nowhere!" Walsingham shook his head and tutted. He had been under the impression that something dreadful had occurred and it relieved him to see the truth was a mere domestic mishap.
"My dear boy," he addressed his friend, "whatever it is, we should take you to see the doctor. Cat scratches can become septic awfully quick." Cecil conceded and allowed himself to be led. As they reached the foot of the wooden stairs, he saw the confounded thing, that ferocious, sneering cat, sitting at the top and waiting for them. He let out a furious yell and pointed.
"There!" he exclaimed. "There's the accursed hell-beast, right there!" Walsingham looked. Nothing was there.
"A-hem," he cleared his throat. "Yes. Terrifying." It seemed that an infection was already taking effect on the coach and he resolved to reach the infirmary before the hallucinations grew worse.
XXX
Dr Fear-the-Lord Frump was a highly regarded, if cantankerous and peevish, member of the medical community, which in the time our story takes place was still very much a fledgling field. Many surgical procedures were carried out by barbers, who were naturally expected to be good with their hands, and for a while that had been Frump's profession until he discovered his interests lay more in the brewing of medicinal potions. Some said Frump was as old as Methuselah, but aside from being slightly deaf he was just as observant and skilled as any young man. Presently, he was going through his inventory of disinfectant poultices while speaking to the patient brought into the infirmary, none other than the most revered trainer of the monarchs himself.
"Sir Francis tells me you've been seeing things," said Frump as he decided which of his miracle medicines would be the best suited for this situation.
"Of course I've been seeing things, you old quack!" Robert Cecil spat. "I have eyes, don't I?"
"There's no need for rudeness, young man," said Frump, who was quite frankly used to this kind of treatment and had grown tired of it. "What I must ascertain is that you haven't tried any home remedies on yourself."
"Do I look like an ignorant peasant?" snorted Cecil, who did not appreciate being spoken to as if he were a small child. "I'm well aware of the idiocy that goes hand-in-hand with those old wives' tales."
"That's good for you, sir," said Frump. "If you could – hold this to your cheek would you? – if you could please encourage your servants to show the same wisdom I would be most appreciative. We've had at least five people in here over that sort of mishap since court moved to Hatfield." Cecil hissed a little as the flat, soaked material was pressed to his wounds.
"I was not aware anything dangerous grew in this area," he said.
"The current offender is a crop of monkshood growing in one of the gardens," the doctor explained. "Some fool dried it out, roots and all, and has been distributing it amongst the staff in powdered form. The root contains perhaps the deadliest poison in the entire civilised world."
"Intriguing," said Cecil thoughtfully. "Could you tell me where exactly in the garden I may find this monkshood? I'll, ah, have it destroyed immediately."
"Not certain myself," replied Frump, "but that boy Baldrick was one of the five people I mentioned before. Thankfully the fool only ingested trace amounts and I was able to force it out of him before any real damage could be done…though I shan't say he'll be sitting down comfortably any time soon." Cecil rolled his eyes. Why was he not surprised to find that moron was involved somehow?
"And as for you," said Frump, "don't go antagonising any cats again or next time I may have to use stitches."
"So long as that felonious feline doesn't attack me again, you've nothing to fear," Cecil countered bitterly.
XXX
The Queen was often accompanied by one of her ladies, and in this case she had chosen Lady Blackwood to attend her. They sat in the throne room, the young duellist perched beside her mistress, who was currently in conversation with Robert Dudley, Master of the Horse and, if you believed the rumours, a very, very close 'friend.' The Queen was intent on throwing a party during that sunny season.
"Tell me, Bess," said Dudley, for he was the only one allowed to call her that, "what are we celebrating, precisely?"
"That the murders in London have officially ceased?" the Queen suggested after a moment of thought.
"And you would deem that just cause to throw a party?"
"Considering recent events?"
"I could easily challenge the vagueness of that statement," Dudley pointed out, "but I know how much you like having the last word. So, what should be included in the festivities?"
"If it's warm enough, perhaps a spot of hunting," the Queen mused, "and a grand picnic…and Morris dancing!"
"Morris dancing?" Dudley cocked a brow. "I never took you for a masochist, Bess." The monarch stared into the man's eyes as a wicked smile crept onto her pale cheeks.
"Robert," she said, "if you are unable to find me a Morris dancing troupe, I will arrange for you to lead it in their place." Dudley froze. He gulped and forced a nervous laugh.
"I'll get straight onto it," he said.
"Wonderful," the Queen put her hands together happily and turned to Gwendolyn. "Lady Blackwood, I would like Sir Douglas to put in an appearance at my party, so be a darling and please alert him." The newest lady-in-waiting stood up, curtsied to the both of them and left. Dudley leaned in towards the Queen and whispered quietly into her ear,
"Why do you always send that particular girl whenever you want the Duellist Royal?" She considered this briefly, then twined a curl of her fiery hair around a slender finger, responding with an innocent air,
"I have discovered Sir Douglas to be something of an eccentric. He picks favourites, you see, and they are the only ones he will speak with. Lady Blackwood happens to be one."
"Well, he has good taste," Dudley shrugged. The Queen shot him a sneer and swatted his cap off his head.
XXX
A month passed by, and the day of the Queen's celebration came. The sun was glowing brightly over the landscape strewn with colours. The invited guests and residents were gathered together around a long table set up on the grounds of Hatfield. The table displayed bowls and plates of summer fruits, salads, desserts, pastries, flagons of ales, distilled juices and other delightful articles of contemporary cuisine prepared in the royal kitchens. The Signieur d'Thoze was, in his usual flourishing fashion, regaling those at the head of the table with the story behind the cask of uniquely coloured wine he was totting about.
"As a young boy," he explained, "I went to Italy with my fat'er. We toured many of its famous wineries. T'e grapes were as firm and round as billiard balls and zhe juice was fit for t'e Holy Father Himself! I took some specimens back to France wit' me, I laboured over t'em so I could grow and improve zhem…I believe t'is wine, concocted from an early batch, 'as aged quite well."
The Queen held out her goblet – a crystal one engraved with the image of a dragon – and the Frenchman filled it with the beverage, a swirling pool of pink and scarlet. Her Royal Majesty took a sip, and a smile crossed her painted lips.
"Exquisite, sir," she said, "the most flavourful I've ever tasted. Really a rotten shame the Freiherr is in his room and missing all the fun. Someone should take him some wine."
"Allow me to oblige," Robert Cecil chimed it, taking the cask from the French noble before he could even speak.
"Your volunteerism is appreciated, Mr C.," said the Queen, "but make sure not to take too long, you'll miss the Morris dancing."
"I would not miss it for the world," the royal coach smiled, then added to himself quietly, "as much as I would not miss my own hanging." As he proceeded back towards the house, he noticed the stable-boy Jethro Marrack conversing with Sir Douglas MacWood, both in an early state of inebriation.
"Yo…you're moy besht mate, ya're," Jethro snorted, his inherited Cornish accent starting to break through. "Yo…eh, you know summat? You looksh like 'ish girl Oi knowsh…"
"I g-gots family all over country, you know," the knight replied, much more in control of himself but still showing difficulty in his vocalisation. Nearby, little Kreszentia was asleep under a tree, cupping an empty glass between her doll-like hands and snoring lightly. Sebastian Blackwood was watching the giggling twits with rosy embarrassment as his two friends, Smyth and Pomeroy, cracked jokes behind his back. My word, thought Cecil, it's still broad daylight but they're absolutely legless from drink.
MacWood lifted his goblet again, but a firm clap on the back caused him to drop it into the grass. Cecil saw an opportunity and seized it. He bent down, picking up the goblet, sprinkling a powder from his sleeve while his back was to everyone.
"Allow me to top you up, Sir Douglas," he said, setting the goblet down and picking up the cask again to fill it.
"Oh, ah, thank you," said the knight, taking a moment to re-gather his senses. Cecil bowed politely and left the party. For too long, the Queen's companionship with the Duellist Royal and her subsequent friendship to their German guest had stood in the way of his own ambitions. He had served the House of Tudor for so long and still remained outside the peerage, a commoner by their standards. No more. With their deaths he would swoop in and his path to supremacy would continue. First a knight, then who knew? Royal consort? That one was a little over-ambitious, but it could happen if he moved the pieces properly in this internally political chess game. Through his tactful manipulation, he would assure his place in history. Of course, Robert Dudley would still prove an obstacle, but he would be easy enough to deal with on his own.
XXX
Gwendolyn stared into the swirling liquid in her goblet before raising it to her lips. She knew she was starting to get merry, but one more could not hurt. Just one. As she began to tip the goblet, a voice cried in her head,
"Stop!" Gwendolyn jolted and a few drops of the wine spilled out, spattering her legs and the grass below her chair.
"The wine," said the voice, "it's not safe. I can sense it. Poison."
"But who…?" she whispered to herself. Then it struck her like a bolt of lightning. Jethro's words at the Christmas celebrations. Robert Cecil was out for her blood, and on top of that was his obvious spite for the Freiherr. Scared sober, Gwendolyn excused herself and walked over to one of the ponds within the grounds. She hesitated, then poured a small amount from her goblet into the water, and seconds later gasped as a fish floated dead to the surface. Dropping the drink, she raced off across the gardens. Blast it! Which way is his room?! she screamed at herself mentally.
"Easy," said the voice in her head, "you're panicking, and the alcohol in your blood has fogged your brain. I will guide you there, but we must be swift or it will be too late." She pounded through the corridors, using outstretched candlesticks on the walls to turn her so much quicker than her own body. There! There it was! The door of the room was open and a sickly feeling bubbled in her guts.
"Freiherr!" she called. "Freiherr, don't drink the…wine…" Her voice trailed off at the gruesome site that greeted her. Von Dijkhuizen laid spread out across the floor, his huge form stretching almost from one wall to the opposite. His hands were splayed out, palms open, clawed fingers having worn scratches in the wood because of his struggles. His head was shrouded by his tangles of ebony hair. A spilt goblet lay beside him, only a few trickles of its contents remained.
"He…" she wanted to saw he must have drank almost the whole thing before the poison took effect, but her throat refused to let the words out. Tears welled from their ducts and streamed down her cheeks. Gwendolyn fell to her knees and lifted the dead giant's head, cradling it. Her friend, her monstrous, horrible, intelligent friend was gone. Sorrow overcame her, then it too was gone, replaced by something much more potent, more grasping and desiring. The sorrow gave way to hatred. Around her neck, the Millennium Puzzle shone brighter than had ever done so before. Setting the beast's head gently back down, Gwendolyn closed her eyes, stood up, and MacWood growled.
"Cecil…" uttered the demon. "CECIL!" He sniffed the air, picked up the fragrant trail of his aura, and off he went. Only when he was far away did the corpse on the floor stir to life. Von Dijkhuizen's eyelids flew open and he launched himself to the open window, projectile vomiting the venom and clutching his stomach in the agony of ripping death as his body jerked itself into function. He dropped to his knees and wiped the slime from his lips, the aftertaste of the poison still fresh and revolting. A hoarse voice behind him laughed. The German twisted, despite the pain now gripping every inch of his being, and found himself nose-to-nose with a black cat. He did not recognise the creature itself, but the fire and ice dancing in the slit pupils of its eyes told him.
"You…" he whispered, recoiling so he fell back against his bed.
"Me," said the cat. "After all the work I did to make you immortal with no side effects, did you really think I would let you die? I'm hurt." It turned its head and began vigorously grooming its right shoulder. "Oh, and you're welcome, because I'm sure you do want to thank me, despite your silence. We'll catch up on old times later, dear dark one, but first you may want to stop your little gender-challenged girlfriend from announcing your death." The Freiherr looked at the malevolent moggy as the pain of resurrection faded. Shakily, he got to his feet and took his leave. The cat purred to itself, batted down its ear, then disappeared.
XXX
Robert Cecil was uncomfortable. It was not the thrill that came with committing his incredible crime and getting away with it – with the appropriate linguistic garnish he could easily shift the blame onto that pompous oath d'Thoze after all – or the relief that two of his rivals for grandeur were out of the way. It was because he was inexplicably lost. He was certain he knew the way back to the gardens perfectly, but the corridors of Hatfield House had taken on a life of their own, becoming a winding, ever-changing maze. He came to a stop in a rounded section with four paths leading in different directions. A shape darted across the far end of the leftmost one, and Cecil felt some odd compulsion to follow it, one he obeyed. He turned another corner, and the house was gone. Instead, he stood at the end of a very wide stone bridge across a rocky chasm. Far below was a lake of black water iced with purple smoke. The sky above was glazed like glass and filled with the same smoke in place of clouds. He turned around and saw that surrounding the chasm was a wide nothingness; a barren, grey, dead wasteland.
"What sort of madness is this?" he whispered.
"My sort," a voice snarled. Cecil twirled on his ankles to face his new companion and shock crossed his features.
"MacWood!"
"Surprised to see I'm not dead?" the Duellist Royal sniped. "You murdered my friend and you tried to murder me too."
"I don't know what you're-"
"DON'T YOU DARE LIE TO ME!" MacWood roared and the land shook as if to his will. Cecil almost lost his footing but was able to stop himself from staggering towards the edge. "You're scum, Robert Cecil, evil scum that deserves to be punished, just like Trudgwick and his men."
"So you're the murderer," Cecil wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I will give you points for creativity, sir, though it won't help when you're standing on the gallows. Now explain to me where we are."
"This…" MacWood threw out his arms for emphasis, "is the Shadow Realm, but more specifically the body of water below us is the Lake of Penalties. You see, I don't take kindly to people who wrong me, they make me…irritable. That's why we're going to play a game, just you and me, and the loser will be forever plunged into the depths of the Lake." He snapped his fingers and the bridge was gone, instead replaced by two long, parallel ledges that stretched out across the abyss. Each one was divided into a series of nine squares; the first was engraved with the word 'EARTH,' followed by seven marked by numbers and the last one by 'HEAVEN.'
"Hopscotch?" the royal coach asked incredulously with his hands on his hips.
"Of sorts," replied MacWood, "except instead of taking turns on a single course, we have one each. The first to traverse their respective course back and forth seven times wins the game, but naturally falling means an automatic loss…of your life. Have you the courage, Mr C.?"
"I will see you sent to your rightful place, you creature from the pits," snarled the royal coach.
"Good," MacWood chuckled, "maybe then you can tell me where that is. Now, I will take the first turn. Begin the game!" From his coat he produced a gold coin and flicked it across the course. It landed just on the edge of the '1,' square. MacWood wiped his brow. "My, my, rather a close one. Go on now, you're turn."
Cecil's eyebrow twitched and he reached into his pocket to retrieve a coin, when he came across one of the tools of his trade (the lying and cheating trade, of course). He fished out a coin, a weighted one with a head on both sides, created by an amazing accident at the mint. Since the coin had to land within the square for him to progress, this would make this ridiculous frivolity pass so much quicker. It was not until the end of the second trip back that something occurred to him. It feels as if it's getting heavier each time…and… he turned to look over his shoulder and his mouth dropped open. The squares that made up the ledge behind him had broken apart, each section hanging in mid-air, held by invisible strings.
"Is your age showing?" cawed the cheeky hobgoblin, who was now prancing into his third trip towards 'HEAVEN.' Cecil scowled at him. This had to be some kind of hallucination, perhaps he had somehow ingested trace amounts of his own poison and this was the result? Steeling himself, he passed the coin to the next square and the game continued. By the sixth round, however, it was starting to weigh down on him. The gaps between the squares of the two courses were easily as wide as two men lying down. Cecil reached down and took hold of the coin to pick it up, only to strain against it. He put his second hand to it – but by God! – and found it as heavy as a rock. Cold beads trickling down his forehead, nose and neck, the royal coach growled and hoisted the little thing, gazing across the expanse to the next square.
I will need to put all my strength into this, he thought, how on Earth could this be happening? I…I will have to force the answers from that damned child… Exhaling quickly, he tossed the coin with all his might. It sailed through the air.
MacWood grinned as it landed two squares away.
"Too far!" he laughed. "You threw it too far! Bad show, Mr C.! You lose!"
"What?!" Cecil demanded. "But it was like a boulder! It's some kind of trick!"
"No trick, old boy," said the creature in a perfect rendition of Sir Francis Walsingham. The skin on his forehead rippled as a golden eye opened up.
"The Shadow Games always force out one's true nature. The liars, the cheats, the villains. All are exposed here."
The square that Cecil stood on crumbled to powder and he tumbled down with it, vanishing under the surface of the Lake of Penalties with an explosive 'SPLASH!' He struggled back up to reach the surface, but a hundred ebony tendrils snapped around his limbs, dragging him into the oblivion below. In every direction, reality faltered, as the inky waters receded. He was dry, and he could breath, but he could not move. The shock of the extreme cold subsided and he realised he was chained to a stake, standing on a mountain of mould-rotted wooden shrapnel. Then something light landed on his head, slid off and floated to the invisible floor. A Duel Monster card. More followed, dozens of them, all landing in a neat circle that surrounded his unlit pyre.
"Each of these," said the voice of his adversary, "is a life that you have ruined for your own gain. They have business with you, sir."
"Dear God," he hissed. "Dear God! What are you?!"
"Me?" replied the voice. "I am the vengeance that cannot be attained alone. I am the shadow in the darkness, the entity that inhabits the threshold, the hope for the hopeless, the mouthless scream of the centuries. I am the shape of your future."
The circle of cards shattered like glass, the fragments fluttering and reforming into all manner of bizarre and unholy beasts; devils, witches, demons, ogres, trolls, harpies, ghouls, sorcerers…each one wearing the face of someone from his past, an opportunity taken, an advantage seized, an opponent trodden into the muck. Leading these things was a girl in a monochromatic outfit that clung firmly to the shape of her body, covered by a tattered yellow gown. Two black bat's wings extended from somewhere beneath her hair, and beneath her chestnut hair was the face of Lady Gwendolyn Blackwood.
"Why you?" Cecil croaked. "Not you, I never wronged you."
"Not directly, perhaps," said the girl, "but you hurt my friends, and in doing so trespassed in my heart. We've been waiting for you a very long time, Mr Cecil, so we can deliver a message to you. Three simple words…" She approached him, her clothes turning from yellow to red, her face from soft and innocent to sharp and enraged. She raised a burning torch.
"Burn. In. Hell." She threw the torch onto the pyre, and with a bloodcurdling cry, Robert Cecil was engulfed in crystal fire.
XXX
"How long do you think it will take him to wake up?" Gwendolyn and the spirit called MacWood stood together in the field that the girl now came to view as a second home. MacWood was leaning against the trunk of the ever-blossoming tree with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Who can say?" he responded. "I've never crushed somebody's mind before."
"Well," said Gwendolyn, "I'm glad you didn't kill him, and thank you for letting me take part."
"If I was the one to throw that torch," MacWood told her, "I wouldn't have stopped at just one. Good skin is wasted on people like that."
"Now, now," the girl put a hand on his shoulder, "he might learn a lesson from all this…might."
"You could be right," said her strange friend, "but then you could be wrong."
"I can tell you're hoping for the best," Gwendolyn hugged him tightly. "You're not so bad after all." MacWood felt his face heat up. He brushed her off and turned around so she could not see his face.
"You should be getting back to your body now," he uttered.
XXX
At the door of the infirmary, Queen Elizabeth and Sir Francis Walsingham watched as Dr Fear-the-Lord Frump attended the prone Robert Cecil. The royal coach was unconscious and his breathing was shallow. A damp cloth had been pressed to his forehead.
"Dr Frump fears it is fever, Your Majesty," the spymaster explained. "No telling when it might break." The Queen nodded.
"Well, he has done a lot for my family," she said, "so have him looked after as if he were my own uncle."
"As you wish," Walsingham bowed. Elizabeth suspected there was more to the unfortunate occurrence, but kept her suspicions to herself for now. After dismissing her older advisor, she went into the infirmary to visit the younger one and to hear the diagnosis from the house doctor himself. He was a peculiar man – he insisted on washing his hands thoroughly before and after every practise, you see – but he was still recognised for his great knowledge and regarded for his frankness. If anybody could help her poor mentor, he was it.
XXX
The sun was setting over the kingdom, painting it in a pool of orange, pink and yellow, truly an artistic dusk. Gwendolyn Blackwood and Jethro Marrack walked together through the gardens of Hatfield House, bathed in the warm glow of the day's slumber. The smells of the flora, the sounds of evening birds and the splish-splosh of fish in the ponds somehow added to the overall natural magic of the land. For a while they walked in silence, immersed in the environment.
"You know," Gwendolyn said finally, "back home, when I wanted something more exciting in life, I never bargained on this." She stroked the pointed corner of the Millennium Puzzle, hidden under the folds of her dress. It was true. She had experienced so much in her time since the tournament. To become the host for her imp, or brownie, or sprite (she was still baffled by this) was quite remarkable, and to have returned to the party only to find the Freiherr back from the dead was so incredible she almost fainted.
"Do you regret coming to court?" asked Jethro, his hand unconsciously taking hers. "Meeting m…I mean, meeting everyone?" Gwendolyn looked at him and smiled softly.
"Of course not," she whispered. The next few seconds went by in silence, before some magnetism drew them together. Her eyes closed. His arms went around her waist and hers around his shoulders. They grew closer…closer…closer…until…
"LADY BLACKWOOD!"
They flew apart, surprised by the call. Florentin was virtually rocketing across the grounds towards them, holding a bunch of fragrant flowers in his hand, which he presented to the speechless girl.
"S-Signieur!" she stammered. "What are-?"
"I 'ad to see you one more time before I left, my love," he interrupted, not even breathless despite the speed he had moved with. He took her free hand and planted a gentle kiss on it. "I promise I will return, so please, do not give your 'eart to anyone else, ma petit chéri." He shot a quick glare of warning at Jethro before parting from the two and springing back in the direction he had come from.
"Maurice!" he called. "Prepare my luggage!"
"It's Morris!" the voice of his servant called back.
"It matters not!"
Gwendolyn tittered at the funny man in red, then she noticed the annoyance on Jethro's face. He was as scarlet as the Frenchman's attire and she could have sworn that his hair was standing on end and steam was issuing from his ears and nostrils. "Uh, Jethro?"
"What…was…he…implying?" he snorted, but before the girl behind him could answer, he chased after his forced-upon rival with the ferocity of some great Cornish dragon. "She's not interested in you, you prancing, perfumed ponce!" Florentin squealed and the two men resorted to dashing in random circles all over the grounds. Gwendolyn watched this amazing spectacle and burst into a round of heartfelt laughter.