This chapter might include minor spoilers for Torchwood Series 3. Beta-ed by the amazing NoPondInTheForest.
Captain Jack Harkness had had to make a really big effort to keep his composure during the unbelievably long minutes he had spent listening to that not-really-very-mysterious lady he had met within the grounds of St. James's Park. Her white lies, as a matter of fact, had been pretty bad ones.
A western wind, she had assured him, would carry the echo of his song as far as Whitehall Palace, so that Queen Elizabeth herself would have the privilege of hearing him sing… Well, she had absolutely nothing to worry about – if she had decided that this was playtime, then indeed play she would. He'd make sure of that.
Following her own instructions, Jack had sat down against a sycamore in a spot in the park which, despite being closer to the Palace, was still far enough for any of its dwellers to be able to hear his songs, and even if the wind had actually been blowing from the west, it wouldn't have made any difference. The truth was, however, that no wind was blowing at all!
The reason why she had been so keen on sending him to that particular area couldn't have been any more blatant. Being right in front of the entrance to Whitehall Palace, anyone sitting around those sycamores could easily be seen from the top floors. In fact it had been her, Queen Elizabeth herself, in all her regal sovereign splendour, the person whose silhouette Jack kept seeing every time he looked up at one of the middle windows. Her intention in doing so, ignoring all other affairs however important they might have been to her, was so glaringly obvious that it kept staring Jack in the face. She was putting him to the test, and being there for her to be able to tell what his whereabouts was would in all probability grant him safe passage to court.
That the Queen was having the time of her life couldn't be denied at all, but as far as he was concerned, the least that could be said was that, after almost two hours of lute playing and ballad singing, Jack had a sore throat and sore fingertips. And most importantly, the morning was proving uneventful enough to make him start getting seriously bored and dangerously groggy. Not that he had ever needed much sleep since the day the intrepidity of a certain girl had turned him into a man for whom the laws of time and decay didn't seem to count much anyway, but lately he had been feeling the need to sleep almost on a daily basis. Peace of mind, on the other hand, didn't seem to be something he would ever be able to feast on, and more often than not he would suffer from insomnia, but he didn't seem to mind that terribly. In fact, he would try hard to get to cause it. If sleep was the state during which his recurring nightmares and the ghosts that had been haunting him in them would return, then he'd much rather endure the punishment of being awake.
It had been quite a long time since his nightmares had started. Or maybe not, maybe those were the kind of dreams that one would have for the first time but still one would always have the feeling they had been going on for decades. Upon waking up, he always cursed his need for sleep and thought he'd rather spend his immeasurable life having hundreds of thousands of sleepless nights. Even millions, if that was the way it had to be for him.
And sooner rather than later did that thought turn into a challenge, which was the way his insomnia had taken over.
But on this particular occasion, for some mysterious reason which, while still conscious, he had not been able to understand himself, Captain Jack Harkness lowered his guard and eventually fell asleep under the branches of his sycamore.
In his nightmares, he was always naked, something he had never been uncomfortable about in the slightest whenever he had been awake, but the naked him he had been dreaming of utterly terrified him.
And not only was he naked, he was also alone.
He kept walking and walking through a thick fog bank, worn out and shivering, his arms crossed over his chest and his hands on his shoulders as he tried to protect himself from the cold – and from the guilt. He would keep looking around, but he wouldn't see a thing except the foggy whiteness that surrounded him. After a while, pale with exhaustion and cold as ice, he always fell on his knees and stretched his benumbed arms slowly. It would always require making an unimaginable effort, but in due course a shriek of despair would explode out of his throat.
No one would ever answer, and he would start to feel even more desolate and abandoned.
And then, the crying would start. A terrifying choir of millions of voices, screaming in the distance but slowly approaching, would fill the freezing air and make the fog dissipate sluggishly. In a few seconds, however, it would seem to be clearing much faster, and then he would find out, much to his surprise, that there were dark living shadows hiding in it.
They were spirits of the dead, and they had come a long way with the sole intention of torturing him with their ghastly mourning song.
As their cries would get louder and louder and their requiem would reach its climax and reverberate, he would unexpectedly feel a warm little hand taking his. Then he would turn and see a blue-eyed child, looking straight at him, smiling, and beaming with golden light. He always believed that the boy had come to comfort him, until the moment when what was left of the fog would turn into water particles and start to float into the air, just for a spell, before turning into fire and vanishing into the blackest of smokes. And there they would be, right behind it – the terrifying black shadows.
He would turn to the child for help, but his golden light would be gone and one of the shadows would have taken his place, and the hand that had comforted before, now no longer flesh but dark rotten bone, would suddenly start to burn. Not that he would have the strength or the intention to run away from it at all.
Then all of the shadows would open their eyes, and the blinding light that burned in them would focus on him, like limelight on a stage. And slowly but surely, the shadows would silently start to move in his direction.
There were millions and millions of them, and Jack wouldn't offer any resistance. He would just stood still until the end.
After all, it was only fair.
It literally felt like coming back from the dead every time Jack woke up from one of his nightmares. As soon as he opened his eyes, his lungs started to gasp for air and his head kept going round and round in circles. At times like this, he never kept track of the time he would spend trying to control his breathing. Sometimes his pain would go very quickly, like a bat out of hell. Sometimes, however, it seemed to him it was taking days, and even in spite of that, it wouldn't always help.
And this seemed to be one of those times, he was afraid.
Covered in sweat and with his heart pounding hard on his chest, Jack leant back against the sycamore and closed his eyes once again. How dreadfully ironic, he thought. He was Captain Jack Harkness, the man who couldn't die – and yet he had the feeling that sooner or later those very dreams would kill him.
An unexpectedly tantalizing sensation of humidity suddenly cooled the air around him, gracefully stroking his face, while the smell of fresh water filled his nostrils. He had tried that many times, closing his eyes and imagining he was near the ocean, where the sound of the overpowering waves would eventually help him become himself again, or even within a cave behind the silvery curtain of a waterfall, listening as it cascaded down the cliff into a pool.
Jack didn't have his imagination to blame for those sensations this time. He promptly opened his eyes and stood up again, and immediately afterwards he turned around and saw a lake some distance behind him. He motioned towards it and knelt down by the shore. In seeing his reflection in the water, he realized how terrified he looked. At some point during his troubled sleep he would always start to cry, and those tears were still running down his face. There were enormous dark bags under his eyes, his complexion was as pale as chalk, and his lips a blackish purple.
He put his hands into the cold water and took some so as to wash his face. He spent some time there, doing nothing, feeling nothing, and letting nothing hurt him, just in contemplation of the blue before him. It felt so revitalizing, just to feel the fresh water slipping through his fingers, that his tears had hardly started to vanish when he suddenly felt the irrepressible need to jump into it. He didn't give it a second thought and resolutely started to do the only thing that was indispensable so that nothing would stand between him and his instant desire to slip through the water – taking his clothes off. One by one, he piled each of his garments up on the ground, and once he had completely undressed, he took the pile and put it under his sycamore.
Finally, feeling free from all restraint, he rushed towards the lake and jumped right in. The water was a bit cold, but the simple and pure joy of having it massaging his skin and his muscles was making all of his senses reawaken little by little.
He could hardly believe how euphoric it had instantly made him feel. He wished he could do that everyday – and he also wished he could stay inside that lake forever and a day. He could do that if he wanted to anyway, he thought. It just felt so pleasant, so…
So right.
And life didn't always bring one pleasant things or make them turn out right. Not even a short one. It was only natural that when one had lived for more than a hundred years, the pleasant things were sometimes even hard to recall.
There were times when it almost seemed like they had never happened at all in the first place.
But then the Doctor had come. He hadn't explained much, as usual, except that he needed his help, and that was exactly what Jack, at that point, was in lack of – someone who needed him, or his help. Or anything he might possibly have given them, for that matter. Even if it had been the rest of his, for the time being, unwanted lives.
Jack was truly enjoying being rocked by the gentleness of the waves. He stretched his arms and closed his eyes, and fully abandoned himself to the soothing delicacy of the waters that were now softly lifting his torso and legs to the surface. He looked up at the morning sky, narrowing his eyes. It was still quite early and somewhat cloudy, but the sun had been compassionate enough to shine bright, just for a while, just for him.
Trapped in that peaceful stillness, Jack thought that maybe, just maybe, he was being given a new chance.
There he was, in Elizabethan London, with the two Doctors and their new companion. And that new Doctor looked really handsome, didn't he? Not especially after putting on that ghastly tunic though, but certainly so with that elegantly done bow tie and that stylish long purple coat. His eyes were not much different from those of his predecessor, Jack thought. He had found himself thinking about them, and to be honest, not infrequently. The Doctor's sad eyes. The last time had been in fact just a few minutes before, right when he knelt down by the shore of the lake and seen his own reflection in its translucent waters. They were very much alike, the Doctor and him.
The Doctor had many secrets, and so did he. The Doctor had often made the wrong decision, and so had he. The Doctor had lost everything, and several times. So had he.
But both the Doctor and he had always found a way to start over again, and maybe in the Time Lord's sudden request for his assistance lay Jack's true chance for that redemption he needed so desperately.
For washing away his own guilt, if such a thing was possible at all.
These were just the waters of an undistinguished lake in St James's Park, but to him, Captain Jack Harkness, they had suddenly turned into those of the fountain of Bethesda itself.
He spent a few more minutes there, just gliding, then let his arms rest on his sides for a few seconds and started to swim backstroke. A childish smile had appeared on his face, and if a few hours before he had been absolutely certain that no one inside Whitehall Palace could have heard him sing, now however he wasn't so sure that nobody had been able to hear his yells of laughter as he kept propelling himself forward across the lake.
He lost track of time again, but this time because of infinitely more gratifying reasons, and when he finally stepped out of the lake after spending a long while kicking and stroking, something inside him, he had noticed, felt very much like hope. He smiled at that realization and, as if to thank the universe for the turn things were taking, he looked up.
Certainly, the universe might have decided to give him a chance to redeem himself, but whether it had or not, he was in no position to tell yet. What he could definitely tell, then and there, was that, if there was something or someone watching over him, it was still Queen Elizabeth, her hands and forehead now glued to the glass of the same window from which he had seen her spying on him right before his snap decision to have a swim in the lake. Such decision, he suddenly understood, must undoubtedly have contributed to keeping Her Majesty's eager eyes intently fixed upon him for much longer than he had expected.
Indeed, he had never spared her a thought, not for a single moment. He had just acted by instinct. Well, a happy coincidence after all, wasn't it?
Play she would, oh yes.
Turning his smile of delight into one of wickedness, he walked towards the sycamore under which his Renaissance clothes had been piling up all this time. He was in no hurry, that much she would be able to tell, and he slowly started to get dressed, one garment at a time, while humming another song.
He put his stockings and pants on and decided that that was enough for the time being. He crouched down to take the lute from its resting place on the ground and finally sat down next to the rest of his clothes, his back against the tree trunk again.
Then he started to hum a new song as loud as he possibly could.
He specially loved this melody, Puccini's 'Humming Chorus'… It was so serene! He also loved the way the music was being transformed now that it was being played on an instrument as beguiling as the lute, which gave it such an enchanting Renaissance flavour. He couldn't get enough of it! He kept playing and playing, allowing the music to have the ultimate healing effect on him. And all the while, he looked up above and wondered at the leaves that were being delicately grazed by the breeze, at the flocks of birds flying high right above his head, at the billows passing by mildly with their inconceivable and extraordinary shapes as they turned the familiar king of the sky into an opaque and flawless white disc…
He was literally in a rapture when, abruptly, the more than perceptible coughs of someone who couldn't be very far from him interrupted his musings.
Before he knew, Jack had fallen silent, taken his eyes off the wonders that were closer to the skies, and jumped up, holding the lute in his hand and looking open-mouthed at the man that was standing right opposite. Really handsome and attractive, he reckoned, probably in his late forties, very tall and elegantly dressed in which appeared to be fairly expensive clothes. In contrast with his extremely pale complexion, his attire was overly dark, as dark as the roots in his golden blonde hair, which was short and had been combed backwards, revealing a broad forehead and light brown eyebrows, exactly the same colour as his pointy beard and well-trimmed pointy moustache.
What caught Jack's attention the most was the fact that his big brown eyes were as sad as the Doctors'.
Both men stared at one another for a moment until Jack decided to break the silence as he was stricken by the thought that the man's presence in the park could only mean one thing. At long last – a swim in the lake, a nap and a nightmare and who knew how many songs later – the Queen was summoning him and had sent a messenger to fetch him.
"Captain Jack Harkness, and who are you?"
Oh dear… What had happened to his very much rehearsed line 'Lord Boeshane of the Boeshane Peninsula'? What had he just done!?
Still, he thought it best to just act normally in spite of his little mistake.
He reached out his hand with the intention of shaking the newcomer's, but the later stayed put, looking at Jack with his eyes wide open. And didn't Jack understand the meaning of that look…
Repressed lust.
Jack kept reaching out his hand and smiling one of his usual smiles until the stranger finally regained his composure.
"I am profoundly sorry, sir," he said in a sheepish manner. 'I did not mean to intrude or interrupt you. Quite the contrary in fact, so please accept my most sincere apologies." The man didn't even attempt a smile but he shook Jack's hand firmly without hesitation. "I am also sorry that I did not catch your name, sir."
A relief indeed.
"I'm Lord Boeshane of the Boeshane Peninsula," said Jack with a bow. He loved the daintiness of the movement of his arms so much that he would decidedly bow whenever he had a chance. "Okay, let's go in, you can tell me who you are and all there is to know about yourself while we're on our way."
Jack turned away from the very confused man and walked towards the rest of his clothes to finish getting dressed.
"Are you… going my way, sir?" the stranger asked, perplexed.
"Well," answered Jack, beaming, "I might be a bit busy for the next few hours but I'm sure we can arrange something private for later."
After a moment of silence, the man went on.
"I am afraid I need to apologise again, sir, but I feel I must ask you a question. Have we met before?"
"I don't think so, no."
"And yet you seem to know where I… Oh, I see," the man interjected, his eyes darkening as they narrowed. "It's the Queen, isn't it, sir? She has requested your services so that you can spy on me."
Wow, so they had a common friend. Better and better!
'What?" asked Jack, doing his best to sound insulted. "No! I haven't met the Queen in my life, sir, and I'm not one of her spies! I just… I just met one of her maids earlier this morning, right here in the park, and she said I should sing for the Queen! So here I am, waiting for news from her, that's all!"
"One of the Queen's maids, you said?" the man asked, arching his eyebrow. "What was her name?"
"I don't know, sir, she didn't tell me."
"Was she old?"
"A lady is never old, sir," Jack replied, seriously enjoying this.
"Answer my question, sir, I beg you!" asked the man, a bit flustered. "Was she old?"
"She was not… Young, sir." Jack was determined to tease him just as much as he could.
"Oh, there you go! Old habits die hard, don't they?" the stranger muttered.
Jack suddenly felt quite curious about this stranger who seemed to know Queen Elizabeth so very well, but he decided not to push it.
"Well," the man went on, his voice full of sarcasm, "if that expects the Queen to have the condescension of meeting you today, then good luck to you, sir! I sincerely hope you will be more fortunate than I was."
"Were you expecting to speak to the Queen today, sir?" asked Jack, in an attempt to find out how intimately this man knew Queen Elizabeth.
"I was supposed to have an audience with her today, sir. An audience I had been begging for her to grant me for months and months! My brother-in-law does not like me, sir, not one bit, but nonetheless he can vouch for that, as can every single one of her closest friends. Then the day finally comes, and when I get to Whitehall Palace, she won't see me – she's indisposed!"
Some indisposition, Jack thought.
An unexpected voice came from a few metres away.
"Excuse me, sir," he said. Jack and his recent acquaintance turned their heads and saw a short man who, this time, really looked like a servant. "Are you Lord Boeshane, sir? Of the Boeshane Peninsula?"
And beyond the shadow of a doubt, the man was addressing Jack.
"Yes I am, sir."
"Then Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England shall see you now, sir."
"Thank you, sir. I'm on my way."
The man bowed and politely turned back, waiting for Jack to be roaring to go. Jack then turned to the other man, who was looking at him with lots of unanswered questions in his eyes – and possibly a tiny little bit of fury as well.
"Well well… How fortunate for you, Lord Boeshane. Have a good day!" said the man exasperatedly, then he turned away from Jack and motioned towards the lake. He had only taken a few steps before Jack, who had immediately followed him, grabbed his arm.
"Sir, I'm really sorry…" he apologised. "If you would tell me your name, it would be a pleasure to speak to the Queen on your behalf and help you arrange a new meeting with her."
"Oh, she knows exactly who I am and also who I could have been had Her Most Gracious Majesty not… Kidnapped me!" the man screamed, going ballistic. "She does not need to be reminded of me, sir. That is my curse, but it also is hers. I shall come again tomorrow, you tell her that if you want to."
The man turned away again and went on his way at a much faster pace. This time, Jack didn't try to stop him, but his curiosity about that man was nowhere near being satisfied at all, especially not after his recent outburst.
"Are you ready to go now, sir?" asked the other man from behind the trees. Jack turned to him and nodded, and he had just taken a few steps towards him when he asked the question that was burning in his throat.
"Tell me, sir, who's that man? Had you seen him before?"
"Indeed I had, sir. And not only once, but many times. I have practically known all my life. He used to live at court when he was younger."
"Then please, tell me, who is he?"
The man cleared his throat before he answered.
"He is Edward de Vere, sir, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford."
"Oh, I see…"
Edward de Vere, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford? Had the Doctors not mentioned him? Jack would've sworn they had, and in fact very soon the memory instantly hit him.
The Earl of Essex is no longer the Queen's favourite, neither is the Earl of Oxford, and Sir Walter Raleigh will probably be in America right now.
The Doctor had mentioned the Earl of Oxford as one of the people who had at some point in their lives been intimately connected to Queen Elizabeth I, then. But who was the Earl of Oxford?
Who was he, really? Edward de Vere?
Given the circumstances, Jack had to pretend that he had heard about the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford before so that the servant who was accompanying him right now wouldn't find him to be suspiciously ignorant of the titles of the most remarkable people at court.
And yet, the truth actually was that he had absolutely no idea who Edward de Vere was.
