The Fyre Mirror (23 page)
Authors: Karen Harper
Tags: #Fiction - Historical, #Mystery, #16th Century, #England/Great Britain, #Royalty
Surely not Floris hiding there, and never a ghost, though that’s what popped into her mind. Could it be Kat in a huddle of her skirts and petticoats?
Holding her breath, gripping the sword handle and lantern so tightly her fingers cramped, Elizabeth moved down the hall. She saw no rope stretched here to trip her.
Prepared to swing the sword, she lifted the lantern. A pile of linens was heaped here, probably waiting for the laundress. But the gray shaft of light that illumined them came from the ceiling. Through a square hole above, she could see racing clouds trying to obliterate the stars.
Then she saw the ladder, leaned against the wall. So Floris must be on the roof and had called down through this hatch. Staring up, Elizabeth pressed her back so hard against the wall that the dagger at her back pricked her skin through her garments.
“Show yourself and Kat!” Elizabeth called, still not climbing the ladder.
“Coward, come up at once,” Floris ordered, her voice now her own. “If not, Kat will be gone and then I myself—only I shall go across the roof, not fall from it.”
She meant to kill Kat and escape across the roofs of London? Starting with this inn, buildings did abut each other clear into the City itself, so if she started a fire, it could spread. Her pulse pounding in her ears, Elizabeth hooked the lantern over one elbow. Slowly, she climbed the ladder, then lifted the lantern through the hole to the roof. If Floris meant to cut her down, she’d let that take the worst of it.
“Can’t you see the stars up here?” Floris asked. “Put that thing out, or you might accidentally start a fire.”
Annoyed at being taunted but not wanting to vex Floris until she could save Kat, Elizabeth pinched the candle wick out and set the lantern down on the roof. She still did not poke her head through.
“I want proof Kat is up there.”
“Too bad, for she’s not saying much.”
Elizabeth peeked and saw Kat trussed and gagged, wide-eyed, bound to one of four brick chimneys, each of which was slightly smoking, the main one over the hearth below most of all. Floris stood defiantly, arms folded over her breasts, against a chimney about ten feet from the queen. She was garbed all in black with skirts so narrow she must have taken off her petticoats.
“Release her at once!” Elizabeth ordered, and climbed partway up and sat on the roof, still hiding the sword in her riding skirt. She longed to face Floris at her own height, but stayed seated, her feet still on the top rung of the ladder.
Beyond, under the stars, lay the rooftops of London. It gave her heart to see that not only was the entire roof slate shingles, but there was a flat area in the midst of the various gables and slopes. And, thank God, Floris seemed not to have any source of fire, though she did hold a mirror in both hands as if it were a bouquet.
“I will release Kat,” Floris said, “only after we’ve had our talk—our final meeting of minds. You know I have the upper hand, or you would never have risked coming alone.”
Slowly, keeping the sword in the folds of her skirt, Elizabeth climbed up the rest of the way. She prayed she’d have the chance to rush this woman. Kat, who seemed dazed and perhaps not even aware of the situation, was tied by a long rope to the chimney. The queen yearned to cut her loose and get her down the ladder.
“Cecil told you I was back?” she asked Floris.
“No, but I saw your man Jenks knock on your council-room door and rush in quite disheveled and out of breath. I immediately took Kat from the palace, and we entered the inn from the back street. I’ve had everything arranged here for weeks, even before our jaunt to Nonsuch, when I’d thought never to see the area again. But isn’t this a lovely night?” she said, stretching her arms over her head as if lifting the mirror to the heavens. “I can almost believe I’m back at Cuddington.”
“Perhaps on the little hill where your brother had his boyish forts built and where he died so tragically? People just don’t realize, do they, that women are sometimes stronger than the men around them.”
Elizabeth and Floris stared at each other, yet the queen addressed Kat when she saw the old woman had roused to her voice. “Do not be afraid, Kat, for I am here. Floris, why wasn’t it enough for you to make me pay—since you don’t seem to know my father from myself, and your argument must be with him. Why burn those others?”
“You know the answer to that,” she insisted. “Did the power of the Tudors torment me only, or did it crush everyone at Cuddington, not just my brother and parents, but all our workers, retainers, and servants? You are your father’s legacy, and I must deal with that.”
“I deeply regret what happened to Cuddington, but I had no part in that. I am not my father.”
“Just look at you!” she cried, thrusting the glass of the mirror at her, though the distance was too great to catch a reflection. “His hair, his wit, his power and ambition! My mother should have burned all his spawn alive in that tent at Oakham years ago!”
“Your mother … saw the fire at Oakham I told you of?”
“She didn’t start it, because evidently Kat did! But she’d followed you there, hoping for justice on your father when he arrived. She said she saw the three of you playing in the tent, and hoped for the chance to ignite it to kill his son, his heir, in return. And then, before she could bring the king to justice, fire sprouted and you all escaped, and she dared not stay around watching after that. We’ve lain in wait for years, all the time I nursed her in her final illness, and the day she died, I told her I’d take care of it. And then I saw you ordering that your face and form be painted so that your prestige and power would be spread abroad. And I remembered all those artists of your father’s decorating Nonsuch for the Tudor dynasty’s pleasure and glory, where my home and life had been.”
The queen saw that Kat was now not only terrified, but in deep distress, breathing hard, trying to buck against her ties. Sometimes her eyes were closed, other times open and rolling in wild fear. Stepping carefully across the flat center area, going slightly uphill, Elizabeth edged toward Kat. If she could only slice through her ropes with this sword or the knife without hurting her, then get her down through the hole in the roof. That little fall would be better than the three-story one to the cobblestones below. And all the while, she tried to keep a conversation going with Floris.
“You can’t pull this off,” Elizabeth told her. “Whatever you think will be your final revenge will not work. Dench has given you away, and—”
“Do you think any of that matters to me? No more than my brother’s death mattered to your father and his people.”
“I visited Percy’s grave at Cheam. I will see that you are buried there too someday.”
“Someday, like tomorrow, you mean? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But you are lying again, for Dench would never betray me. He’d die first and never mention he helped me burn your portraits and your people.”
“Is that your mother’s mirror? It has no power now, you know, for the curse is spent and done.”
“I suppose you don’t see a bit of fire up here, so you feel safe,” Floris said with a loud sniff. “Didn’t heed the message when Garver the Carver’s cottage went up, did you? Or is it just that you believe you live a charmed life—that no one can conquer you? But I know you fear that your cousin Mary means to claim your throne. At least you will go out in a big blaze, one that will welcome her to claim your kingdom.”
Floris threw the mirror. It hit Elizabeth’s shoulder, bounced off, and smashed into a thousand shards against the slate roof. Floris moved from her spot for the first time, backing away.
As Elizabeth knelt to cut Kat’s cords with the knife, the entire area leaped to light. Where had that been hidden? Then she saw Floris had produced, as if by sleight of hand, a torch.
Floris heaved it sidearm at them. Elizabeth tried to kick it away, but it caught Kat’s skirts. The queen stomped out the flames while Kat bucked and moaned through her gag. She should not have cut Kat loose until she had beaten Floris.
She only had time to pull Kat’s gag away to let her breathe better. Hefting Jenks’s sword with both hands, knees bent, she advanced on Floris. Not for the first time in her life did she wish she had been tutored in the manly arts as well as in her book studies.
The woman scrambled away. For one moment, Elizabeth thought—hoped—she might fall off the roof, but she pulled out yet another torch from a smoking chimney. Elizabeth gasped when she saw that it had been suspended within by wires and was capped with an iron hood with holes poked in it. Floris knocked away its hood against the chimney, then waved the smoldering head, which burst, like magic worthy of Dr. Dee, into bright flames.
Floris swept this one too in a broad arc toward the queen, then came at her. Elizabeth swung the sword; it cut into the head of the torch; sparks flew like fireworks. Holding the queen at bay with the torch, Floris pulled out yet a third one from another chimney.
Each fighting for firm footholds on the shingles, they feinted and parried, sword against the torches. Despite the wind, the mist finally had risen to this height; the slate was slightly slippery underfoot. Elizabeth’s arms were exhausted, yet fury stoked her strength.
“There, on the roof of the inn!” came a man’s cry from below. Jenks? “Fire—figures! See, my lord?”
“That’s them!” another voice echoed, Cecil’s she was sure. “Get men up there and clear the building!”
Elizabeth shuffled nearer the edge of the roof to see who had gathered. “Up here!” she screamed, not taking her eyes from her enemy. “You see, Flavia Mooring,” Elizabeth goaded, hoping she’d step to the edge, “you’ve done me the great favor of summoning my men.”
“Then I shall do myself the great favor of permanently separating them from you.”
Elizabeth thought Floris would rush her with her double torches again, but instead, she dropped one down through the roof hatch. Almost instantly, flames leaped up to cut them off from the hall below. That pile of linens, Elizabeth thought. Had she even put those there? Through the hatch she heard male muffled voices, but could the men beat out those flames? Again, the fire-mirror murderer had started a blaze at the top, and it would burn both up and down.
“This roof won’t ignite!” Elizabeth shouted as Floris came at her, swinging the last torch. The shards of her broken mirror gritted under her feet as she charged the queen, screaming, “You will burn in hell with all the Tudors, and I’ve one more torch waiting to burn all Lond—”
Elizabeth dropped to her elbows and knees upon the roof. Torch flaming in her hand, Floris skidded on the broken glass, hit Elizabeth, then toppled over her. It seemed as if she threw herself into the starry sky. Black skirts flapping like strange wings, she simply disappeared. She did not cry out, but Elizabeth heard a warning shout below and then the thud as she hit the cobbled street.
But she had no time to look over the side again. Not only did the tongues of flame vault up through the roof hatch, but smoke now belched out the two nearest chimneys. Soon the wooden trusses and beams holding up this heavy slate roof would burn, and all of this would collapse into one roaring inferno.
She ran to Kat, who had huddled in a ball when Floris had begun swinging her torches. She was trembling, but breathing, as Elizabeth grabbed the rope with which Kat had been tied. As best she could, she made sure it was secure around the chimney, then tied it under Kat’s arms. They both hacked from the smoke. The slate shingles were getting hot. She feared the rope wouldn’t reach the ground but it was the best—the only—escape they had.
In a sitting position, pulling the terrified old woman after her, she slid to the edge of the roof, then quickly pulled her feet back. Flames were roaring out of the second story windows; she heard glass shattering, and smoke obscured the view of her men below.
“Jenks! Cecil!” she shrieked. “I wanted to let Kat down on a rope, but these second story flames …” She quit in a fit of coughing even as she sliced Kat free from the rope holding her to the chimney.
“No ropes will work!” Cecil shouted. “We’re getting a wagon with hay for you to jump in! They tell me that’s how Gil survived a fall, and it’s all we have—”
“But I can’t see anything! I can’t see you!”
Behind her the slate roof buckled, then settled and began to fall in with huge, shattering bangs. She gripped Kat to her in a side hug. Even if they died together, there was no one else she’d rather hold to.
“You’re queen,” Kat suddenly spoke, her voice amazingly calm. “You’re queen now, and you must save yourself. You survived to be queen, lovey, and I’m so proud of you.”
Elizabeth burst into tears. To have Kat back at the last moment amidst this smoke, the flames … “There’s a big hay wain here!” Jenks’s strong voice shouted.
“Jump to my voice because I’m right beside it. When you jump, sit down in the air. Jump now, my lady!”
Dear Jenks, still carrying on the charade. Though she had loved her family, they had never really loved her, except maybe poor Edward. But it was these loyal servants—and her people—she cherished.
“Doesn’t that boy know you’re queen now?” Kat asked, holding even tighter to her.
The queen almost laughed in her hysteria, but Kat’s heavy head hit her shoulder, spurring her to action.
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