stream which climbed to the ceiling. Lifting her young face, Lady Mary saw the dense cloud spread ever wider overhead and still the vapour poured upward, fogging the air with a purple fume.
The bedchamber was now filled with swirling smoke. Roused from her prayers by the sweet, peppery scent, Mistress Ashley glanced around her, then turned to the physicians, now vague and indistinct through the mounting reek.
“Too much!” she cried, placing a hand before her mouth and coughing. “What mischief is this?”
The strangers said nothing. Full of ire and indignance, Katherine Ashley attempted to rise, yet a sudden fatigue cramped her legs and darkness was creeping into her mind. Before she could stand, the woman was sprawled across the floor.
“Mistress Ashley!” Lady Mary called, but she could do nothing to help her. In a moment she too had collapsed, and the last image she saw was that of the two mysterious strangers towering over her.
A moment later the incense burner was stifled and the physicians finally removed their wet garments. Hurriedly they cast the heavy cloaks from their shoulders, threw the broad-brimmed hats aside and tore away their gloves. Whipped by these frantic movements, the livid vapour eddied about their large heads as two inhuman faces turned to the prostrate form upon the bed.
“The Bishop of Rome was more easily garnered,” one of them said. “She has proven a most difficult cull.”
Stepping over Lady Mary’s body, his companion placed long, nailless fingers upon the Queen’s throat. “We may yet lose Her,” he answered, his protruding brow crinkling with doubt. As he spoke, the jewels which studded a golden circlet he wore around his wide neck sparkled. “Come, Arvel!” he called in concern. “This sickness is worse than I feared.”
Taking a small, delicate instrument from the apothecary box, the other hastened to his side and cast a critical glance over Elizabeth’s ashen features. “Time enough,” he judged, directing his violet eyes to the device in his hands. Holding it up against the candlelight he examined the glass filaments at its centre and pressed his thin grey lips together with satisfaction.
“Detachment,” he grunted. “That’s what you need, Bosco-Uttwar. Always fretting about them, will they live, will they die? As if it matters after we’ve called. Oh, look at that embroidery – such intricate workmanship!”
His assistant ignored the frivolous remark. He was agitated and nervous, for the life of the Queen and for their own safety. “But if there is not enough living harvest,” he said, “all our endeavours will have been for nothing. What use will the scheme be without Her?”
Arvel took a deep, composing breath; Bosco-Uttwar had never really learned to enjoy himself on these expeditions. “I assure you there is more than enough healthy matter for our great purpose,” he declared. With that, his slim frame stooped over the bed and he pressed the tip of the instrument against the dying woman’s forehead.
Bosco-Uttwar watched in silence. He had seen the procedure a thousand times before. A faint glow began to travel along the glass filaments and, when one tiny vessel was full, the device was placed above Elizabeth of England’s heart. The pale radiance increased and a second phial began to shine.
Upon her pillows, the Queen stirred in her fever. “Kat?” she mumbled. “Kat, where are you?”
“Lift Her arm from under that beautiful coverlet,” Arvel instructed.
Pulling back the embroidered cloth, his assistant saw that the bed linen was drenched with sweat, and the wrist he grasped was clammy and cold.
“Sweet Robert?” the frail woman asked. “Is that you? Where are my own dear Eyes?”
“Delirium,” Arvel said, pushing the instrument into her shivering palm.
Holding that fragile hand, Bosco-Uttwar stroked the elegant, tapering fingers of which the Queen had always been so proud. At that moment her eyes blinked open and the dark, wild pupils stared up at the flat-faced creatures bending over her. With her last strength she wrenched her hand away and cried out.
“Lords of Hell!”
But her voice was a cracked gasp and no one outside the room heard her. The exertion had spent her final force and she slumped back on to the pillows, her shallow breaths gradually failing.
“And so she dies,” Arvel observed, moving to where Mistress Ashley lay upon the floor. “The attendants as well, I think. We must be thorough. I hope the box is recording everything in sufficient detail – have you seen those miniatures over there? Exquisite. They’re so inventive, aren’t they? Give the box a tap, would you, just to make certain.”
Diligently he commenced the same procedure but, while those glass phials pulsed and shone, Bosco-Uttwar remained at the Queen’s side, struggling with his conscience.
“Arvel,” he said at last. “I’m going to save Her.”
“Ridiculous,” came the pert reply. “As soon as I have garnered what we need from the other female we must be gone. We are not charged to deny them death. Garner and record, that’s all.”
“But it is the simplest of remedies.”
Returning Mistress Ashley’s hand to her side, Arvel rose and jabbed a long grey finger at his assistant.
“You showed no such compassion for the Spanish ambassador,” he snapped. “Nor for any of the others. Why now?”
Bosco-Uttwar strode to the apothecary box and avoided the accusing stare of his superior. “Perhaps I have seen too many of them die,” he muttered, removing a small paper packet and returning to the bedside. “This one at least I shall cure.”
“I forbid it!” Arvel commanded, the jewels shining at his throat. “Such healing will be viewed as a miracle here.”
Bosco-Uttwar was not listening. From the packet he took a tiny soft disc and pressed it against the skin behind the Queen’s ear. “It is done,” he said quietly. “Her Majesty will recover.”
“You overreach yourself!” Arvel spat in outrage. “Her true life is yet to begin, far from here. That is where Her real destiny lies, that is what matters – not this ephemeral sphere.”
The assistant crouched next to Mistress Ashley and fingered another disc.
“No more!” Arvel protested. “You interfere too much.”
“She has been exposed to the infection,” Bosco-Uttwar said simply. “You had best garner the Lady Sidney before I put the remedy upon her.”
Infuriated by his assistant’s irresponsible behaviour, Arvel pressed the glass instrument to Lady Mary’s brow. But the woman groaned and turned her head away. Again he tried, but she squirmed and pushed the device from her.
“I cannot continue,” Arvel declared. “She will awaken if I persist.”
With a third small disc ready in his hand, Bosco-Uttwar came forward.
“No time for that,” Arvel warned, irritably knocking the cure from his assistant’s fingers and snatching the packet away. “She is reviving too soon. We must be gone. Don your outer garments – quickly.”
Returning everything to the apothecary box, he swept up his rain-sodden cloak and hat. Unhappily his assistant did the same and presently their outlandish features were concealed once more.
Pulling on his gloves, Arvel glanced back at the bedchamber and moved towards the door. In the grand room beyond, the councillors were bickering in hushed voices. The babble ceased, however, as soon the physicians emerged, wisps of purple smoke still clinging to the folds of their cloaks. Immediately, Robert Dudley dashed across to push by them, but they would not let him enter.
“An hour must pass before the chamber may be disturbed,” came Arvel’s insistent whisper. “The purgative we have set to smoulder must do its work without interruption.