The Fool's Mirror Read online

  The Fool’s Mirror

  Alex Dylan

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  The Fool’s Mirror

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Copyright Information

  Acknowledgements

  Disclaimer

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: A Bad Beginning

  Chapter 2: Double Dealing

  Chapter 3: Ordered Splendour

  Chapter 4: A Dangerous Stretch

  Chapter 5: Birds of a Feather

  Chapter 6: The Cost of Living

  Chapter 7: Across the Sea

  Chapter 8: Business as Usual

  Chapter 9: The Beginning of the End

  Chapter 10: Checkmate

  Chapter 11: The Devil’s in the Detail

  Chapter 12: Star-Crossed Lovers

  Chapter 13: Hangman Blind

  Chapter 14: Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

  Chapter 15: Ghosts from the Past

  Chapter 16: Imprisoned Endeavour

  Chapter 17: Best Laid Plans

  Chapter 18: A Towering Failure

  Chapter 19: Trial by Ordeal

  Chapter 20: The Looping Road

  Epilogue: Somewhere Towards the Edges of the Map

  About the Author

  Alex Dylan spent her childhood discovering the secrets of Carlisle Castle. The Borders were home for a number of years until wanderlust overtook her. Now she roams in secret between the shadow and the soul, currently in Middle Earth.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my English teacher, Ken Gambles, who first introduced me to Shakespeare and the injustices of the 17th century by making me Shylock’s defence council.

  “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © Alex Dylan (2019)

  The right of Alex Dylan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788232043 (Paperback)

  ISBN 9781788232050 (Hardback)

  ISBN 9781788232067 (Kindle e-book)

  ISBN 9781528953191 (ePub e-book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published (2019)

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

  25 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5LQ

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the help of a snatchier diplomat who thinks he once was a reiver and without whom this book might never have been possible. He gave generously of his time to be my chauffeur and guide in the Borders. I’d like to imagine that he’ll read this book and think that it was worthwhile. We had some good laughs about the lengths to which I’ll go to pursue the accuracy of my research and I enjoyed his poetry and company. Together we bested the Beeftub and stormed Hermitage Castle. They say only a true reiver can spend the night there but since his wife won’t let him stay out after dark, we continue to speculate as to his heritage.

  Thanks must go to John ‘mad Irish’ Desmond, who enacted several of the scenes with me to check whether they were feasible. From dancing to duelling, he has been my willing partner, opponent or accomplice, as the situation required. I have a new appreciation for his abiding interest in weaponry and warmongering, and if I have made any mistakes, they are my errors, not his. Thank you also to the staff and curators of the Royal Armouries in Leeds for answering so many of my questions about snaphaunce pistols and demonstrating 17th century swordplay.

  Mention must go to all my beta readers and tweeps who queried the details and offered suggestions. I hear your scepticism but honestly, fantastical as it may be, I didn’t make it all up and most parts are genuine history!

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Carlisle Castle, English Borders, Feast of St Agnes – January 1603

  The package presented itself as a problem. The courier was newly dead, his message whispered softly in passing. Harried by an unknown enemy, he’d made it as far as the castle on the border before succumbing to his injuries. Now she had to make a decision and was in need of answers. She shuffled anxiously. The high-slit window watched her slantedly with curious scepticism. Its bitter breath made the candle gutter, wavering with her own hesitancy. They were making her nervous, and she didn’t like it. She wanted to be certain of what the future held.

  She lifted her eyes to see them once more, ranged in front of her, the group of fighting men led by the fiery knight; he who rode the pale horse, always restless; a rash man who preferred action to careful planning. His business partner, the many-layered man who dominated their relationship; he held the scales of power in his hands. Could she trust either?

  There were other thieves who tried to conceal themselves but she saw through them. She held the world upturned in her hands; cattle, men, hawks and wildness. She turned the last card and exhaled gently, her breath blossoming into the cold room.

  Three, Seven and Knight of Swords. Loss, change, unpredictability.

  The Five of Wands. Conflicting demands.

  The Six of Pentacles. Stability bought by the highest bidder.

  The World, reversed. A woman losing her grip, clouding the future.

  And finally, Death. Clearing away the old, bringing in the new. Death preceded every beginning. That was her answer.

  Richmond Palace, London, January 1603

  Insomnia made her short-tempered. This woman was also impatient to know what the future held and too important to be kept waiting. She refused to sit and stood impassively with her back to her scryer, tapping her foot to encourage him to make haste. Dr John Dee, scientist, alchemist and conjurer of angels, gazed uncowed into his obsidian disc; his quiet admonishment carried all the way up to a private gallery, where the watchers observed discretely from behind a pierced screen.

  “Madam, I apologise, but, as I have mentioned before, my task would be so much easier had my books and instruments not been looted from my house when I was elsewhere engaged on Your Majesty’s behalf, searching for the key to…”

  She cut him off before he had a chance to finish, “Yet I still lack what you promised me. No more excuses. I have heard them all from my Lord Cecil; missing couriers, unrest in the Borders, plot and counterplot. How much paraphernalia does it take for you to commune with angels? Perhaps it would be more expedient if I send you to heaven to talk to them directly.”

  There was moment’s pause before her brittle laugh. She waved a hand at him, still without looking. “Continue. You will prevail. My confidence is always with you.” As an afterthought, she glanced quickly upwards and said more loudly, “Or do you yet counsel me to broker peace with the old enemy?”

  On the gallery they withdrew to deeper shadow and a whispered conversation. “Was that gibe aimed at you?”

  Robert Cecil, the queen’s wily first minister gave a wry smile and shook his head. “Perhaps, Her Majesty gro
ws ever more fearful for the future.”

  “Will he dare tell her if he sees death?” asked his companion.

  “I urge caution, sir, before you speak with me of such things. You and I both know that to speculate on the queen’s health in any way is to invite treason.”

  “You will forgive me, my Lord Cecil, but after these many long years spent away from court, I have grown accustomed to the Northerners’ blunt ways of speaking. I recommend their directness to you. We have little time, and my concern in all of this is the security of Her Majesty’s realm. I feel I must press you to enquire as to whether she has yet decided upon a successor, or at least given thought to my suggestion to refortify Hadrian’s Wall.”

  Cecil tugged at his beard as he considered his response. Sir Robert Carey did indeed have much experience as a March Warden in the hinterlands of the Borders, the rugged landscape at the edges of Elizabeth’s England that was also a buffer for the wild excesses that marked Scotland. It was England’s last defence against the threat of invasion from the north; a threat that felt ever-present and very real. However, Carey’s return to the court at Richmond was not a mark of his current favour with the queen, rather an indication of his own remarkable timing and talent for self-preservation. Cecil reminded himself too that Carey had many relations in royal service who kept him well-supplied with gossip and intelligence. As if aware of his thoughts, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting glanced up at the gallery briefly. Cecil squared himself.

  “Her Majesty has not yet seen fit to confirm a preference with regard to her northern concerns. When she does so, no doubt she will advise us both in the fullness of her gracious time.”

  “Come, come, Lord Cecil, there is no need to be so coy. I know you have your own intelligencers. You must have some indication. All we need to know is which of her Stewart cousins she intends to settle on.”

  “We?” enquired Cecil. “Whose interests are aligned with your own, Sir Robert?”

  Carey smoothed the nap of his velvet court costume. It was one of the most expensive items in his wardrobe, and his tailor would require payment soon. He’d dressed with care to impress Cecil. Sir Robert needed assurances that he could afford to spend his money on the finer things in life, rather than on fortifications and armaments. “Nothing escapes you, does it? Tell me that you have not already considered that Arbella Stewart would be a fine young queen, who could be persuaded by the Council. She is English and Protestant. Transition would be smooth. England would continue to be governed by an English queen. Scotland can keep its own king. Things would stay the way they are. The Borders would hold.”

  “Yet others feel it would be better to offer the crown to James of Scotland straightaway, rather than risk the Scots overrunning England in pursuit of their claim, which – I feel bound to point out – is every bit as valid as Arbella’s,” Cecil smiled encouragingly.

  “A Scots king whose own mother was executed for treason? A Catholic treason against the crown of England?” Sir Robert was indignant.

  “James is Protestant but also advocates religious tolerance. It might be enough to appease Rome and its allies in Spain and Ireland. War is not good for the country; it costs too much.” Cecil frowned, mentally counting coin.

  “Then don’t start another in the Borders,” Sir Robert said bluntly. “If the king comes south, what’s to stop the Scottish lords making their own play for power and wresting the throne of Scotland away? And who’s to say that the English people will even accept a foreign king? James could find himself betwixt thrones and able to hold on to neither. I am not the only one whose lands lie between two nations. What concerns one must concern us all.”

  “Are you warning me or threatening me, Sir Robert?” Cecil asked, his tone mingling affront and menace. “The Lords of the Marches must continue to hold firm against the Scots and any others who would foment trouble.”

  Sir Robert was quick to answer. “The Scots are sure to exploit any weakness but the Border reivers are a more pressing concern. They’ve been making mischief all winter long. You can’t pay them all to fight for you as mercenaries in the Low Countries and Ireland. You might distract some for a while with gold, but you cannot buy their fealty. They own to none but themselves. Perhaps you should ask Doctor Dee to hex them, destroy them the same way as he did the Armada?”

  Cecil twisted his mouth into a smile, amused at the notion. “My father told me they did try once before, at the urging of Cardinal Wolsey, no less. It was some time ago, mind. A great curse against the reivers, proclaimed by Archbishop Dunbar himself.”

  “In that case, permit me the observation that magic seems to be more efficacious than religion in the matters both of cursing and winning wars. We should consider petitioning Her Majesty to elevate Doctor Dee to the Church. And if I were you, I’d have a care for my own office. You could find yourself dismissed in very short order,” Carey replied tartly and bowed himself out, soft court slippers making no noise on the polished floor as he turned on his heel.

  Cecil waited until he was sure that Carey was gone. Only then did he address himself to the darkest corner. “Your assessment?”

  “Why does Her Majesty set her magician to look for a key? What have you lost, Lord Cecil?”

  Cecil rubbed at his eyes. “A source of distraction, nothing more. Treason is bothersome. Is Carey to be trusted?”

  His companion smiled evenly. “For all his pretty manners, Sir Robert is a Borderer at heart. True to oursel’, mastered by none. Yes, I’d trust him.”

  Cecil nodded. “I share his concerns, but there’s an old proverb. ‘He who would England win, must with Ireland first begin’. You know the temperament of the Irish better than most. Perhaps your arguments do have merit and some careful diplomacy is required.”

  The other bowed politely in acknowledgement.

  “We will have more talk on these matters,” Cecil decided, dismissing him.

  Cecil continued to watch the queen’s back. “Your Majesty must know that I act in earnest and trust that I am not too late,” he whispered as he too excused himself from her presence, diminishing once more into the shadows.

  Holyrood House, Scotland, January 1603

  His Highness James VI of Scotland held a letter in his hand. It contained a sensitive conundrum, so he was thoughtful as he composed his reply. “Say this, numbers only, no names,” he instructed his most trusted clerk, “I wouldn’t want my dear cousin or her many spies to get wind of this. She might be disinclined to believe my innocence a second time, and she has an unforgiving nature,” he rubbed his neck gingerly. "Continue…

  “‘My dearest 10, if indeed the chatelaine holds the key, I am encouraged by your good counsel and will continue in my endeavours to win her heart, if you will but do the same.’”

  “Highness,” interrupted his clerk with the warning growl of a watchdog, “if you don’t push my Lord Cecil for more overt support or at the very least, the means with which to buy it, then others will surely persuade the queen to name a different, more English, successor.”

  James scowled, “Nay, nay, I’ll make no rash demands, I mind whit ye say but Cecil needs small encouragements.” He waved impassively for the clerk to continue, “‘In the matter of tolerance, I would not sully my conscience with bloodshed for diversity of opinion, whether for spiritual or secular gain. But while I would be sorry that Catholics should so multiply as to practice their old principles upon us, I have yet no intention of persecution of the divisions of two peoples.’”

  He broke off and spoke earnestly, “I must have a united kingdom. Will those pretty words please Cecil, aye do ye ken?”

  His clerk shook his head, “With all due respect, Highness, it isn’t just Cecil you need to woo.”

  “Och, I know,” said James petulantly. “I need Ralegh and his ships. Cecil hates him, calls him a ‘hedgehog’, but somehow I have to get them into bed together, pricks or nae.” He smiled perniciously, “Ralegh was ever more a wolf than a hedgehog.”

  �
��Wolf or wolf’s head?” queried his clerk quietly, without looking up from his scribing.

  “Pish! The whole border is overrun with wolves’ heads; reivers, bandits, outlaws, where’s the difference?” James asked, shaking an outraged finger at the clerk. "I’ll tell ye; the thieving border bastards go back and forth, growing fat by robbing one another. They mind nae master and mind no heed. Ralegh bends the knee to his queen and surrenders the spoils. Now, there’s a man worth knowing. A wolf he might be, but is he a wolf with a treasure of golden secrets that he’ll share?

  “D’ye ken whit the trouble is? There’s nae true nobility in the north. The so-called lords are just a diabolical collection of wicked plotters. They rage up and down the Marches, chasing shadows with ne’er a penny to show for it.”

  “Or maybe just not a penny they’re prepared to share,” said the clerk thoughtfully.

  James nodded, "Aye, you may have the right of it there. No matter, I will be king. I will have a united kingdom. It’ll all be mine. Until then, the wolves can rip each other’s throats out and save me the bother.

  “Let’s finish what we’ve begun while there’s still time to enjoy the chase. I need to get some heat in my bones, and I cannae spend my days penned up with the wummin. Write ‘You and my trusted 40 have settled me on the one true course,’ sign it ‘30’ and let’s away. Make sure you send that care of our loyal ally, the Duke of Rohan. He’ll see it delivered to Cecil.”

  Chapter 1: A Bad Beginning

  Somewhere in the Scottish Borders

  He knew he was cursed. As were they all. That one curse that had damned them for an eternity. Heughan wondered why he had ever thought that he might manage a whole week without trouble. It was too late for him to make a case legally. In pursuit of trade, he’d been gone more than seven nights already. Long enough for the fire to die down and reveal the blackened remains of everything that had been taken from him; too late to demand a hot trod and redress from the law. The only way he would get satisfaction now was by taking this revenge.