Quintessence Sky (21 page)

They should have prepared for this, Matthew
realized. They knew someday the Spanish would be back. They had put
all their faith in the protections around the settlement: the
barrier, the alarm bells, their stores of weapons and salt and
mercury and vitriol. Now all of that was lost, and they were
helpless, with no backup plan, no shelter they could run to. They
should have built another settlement, or stored supplies in a cave
somewhere. Of course, they hadn't planned for someone's botched
experiment to destroy the entire colony.

When they reached the farm buildings, Matthew
examined the supplies. No weapons. Some salt. Enough food for a day
or two.

He sat down in the dirt and covered his face.
Quintessence had always been his ally, a willing servant that
brought good to people whenever he touched it. His inventions had
provided food, shelter, safety, and comfort to everyone in the
colony. Now he had destroyed everything he had ever made, and
everything else besides.

Blanca sat with him and put her arm around
his shoulders, but he shook her off. He didn't want comfort. He
wanted to make it right.

CHAPTER 13

RAMOS slept late, having spent most of the
night experimenting in the cellar. He broke his fast with Antonia,
a spread of cheese and fruit and thin bread, and gave her nurse
instructions for the day. It was mid-morning by the time he
descended to the cellar, expecting to find Barrosa already at work.
Barrosa, however, was missing, as was the
Ignis Dei
. Ramos
searched to be certain, but there weren't that many places it could
have been hidden. It was clearly gone.

Only the king or Barrosa could have taken it.
If a thief had discovered the room, he would have taken the gold,
not the
Ignis Dei
, which was useless at any rate without one
of the pearls they kept in their pouches. Ramos felt a chill.
Barrosa would only take it on the king's orders, and if the king
took it, it was because he planned to use it. But for what? Was it
valuable as a weapon after all? If he had just wanted another
demonstration, then why didn't he ask?

Ramos charged back up the stairs and made his
way to the king's privy chambers, a lavish wing of the palace that
also housed the king's menservants and most favored courtiers. The
queen had her own chambers in another wing. He found the
vice-chamberlain, the member of Philip's court responsible for
organizing his schedules, travel arrangements, and paying the
expenses of his retinue.

"Where is his Majesty today?" he asked.

The vice-chamberlain peered through tiny
French half-glasses as if examining a bug. "What is your business
with the king?"

"I am his court astrologer and advisor on
natural philosophy. I have a special commission from His Majesty,
and I need to know where he is."

The vice-chamberlain pressed his lips
together. He shifted papers on his desk from one pile to another.
"Are you a member of the king's privy council?"

"No. I just told you, I'm . . ."

"Are you on the king's medical staff or a
member of the nobility above the rank of earl?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"This is my job, sir. Only certain people are
permitted to know the king's location."

Ramos pounded the corner of the desk. The
Spanish government was full of people like this. King Philip ruled
his kingdom through a vast bureaucracy that generated enough paper
to fill the English Channel, all of it managed by minor
functionaries who guarded their fiefdoms with weasel-like ferocity.
Each of them considered themselves indispensible to the running of
the empire, and none would share information if they had an excuse
to withhold it.

He tried another tack. "What about the court
secretary? Juan Barrosa? Are his whereabouts so tightly
protected?"

The vice-chamberlain shifted papers
again—Ramos could have sworn he moved the same stack back to its
original location—and cleared his throat. "What is your business
with His Majesty's secretary?"

Ramos leaned forward. "Listen," he said. "In
about a minute, I'm going to push all your papers off of this desk
and scatter them on the floor. That is, unless you can give me a
straight answer to this very simple question. Do you know where
Barrosa is?"

The vice-chamberlain swallowed. He opened and
closed his mouth a few times, then said, "He went to Smithfield.
For the execution of the Protestant conspirator."

"Thank you," Ramos said with a short bow.
"You've been most helpful."

He strode quickly away, heading for the
stables where he could saddle a horse.

"The king will hear of this!" the
vice-chamberlain shouted at his back.

SMITHFIELD was a large, grassy clearing,
lovely compared to the mud and filth of most of London. It had been
used for jousting tournaments for centuries, and once every year it
transformed into a fairground, with rows of tents, mummers,
jugglers, sword-swallowers, minstrels, and hordes of laughing
children. It was also an execution ground. A generation ago, those
saints of the faith who had refused to acknowledge Henry VIII as
the head of the church had been burned alive here for their
resolve.

Mary had been continuing this tradition as of
late, only she was executing Protestant heretics instead of the
faithful of the True Church. John Rogers had been the first,
executed back in February, for preaching heresy day after day in
St. Paul's Cross. Despite many warnings, he had made reference to
"pestilent Popery, idolatry, and superstition" before a large
crowd, and had earned himself quick passage to the fires of hell
for his blasphemy.

The criminal to be executed today was even
worse, a Bible translator named Charles Shiveley, who not only
preached insidious doctrines, but called on Englishmen to cast
Queen Mary aside in favor of her Protestant sister, Elizabeth.
Heresy and treason both.

When Ramos arrived at the field, hundreds
were already gathered, lining the path down which Shiveley would
take his final walk. The sky was bright and clear, with a strong
wind blowing out of the east. Soldiers held back the crowd, and
Woodroofe, the sheriff, trotted up and down the grounds on
horseback, scanning the crowd worriedly.

Shiveley's wife was there along with her ten
children, the older ones holding or helping the younger, waiting
for Shiveley to appear. Mrs. Shiveley held the littlest girl
herself, a tiny thing no more than three, and murmured in her
ear.

In the execution yard, a stout pole with a
crossbar had been driven into the ground. The pole was a
freshly-stripped green, but the ground around it was blasted black
from prior execution fires. Two carts of logs and kindling were
trundled into the yard, and men began to stack wood in heaps around
the pole. The brisk wind ruffled Ramos's hair.

On the other side of the crowd, sitting high
on a curtained dais, were the king and queen. Philip reclined in a
high-backed, lacquered chair, a small smile on his face, watching
the crowd. Mary had eyes only for her rounded belly, which she
patted and stroked incessantly. A coterie of maidservants followed
her everywhere now, making sure she was comfortable, offering food
and drink, helping her to walk as delicately as possible so as not
to harm the all-important child. She was withdrawing from public
life more and more as her son grew. Officially, Mary was the
monarch of England, and Philip only her husband, but she adored
Philip and yielded power to him as she readied herself for her
anticipated role as mother of the prince. Before long, she would go
into her confinement in preparation for the birth and leave the
ruling of the kingdom entirely to him.

This execution was, of course, happening at
Philip and Mary's command, but Ramos was surprised they had
actually come to witness it. Maybe Shiveley was more important or
influential than he'd realized. And where was Barrosa? Ramos
couldn't reach the dais through the tightly packed crowd. He would
have to wait until the execution was over.

Woodroofe spurred his horse down the path and
met a group of soldiers advancing the other way. The crowd waited,
restless but not loud. Some children, oblivious to the morning's
grave occasion, darted across the path, chasing each other and
laughing. Ramos scanned faces, looking for any he recognized. So
many people. He guessed that few of them actually knew Shiveley, or
cared about him. They had come to see the spectacle.

A moment later, Woodroofe stepped aside,
revealing Shiveley, barefoot and chained, and the crowd roared to
life. Many did call words of consolation and strength to him, but
many more elbowed their neighbors and pointed and laughed. Shiveley
held himself straight despite obvious physical weakness, and began
his walk to the stake, singing the Psalm Miserere.

They stopped him when he reached his wife.
She stood clutching her family and weeping, but he gazed at her
with a determined calm. Woodroofe said, "Even now, sir, if you will
but recant . . ." He had a showman's eye for drama, positioning
Shiveley just out of reach of his weeping family. His wife tried to
reach him, but the soldiers held her back. Shiveley turned aside
and continued his march. His wife screamed his name. At the pole,
he took his place, allowing them to shackle his hands behind him
without a word of complaint.

Ramos had seen it before, but he still found
it hard to understand. What drove such a man? How could he hold to
heresy with such a stubborn and evil will? The man knew what was
coming, and that was just a taste of what would follow for all
eternity. Why would he not recant?

Across the yard, Ramos spotted the triangular
beard and slight frame of Juan Barrosa, bustling back and forth
behind a screen, conferring with servants. A creeping feeling of
dread gripped him. Something was amiss. He renewed his efforts to
circle around and reach the dais.

When Shiveley was secure, Woodruffe raised
his voice above the crowd and the wind. "Charles Shiveley, you are
convicted of denying the Christian character of the Church of Rome
and the real presence of the sacrament, and of plotting to
overthrow her Majesty, Queen Mary, in favor of her sister, the
Princess Elizabeth. For this, your body is to burn to serve as a
warning, to those who watch, that the greater fires of Hell
await."

"It waits for you, Woodruffe!" a man's voice
shouted. A soldier pushed into the crowd, but the man who had
spoken was already gone.

"Hold! A pardon from the queen!" A soldier
ran up to Woodruffe and held out a parchment to him. Woodruffe read
it and then raised it above his head, fighting to keep hold of it
in the gusting wind, until the crowd quieted.

"I hold here a pardon for Charles Shiveley,
signed and sealed by Her Majesty, the Queen," Woodruffe said.

Ramos was surprised, thinking at first that
the man had truly been pardoned, but then he recognized the ruse.
This was no free offer. The deception annoyed him. There was no
need to battle heresy with lies.

Woodruffe held the flapping paper out to
Shiveley. "Only revoke your abominable defamation of the Holy
Sacrament and swear eternal fealty to Mary, your queen, and you
shall live."

Shiveley stared at the paper, and for a
moment, Ramos thought he would relent. Then he lifted his eyes to
the sheriff's, and spoke in a bold voice that reverberated through
the yard. "My fealty belongs first to God, whose glory I shall soon
see. Second, to Elizabeth, the trueborn Queen of England!"

The crowd roared, and it was impossible to
tell whether more of them shouted against his words or in favor of
them.

"So be it," Woodruffe said. He opened his
fingers, and the paper fluttered out of his hand, dancing
erratically out over the crowd. He gestured, and a man stepped
forward with a torch to light the fire.