The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) (13 page)

29.

The Hoe

Plymouth, England

July 22, 1588

Early Morning

John Dee Looked down from the chalky cliffs across the now empty harbor. To the west, Cornwall was a hulking mass in the morning’s haze across water now shimmering with the early light. Yesterday, when Dee had arrived, the port below had been a forest of ships’ masts.

It had taken him nearly a week of bad (or non-extant) roads to travel the one hundred thirty miles from London, even with sections of the Saxon salt road and remnants of those of Roman origin stretching to the edge of their empire in Britain. The inns were execrable, their landlords larcenous when he had presented the requisition for billeting bearing the queen’s seal. Small wonder with Good Queen Bess’s notoriously slow payment of such warrants.

Still, he had used all haste once he had received her command to be present here. He was unsure of her rationale but knew it unwise to question her. All he knew was he had been summoned to Windsor, the queen’s most easily defended castle, where feverish efforts were underway to further strengthen fortifications dating back to William the Conqueror.

As was normal, he had been ushered into the queen’s privy quarters, in this case a claustrophobic series of dank rooms with such light as could squeeze its way through openings that resembled archers’ slits more than windows. Even the Flemish tapestries on the stone walls did little to deflect Dee’s impression of more dungeon than bedchamber.

He surmised affairs of state had been on her agenda today, for she had abandoned the simple gowns she favored around her intimates. Instead, a diamond and pearl tiara sat atop a sea of red hair carefully plucked back to make the forehead appear high, an indicia of intelligence. A ruff of Flemish lace topped off a velvet gown of brightly colored satin, well padded at the hips.

As he doffed his cap and bowed, Dee had a rare awareness of the humble nature of the clothing he preferred: He wore an ankle length gown at home. Today, wool shirt and doublet, breeches of the same, well splattered with the mud of travel as were the hip high leather boots into which they were stuffed. His gloves were worn thin at the finger tips and he did not wear the Rapier popular at the time, although as gentry, one who practiced the sciences, he was entitled to do so.

“Majesty.”

The queen indicated a young boy in royal livery standing by the door. “Art thou thirsty from the journey from London? ‘Tis but a trifle to have ale, bread, and cheese brought from the kitchen.”

“My thanks, M’lady, but the ale will’st do. The roads are but dust this time of year.”

With a regal gesture from Elizabeth, the servant disappeared.

Gathering her skirts, Elizabeth sat in a velvet upholstered x-frame chair, motioning Dee to a far-less-comfortable three-legged                                                                               turned chair of bare oak. “Our agents have brought word Phillip’s armada prepares to sail from Lisbon.”

Dee said nothing, knowing the queen would tell him what she wanted him to know at her own pace.

“Lord Howard of Effingham is at Plymouth with the fleet. Drake is his second. Hawkins is also there.”

“Your majesty has chosen wisely.”

There was a pause when the servant returned, placing a pewter pot on a chest and departed. Dee rose from his chair and took the vessel in both hands before returning to his seat. The ale was strong and flavored with a fruit he did not recognize.

“We wish thee to go to Plymouth.”

“Madam?”

“Thou foretold that Phillip would attempt such an enterprise when we were forced to send our cousin, the Scottish Queen, to the headsman lest she, in our stead, rule England.”

“She was also a Papist, madam. Rome hath sold indulgences to raise money for the Spanish Fleet in hopes of returning England to the Roman fold.”

But what did the execution of Mary Queen of Scots have to do with Elizabeth’s desire he go to Plymouth?”

“Master Dee, the spirits with whom thou dost commune may do us service in this event. For this reason we wish thee close to the forthcoming conflict.”

At least she had not ordered him aboard the stinking confines of a warship.

“And we also desire you to keep us informed as that conflict progresses.”

“Madam?”

Elizabeth smiled, waving a dismissive hand. “Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher. Even Howard. Brave and loyal subjects, yes. But also braggarts of their own merits. But thou, Master Dee, speaketh the truth of what thou doth observe.”

How very like the queen: send someone to spy on her own commanders, spirits notwithstanding.

So, here Dee was, overlooking an empty harbor. He had arrived yesterday afternoon just in time to watch Drake and two men he did not recognize suffer an interruption to the game of bowls played on the grass where Dee was now standing.

The man wore the uniform of Drake’s men. “Sir Francis!”

Before Drake could acknowledge him, the intruder pointed seaward. “There! The Spanish come!”

                            Dee strained his eyes to that near indefinable point where sky met sea. Were those clouds or sails?

              Drake, a hand shading his eyes, nodded as though in agreement. “Aye, so it is.” He turned to his companions. “But there is time yet to finish our game.”

              And he had.

              This morning, a crowd of perhaps a hundred or so had gathered on the Hoe, that hill behind Plymouth Harbour. Dee could plainly see the Spanish ships, their white sails like a herd of sheep against a blue meadow. Unlike sheep, though, they had formed a crescent formation, the heavier galleys on the points facing the English. An hour ago, they had fired their cannon before trying to come within boarding range. Dee had counted the time between the ships’ disappearance in clouds of smoke and the moment the sound of the guns reached his ears. The measure would give him some idea of how far out to sea the battle was taking place. He estimated somewhere near the Eddy Stone Rocks

                            Guns discharged, the Spanish crescent wheeled in an effort to close upon the English and board. But Howard and Drake would have none of it. Although the wind was less than favorable, the more maneuverable English craft dodged aside, sending broadside after broadside into the larger enemy vessels without visible effect.             

              “Good morrow, Master Dee!”

              Dee turned, uncertain of who had spoken. It took but a second to note the finery, if not foppery, of a young man in his early twenties. The broad brim of his silk hat was pinned to the crown by a jewel encrusted bilament. His breeches were slashed at the knee, showing a violet under color. Fine silk French stockings were stuffed not into boots as the occasion might warrant but into highly polished leather slippers adorned with buckles of what Dee guessed were pure silver as was the scabbard of the slender rapier hanging at his side.

              Dee gave a respectful bob of the head. “My Lord Essex.”

              Robert Duereux, Second Earl of Essex. One of the queen’s court favorites, so much so rumors circulated that their relationship might be amorous despite the thirty-plus year difference between monarch and subject. True or not, the young man often served his queen in special matters. Dee had little doubt that Essex was here to keep an eye on him just as he, Dee, was watching Her Majesty’s commanders.

                            The queen’s paranoia was no secret and for good reason. William of Orange, leader of the Protestant Dutch rebels, had been assassinated four years earlier by a man claiming the bounty offered by King Phillip. The one placed on Elizabeth was even larger.

              “What brings thee to Plymouth, my lord?” Dee asked somewhat disingenuously.

              “Curiosity, Master Dee.”

              “As to the outcome of yon battle?”

              Essex shook his head, sending carefully curled locks flying. “Not so as much as the device of thine with which our commanders are equipped. How it doth serve them perplexes me greatly.”

              A dilemma: Although Dee had made no secret of the purpose of his device- he had instructed both Frobisher and Drake on its use- it served only the queen’s enemies to deny it wielded more power than was the case.

              He did the prudent thing and kept silent as Essex continued.

              “Was it the spirits, perhaps Madmi or the angel Hagonel, who inspired your invention of this instrument so dear to our commanders?”

              Unlike most of his court associates who were more interested in a well-turned ankle than substantive knowledge, Essex obviously had read some of Dee’s scholarly scientific works, which, by the standards of the day, included both spiritualism and physics on equal footing. Still, Dee was getting increasingly uncomfortable. Although he was protected by the Queen’s decree, anything related to his communications with angels and spirits exposed him to ridicule by some and suspicion by the church whose principals saw witches--or worse--papists under every bed. The object in question had been created by the pure laws of natural philosophy, not the laws of heaven. For better or worse, the populace in general and the church in particular did not recognize a difference. It was all magic.

              He pointed where the
Revenge
was clearly recognizable as it emerged from a black cloud of gun smoke. “There! Is that not Drake?”

              By the time Essex had confirmed the ship in question was, in fact, Drake’s, Dee had disappeared by merging into the spectators.

30.

Dubrovnik

              The cable car began to move down the rock face. Lang crouched beneath it, waiting for the exact second.

              As the car blotted out the sun above, Lang used his legs as springs to leap. One hand, then two, gripped the single step attached to the cable car more to prevent passengers from tripping in the gap between car and dock than to aid ascent or descent.

              Chinning himself up on the step, he didn’t dare take a look down where a slip would be his last mistake. Holding on with one hand, he stretched toward the door, his fingers inches from the latch he hoped would open it. Closing his eyes with the strain, he willed his grasp to extend another inch or so.

              A fingertip touched it. He pulled himself upward another fraction of an inch with the hand on the step and his fingers closed around the door’s latch. A quick pull and the door swung open. Now that he could use both arms to push upward, he did so, mentally giving thanks to the hours of boredom and pain that were his regular workouts at the gym.

              He rolled onto the floor of the cable car as its passengers compressed to give him room. He got to his feet surrounded by curious faces.

              “OK, so I lost my ticket.”

              Several guides were translating into multiple languages when Lang felt the unmistakable push of a pistol’s muzzle against the small of his back.

              “Just relax, Mr. Reilly,” a voice whispered in his ear. “We mean you no harm. We only want information.”  

              The last time Lang had heard that or its equivalent, he had barely escaped with his life. Law abiding people didn’t stick guns in folks’ backs to ask questions.

              A quick glance at the still open door of the cable car quelled any thoughts of immediate escape. Although the car was more than half way down the cliff, it was good hundred feet or so above the ground where jagged limestone protruded from beds of wildflowers like teeth from the mouth of some prehistoric predator.

              Turning his head as far as it would go, Lang still could not see the man behind him with the gun. “What the hell do you people want?” he asked softly.

              His answer was painful jab in the ribs. “No talk now.”

              The car glided to a stop and the occupants surged toward the still open door. The man behind him held Lang’s shirt.

              When the last passenger had exited with a final stare at the lunatic who had risked his life rather than pay for an additional ticket, Lang was shoved forward. He stumbled across the platform, catching his balance just in time to avoid falling down the few steps to the sidewalk where a battered red Yugo Skala was parked.

              There was nothing unusual about the car. It was probably the most common brand seen in Balkan countries despite its US title of Worst Car Ever Built. What was noticeable was that it was parked in a no parking zone. But not alone. Sharing the illicit curb space inches from its rear bumper was a black Audi A3. Lang could see the rear license plate, the generic EU blue stripe down the left side. It would require much closer inspection to ascertain the country of origin and Lang was fairly certain he wouldn’t be given the opportunity.

              The rear door of the Yugo opened as he was propelled toward it. Suddenly there was no longer pressure of a gun’s muzzle at his back.

              Turning, he thought for a moment he was hallucinating: An Asian man danced with a loose limbed motion reminiscent of a Caribbean native doing the Limbo before doing a final spin, going limp and smashing his face against the concrete sidewalk where he seemed to convulse.

              It took Lang’s mind a millisecond to process the two wires that had somehow attached themselves to the man’s jacket. His eyes followed them to a hand holding a very recognizable bulky yellow Taser X26C. The hand was on the arm of a man Lang thought he might recognize were it not for the baseball cap pulled low to shade a face further concealed by oversized sun glasses.

              The smile, though, was not hidden. “Mornin’, Mr. Reilly.”

              “Do I know you?”

              Off came both cap and sun glasses. “Know me? Well, you gave me a lecture on etiquette not so long ago.”

              “Semitz? Office of Naval Intelligence? Where’s your partner?”

              The man on the ground was trying without a lot of success to sit up. He was, however, achieving a growing audience of curious onlookers.

              Semitz bent over him, removing two small electrodes which snapped back into the weapon with a metallic whine. “You mean Rogers? He’s in the Audi there, waiting for you to stop asking questions and get in before either the local cops get here or the other Korean, the one in the Yugo, starts trouble.”

              Lang was thoroughly confused. “Korean?”

              Semitz put a hand between Lang’s shoulder blades, gently guiding him toward the Audi. “Make that
North
Korean.”

              “But what . . .?

              The Audi’s left passenger door swung open.

              “We can handle the who, what, when later, Mr. Reilly. For the moment, I suggest you climb in.”