1633

'Fancy digs, that's for sure, except for the-ah-I guess we can call it a 'toilet.' But-' He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. 'They've got guards posted at a walkway that leads over to the other side of the street, and they made real clear that I wasn't allowed to go across. Said we had to wait until some muckety-muck-I didn't catch the name-showed up.'

From the idle way he rubbed his chest, Melissa suspected that 'real clear' had involved the point of a partisan when Darryl tried to push the issue. Probably two or three partisans, held in the hands of a squad. Like his friend Harry Lefferts, Darryl was brash and bold. The sort of Appalachian lad who had, throughout American history, provided a disproportionate share of its gunslingers and desperadoes-and, for that matter, test pilots.

Melissa had often found that hillbilly machismo rather aggravating. But…

Different times, different places. God, I'm glad Darryl's here. Worse comes to worst, at least we won't go gently into that good night. I even miss Harry Lefferts. Well… sorta. I can probably keep Darryl from doing anything really nuts. But if Harry were here with him… Eek.

She smiled, remembering times past-before the Ring of Fire-when, as a schoolteacher, she'd often enough been ready to throttle two rambunctious teenagers. When Harry and Darryl finally graduated from high school and went to work in the mines, Ed Piazza, the principal of the high school, had invited Melissa and several other teachers into his private office for a surreptitious drink from a half pint of Jack Daniels he had stashed away in a drawer of his desk.

'Now that those two are gone,' he'd said, examining the empty bottle-it had been emptied very quickly-'maybe I can start following my own rules about no alcoholic beverages on the premises.'

'I doubt it,' grunted Greg Ferrara, the science teacher. He eyed the empty bottle regretfully. 'Don't forget we've still got-'

'Shuddup,' growled Piazza. 'Just shuddup.'

Different times, different places.

Hearing the clump of feet coming up the staircase which led to St. Thomas' Tower, Melissa turned away from the window. From some subtlety in the noise, she knew that whoever was coming up was no mere guard. The footsteps had that vaguely ponderous feel to them-dignity rather than simple force-which signified the arrival of a 'man of substance.'

And, sure enough, the man who came through the entry into the suite was very finely dressed. He was quite an imposing man, besides, even leaving aside the garments. Tall, lean, strong-featured if not handsome; thick dark hair and brown eyes contrasting rather sharply with the pale complexion. His expression was grave and solemn. Melissa had the impression this was more because of practiced habit than natural temperament. The quick flashing smile which suddenly appeared, quite at odds with the formal dignity of his stance, lent support to that suspicion.

'May I bid you all greetings,' the man said. 'On my behalf, as well as that of King Charles. I am Sir Thomas Wentworth-'

He broke off, briefly, an odd look coming over his face. It was a subtle thing. Half-surprise; half-delight-the look of a man who has suddenly remembered a recent and very unexpected stroke of good fortune.

'The earl of Strafford, actually. The king saw fit to bestow the title upon me recently.' He cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid the king himself is indisposed at the moment. The queen is quite ill, and between his concern for her and the press of state affairs, His Majesty asked me to greet you on his behalf. He also asked me'-another clearing of the throat; louder, this one-'to extend his apologies for not providing you with lodgings at Whitehall. Alas, the queen's illness is shared by many of the courtiers and servants, and the king fears for your safety should you be installed in what has, sadly, become a palace rife with disease.'

He got that out quite nicely, thought Melissa, given that she was almost certain it was a straight-up lie. Strafford bestowed that quick smile upon them again. It was quite a striking expression-as much due to its brevity as its gleam. As if the man who made it distrusted his own tendency toward warmth.

'To be perfectly honest-I've stayed in Whitehall myself, at times-you'll be more comfortable here anyway. The royal palace is a madhouse, half the time, and so crowded we'd have been forced to cram you all into one or two tiny rooms. Whereas here-'

His hand, in a slow-moving regal gesture, indicated the charms of their surroundings. 'Separate rooms-good quarters for the servants, even-one of the finest fireplaces in all England, and quite possibly the best beds this side of the queen's chambers in Whitehall. Much better.'

That much was probably true, Melissa suspected. She'd barely recognized St. Thomas' Tower when they'd been led into it. From the outside, it looked not too different from the way it had looked when she'd visited the Tower in the late 20 th century. But the inside, on her tours, had been barren. More than that, really, because the people who managed the Tower had deliberately left some of the old architecture exposed so that tourists could see the way in which the Tower had been constructed in layers, century after century. Today, she was seeing the place the way it would have actually been used in those long-gone centuries. Carpets, rich tapestries, linens on the beds and the fine upholstery of the furniture looking as if it had been used recently. Most impressive of all, to her, was the great fireplace which dominated the suite. She remembered the thing, from her visits as a tourist. But there was a great difference between the cold if majestic structure she remembered, and this fireplace warm with ashes and half-burned logs.

Of course, I could have done without the authentic smell.

But even that was something wafted in through the open windows on the Thames side of the suite. Most of it came from the still waters of the moat, which was, for all intents and purposes, an open-air sewer. The rooms in St. Thomas' Tower themselves were immaculately clean.

Melissa was about to say something when Rita spoke. 'I thank you, Lord Strafford. And please convey my appreciation to His Majesty. But when, may I ask, will we be able to meet the king himself?'

Strafford clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward a bit. 'I'm afraid I can't say. The press of affairs really is frightful at the moment-and was, even before the queen took ill. And with that coming on top of it all…'

Strafford's expression was a diplomatic marvel. Melissa almost laughed. It conveyed the subtleties of a man who, moved by bonhomie and good will, would impart a confidence to strangers in whom he had taken a sudden trust and liking. False to the core, but-well done. Oh, very well done indeed.

'If I may say so, the king perhaps dotes a bit too much on the queen. Personally, I think the accusations that he is besotted with her are quite false-even slanderous. But there's no doubt the man treasures her deeply. When she's ill… it's difficult to tear him away from her side, and then only for the most immediate and urgent matters.'

Melissa decided Rita was handling the situation well, and let her continue. However nervous the young woman might be at the role she had been called upon to play, it was a role she would have to learn. No way to do that, after all, other than to just do it.

'I see. Well, let's hope for Her Majesty's quick recovery, then. In the meantime…' Rita glanced toward the window overlooking the rest of the Tower of London. The aplomb she'd managed to retain thus far seemed to desert her a bit.

Perhaps sensing the awkwardness, Strafford intervened smoothly. 'Your servants, of course, will be quite free to move about the Tower in order to obtain whatever you need.' He gave Darryl a quick, skeptical glance, but left it at that. 'They will not, however, be able to leave the Tower itself. And I'm afraid I must ask you, Lady Stearns, as well as your husband and-ah-'

He was looking at Melissa. Like Rita herself, Melissa had not quite been able to force herself to wear the plumage of a noblewoman of the times. But, also like Rita, she was clothed in garments which were considerably finer than those worn by the Bruchs or Darryl and Gayle.

'Melissa Mailey,' she announced.

Strafford frowned slightly, as if searching his memory. Melissa was struck by how rapidly the frown vanished. 'Ah, yes. You are one of the members of-what's the term?-yes, 'the cabinet,' I believe, of your government.' He nodded graciously, extending a personal welcome. 'And yourself as well, then. Please do remain in your quarters.'

Rita seemed unable to think of the right words with which to register a protest. Neither could Melissa, for the simple reason that she was in something of a state of shock.

Not at the restriction to quarters-she'd been expecting that; it was standard practice for important 'guests' in the Tower-but at the simple fact that Strafford knew who she was.

God in Heaven, the man can't have arrived in London but recently. And he's already learned this much about us?

As suavely as ever, Strafford glided on. 'The restriction is for your own safety, do please understand that.' He turned his head, scowling at the river visible beyond the southern windows. 'I'm afraid there's been some turbulence in the kingdom recently. No way to know how much of the sedition may have spread into the Tower itself, and who knows what madmen might think to do?'

He straightened a bit, bowed. The gesture-very well done, as everything the man did-conveyed, simultaneously, regrets and cordiality and firm resolve and… I've done what I had to do and I'm getting out of here. Adios, amigos-and don't even think of messing with me.

A few murmured words of polite departure, and he was off. Moving more quickly than he had arrived, perhaps, but still with that same, solid, dignified tread.

When he was gone, and clearly beyond hearing, Melissa blew out a breath and stifled a curse.

More or less. 'Damnation. Wentworth! And they've already made him an earl!'

Shit-shit-shit. But she kept that vulgarity to herself, from the lifelong habits of a schoolteacher.

Everyone was staring at her. Melissa turned to Gayle. 'Can anyone hear us?'

The stocky woman shook her head. 'Nope. While Darryl was busy playing macho-man with the guards, I checked everything. So did Friedrich. There's no place for hidey-holes or listening posts, and the guards outside can't possibly hear anything in here short of a shout or a scream. Or a gunshot.'

Melissa nodded. 'All right, then.' She moved over to a nearby armchair and plopped herself into it. Very plush and comfortable, it was. 'Gather round, folks. Let me explain the situation-as near as I can figure it out, anyway.'

When they were clustered about, Rita and Tom perched together on a small couch and the rest standing, Melissa pointed a finger at the entryway through which Wentworth had departed.

'That man is probably the most dangerous man in England. For us, anyway. Sir Thomas Wentworth, later to become the earl of Strafford. Except in our universe, the king didn't make him an earl until…' She groped in her memory. 'I can't remember the exact year, but it sure as hell wasn't as early as 1633. He's supposed to be on his way to Ireland right now. Just recently appointed Lord Deputy of the island.'

The name finally registered on Darryl McCarthy. Melissa had been wondering when it would. For all that Darryl had the typical Appalachian working-class boy's indifference to history, there was one subject on which he didn't. Darryl's father Michael had been a long-time supporter of NORAID, the Irish Northern Aid Committee, and the whole McCarthy clan were rabid Irish-American nationalists.

'Black Tom Tyrant!' he snarled. 'The fucking bastard! He's the one who killed the Men of '98!'

Melissa sighed. And, as usual, he had his history all jumbled up. She could remember a test question, years before, which Darryl had answered: 'George III, first president of the United States.'