‘Thank you.’ Her smile was weary. Her eyes closed. ‘I can sleep now.’
There was a sudden commotion. The door swung back with a crash and a protesting creak of hinges. Voices; loud, commanding. Footsteps, equally loud: her son Rupert, come to be with her at the end, always hasty, always late.
There was so little time now.
She opened her eyes again. The room swam with shadows and the red and gold of firelight but she felt cold. She looked on Craven for the last time. Grief was etched deep into his face.
‘Old,’ she thought. ‘We have had our time.’ The loss cut her like a knife. If only …
‘William,’ she said. ‘I am sorry. I wish we had another chance.’
His face lightened. He gave her the smile that had shaken her heart from the moment she had first seen him.
‘Perhaps we shall,’ he said, ‘in another life.’
She forgot that her time could be measured in breaths now, not hours or even minutes, and tightened her grip urgently on his hand.
‘The Knights of the Rosy Cross believed in the rebirth of the spirit,’ she said, ‘but it is against the Christian teaching.’
He nodded. His eyes were smiling. ‘I know it is. Yet still I believe it. It comforts me to think that we shall meet again in another time.’
Her eyes closed. A small smile touched her lips. ‘It comforts me, too,’ she said softly. ‘Next time we shall be together always. Next time we shall not fail.’
Palace of Holyroodhouse, Scotland, November 1596
King James paused with his hand already raised to the iron latch. Even now he was not sure that he was doing the right thing. A spiteful winter wind skittered along the stone corridor, lifting the tapestries from the walls and setting him shivering deep within his fur-lined tunic.
The pearl and the mirror should be given to Elizabeth, that was indisputable; they were her birthright. Yet this was a dangerous gift. James knew their power.
The Queen of England had made no show of her baptismal present to her goddaughter and namesake. In fact it was widely believed that Mr Robert Bowes of Aske, who had stood proxy for Her Majesty at the christening, had brought no gift with him at all. It was only after the service had been completed, the baby duly presented as the first daughter of Scotland, and the guests had dispersed to enjoy the feast, that Aske had called James to one side and passed him a velvet box in which rested the Sistrin pearl and the jewelled mirror.
‘These belonged to your mother,’ Bowes had said. ‘Her Majesty is eager that they should be passed to her granddaughter.’
For diplomacy’s sake James had bitten back the retort that had sprung to his lips. Trust the old bitch of England to present as a gift those items that were his daughter’s by right. But then he could play this game as well as any; he had paid Elizabeth of England the compliment of naming his firstborn girl after her. It was outrageous flattery for his mother’s murderer, but politics was of more import than spilt blood.
‘Majesty?’
He turned. Alison Hay, the baby’s mistress-nurse was approaching. Her face bore no trace of surprise or alarm, although he could only imagine her speculation in finding King James of Scotland dithering outside his baby daughter’s chambers. He should have thought to send for one of the Princess Elizabeth’s attendants rather than to loiter like a fool in cold corridors. But Mistress Hay’s arrival had brought with it relief. There was now no cause to knock or to enter this realm of women. James’ insides curdled at the thought of the stench of the room, of stale sweat and that sweetly sour smell that seemed to cling to a baby. The women would all be grouped about the child’s cradle, fussing and smiling and clucking like so many hens. Thank God that soon they would all be departing for Linlithgow where the princess would have her own household under the guardianship of Lord and Lady Livingston.
He groped in his pocket and his fingers closed over the black velvet of the box.
‘This is for the Princess Elizabeth. A baptismal gift.’ He held it out to her.
Mistress Hay did not take the box immediately. A frown creased her brow.
‘Would Your Majesty not prefer to give it to Lady Livingston—’
‘No!’ James was desperate to be rid of the burden, desperate to be gone. ‘Take it.’ He pushed it at her. The box fell between their hands, springing open, the contents rolling out onto the stone floor.
He heard Mistress Hay gasp.
Few men – or women – had seen either the Sistrin pearl or the jewelled mirror. The pearl had never been worn and the mirror had never been used. Both were shaped like teardrops. Both shone with an unearthly bluish-white glow, the one seeming a reflection of the other: matched, equal, alike.
The pearl had been born of water, found in the oyster beds of the River Tay centuries before, and had been part of the collection of King Alexander I. The mirror had been forged in fire by the glassblowers of Murano, its frame decorated with diamonds of the finest quality and despatched as a gift to James’ mother Mary, Queen of Scots on her marriage. Mary had delighted in the similarity of the two and had had the rich black velvet box made for them.
Yet from the first there had been rumours about both pieces. The Sistrin pearl was said to have formed from the tears of the water goddess Briant and to offer its owner powerful protection, but if its magic was misused it would bring death through water. There were whispers that the Sistrin had caused King Alexander’s wife Sybilla to drown when Alexander had tried to bind its power to his will. The mirror was also a potent charm, but it was said that it would wreak devastation by fire if it were used for corrupt purposes. James was a rational man of science and he did not believe in magic, but something about the jewels set the hairs rising on his neck. If he had been of a superstitious disposition he would have said that it was almost as though he could feel their power like a living thing; crouched, waiting.
Alison Hay was on her knees now, scrabbling to catch the pearl before it rolled away and was lost down a drain or through a crack in the floor. James did not trouble to help. He did not want to touch it. The mirror lay where it had fallen, facing up, miraculously unbroken.
Alison grabbed the pearl and struggled to her feet, flushed, breathing hard. In one hand she had the box, the pearl safely back within it, glowing with innocent radiance. In the other she held the mirror. As James watched, she glanced down at its milky blue surface. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. James snatched it from her, bundling it roughly face down into the box and snapping the lid shut.
‘Don’t look into it,’ he said. ‘Never look into it.’
It was too late. Her face was chalk white, eyes blank pools.
‘What did you see?’ James’ voice was harsh with emotion. Terror gripped him, visceral, setting his heart pounding. Then, as she did not reply: ‘Answer me!’
‘Fire,’ she said. She spoke flatly as if by rote, ‘Buildings eaten by flame. Gunpowder. Death. And a child in a cream-coloured gown with a crown of gold.’
‘Twaddle.’ James gripped the box as though he could crush the contents; crush the very idea of them. ‘Superstitious nonsense, all of it.’ Yet even he could hear the hollow ring of fear in his voice. Before magic, cold reason fled.
‘Lock them away,’ he said, pushing the box back into the nurse’s hands. ‘Keep them safe.’
‘Majesty.’