The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) Read online

  PRAISE FOR GREGG LOOMIS’S MOST RECENT LANG REILLY THRILLER,THE NASSAU SECRET

  “Who wouldn’t want to read a book set in Nassau, especially if you enjoy World War II-themed thrillers such as Gregg Loomis’s intricately plotted eighth Lang Reilly thriller.

  “The great weather is far from the only thing on the minds of the exiled Duke and Duchess of Windsor, one or both of whom may be Nazi spies. A pair of murders spur Reilly into action against a cultish group sworn to protect the royal family at all costs.

  “Loomis deftly handles his historical subject matter with a seasoned hand, fashioning a classic spy thriller that reads like a hybrid of Alistair MacLean and Graham Greene at their level bests. Solid in all respects.”

  --The Providence Journal

  Available in paperback and in Kindle format.

  THE ELIZABETHAN SECRET

  Gregg Loomis

  Wayland Square Editions

  Providence / New York

  THE ELIZABETHAN SECRET

  Copyright c 2015 by Gregg Loomis

  All rights reserved. This book or any parts thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wayland Square Editions is a subsidiary of The Chris Fortunato Agency. For further information, please go to www.publishersmarketplace.com.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters or events in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 978-0-9864389-2-9

  This book is for Suzanne

  The Elizabethan Secret

  1.

  Royal Palace at Hatfield

  Hertfordshire, England

  Late November, 1558

  The fall rains and heavy traffic had rutted what was left of the old Roman road from London, and the coach’s non-existent suspension seemed to magnify, rather than diminish each jolt. John Dee was thankful the trip would be less than half a day.

  Other than the discomfort, there was much to occupy his mind. The last time he had visited Hatfield, its present occupant had been a prisoner in all but name. Elizabeth Tudor, recently released from the Tower, was confined to the palace. Confined in relative luxury but confined nonetheless.

  The air had figuratively reeked with the stench of burning Protestant flesh as the princess’s older half sister, Mary, sent what seemed an endless stream of non-Catholics to the stake. Even Elizabeth’s future had been in doubt.

  Mary, the daughter of good King Henry by the Spanish-and very Catholic- Catherine, viewed her parents’ annulment as a nullity even though it had resulted in Henry naming himself head of The Church of England rather than the Pope in Rome.

  To the Catholic Church, that made Mary’s half brother, Edward, and half sister, Elizabeth, bastards.

  Upon the death of the sickly Edward at 15, Mary had proclaimed herself queen, deposing and beheading Edward’s choice of successor, Lady Jane Grey, 17, the nine-day queen and her husband, Dudley, 19. Thereafter had followed the burning at the stake of an estimated three hundred Protestant souls.

  But now that was over. Mary had died a few days ago, leaving Elizabeth the undisputed monarch who was holding her very first council meeting today. She had asked Dee to consult the stars for an auspicious Coronation date.

  And he had: January 19 next.

  And he had a surprise for her.

  He smiled.

  The last time he had charted the now-Queen’s fortune as revealed by the stars, it had nearly cost him dearly. The then-princess had asked not only for her own fortune but for that of her half-sister, Mary.

  Revealing the stars’ predictions regarding a ruling monarch was a risky business. It was known that words, once committed to writing, were likely to become true. Therefore, an ill forecast for the throne could be construed as treason. Not to mention the church’s view of interpreting the stars as witchcraft.

  Somehow, the local bishop had learned of his astrological observations and predictions. Time in the Tower of London and trial by the Star Chamber Court had followed. He was one of the very few to be acquitted, although he had been turned over to Bishop Bonner for “religious examination.” In the end, he and the cleric had become fast friends.

  The coach jounced from the ruts of the road to a smaller and much smoother one.

  Dee stuck his head out of the window. Before him were the multiple chimneys and red brick of Hatfield Palace. On the other side of the coach, a manicured boxwood garden was a green blur.

  Minutes later, the coachman surrendered control of the two-horse team to liveried grooms. Dee was climbing down when a commotion caused him to turn his head.

  In the massive doorway stood the queen, her auburn hair fashionably coifed instead of flowing loose as when he had last seen her. Her gown was green, of velvet and lined with pearls, a far cry from the simple country garments of her forced residency here. But there was an even greater difference, although Dee was hard pressed to describe it: A somber dignity, a gravitas far beyond her twenty-two years.

  On one knee, he bowed so low his long, pointed beard almost touched the ground as he swept the black cap from his head. “Majesty.”

  The young queen displayed perfect teeth as she gently tugged at his elbow, signaling he should rise. “Good morrow, Master Dee. Come.”

  Dee followed his monarch inside, accompanied by a drove of ladies and grooms of the chamber, ladies in waiting, and several men such as Dudley and Cecil he personally viewed as having the sole function of showering Elizabeth with the flirtations and flattery she so loved. As the procession passed through various rooms, the arrival in each was announced by shouts of the halberd-bearing Beefeaters. The Presence room, the palace’s largest, in which balls, entertainment and banqueting would be held as well as audiences with the queen’s subjects had been little more than an empty hall. Now rich furniture was aligned along the walls. The formerly bare carved oak paneling was bedecked with portraits of people Dee only vaguely recognized and Flemish hunting tapestries, all dimly lit through the opaque glass of the tall, narrow windows and a fire in the two huge, elaborately carved fireplaces that barely succeeded in blunting the November chill.

  He was not given time to ponder how so many changes had taken place so

  quickly but was hustled up a staircase and into a much smaller room

  adequately heated by a single fireplace. This would be the palace’s Privy

  Chamber. When in residence, Elizabeth would receive important visitors such

  as ambassadors here.

  On a table surrounded by velvet upholstered chairs were dice. The new

  queen had been gaming at hazard, a pastime she dearly loved. Now she could

  afford to pay her losses. A carved oak hunt table bore a half moon loaf of

  manchet. The coarser wheat/ rye bread mixture apparently would no

  longer do. A quarter head of crumbling cheddar and flask of malmsey flanked

  the bread.

  The room was quickly filling.

  Elizabeth turned to her increasing entourage. “Go! Leave us!”

  Resentful mumbling accompanied their departure.

  The young queen went to the hunt table, filled two chalices and handed

  one to Dee. He noted that wine had replaced ale flavored with berries,

  and that silver, rather than pewter, was now in use.

  Elizabeth seated herself on a chair on a low dais that Dee guessed

  served as a temporary throne. At her gesture, he also sat.
<
br />   “We summoned thee here, Master Dee, for a purpose,” she announced.

  “Seeing your grace happy would have been cause enough.”

  Dee was always aware of the queen’s susceptibility to flattery.

  “It doth perplex us what the years of my reign may hold. Therefore, we

  wish thee to consult once again the stars.”

  Dee squirmed in his chair. “Majesty. . ..”

  The queen favored him once more with a smile as she reached into the sleeve of her gown and produced a scrolled document tied with ribbon. She extended it to him. “I know thy uncertainties in such matters. Read this.”

  Dee did as commanded, his expression becoming increasingly incredulous.

  “Your Grace has foreseen my reluctance.”

  “Quite right, Master Dee. By this royal decree, any act or publication

  of or concerning forecasts, predictions, divinations, or prophecy by one John

  Dee shall not be deemed as heresy, treason, or any offense against church or

  state but deemed acts specifically ordered by us. As head of both church and

  state, we have the authority to designate what is or is not heresy or

  treason.”

  Dee was silent a second, overcome by possessing a freedom of which he

  had never dreamed. Then he almost fell out of his chair, once again kneeling.

  “Your Highness. . . .”

  Elizabeth waved him back into his chair. “’Tis as much for our benefit

  as thine, Master Dee. Now, in return, what sage advice might thou have to

  impart to the new queen?”

  He didn’t need time to think. “Build ships, majesty, two or three score

  tall ships with sea soldiers to man them.”

  “To what purpose, prithee?”

  “To sail the seas of the new world, Your Grace. The Frenchman and the

  Spaniard are already doing so. With that number of ships, England can make an

  Empire there and around the world greater than even that of the heathen

  Ottoman.”

  “An empire?”

  “The British Empire.”

  Elizabeth considered a moment. “’British Empire’. Me thinks the words

  possess a nice sound.”

  Now it was Dee’s turn to produce something from his pocket, something

  in a shiny brass case. He handed it to the queen.

  She studied it for moment. “It appears to be a compass but . . .”

  “Something more, Majesty.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Why might that be?”

  “For navigation in areas where there is but one direction.”

  She turned it over in her hand. “Explain.”

  He did, finishing with, “I have made several and am prepared to share

  the knowledge with the master of Your Majesty’s ships.”

  2.

  Saint Mary the Virgin Anglican Church

  Mortlake High Street

  Mortlake, Borough of Richmond, London

  June, 2013

  The Rev. Megan Pierce stood at the single window of her small office. She didn’t see the slope down to the river nor the four women in the colors of Mortlake Anglican and Alpha Boat Club sculling their way downstream. The pile of raw earth just this side of the water, which marked the place where a hole gaped like a wound in the swath of green, filled both her vision and her mind.

  It had started simply enough: The parish hall needed expansion. An architect had been retained to add one more addition to the original Tudor architecture of 1543. Ground had been broken.

  And then the troubles began.

  The earth mover had not been on site an hour before what appeared to be the remains of a wooden chest or trunk were unearthed and Rector Pierce called straight away from working on Sunday’s sermon.

  A glance at the brass fittings suggested the chest was an antiquity. Disturbing it or the immediately surrounding acreage could result not only in heavy fines levied against the parish by the Ancient Monuments Board but some very ugly publicity as well. The English took heritage conservation extremely seriously.

  The next day, two representatives from the National Trust supervised excavation of the chest and spent an hour walking the grounds with metal detectors. A quick chat by phone with Emmet Burl, the parish solicitor, informed her that absent a certain gold or silver content, the objects in the chest were not Treasure Trove, subject to what amounted to confiscation by the British Museum who would then reward the finder, presumably the operator of the earth mover. The law of Treasure Trove provided the land owner was entitled to nothing. That latter part seemed extremely unfair to the rector until the solicitor explained that the rule had evolved in the common law to discourage people from concealing their wealth and thereby avoiding taxes.

  And the law was inapplicable as stated anyway.

  The parish, it would seem, had come by a number of objects, mostly brass with a patina of oxidation, that led one of the National Trust people to estimate the objects had been in the ground for centuries, although they couldn’t say how many.

  The reverend spent only a few minutes on the computer before she discovered she was sitting only yards from the site of the home John Dee had inherited from his mother in 1579 and in which he had lived until his death in 1610. She knew Dee had roots here in Mortlake. She had not known his home was in such proximity.

  She was not entirely comfortable with Mr. Dee, a necromancer who had professed to consult with spirits and angels, a magician and astrologer, all pastimes condemned by the Church. But who was she to judge? The man was certainly Mortlake’s most famous resident. In fact, the church was scheduled to erect a plaque to him later in the year, his supernatural endeavors notwithstanding.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of her iPhone. A glance at the screen told her Mr. Burl, the solicitor, was calling.

  “Good morning, Mr. Burl.”

  “And to you.”

  He sounded as though he were panting after a sprint. Not Unusual. Solicitor Burl always sounded that way. It was as if he was in a hurry to be done with parish business as quickly as possible. Considering he conducted most of it free of charge, his haste was understandable.

  “Good news,” Burl hurried on. “I have the letter from the Ancient Monuments Board, agreeing no Treasure Trove is involved. They would, of course, like Saint Mary the Virgin to donate the items to the British Museum.”

  “I will take the matter up at the next meeting of the vestry.”

  “Ah, one more thing: You are under no obligation to donate anything. You might want to have some or all of the items appraised.”

  “If we are going to give them away, why would we go to the expense?”

  Part, a large part, of the rector’s job was watching finances.

  “Some of the items might bring a fair sum on the open market. Saint Mary the Virgin could use the money.”

  That was hardly news.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burl. I shall take that up with the vestry also.”

  Perhaps she imagined the sigh of relief with which the solicitor wished her a good day.

  3.

  Shropshire, England

  Near the Welch Border

  March, 2014

  Having a creature inches from his face that could bite his nose off in a nanosecond made Lang Reilly nervous. Victoria, the Harris hawk perched on the thick leather glove covering his left hand and wrist, could well be contemplating just such a move. Cruelly hooked talons fidgeted as amber eyes seemed to radiate a fury Lang dearly hoped was not aimed at him.

  “Gentle as a kitten,” Llywen had described her.

  Lang had his doubts as the bird strained against the short field jesses (as opposed to the longer, heavier mews jesses), those pitifully thin leather straps that enabled Lang’s fingers to hold the bird’s feet on his wrist.

  But then, he’d had his doubts the hawk would work with a natural predator, Daisy the Bri
ttany spaniel, and natural prey, Elmer the silver ferret. He wasn’t totally sure of the unnatural alliance now, particularly when Victoria spread her wings and squawked loudly at any dog that wasn’t a Brittany. As for the diminutive Elmer . . . Well, best he stay out of sight in the pouch Llywen wore at his side.

  Lang harbored doubts about the drill in general. Yes, it had been the ancient sport of royalty from China to Arabia to Europe until gunpowder provided a quicker and more efficient way to put birds and small game on regal tables.

  Then chain grocery stores come along.

  Now, back to the old ways. Yes, trekking about the wild Shropshire countryside provided time outdoors and exercise he had been forced to forego during protracted negotiations with members of the ever cantankerous Scottish Parliament.

  Since 1999 the body at Holyrood in Edinburgh had had the power to decide matters of purely local interest. It was Scottish nature to be suspicious of anything free and a children’s clinic built and maintained by the Janet & Jeff Holt Foundation in the sparsely populated and therefore poorly served Northern Isles made anything but economic sense. Scots were leery of any institution or person who gave money away and providing free medical care equal to that available to Scots who could afford private rather than National Health Service-Scotland without profit amounted to giving away lots of it.

  The average wait for medical care under NHS-Scotland ran into months and was administered by bureaucrats who parceled out health care as a rationed commodity as indeed it was. The proposed wait at the clinic would be less than a week and treatment would be on a first-come, first-served basis. No wonder the politicians were skeptical.

  Not to mention said bureaucrats who, by nature, would oppose anything that might diminish their realm.

  Tired of the wrangling and repeated questions, Lang had retreated to one of England’s less-populated counties to visit an old acquaintance, Llywen Conant. From an old Welsh family, Llywen had served with MI6, the British equivalent of America’s CIA. The two had met in Frankfurt a couple of years before the collapse of the Soviet Empire.