Her eyes widened in terror and disgust before she sank back in the seat of the rattling carriage, forcing herself to look away from the madness.
"God, help me..." she murmured. Still the sickening smell of burning flesh and the blood-curdling sound of horrified screams of pain and death assaulted her other senses, and made her stomach turn. A frantic woman flung herself at the carriage as it passed, clinging, screaming for help and mercy only to fall victim to a soldier's dagger.
Elizabeth jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat and gasping for a deep breath. Quickly, she stumbled from bed and flung open a nearby window. She gulped in the cool night air as the nightmarish images slowly retreated back to the recesses of her subconscious where they belonged. Looking over the palace grounds; green fields and gardens tinted almost blue by the night; her breath came easier as the fear slowly seeped from her body, but the air was not enough.
"A walk," she thought. Silently she collected her dressing gown and crept from her chambers, praying no courtier dared roam the corridors at this hour. Her steps echoed with pleasant familiarity off the ancient walls. These late night excursions had begun occurring with unsettling frequency, but they did much to calm her nerves. With expert precision she found her way through the maze of pitch black halls toward her favorite place; her privy garden. Upon reaching the gate, she froze with a hand lain upon the cold iron rail. A shiver ran down her spine, but it was not from the chill of the air. A feeling of unease clenched her chest; looking over her shoulder, her eyes strained to detect any unwanted presence. She could see none. Pushing open the gate, cringing as it creaked on its hinges, she stepped into the garden.
The hedges towered above her; looming over her and enveloping her in their shadows; shading her from the glow of the moon. Her mind was beginning to wander; to think of things far from politics and marriage proposals and traitors and death threats. She began to think the simple thoughts that a woman, not a Queen, allows herself to think in private. Then, from the shadows, a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder. Her mind raced almost as fast as her heart in her chest. She tried to scream but her voice was caught in her throat as she whipped around expecting to be face to face with a man carrying her death in his pocket.
“My Queen,” came the rumbling baritone of Sir Francis Walsingham as he stepped into her majesty’s sight. He bent in a low bow and was met with a swift box on the ear from Elizabeth before her knee’s crumbled beneath her.
“How dare you frighten me so terribly? How dare you touch a Queen without consent?!” She said in frenzy.
“Forgive me, majesty. My actions, indeed, were ill advised.”
“Ill advised? Ill advised!” the volume of her voice continued to rise. Walsingham cringed and motioned for her to calm herself.
“Majesty, I bid you to keep your voice low. Else the whole palace shall awaken,” Elizabeth looked at him with a glare. He extended a courteous hand to assist her to her feet.
“What on earth are you doing here?” She growled as she climbed to her feet of her own accord, brushing the dirt from her dress.
“I might ask you the same question my lady. What be your business here at such an hour of the night?” He followed her as she began to walk away. Elizabeth gathered her dressing gown more tightly around her.
“It is no business of yours Walsingham,” her voice was cold. “I am Queen. I may do as I please and require the consent of no one.”
“Of course,” As her pace quickened, it was all he could do to keep up with her. “Would your majesty allow me to escort you back to your chambers and out of this chill?” Elizabeth let a sigh escape her lungs as she felt fatigue begin to reclaim her body and mind.
“Very well,” she conceded.
The long walk to the Queen’s chambers was a silent one. The commonly relaxed air between Elizabeth and her Moor was, however, tainted by grim news that hung heavily around them both. Upon reaching their destination her feet guided her instinctively toward the velvet cushioned throne before the hearth. Francis knelt respectfully before her.
“You may go,” Elizabeth reminded him when he lingered longer than she liked.
“My Queen, if I may-,”
“I have no desire to hold any discussions at such an hour. Can it not wait until the morning?”
“The matter is, as your majesty knows, of the utmost urgency. Your very life may be at-“
“My life is always at stake from some threat or another Walsingham! Do not tell me that a scholar such as your self has not come to at least that conclusion since I first bore the crown?” Frustration filled her voice.
“Of course,” Walsingham slowly rose to stand before her. “However, surely I cannot stress the gravity of this most current threat enough.” Elizabeth shifted her eyes from the wall to Francis, sending him to his knee again. She fidgeted in her seat.
“Sir Francis, I am well aware of the dangers of prolonging the imprisonment of Mary Stuart and I-,” She began.
“Mary Queen of Scot’s pending trial is no longer the only thing we must worry ourselves with.” Francis added. Elizabeth bit her lip and rose to her feet.
“For the last time,” she began, her voice rising commandingly, “We will decide on an appropriate course of action with the rest of my council tomorrow. Bring me your worries and death threats then,” Francis looked up to interrupt, “Goodnight, Sir Francis.” Her tone was harsh and signified the end of the conversation. As if to further prove her distaste for the conversation, she moved toward her bed, pulling the covers back.
“My sources suggest that-,” Walsingham had begun to press bravely forward. Elizabeth quickly turned to him; outraged that he would ignore her dismissal. She rushed at him.
“To hell with your sources! Damn your conspiracies! Leave me I say! Leave me!” she let loose the fury that had on more than one occasion, struck fear into the court. She pounded his chest and only Walsingham grabbing hold of her wrists restrained her from striking his face. “Release me this instant you loathsome rat!” she shrieked and struggled against him.
“Majesty, Calm yourself!” In turn Francis began a struggle to restrain his monarch’s temper. But, like a child throwing a tantrum, the slight figured queen showed remarkable strength. What had begun with an escort from the garden was now ending in something near a wrestling match between monarch and Moor.
“I demand you release me at on-,” The queen was cut short as she thrashed in her advisor’s, her mentor’s, grip as her head whipped up and, her lips found his in an ill fated collision. Both bodies froze. Neither dared move. All at once, Elizabeth’s mind whirled. She should strike him, scream at him, curse him, and dismiss him. She thought of all the things that she should do. She did nothing. And, as soon as these thoughts crossed her mind, they vanished. All thought, all reason, left her. She felt his lips boldly move against her own and allowed it without protest. She responded in kind and soon felt herself tumble back into the canopy of her bed with Sir Francis, her advisor, her friend, her Moor, atop her.
In the silence of the night; in rebellion against all things, the sin commenced.
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