Disclaimers: Gabrielle & Xena belong to Renaissance Pictures. The Blood & Roses Xenaverse belongs to Katrina. William Shakespeare, in my humble opinion, belongs entirely to himself as do other historical figures I've briefly borrowed. All is meant in fun. As for sex, yes, lots. If you're feeling prudish, don't read this. Or Shakespeare. Or particularly the Bible, for that matter.
In Stratford Upon Avon the crickets slowly settle their chirping. The birds begin ruffling their feathers, waking their babies and taking up the chirping work. Sunlight lazily sprawls across river and field, as if it had world enough and time.
Walking back to the alehouse, William Shakespeare's mind is turning from the lack of writing he's done all night to the possibility of a bit of breakfast followed by a good day's sleep.
A man considering breakfast and sleep, particularly in that order, is quite easy to sneak up on. Xena reaches one strong arm out deftly, pulling the writer into an alleyway. Suddenly William finds himself inches from the most vivid pair of blue eyes he has ever seen.
His imaginings of danger so far, for the purpose of plot and character, are nothing to the real thing. Part of his mind remains calm, recording the emotions for future writing needs, while his body reacts to the shock. His mouth opens and closes without producing sound. He hears her voice as a rumble, but can't distinguish words. He sees the knife Xena has pulled from her boot in subconscious reaction to his terror. In a moment of clarity, he hears her ask, "Why were you staring so hard at Gabrielle last night?" then a blue mist seems to claim his breath, his eyes roll back in his head, and he faints.
"Oh, centaur farts!", says Xena, lowering the man to the ground with surprising gentleness. She notices the knife in her other hand. She really hadn't meant to pull that out. She slides it back into her boot feeling slightly guilty about having scared the poor man so completely. Just as she is wondering what to do with him, she finds out the purpose of dark alleys between houses in English architecture. A large bucket's worth of cold, dirty water lands on her and the man she is bending over.
William opens his eyes to stare at her much the same way he stared at Gabrielle the previous night. It isn't lust, Xena realizes that. She just can't figure out what is going on behind his eyes. Then he wipes the water from his face and says the thing she least expects to hear.
"Amazing. Absolutely amazing. I had no idea." He shakes his head in wonder.
Xena rocks back on her heels, genuinely surprised. "What?"
"Fear. I mean the sudden sort, not the worrying kind. The 'What if I get gutted with that knife right now?' sort of thing. Completely new sensation." he notices she no longer has the knife in her hand and tentatively gets up. "Didn't notice you were a woman yesterday either. Not paying much attention lately, I suppose." He offers her a hand up from the ground where she's all but sitting, looking quite puzzled, the front of her shirt and doublet damp.
She takes his hand, pulling herself up. She's taller than he is. He looks both himself and her over then says, "Well, Anne won't be pleased, but we can't have everything." He starts off towards the alehouse again.
Xena catches up with him. "Who are you?"
"Oh, of course, sorry." He turns to bow gracefully to her. "William Shakespeare, dramatist, at your service." He extends a hand to her.
She clasps his arm at the elbow, squeezes, then releases it. He makes note of the fact that this resembles the greeting he sees soldiers exchange, but doesn't comment on it.
"Xena Amphipolis." she reponds.
"Interesting. Greek obviously. Inherited, I presume. You look something like one or two descriptions I read of her." Especially holding a knife, he thinks to himself.
Xena's eyes, formerly wide-open, move up to saucer-sized astonishment. "I look like who?"
"Xena of Amphipolis. Destroyer of Nations. Later turned good. Some great stories there, I'm sure. Only a few second or third hand versions available. Still, I'll read any history I can get my hands on. Possible plots, you know."
Slowly it occurs to Xena that this feels like one of her early conversations with Gabrielle. The familiarity helps her regain her mental footing.
"So you're a sort of bard then?", she asks.
"Sort of is more apt than I would desire in description, but yes. When I can write, I consider myself a bard." He looks at Xena apologetically. "In fact, my sole purpose for staring at your young companion last night as she spoke was in my astonishment at her abilities to tell a tale. I did not mean to unsettle either of you."
Xena feels sorry for the man as he wanders into the alehouse looking like someone going to his execution. Then she remembers she has to hope Gabrielle hasn't woken yet, so she won't have to explain to her bard what she's been up to. Screwing her courage resolutely to the sticking place, Xena steps into the alehouse.
Elizabeth begins her morning with a royal headache. The temperature in her room is already unpleasantly warm, despite the windows being open. She opens her eyes for a moment. There are definitely too many people in the room, all of them talking at once.
Five men-at-arms are standing around, four ladies-in-waiting are sitting at a table playing whist and chatting, three maids are trying to dress the Queen, both William Cecil and Doctor Dee are trying to advise her about two separate plots at once and the royal physician stands in a corner mixing up some medicine for the Queen's headache.
Elizabeth summons her voice reluctantly, knowing talking will only make her head hurt worse. "Now," she begins, in a tone that the maids recognize at once and step away from her, "I would like everyone to cease speaking." The last word echoes around the room.
She points to the card players first. "You four. Take it somewhere else. Take some of these soldiers with you. Go on."
The ladies-in-waiting and several men-at-arms make a wide circle around the Queen to slip out the door.
"You," she points to the physician, "have you finished whatever noxious concoction you're mixing up over there?"
"Yes, your majesty." he answers, wishing he could blend into the tapestries.
"Well, bring it over then." She orders, holding her hand out for the cup. He hands the silver goblet to the Queen cautiously.
Elizabeth looks at the liquid, smells it, decides it can't be much worse than the headache and swallows it in one gulp, wiping her mouth on her handkerchief afterwards.
"Appalling. Thank you. If it doesn't do any good, I'll see that you have to drink some too." She turns her back to him. He takes this as his dismissal and leaves looking somewhat relieved.
Turning to her maids, she speaks to them in the kindest tone she has used so far. "Let's just stick with this for now, shall we?", she indicates the cambric shift, silk gown, and silk caul she wears. "Take this tray away", she points to the remains of her breakfast, "and bring me a little cider. I'm hoping that might actually take away some of the taste of the medicine." She actually smiles at the maids, one of her rare smiles that makes them feel really honored to be serving the Queen. They slip out quietly.
Having reduced the number of people in the room to only five--herself, William Cecil, Dr Dee and two men-at-arms--the Queen feels a small sense of accomplishment. She allows herself to drop into a nearby chair in front of her chess table.
Cecil and Dee both begin speaking at once. Elizabeth holds up a long-fingered, small, white hand bearing her large coronation ring in the place of a wedding ring. The two men stop speaking and glare at each other.
"One at a time. Cecil, you first."
"This man is a charlatan. Coming to you with nonsense about plots involving vampires and demons when I have serious business to discuss." Cecil states, stamping his cane on the floor for emphasis. His face reddens as his temper rises.
"For God's sake, man, sit down already." A note of concern colors the Queen's voice as she motions her oldest and most trusted advisor into the chair across from her. Cecil sits and leans forward on his cane.
"Have I not already agreed to stay in this fetid armpit of a city instead of going to the country on the advice of both of you?"
Both men nod reluctantly.
The maid comes back in with some cider for her mistress then leaves quietly.
Elizabeth sips the cider, noting contentedly that it does indeed lessen the taste of the medicine, that the pain in her head is disbanding and that a gentle breeze is unfurling into the room.
"First I will hear Cecil out, read my mail, answer my letters then rest. After I have had my dinner, I will summon you and hear you out Doctor. Are we clear on this, gentlemen?"
"Yes, majesty." Dee agrees. He bows to the Queen before leaving.
William Cecil, a highly esteemed and educated man, suppresses the urge to stick out his tongue at the departing astrologist.
"Before we get started, you--", she points to the younger of the two remaining men-at-arms, "Come here."
The man approaches slowly.
"Go find my Master-of-the-Horse and tell him to prepare everything so that tomorrow the Queen may go hunting."
"Elizabeth!", Cecil gasps, almost falling from his chair. He is the only person the Queen allows to address her by her given name and he has never done so in the presence of another. "Its been years since you've hunted! You're--you're--"
"William, do not, if you value your life, remind me of how old I am."
The young soldier is standing, staring open-mouthed at the two. The older soldier still at the door has found a point on the wall at the opposite end of the room to look at. His tenure with the Queen being longer, he schools his expression into nonchalance.
"Close your mouth before you start catching flies, boy. Did I not just give an order to you?"
"Yes, majesty." the soldier's voice cracks.
"And why have you not departed to carry it out?" asks Elizabeth in a deceptively calm voice.
Cecil flinches. He and the other soldier begin praying for the young man who is actually trying to answer the Queen instead of simply going.
"Well, uh, I thought, I mean, maybe--" he shrugs, finally giving up. He tries a charming smile.
The Queen smiles back. Hers is not charming. "I have many lovely horses, don't you think?" she asks the soldier almost conversationally.
The man is totally confused by this question. "Yes, indeed, your majesty."
"Good. Then you won't mind mucking out the stalls for the lot of them for a month. Make sure you inform Sir Robert of that as well when you see him." She looks at the other soldier. "You. Escort your friend out then remain outside the door."
The older soldier nods, grabs the younger man by the arm, then pulls him from the room.
There is a low buzz of activity outside in the hallways, but quiet finally settles over the room. William Cecil pulls some papers from his bag.
"You're going soft. I was worried about the poor boy's head remaining attached to his neck for a moment."
Elizabeth takes some of the letters he hands her. "He's much more useful mucking out stables. Besides, if I were going to behead everyone who didn't immediately follow my orders, I'd have begun long ago with you my friend."
"True." Cecil gathers some documents for himself to read. "No chance of talking you out of this hunting thing then?"
"None whatsoever. Why on God's green earth is the Pope writing to me? He knows it never does him any good."
"Either for the chance to vent some spleen or for receiving a letter in return from one of the few people who writes Latin as well as he does." Cecil unfolds his spectacles to read and settles into the chair.
"Hmpf. Flatterer." Elizabeth crumples the Pope's letter into a ball, tosses it over her shoulder onto the floor and continues on to the next letter.
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