The bitter January wind howled against the battlements of Norwich Castle like a vengeful spirit, matching Mary Tudor's mood as she stood at the window, watching gray clouds gather on the horizon. Eight months. Eight months since that Dudley serpent had placed little Jane Grey on her rightful throne. Eight months of gathering forces, of diplomatic maneuvering, of prayers and plotting.
Mary's fingers tightened around her rosary beads until the silver crucifix dug painfully into her palm. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the spiritual agony of watching England slide further into Protestant heresy under Jane's rule—though Mary knew the girl was merely Northumberland's puppet, dancing to whatever tune the Lord Protector played.
"Your Grace," Sir Hastings entered the chamber with a deep bow. "The Spanish envoys have departed. They confirm King Philip's commitment to your cause."
"At what price?" Mary asked, not turning from the window. The Spanish alliance was necessary but came with knots that would bind England for years to come.
"The usual, Your Grace. Marriage, trade concessions, and a return to Rome's embrace."
Mary nodded slowly, turning the familiar diplomatic package over in her mind. The restoration of the true faith was no hardship—indeed, it was her most fervent desire. Marriage to her Spanish cousin Philip was a more complicated prospect at thirty-five, but she had long ago accepted that her womb would serve England before her heart.
"And the ships?" she asked. "When do they sail?"
"Twenty vessels depart from Cadiz within the fortnight, weather permitting. Six thousand men, fully armed and provisioned."
Mary finally turned from the window, allowing herself a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. "God's will shall be done," she said. "The usurper's days are numbered."
"There is other news, Your Grace." Hastings hesitated, his weathered face showing uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Captain Blackwood's ship has been spotted approaching the harbor."
Something tightened in Mary's chest—anticipation mingled with wariness. Simon Blackwood was Robert Kestrel's man through and through, a formidable sea captain whose mysterious vessel had become legendary among sailors along England's coast. The Maelstrom rarely docked in established ports, preferring to transfer cargo via smaller boats from offshore anchorages, which made this direct approach significant.
"The Maelstrom comes openly?" Mary asked, arching an eyebrow. "How unusual. Has Baron Kestrel finally declared his allegiances publicly?"
"Unknown, Your Grace. Though it seems unlikely. The Baron maintains his position at court, still advising the usurper."
Mary's jaw tightened at the mention of Kestrel's continued proximity to Jane Grey. The "scholarly connection" between them had been the subject of much gossip, even reaching her ears here in East Anglia. She'd dismissed most of it as fabrication—the girl was fourteen when crowned, fifteen now, and betrothed to Northumberland's son. Surely not even Kestrel would risk such a liaison.
Then again, the man's appetites were legendary among the court ladies who had experienced them firsthand.
"I will receive Captain Blackwood immediately," Mary decided, moving to seat herself in the chair that served as her makeshift throne. "Ensure we are not disturbed."
As Hastings bowed and departed, Mary composed herself, straightening her back and adjusting the modest ruff at her neck. Though she lacked a crown, she would ensure her royal blood was evident in every gesture, every word. Captain Blackwood might serve Robert Kestrel, but he stood now in the presence of England's rightful queen.
Within minutes, the chamber doors opened again, and Simon Blackwood strode in with the confident gait of a man accustomed to commanding others. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face weathered by sea spray and sun. Though his clothing was practical rather than ostentatious, the quality of the fabric and cut spoke of considerable wealth.
"Your Royal Highness," Blackwood bowed with practiced precision, neither too shallow to offend nor so deep as to seem mockingly obsequious. "I bring greetings and supplies from my employer."
Mary did not offer her hand to be kissed—a deliberate withholding of royal favor until she better understood this unexpected visit. "Captain Blackwood," she acknowledged with a regal nod. "Your arrival is timely, if somewhat unexpected. The usual arrangements involve more... discretion."
Blackwood's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Discretion serves when circumstances permit, Your Highness. Today's cargo requires more direct delivery."
"And what cargo might that be?" Mary asked, maintaining rigid composure despite her curiosity.
"The usual provisions, Your Highness—dried meats, grain, medicines, and weapons for your growing forces. But also something of greater value." Blackwood turned toward the door and nodded to someone waiting outside.
Four sailors entered, dragging between them a man whose wrists were bound behind his back. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, and his once-fine clothing torn and filthy. He stumbled as the sailors forced him to his knees before Mary.
"Your Highness, may I present Master Francis Matthews," Blackwood announced with theatrical flourish. "Formerly in the employ of the Duke of Northumberland, specializing in the production of... shall we say... historically significant documents."
Mary stared at the broken man before her, uncomprehending for a moment. Then understanding dawned, sending a jolt of excitement through her that she carefully kept from her expression.
"Matthews," she repeated, studying the man's battered face more carefully. "The forger."
"The very same, Your Highness," Blackwood confirmed. "The man whose skilled hand created the amendment to your father's succession act that placed Jane Grey on your throne."
Mary's heartbeat quickened. For months, she had known of Matthews' existence, had heard whispers of his workshop filled with fraudulent documents spanning decades of English governance. She had sent men to find him, to secure evidence of Northumberland's treachery, but all had disappeared or returned empty-handed. And now, here he knelt before her—the living proof of her legitimate claim.
"How did you acquire him?" Mary asked, her voice carefully modulated despite her rising excitement.
"My employer has his methods," Blackwood replied with practiced vagueness. "Methods that succeed where others fail."
Mary rose from her chair, approaching the kneeling forger with measured steps. She circled him slowly, like a predator assessing wounded prey. "Look at me, Matthews," she commanded.
The man raised his head with visible effort, his unswollen eye darting nervously around the room before settling on her face.
"Tell me about the amendment," Mary ordered. "The one claiming my father excluded both myself and Elizabeth from succession."
Matthews licked his cracked lips, glancing briefly at Blackwood before answering. "Forgery," he admitted in a hoarse whisper. "All of it. The Lord Protector commissioned it after King Edward fell ill. Said changes to succession had to be made to preserve the Protestant faith."
"And my father never wrote such an amendment?"
"No, Your Highness. The document is complete fabrication, designed to appear as though created during King Henry's final months."
Mary felt a surge of vindication so powerful it was almost physical. Though she had known—known with bone-deep certainty—that her father would never have secretly disinherited her, hearing the confession from the forger's own lips sent a wave of satisfaction through her core.
"You will put this in writing," she told Matthews. "A full confession detailing every aspect of Northumberland's treachery. Names, dates, methods—everything."
"Yes, Your Highness," Matthews nodded weakly. "Whatever you require."
Mary turned back to Blackwood, her mind already racing with possibilities. With Matthews' confession, she could expose Northumberland's fraud to the Privy Council, potentially forcing Jane's abdication without bloodshed. Combined with the Spanish forces sailing to her aid, her path to the throne seemed clearer than ever before.
Yet caution tempered her optimism. Robert Kestrel rarely offered gifts without expecting something in return.
"Why now?" she asked Blackwood directly. "Your employer has known of Matthews for months. What does Baron Kestrel want in exchange for this... delivery?"
Blackwood's expression remained perfectly neutral. "My employer wishes only to ensure that justice is properly served," he replied smoothly. "And that unnecessary bloodshed is avoided."
"Speak plainly, Captain," Mary commanded, her patience thinning. "What does Kestrel want?"
Blackwood studied her for a moment, then nodded as if coming to a decision. "When you take the throne, Your Highness—and you will—my employer requests that Queen Jane be spared execution."
Mary nearly laughed at the simplicity of the request. "He delivers me the key to legitimate restoration, and in return asks mercy for a child who was merely Northumberland's puppet? The usurper's life is hardly worth haggling over."
"Nevertheless, that is his request," Blackwood replied evenly. "Jane Grey must be allowed to live, renounce her claim, and retire from public life. She is not to be executed regardless of popular or political pressure to make an example of her."
Mary eyed the captain with renewed interest. "Has Baron Kestrel developed a tender attachment to children now? The girl is fifteen—nearly of age, but still hardly a suitable companion for a man of his... appetites."
"Her Majesty is no longer a child by most contemporary standards," Blackwood responded, a subtle edge entering his otherwise neutral tone. "And my employer's interest in her wellbeing is not your concern. His terms are simple: Jane Grey lives, or consequences follow."
"Is that a threat, Captain?" Mary asked softly, danger threading through her voice.
"Merely an observation of cause and effect, Your Highness," Blackwood replied calmly. "My employer wishes you to succeed in your rightful claim. He believes England will benefit from your rule. But should harm befall Jane Grey once you wear the crown..." He paused meaningfully. "Let us say my employer would consider it a personal betrayal requiring response."
Mary said nothing for a long moment, turning this over in her mind. She recalled the reports of "accidents" befalling certain troublemakers within her own faction—men who had advocated more extreme Catholic positions than she herself was prepared to enforce immediately upon taking the throne. Three vocal zealots had died in the past months: one in a suspicious fire, another from a fall from the battlements, the third from apparent poison.
Each death had been ruled misfortune, and Mary had never directly connected them to Kestrel's influence. But now, with Blackwood's thinly veiled warning hanging in the air between them, she recognized the pattern with chilling clarity.
"I have no quarrel with the girl herself," Mary finally said, choosing her words with care. "If she publicly renounces all claim to the throne and acknowledges the fraudulent nature of the amendment that placed her there, she may retire to private life unmolested."
"That arrangement would satisfy my employer," Blackwood nodded. "Though I should mention that Queen Jane has implemented certain religious reforms during her brief reign that have proven surprisingly popular, even among moderate Catholics."
Mary's eyes narrowed. "Religious reforms? What reforms could a Protestant usurper possibly implement that would not offend true Catholic sensibilities?"
"Freedom to worship privately according to individual conscience, for one," Blackwood replied. "While maintaining official Protestant ceremonies, Her Majesty has quietly allowed Catholic families to practice their faith without persecution, provided they maintain public conformity."
"A facade," Mary scoffed. "A temporary measure to prevent uprisings while Northumberland consolidates power."
"Perhaps," Blackwood conceded. "Yet it has reduced religious tensions considerably. Priests no longer fear imprisonment for conducting private Mass. Catholic texts remain in private circulation without burnings or confiscations. Some even suggest this moderate approach might serve as model for religious coexistence moving forward."
Mary's jaw tightened at this thinly veiled suggestion. Her devotion to restoring England to Rome's embrace was absolute—the foundation upon which her claim rested in spiritual terms. That Kestrel might suggest through his proxy that she consider continuing Jane's policy of religious tolerance struck her as borderline heretical.
"When I am queen," she said coldly, "England will return to the true faith. There can be no compromise with heresy, Captain Blackwood. My father may have broken with Rome for his own purposes, but under my rule, England returns to the Pope's embrace."
Blackwood bowed slightly. "As you say, Your Highness. I merely convey observations, not prescriptions."
"Now," Mary said, changing the subject firmly, "what other 'cargo' have you brought besides the forger?"
At this, Blackwood's expression brightened slightly. "Weapons, Your Highness. Of a sort your forces have not yet encountered."
He turned to the door and made a gesture. Two sailors entered carrying a long wooden crate, which they placed carefully on the floor before retreating with respectful bows. Blackwood knelt beside the crate and unfastened its latches, lifting the lid to reveal a row of muskets unlike any Mary had seen before.
"Flintlock rifles," Blackwood announced with evident pride. "More accurate, faster to reload, and more reliable in damp conditions than matchlocks. And each comes with this."
He lifted one of the weapons, showing a wicked-looking blade attached beneath the barrel.
"A bayonet," he explained. "Transforms each rifleman into pikeman without need to switch weapons. Your musketeers become versatile infantry capable of both ranged and close combat without carrying multiple arms."
Mary approached, examining the weapon with genuine interest. Military matters had always engaged her intellect, despite conventional expectations regarding female aptitudes. "How many?" she asked.
"Two hundred complete units," Blackwood replied. "With ammunition and training manuals. My men will instruct your officers in their proper use before we depart."
Mary nodded, already calculating how these weapons might alter the balance of coming engagements. "And they work reliably? No misfires or explosions endangering the user?"
"They function perfectly," Blackwood assured her. "Though conventional weapons occasionally malfunction, these represent significant advancement over current military technology."
Mary thought of the stories that had reached her regarding the Maelstrom's encounters with pirates—the cannon ball that had reportedly torn ships to splinters in hellfire, leaving few survivors and those horribly disfigured. One man had been brought to her court several weeks earlier, his face and body so grotesquely burned and twisted that her ladies had fled the room retching. Before dying, he'd babbled about "balls of black death that exploded like God's fury," tearing men apart "like poppets made of cloth."
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Several weeks earlier
Captain Simon Blackwood stood on the Maelstrom's quarterdeck, the salt breeze ruffling his dark hair as he surveyed the three pirate ships converging on his position. The morning sun glinted off the water of the North Sea, casting deceptively peaceful light across what would soon become a brief battlefield, but a battlefield nonetheless.
"Three ships, Captain," called his quartermaster, Willis, handing him the spyglass. "Flying modified Dutch colors, but the rigging's all wrong. Raiders for certain."
Blackwood extended the brass instrument, studying each vessel in turn. Two were converted fishing trawlers—sturdy enough for coastal work but modified with additional gun ports and reinforced hulls. The third, larger vessel appeared to be a former merchant ship, its sleek lines suggesting Spanish origin before its capture and conversion.
"They think us easy prey," Blackwood remarked, collapsing the spyglass. "A lone merchant vessel weighed down with valuable cargo, ripe for the taking."
Willis snorted. "Not the first to make that mistake, sir. Won't be the last, either."
"No," Blackwood agreed, his face hardening. "Though these might be the last for a while once word spreads." He turned toward the helmsman. "Keep our course steady. Let them think we're unaware or too frightened to alter direction."
The Maelstrom continued its measured progress across the rolling sea, giving every appearance of a heavily laden merchant ship making slow progress toward England's eastern coast. In truth, the vessel carried Baron Kestrel's latest shipment of weapons and gold to support Princess Mary's growing forces in East Anglia—cargo that would significantly alter England's political landscape if successfully delivered.
Blackwood touched the scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw—a permanent reminder of his first encounter with coastal raiders ten years earlier. The memory of his sister's broken body after those same pirates had finished with her remained seared into his consciousness, fueling a hatred that had never diminished despite the passage of time.
"Prepare the special ordnance," he ordered, his voice low enough that only Willis could hear. "One for each vessel should they persist in this foolishness."
Willis nodded grimly. "Right away, Captain." He disappeared below decks, where specially trained gunners maintained the Maelstrom's deadliest secrets—weapons unlike anything else afloat on contemporary seas.
Blackwood watched the pirate vessels adjust their approach, spreading out to cut off possible escape routes. Their captain was no amateur, deploying his small fleet with tactical precision to maximize their advantage. Under normal circumstances, against a conventional merchant vessel, such a strategy would likely succeed.
But the Maelstrom was anything but conventional.
"They're signaling us to heave to, Captain," reported the lookout from the crow's nest. "Red flag up on the lead vessel."
"Acknowledge their signal," Blackwood ordered. "Then lower our speed as though complying."
From his years pursuing pirates across the world's oceans, Blackwood had learned their standard approach. First came the demand to surrender, often honored if the victim complied immediately. This minimized damage to valuable cargo and reduced resistance. If the target vessel attempted to flee or fight, what followed was typically a demonstration of force—a warning shot across the bow or a targeted hit to the rigging.
Only after these measures failed did most pirates commit to all-out attack, preferring to capture vessels with minimal damage when possible. Intact ships could be added to their fleet or sold; badly damaged ones yielded only salvage value.
"All hands to battle stations," Blackwood called, his voice carrying across the deck without shouting—a skill developed through years of command. "But keep gun ports closed. Let them approach believing we've surrendered."
The crew moved with disciplined efficiency, preparing for combat while maintaining the outward appearance of a merchant vessel preparing to be boarded. Men took positions near concealed weapons, while gunners below checked their loaded cannons without opening the ports that would reveal their presence.
The largest pirate vessel—clearly their flagship—adjusted course to approach the Maelstrom's starboard side, while the two smaller ships maneuvered to port and stern, creating a three-point trap. Blackwood noted their positioning with professional appreciation; their captain knew his business.
"They're within hailing distance, sir," reported Willis, returning to Blackwood's side.
"Very good." Blackwood straightened his jacket before calling across the narrowing gap between vessels. "This is Captain Blackwood of the Maelstrom. State your business, if you please."
A burly man with a forked red beard appeared at the flagship's rail. "Captain Dirk Voss of the Mermaid's Curse," he shouted back. "Heave to and prepare for boarding inspection. Surrender your cargo peacefully and your crew will remain unharmed."
The standard pirate offer—meaningless in practice, as Blackwood well knew. Those who surrendered without fight might be spared immediate execution, but their ultimate fate typically involved either impressed service aboard pirate vessels or abandonment in small boats far from shore. Women aboard merchant vessels faced prospects too grim to contemplate.
"I carry important cargo bound for Norwich under royal protection," Blackwood replied, the lie flowing easily. "Interfere with this vessel and you risk the Crown's wrath."
Voss laughed, a sound echoed by his crew gathering along the rail. "Royal protection? I see no escort ships, Captain. And these waters belong to no crown today." He gestured expansively. "Last chance. Surrender now, or we take what we want regardless—starting with that fine ship of yours."
Blackwood's expression remained neutral despite the cold rage building in his chest. He had given them the opportunity to withdraw—the bare minimum his sense of honor required before unleashing devastation. Their choice was made.
"Very well," he called back, then turned to Willis. "Signal below. Target the flagship first."
Willis nodded and stamped three times on the deck—a prearranged signal to the gun crews below. Within moments, Blackwood felt the subtle shift as special ordnance was loaded into the forward starboard cannon—a weapon unlike any other aboard contemporary vessels.
The two smaller pirate ships had nearly reached their positions port and stern, while the flagship continued its approach to starboard. All three clearly anticipated minimal resistance, their crews visible along the rails with grappling hooks and boarding axes ready.
"On my mark," Blackwood said quietly to Willis. "Open starboard gun port seven only. Fire immediately, then close."
As Willis relayed the command via speaking tube to the gun deck below, Blackwood watched the approaching flagship with calculating eyes. Timing would be essential for maximum effect.
"Now," he ordered when the distance narrowed to approximately fifty yards.
A single gun port opened in the Maelstrom's previously unbroken hull. The cannon's muzzle emerged briefly, fired with a thunderous roar, then retracted as the port closed again before the smoke cleared.
To observers on the pirate vessels, the sequence appeared unremarkable—a single cannon shot from a merchant ship making token resistance before inevitable capture. The ball flew in a low arc toward the flagship, striking just below the waterline near midship.
For three heartbeats, nothing happened.
Then hell erupted from within the pirate vessel.
The innocuous-looking cannonball—actually an advanced explosive shell disguised to resemble conventional ordnance—had penetrated the hull before detonating. The blast tore through the flagship's interior spaces with devastating force, rupturing the hull from within while spraying deadly shrapnel in all directions.
Secondary explosions followed as the ship's powder magazine ignited. The vessel literally broke apart before their eyes, its midsection disintegrating in a maelstrom of splintered wood and screaming men. The front and rear sections briefly remained intact before slipping beneath the waves, dragging scores of stunned survivors down with them.
The entire destruction took less than thirty seconds.
On the two remaining pirate vessels, initial confusion transformed rapidly into terror. The smaller ship to port immediately changed course, its crew frantically working to put distance between themselves and the Maelstrom's inexplicable weaponry.
"Port side, gun ports three and four. Target the fleeing vessel," Blackwood ordered, his voice deadly calm. "Stern chasers prepare for the third ship."
The Maelstrom's port side revealed two gun ports, from which conventional cannons fired standard shot at the retreating pirate vessel. These deliberate misses—one ahead of the bow, one across the forecastle—prevented escape while preserving the special ordnance for more efficient use.
"They're striking their colors!" called the lookout as the port-side vessel hastily lowered its pirate flag and raised a white sheet in surrender.
"Maintain vigilance," Blackwood replied. "Pirates have been known to fake surrender."
The third vessel, having witnessed the flagship's catastrophic destruction, attempted to flee in the opposite direction. Blackwood allowed himself a thin smile at their predictable response.
"Helmsman, come about. Full sail in pursuit," he ordered. "They must not escape to spread warnings about our capabilities."
The Maelstrom responded with unnatural speed, its hull cutting through the waves with efficiency no contemporary vessel could match. Modifications to its design—implemented under Baron Kestrel's direction using principles centuries ahead of current maritime technology—allowed it to overtake conventional ships even against unfavorable winds.
As they closed on the fleeing pirate vessel, Blackwood observed its crew frantically trying to lighten their ship, jettisoning cargo and even cannon to increase speed. Their efforts proved futile; within twenty minutes, the Maelstrom had halved the distance between them.
"They're raising white colors as well, Captain," reported Willis, peering through the spyglass.
Blackwood's expression hardened. "Too late for that courtesy."
"We'll take no prisoners?" Willis asked quietly, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Dead men tell no tales," Blackwood replied coldly. "And tales of the Maelstrom's capabilities must remain terrifying but vague. Specific knowledge threatens our advantage."
When they closed to firing range, Blackwood ordered a single special shell fired into the fleeing vessel's stern. The result mirrored the flagship's destruction—catastrophic internal explosion followed by structural disintegration that sent the vessel to the bottom with all hands in less than a minute.
Turning back toward the remaining pirate ship—the one that had surrendered early in the engagement—Blackwood found it attempting to slip away while the Maelstrom was occupied with its companion.
"Predictable," he muttered. "Full sail, intercept course."
The chase was brief. When the Maelstrom pulled alongside the final pirate vessel, Blackwood could see naked terror on the faces of its crew. Many had fallen to their knees in prayer, while others stood frozen at their stations as though petrified.
"Captain Blackwood," called a thin man at the pirate vessel's rail, visibly trembling. "We surrender completely. Take our ship, take our cargo—just spare our lives!"
"You fly modified Dutch colors while raiding English shipping," Blackwood replied, his voice carrying clearly across the water. "You threatened a vessel under Baron Kestrel's protection. There is only one appropriate response to such behavior."
Before the pirate captain could reply, a single gun port opened in the Maelstrom's hull. The special ordnance found its mark with devastating precision, and within moments, the third pirate vessel joined its companions beneath the waves.
Blackwood watched dispassionately as debris and bodies dotted the suddenly empty sea where three ships had sailed less than an hour earlier. No noticeable survivors remained; the special ordnance ensured total destruction in a way conventional weapons could not.
---------
Present time.
Mary Tudor fingered her rosary as Captain Simon Blackwood supervised the unloading of supplies from the Maelstrom, her eyes narrowed in calculation. The weapons Blackwood had delivered were unlike anything she'd encountered—not just the flintlocks with their attached bayonets, but curved blades of impossibly sharp steel, compact crossbows that could be reloaded in seconds rather than minutes, and powder that burned hotter and faster than conventional black powder.
"Your master's generosity grows more impressive with each visit," Mary observed, hefting one of the flintlock rifles. Its balance felt perfect in her hands, as though crafted specifically for her grip. "Though I wonder what other marvels Baron Kestrel keeps for himself."
Blackwood's expression remained carefully neutral. "My employer shares innovations he believes will benefit your cause, Your Highness. Some technologies remain... impractical for wider distribution."
Mary thought again of the burned sailor, his flesh melted like wax as he described the Maelstrom's black fire. "Impractical," she repeated thoughtfully. "An interesting choice of words."
Rain began to tap against the windowpanes, drawing Mary's attention. The day had dawned clear and unseasonably warm for January—the kind of false spring that sometimes teased England before winter returned with greater vengeance. Yet dark clouds had gathered with unnatural speed over the past hour, and now rain fell in sheets across Norwich.
"God weeps in anticipation of your victory," Blackwood said, his gaze following hers to the window. "When you meet Northumberland's forces, rain will fall again. Remember that water affects conventional powder but not ours."
Mary's head snapped toward him. "How can you possibly know the weather on a day yet to come?"
"My employer has many gifts," Blackwood replied with maddening composure. "Accurate weather prediction among the lesser of them."
Mary studied the captain, searching for signs of deception or madness. Finding neither, she felt a cold shiver despite the chamber's warmth. For months she had accepted Kestrel's aid while avoiding deeper questions about his nature or capabilities. His gold spent as well as any other man's. His intelligence proved consistently accurate. His weapons gave her forces advantages they desperately needed.
Yet sometimes, in moments like this, she wondered if she had indeed made bargain with something beyond mere mortal man.
"Tell me, Captain," she said abruptly, "does your master truly believe I will honor our agreement regarding Jane Grey once victory is secured? Many will demand her head as condition for supporting my reign."
"My employer believes you are a woman of your word," Blackwood replied evenly. "He also believes you possess sufficient intelligence to recognize the consequences of betrayal, regardless of political pressure."
The implicit threat hung in the air between them. Mary found herself thinking again of those three dead zealots within her own faction—men who had advocated immediate, harsh restoration of Catholic practices upon her victory. Men whose deaths had conveniently removed the most extreme voices pushing for violence against moderate Protestants.
"The supplies seem more substantial than previous shipments," Mary observed, changing the subject. "What else does your master desire beyond Jane Grey's continued heartbeat? Surely these..." she gestured toward the crates of weapons, "...come with additional price beyond a schoolgirl's life."
"My employer desires stability for England," Blackwood replied. "Jane Grey's wellbeing represents specific requirement rather than comprehensive payment. The supplies ensure your victory with minimal bloodshed—an outcome beneficial to all parties."
Mary laughed without humor. "The girl's life seems remarkably valuable. One might almost suspect Baron Kestrel harbors inappropriate affection for a child."
Blackwood's expression remained unmoved by her provocation. "Her Majesty has implemented several impressive administrative reforms during her brief reign. My employer appreciates competence regardless of age or gender."
"I shall require Baron Kestrel's presence in my court as he attends Jane's," Mary stated, making it sound more declaration than request. "His counsel clearly offers advantages I would be foolish to reject."
"I cannot speak to my employer's future arrangements," Blackwood replied carefully. "Though I believe he would consider providing counsel should Your Highness demonstrate willingness to consider it."
"I will listen to advice that benefits England," Mary said firmly.
"England as defined by Your Highness's perspective," Blackwood corrected with surprising boldness.
Mary's eyes flashed dangerously. "England as defined by God's will and rightful succession. The throne is mine by birthright, Captain. Baron Kestrel merely assists what divine providence has ordained."
Blackwood bowed slightly, neither agreeing nor challenging her assertion. "I should oversee the remaining supplies," he said. "With your permission, Your Highness."
"Before you go," Mary said, "what intelligence have you regarding the Spanish negotiations?"
A flicker of something—perhaps satisfaction—crossed Blackwood's face. "King Philip's six thousand troops will prove difficult to control once on English soil," he said. "Spanish soldiers have certain... expectations regarding conquered territories. Looting, violations of local women, property destruction—all potential complications your alliance might create."
"I need no lessons in military discipline, Captain," Mary snapped. "The Spanish forces come as allies, not conquerors."
"Allies who expect compensation," Blackwood countered. "Unpaid soldiers find their own rewards regardless of official prohibitions."
Mary felt cold anger rising at his presumption. "You overreach, Captain. The details of my alliance with Spain remain private. Few know the specifics of those negotiations."
"My employer maintains extraordinary information networks," Blackwood replied with maddening calm. "Knowledge represents power. Power represents survival."
After Blackwood departed to supervise the remaining deliveries, Mary moved to the window, watching rain stream down the glass like tears. She touched the smooth skin of her throat, remembering Robert Kestrel's hands there months earlier—the calculated intimacy she had initiated to secure his support.
She had offered her body in exchange for his backing, a transaction conducted with the same cold precision as any diplomatic negotiation. Kestrel had accepted with that enigmatic smile that revealed nothing while suggesting he understood everything. Their coupling had been brief but intensely satisfying—the man's skills matched the court rumors that had reached even her isolated ears.
When she had knelt before him afterward, taking his impressive cock into her mouth, she had done so without hesitation or false modesty. At thirty-five, Mary Tudor harbored no illusions about virtue or romance. Her body, like every other resource at her disposal, served her claim to England's throne. That Kestrel provided pleasure alongside political advantage merely made the transaction more tolerable.
What had surprised her was his restraint. Despite his evident physical response, Kestrel had maintained perfect control throughout their encounter, his eyes observing her with analytical attention that suggested he measured her against some internal standard she couldn't fathom. When she had attempted to gauge his political leanings through pillow talk afterward, he had offered only cryptic responses that revealed nothing while seeming profound.
"Your Highness?" Sir Hastings' voice interrupted her recollections. "The forger awaits your pleasure regarding his formal confession."
Mary turned from the window, composing her features into appropriate royal dignity. "Have parchment prepared. I want his confession written, signed, and witnessed before nightfall. Ensure he understands the consequences of omission or deception."
As Hastings bowed and withdrew, Mary returned to contemplating the rain. Somewhere in London, Jane Grey sat upon her throne, likely unaware that her future—her very life—now hung in the balance of promises exchanged between Mary Tudor and the enigmatic Baron Kestrel.
"The rains will come again," Mary murmured, repeating Blackwood's strange prophecy. "And when they do, Northumberland will fall."
She clutched her crucifix tightly. If God sent a devil to help her claim her rightful throne, then she would accept the devil's aid without hesitation. Better to rule in God's name through Satan's tools than allow heresy to flourish under Jane's gentle hand.