“Your Majesty? Are you alright? You really should be disembarking by now.”

“Of course I’m fine. Do I look like I’m falling apart to you?”

“Well…”

“I’m joking, girl.”

“Ah, ahahaha…”

“Hahahaha! Honestly, watching you force a laugh just because you’re afraid of my mood is my favorite pastime!”

She truly has a wretched personality, Margaret thought, scrambling even more frantically to keep the thought from escaping her lips. Elizabeth, seeing right through the young woman’s transparent efforts, let out another sharp cackle.

“Your—Your Majesty, Miss Lawrence is quite right,” Robert Cecil stammered, stepping forward. “Pray, preserve your health. The kingdom depends on your vitality.”

“Health? Since when has any eighty-year-old been truly healthy? I’m hardly Methuselah.”

Cecil flinched as Elizabeth snapped at him, her gaze already shifting. “Worry about something else, Robert. Is the news you brought from Ireland accurate? I want no errors.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I have spent my days and nights collecting information from both the Old and New Worlds. How could I possibly be mistaken?”

“Hmm…”

The Queen nodded, her mind already sharpening the plan she had been sketching since they set sail. She turned back to her minister. “And what do you think of it? My plan.”

“It is… well…”

“If you don’t think it’s a plan so brilliant it leaves you speechless, then speak up this instant.”

“May I speak frankly?”

“By all means.”

“From the perspective of the Kingdom of England, this is madness. Furthermore, you risk losing the support of the domestic Protestants entirely.”

“Oh, that…” Elizabeth waved a hand dismissively. “That’s just you worrying about how to stay in James’s good graces after I’m gone.”

Cecil fell silent, his face paling.

“Tell me again,” she pressed, her voice lowering. “How does it look from my perspective?”

Cecil closed his eyes, his expression turning grim as he lowered his head. Elizabeth was the worst for knowing exactly what she was doing. She was at an age where it was a miracle she was still alive, while James was in his prime. Cecil had to prepare for the end of this awkward era of “joint rule” and look toward the time when the King of Scots would become the sole monarch of the British Isles.

“Well?”

“Your Majesty… from your perspective…”

Cecil felt a cold sweat breaking. If he said another word, he would become an accomplice—a co-conspirator in a plot designed specifically to screw over James.

“Spit it out.”

“From Your Majesty’s perspective…” Cecil took a breath, surrendering. Damn it. She’s terrifying. Even at eighty, the Queen’s eyes had a predatory sharpness that pierced right through him. “It is a formidable gamble, fraught with immense risk. It could potentially stain your reputation and authority forever. On the other hand, if you navigate those risks, you lose nothing. It is the key to stabilizing the current political landscape. It will help Virginia… no, the Continental Covenant. And above all, the Spaniards…”

The Spaniards. Their great army would be led around by the nose, all because of the Queen’s silver tongue. Cecil felt goosebumps prickling his skin as he realized the extent of her malice. The current Queen would go this far just to ruin her enemies. To devise such an absurd scheme and have the sheer audacity to execute it…

I must never oppose her, not even until her very last breath, Cecil realized. She is the type of woman who will find a way to dismantle her enemies from beyond the grave.

Bowing his head in submission, he followed her as they finally disembarked, stepping onto the soil of Ulster, currently occupied by English forces. Her subjects, who had received no warning of her arrival, flocked toward the sight of the brilliantly dressed noblewoman.

It was the way the rulers of the seventeenth century asserted their presence—radiating a clean scent and a kaleidoscope of colors in a world that was otherwise a dingy, grimy gray. She shone like the sun amidst a populace ravaged by a long, exhausting war.

Soon, an attendant’s voice thundered through the harbor, declaring that “Her Majesty Elizabeth, rightful Queen of England, Scotland, Ireland, and France,” had arrived.

The subjects erupted in cheers. Commanders and mayors rushed to the scene, stumbling over themselves to bow before her. Only then did Elizabeth escape the cacophony of the docks and head toward her designated quarters.

The road was bleak. After twenty years of war and successive famines, the standard of living had hit rock bottom.

“Your Majesty… we are overwhelmed with gratitude that you have graced us with your presence a second time,” the local commander said, bowing low. “Your mercy in providing food to your starving subjects during your last visit was—”

“Save the pleasantries,” Elizabeth interrupted. “I have a task for you.”

The field commanders and mayors looked up in confusion. Why had the legendary Queen come here without notice? Why was she hurrying them so? Their mouths hung open when she finally delivered her order.

“I am proposing a summit with Aodh Mór Ó Néill, the Earl of Tyrone and commander-in-chief of the Irish Catholic forces. I intend to see the head of the Irish army myself. In person.”

***

What the… this is scary.

Why did she suddenly go to Ireland alone? Isn’t that a war zone?

“Walter… did the Queen happen to give you any hint about this?” I asked, looking at Raleigh.

“None at all,” he replied, shaking his head.

No, that can’t be right. Even if the Queen was eccentric, she wasn’t a woman who acted without a calculated reason. In fact, everything she did was so thoroughly strategic that it only appeared absurd to the outside observer. That was the woman I knew. If she was acting like this, there had to be a reason…

“Actually…” Raleigh paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “She did say something rather cryptic before she left.”

“Cryptic? Like what?”

“It was something along the lines of… ‘I suppose I should go fulfill my promise to the angel.'”

Promise? What promise? I didn’t remember making any specific promise to the Queen.

I searched my memory for a moment before giving up. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

Raleigh tilted his head, just as perplexed as I was. There was no point in obsessing over a puzzle with no pieces, so I moved on to the more pressing issue.

“What’s the current situation in Ireland?” I needed to know what was happening on the ground to understand why she had chosen this moment.

“You could say the Catholic Confederacy holds about eighty to ninety percent of the island,” Raleigh explained.

That doesn’t sound good for England.

“The English forces have suffered a string of crushing defeats at the hands of the Irish alliance. Hugh O’Neill—or Aodh Mór Ó Néill, as they call him—has built immense authority through an unbroken streak of victories. However, Ireland is heavily decentralized. The other lords are constantly checking his power, and recent famines have turned the public mood sour.”

“I see.”

“The balance was held by the Spanish troops, but now that many of them have been withdrawn, the internal divisions within the Irish army are accelerating. The English tried to counterattack, but they were defeated yet again.”

“So, to summarize,” I said, rubbing my temples, “the English side keeps losing and has no hope, but the victorious Irish side is falling apart from within?”

“Precisely.”

“And the Spaniards who were supporting the Irish ran off to Florida, got their asses kicked, and then retreated?”

“That about sums it up.”

What a mess. It was even more confusing than I thought. The English were too busy elsewhere to commit fully, and the Irish were too busy fighting each other to secure a total victory. In the middle of it all, the Spaniards had abandoned their allies to focus on Florida, only to be decimated.

It was a battlefield where everyone was miserable.

I couldn’t fathom what an eighty-year-old woman planned to achieve by crossing the Atlantic into that chaos. Was it just to boost morale? No, she wouldn’t risk her life for something so simple.

About two months later, a clipper traveling between England and Virginia brought a letter from the Queen.

—Operation successful. Returning soon.

Below that brief, triumphant note was a detailed account of the proceedings. When I read it, I was absolutely stunned.

***

“I… I beg your pardon?”

Aodh Mór Ó Néill, commander of the Irish forces, stared at the Queen, unable to process what he had just heard.

When he first heard that the Queen had proposed a summit, he could hardly contain his joy. The Queen, who had remained across the sea throughout the conflict, was coming to him! He believed their victory was finally at hand. Why else would she make such a journey to beg for a meeting? Surely, the English could no longer sustain the war. Freedom of faith and Irish sovereignty were within reach!

The Earl of Tyrone had arrived at the neutral meeting ground with his most elite guards, fully expecting to witness the humiliating signing of an English surrender.

But the reality was… different.

“You heard me correctly,” Elizabeth said calmly.

“No… no, I must have misheard you, Your Majesty. Could you please repeat that one more time?”

O’Neill was trembling with agitation. Beside him, Robert Cecil was shaking for an entirely different reason, wondering how they would ever handle the fallout of this madness. Margaret, standing nearby, looked as if her soul had left her body. Even the soldiers from both sides were whispering so loudly the area sounded like a crowded marketplace.

“I said,” Elizabeth repeated, ignoring the commotion, “let’s end this war.”

O’Neill had expected that much. But her next words were what shattered his reality.

“I want you to be the King of Ireland.”

“What…?”

“You will be crowned alongside myself and James. A triple monarchy.”

“I—what? Eh?”

This was a completely different story. Was this woman serious? Had he actually heard her correctly?

“Congratulations,” she added with a thin smile.

O’Neill’s mind went blank.

***

“She did what?!”

“Your Highness… what?”

“I said, I hear Queen Elizabeth traveled to Ireland to push for peace. The price… is a joint kingship of Ireland.”

“Haha, there—there’s no way…”

James of Scotland, hearing the news in his own court, turned a shade of purple that suggested an impending stroke. “Goddammit! That wretched witch is selling off the throne again! How many pieces is she going to carve this country into?! I’ll rip her entrails out and—Gack!“

“Your Highness? Your Highness! Someone call the physicians, quickly!”

The King of Scots collapsed in a dead faint.

***

“And our troops remaining in Ireland?”

“We have lost all contact, Your Majesty.”

“Lost contact? Three thousand of our finest men… just vanished? Do you have any idea what you’re saying?!”

The Spanish court was thrown into an absolute frenzy.

***

“The Spaniards suffered a crushing defeat in Ireland and retreated?”

“Yes, Stadhouder. This is an opportunity our Republic cannot afford to miss. The Habsburg influence is waning. I urge you to support the Protestant lords.”

“Send word to the Elector Palatine. France will likely move to support him as well.”

The Netherlands, the Palatinate, France—the Protestant nations were all in motion. Almost every power in Europe began to act upon the news.