Stepsister(84)

A son of Ares, made for glory,

All quake to hear Achilles’ story.



Then it was Genghis Khan’s turn.

A Mongol conqueror without equal

A warrior king, a god to his people—



“Oh, enough!” declared a voice from offstage.

Isabelle looked for its source. She saw the curtain at the right ripple, then heard sharp, indignant footsteps. A few seconds later, a woman emerged from the wings.

She was slender and straight-backed, with vivid red hair styled high on her head. A stiff lace collar framed her face. She wore a white gown embroidered with pearls, emeralds, and rubies. In one jeweled hand, she carried a bucket of paint; in the other, a brush.

Peter the Great stepped forward. He puffed out his chest. “Who are you, madam?” he demanded.

“Elizabeth I. Move,” she said, waving him and the others aside with her paintbrush.

Flabbergasted and sputtering, they did as she bade, half shuffling to the right side of the stage, half to the left.

Elizabeth walked through the path they’d cleared and up to the towering book. She kicked the cover with a well-shod foot. It slammed shut. Then she dipped her brush into the bucket, crossed out the word History, dipped the brush again, and wrote HER STORY in its place.





Ninety-Four


Isabelle sat forward in her chair, mesmerized.

“This wasn’t in the book,” she whispered.

As she watched, Elizabeth walked to the front of the stage and addressed her.

“I am the daughter of England’s Henry VIII,” she said. “I was a disappointment to him because I was not the son he wished for. I survived his neglect, my half-sister’s hatred, attacks on my country and attempts on my life, to become the best monarch England has ever seen.” She smiled smugly, then added, “Or ever will.”

The book receded. The footlights blazed again. The actors playing Scipio and his fellows crouched low, using their hands to cast shadows of horses and knights on the walls.

A din rose of shouted commands, shrill whinnies, a fanfare. There was a cannon blast, a flash of light, and then the theater’s left wall fell flat to the ground with a boom, followed by its right. The back wall fell next, carrying the arch with it. And then, before Isabelle’s astonished eyes, the shadows came to life. Warhorses in chain mail stomped and snorted. Officers sat astride them. Soldiers massed next to them, carrying bows, pikes, swords, and halberds. The oak-sheltered clearing became an army camp on the banks of the River Thames.

And Elizabeth, standing in a gown only a moment ago, now rode in on a white charger, wearing a steel breastplate. She held her reins in one hand, a sword in the other. Her red hair streamed down her back.

“Tilbury camp, 1588!” she shouted at Isabelle. “The Spanish king sends his Armada, the most powerful naval force in the world, to invade my country. His nephew, the Duke of Parma, joins him. They have fearsome warships, troops, and weapons.” She grinned. “But England has me!”

She spurred her horse on and rode to her troops.

“My loving people!” she addressed them. “I am come amongst you … being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all; to lay down for God, and for my kingdom, and my people, my honor, and my blood, even in the dust!”

As Isabelle watched, spellbound, the Thames swelled into a roiling blue sea and a naval battle commenced. Swift English warships fired broadsides at the Spanish vessels. Cannon boomed. Ships burned. Smoke billowed. When it finally cleared, the Armada had been routed. England was victorious.

The scene changed. Bells pealed as Elizabeth rode through the streets of London. Roses were strewn in her path. She reached Isabelle and dismounted. A groom led her horse away, the cheers died down. “The victory was England’s greatest, and mine,” Elizabeth said. “But there are more battles. More wars. More victories. Not told in any book.”

She waved her hand. Trumpets blared. And then a woman walked out of the trees towards her. And then another. And another. Until there were dozens. Scores. Hundreds. When they had all assembled, Elizabeth introduced them one by one.

“Yennenga, a Dagomba princess,” she announced, and a young Ghanaian woman, wearing a tunic and trousers of woven red, black, and white cloth, stepped forward. She was carrying a javelin. London gave way to lush plains. Two lions walked out of the tall grass and sat at either side of her.

“I commanded my own battalion and fought against my country’s enemies,” she said. “No one could match me on a horse.”

She threw her javelin high. It pierced the night sky and exploded into a silvery fountain of shooting stars.

Isabelle could hardly breathe, she was so excited. All her life, she’d been told that women rulers were only figureheads, that women did not fight or lead soldiers in war. She stood on her chair, the better to see these remarkable creatures.

“Abbakka Chowta,” Elizabeth said as a young woman from India wearing a pink silk sari walked to the centre of the stage. “A woman who shot flaming arrows from her saddle, a woman so brave she was named Abhaya Rani, the fearless queen.”

Abhaya Rani nocked an arrow into the bow she was carrying, aimed for the sky, and released it. It burst into brilliant blue flames. She smiled at Isabelle. “I fought my country’s invaders for forty years. I was captured but died as I lived, fighting for freedom.”