Midnight Never Come (29 page)

“Elizabeth is the same,” he flared, straightening in one fluid motion. “Or do you think my Queen a greater fool than yours?”

Lune met his gaze levelly. “I think your Queen less likely to have one of her courtiers murder you for an afternoon’s entertainment.”

She watched the contentious pride drain out of his face, one drop at a time. At first he did not believe her; then, as her stare did not waver, he did. And when she saw him understand, an ache gripped her throat, so sudden it brought tears to her eyes. What had life been like, when she lived under a different sovereign? She wished she could remember.

Lune rose to her feet and turned away before he could see her expression break. Behind her back, she heard Deven murmur, “Very well. I will see what I may learn. ’Twill not be easy —” He gave the quiet, rueful laugh she remembered, and had not heard in some time. “Well. Walsingham taught me how to ferret out information that others wish to keep hidden. I never expected to use it against a faerie queen, is all.”

“Let us know what you learn,” Rosamund said, and Gertrude echoed her after blowing her nose one last time. They went on, but Lune could no longer bear to be trapped in the claustrophobic hidden room with the three of them.

“I should return,” she said, to no one in particular. “I have been here too long already.” She went up the stairs before remembering the floor was closed above her, but it opened when her head neared its planks, two feminine farewells pursuing her as she went. Lune paused only long enough to restore the glamour she had dropped, and began her journey back to the confines of the Onyx Hall.

M
EMORY
:
November 12, 1547

T
he twisting web of streets, the leaning masses of houses and shops, alehouses and livery halls — it all obscured an underlying simplicity.

In the west, Ludgate Hill. Once home to a temple of Diana, now it was crowned with the Gothic splendor of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

In the east, Tower Hill, the White Mount. The structure atop it had once been a royal palace; now it more often served as a prison.

In the north, the medieval wall, curving like the arc of a bow, pierced by the seven principal gates of the city.

In the south, the string of the bow: the straight course of the Thames, a broad thoroughfare of water.

An east–west axis, stretching from hilltop to hilltop, with temporal power on one end, spiritual power on the other. A north–south axis, barrier in the north, access in the south, with the Walbrook, the
wall-brook,
bisecting the city and connecting the two poles.

The buried waters of the Walbrook ran hard by the London Stone, which lay very near to the center of the city. Near enough to suffice.

A shadow moved through the cloudless autumn sky.

Two figures stirred within the solid earth and stone of the hills. Unseen, their colossal bodies standing where there was no space for them, they reached out and took hold of the power of the earth, which was theirs to command.

Two more stood at the London Stone, blind to the activity of the city around them. A man and a woman, a mortal and a fae.

They waited, as the light around them began to dim.

Slowly, one person at a time, the bustle of the city’s streets began to falter and halt. Faces turned upward; some people fled indoors. And the world grew ever darker, as the shadow of the moon moved across the face of the sun, until only a ring of fire blazed around its edge.

“Now,” the woman whispered.

The giants Gog and Magog, standing within the hills of Ludgate and the Tower, called upon the earth to obey. The Roman well that lay at the foundations of the White Tower shivered, its stones trembling; an ancient pit used in the rites of Diana opened up once more below the cathedral; and at the bottom of each, something began to grow.

Standing at the London Stone, Suspiria and Francis Merriman reached out and linked hands, mortal and fae, to carry out a working the likes of which the land had never dreamed.

The shadowed light of the sun fell upon the city and cast stranger shadows, a penumbral reflection of London, like and yet unlike. It sprang forth from the buildings, the streets, the gardens, the wells, and sank downward into the ground.

In the earth beneath London, the shadows took shape. Streets became corridors; buildings, great chambers. They transformed as they went, twisting, flowing, settling into new configurations, defying the orderly relations of natural geometry. And then, when all was in place, stone sprang forth, black and white marble, crystal, onyx, paving the floors, sheathing the walls, supporting the ceilings in round half-barrels and great vaulting arches.

Together they made this, Suspiria and Francis, drawing on the fae strength of the giants; the mortal symbolism of the wall; the wisdom of Father Thames, who alone of all beings understood the thing that was London, having witnessed its growth from its earliest days. In the sun’s shadowed light, they formed a space that bridged a gap, creating a haven for fae among mortals, from which church bells could not drive them forth.

Their hands came to rest atop the London Stone. The light brightened once more; the moon continued along its course, and normalcy returned to the world.

They smiled at one another, exhausted, but exultant.

“It is done.”

P
ALACE OF
P
LACENTIA
, G
REENWICH
:
April 28–30, 1590

Even the sprawling reaches of Hampton Court and Whitehall did not have room to house every courtier, merchant, and visiting dignitary that came seeking audience with the Queen and her nobles, especially not with their servants and train. Deven had asked for and received a leave of absence, with the result that when the court removed to Greenwich, he had no lodging assigned to him. He might have troubled Lord Huns-don for one, especially as courtiers retired for the summer to their own residences, but it was simpler to take rooms at a nearby inn. From this staging point, closer to court than his London house but not in its midst, he tried to plan a course of action.

Judicious questions to the right people netted him a fuller story of Elizabeth’s coronation, including those who had been involved. Deven could not rule out the possibility that the Queen was not, in fact, the other party to this rumored pact; it might have been another. Lord Burghley leapt to mind. Sir William Cecil, as he was back then, had been a trusted adviser since the earliest days of the reign, and nothing short of the death he had put off for seventy years would make him retire. Moreover, he had taught Walsingham much of what the man knew about how to build an intelligence service.

Burghley was a good candidate. He might do a great deal to ensure his Queen stayed on her throne. But the question remained of how to approach him — or indeed, anyone else — about the matter.

I most humbly beg your pardon. But did you by any chance form a pact with a faerie queen thirty-one years ago?

He could not ask that question of anyone.

Deven supposed he had at least one advantage. Lune’s bleak eyes had stayed with him, her resigned expression as she spoke so plainly of her Queen’s murderous entertainments. Whatever other obstacles he faced — however much Elizabeth might rage and occasionally threaten to chop off someone’s head — at least he did not fear for his life when in the presence of his sovereign.

How to do it? For all his fine words about ferreting out hidden information, Deven could not fathom how to begin. He was half-tempted to ask Lune to return to court as Anne Montrose, and let her handle the matter; if people imagined her to be mad, she lost nothing. Deven, on the other hand . . . he would be lucky if they simply thought him mad. Faeries were plausible; faeries beneath London, less so.

But the true danger would be if they believed him. It was a short step from faeries to devils, from lunacy to heresy. And even a gentleman could be executed for that.

If only he could have discovered this all before Walsingham died! Deven did not know how the Principal Secretary would have reacted, but at least then he could have shared it with someone. Walsingham, he was sure, would have believed, if shown the evidence. But Deven had been too slow; he had not completed the task his master set him until it was too late.

The thought came to him as he walked the bank of the Thames, the river wind blowing his hair back until it stood up in ruffling crests. He had done all of this because Walsingham asked it of him.

And therein lay the opening he needed.

He went to Lord Hunsdon for help. Beale could have done it, no doubt, using his influence as a secretary to the privy council, but Beale knew too much of what he was about, and would have asked too many questions. Hunsdon’s aid was more easily obtained, though he was manifestly curious about Deven’s purpose, and his recent absence from court.

A gift for Hunsdon; a gift for the Countess of Warwick; a gift for the Queen. Deven wondered about faerie gold, and whether the Goodemeades could not somehow fund the expense of this work. He was not at all certain he wanted to know.

His opportunity came on a crisp, bright Thursday, when the wind sent clouds scudding across the sun and the Queen rode out to hunt. She was accompanied, as always, by a selection of her ladies, several other courtiers, and servants to care for the hounds and hawks and other accoutrements that attended upon her Majesty; it seemed a great menagerie, when he thought about watching eyes, listening ears. But it was the best he could hope for.

“How stands the Queen’s mood?” he asked Lady Warwick, as he rode out with the others into the unreliable brilliance of the morning.

The countess no doubt thought his question had something to do with Anne. “As changeable as the weather,” she said, casting one eye skyward, at the racing clouds. “Whatever suit you wish to press, you might consider waiting.”

“I cannot,” Deven muttered. Even if their situation could wait — which he was not certain it could — his nerve could not withstand delay. “You and Lord Hunsdon have been most generous in arranging this private conference for me. If I do not take my opportunity today, who knows when it will come again?”

“Then I wish you good fortune, Master Deven.”

With those reassuring words, the hunt began. Deven did not devote more than a sliver of his attention to its activity, instead rehearsing in his mind the words he would say. At length the hunt dismounted for a rest, and servants began to erect a pavilion in which the Queen would dine with the Earl of Essex. He saw Lady Warwick approach her, bearing in her hands the small book Deven had obtained from his father, and present it to the Queen. A murmured conversation, and then Elizabeth turned a sharp eye on him, across the meadow in which they rested.

The long-fingered hand beckoned, jewels flashing in the light; he crossed to where she stood and knelt in the grass before her. “Your Grace.”

“Walk with me, Master Deven.”

The beginnings of a headache were pulsing in his temples, keeping time with his thunderous heartbeat. Deven rose and followed the Queen, one respectful pace behind her, as she wandered the edge of the meadow. There were too many people around, passing into and out of earshot, but he could hardly ask her to withdraw farther; it was favor enough that she was granting him this semi-private audience.

“Lady Warwick tells me you bear a message of some importance,” Elizabeth said.

“I do, your Majesty.” Deven swallowed, then launched into the words he had rehearsed all morning, and half the day before.

“Prior to his death, Sir Francis set me a task. Were I a cleverer or more talented man, I might have completed it in time to share my discoveries with him, but I am come to my conclusions too late; only in the last few days have I uncovered the information he wished me to find. And in his absence, I have no master to whom ’tis fitting to report such matters. But I swore an oath not to conceal any matters prejudicial to your Grace’s person, and with the loss of the Principal Secretary, my allegiance is, by that oath, to you alone.” He wet his lips and went on. “Though it be presumptuous of me, I believe this issue of sufficient import as to be worth your Grace’s time and attention, and your wisdom more than sufficient to judge how best to proceed.”

Walking a pace behind Elizabeth, he could only see the edge of her face, but beneath the cosmetics he thought he discerned a lively interest. Walsingham to an extent, and Burghley even more, made a practice of trying to keep intelligence from the Queen; they preferred to control the information that reached her, so as to encourage her decisions in directions they favored. But Elizabeth disliked being managed, and had a great fondness for surprising them with knowledge they did not expect her to have.

“Say on,” she replied, her tone now more on the pleasant side of neutral.

Another deep breath. “The task the Master Secretary set me was this. He believed he had discerned, within the workings of your Grace’s government, the hand of some unseen player. He wished me to discover who it is.”

She was too experienced a politician to show surprise. Elizabeth’s energetic stride did not falter, nor did she turn to look at him. But Deven noticed that their seemingly aimless wanderings now drifted, ever so slightly, toward a stand of birches that bordered the meadow. Away from those who might listen in.

“And you believe,” the Queen said, “that you have discovered some such player?”

“I have indeed, madam. And having done so, I thought it all the more crucial that I convey this information to you alone.”

They were far enough away; no one would overhear them. Elizabeth stopped and turned to face him, her back to the white trunks of the trees. Her aged face was set in unreadable lines. A cloud covered the sun, then blew away again, and Deven thought uneasily that perhaps he should have waited to find her in a fairer mood, after all.

“Say on,” she commanded him again.

Too late to back out. Deven said, “Her name is Invidiana.”

He should have knelt to deliver the information; it would have been respectful. But he had to stand, because he had to be looking her in the face as he said it. This was his one chance to see her reaction, the one time she might betray some hint that would tell him what he needed to know. And even then, he almost missed it. Elizabeth had played this game for decades; she was more talented an actor than most who made their living from it. Only the tiniest flicker of tension at the corners of her eyes showed when he spoke the name: there for an instant, and then gone.