Midnight Never Come (4 page)

But building the illusion was not enough, on its own. Lune reached into the purse that hung from her girdle and brought forth the bread from her coffer.

The coarsely ground barley caught in her teeth; she was careful to swallow it all. As food, she disdained it, but it served its own purpose, and for that it was more precious than gold. When the last bit had been consumed, she reached up and stroked the nearest root.

With a quiet rustle, the tendrils closed around and lifted her up.

She emerged from the trunk of an alder tree that stood along St. Martin’s Lane, no more than a stone’s throw from the structures that had grown like burls from the great arch and surrounding walls of Aldersgate. The time, she was surprised to discover, was early morning. The Onyx Hall did not stand outside human time the way more distant realms did — that would make Invidiana’s favorite games too difficult — but it was easy to lose track of the hour.

Straightening her cap, Lune stepped away from the tree. No one had noticed her coming out of the trunk. It was the final boundary of the Onyx Hall, the last edge of the enchantments that protected the subterranean palace lying unseen below mortal feet; just as the place itself remained undiscovered, so would people not be seen coming and going. But once away from its entrances, the protections ended.

As if to hammer the point home, the bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral rang out the hour from within the tightly packed mass of London. Lune could not repress the tiniest flinch, even as she felt the sound wash over her harmlessly. She had done this countless times before, yet the first test of her own protections always made her nervous.

But she was safe. Fortified by mortal food against the power of mortal faith, she could walk among them, and never fear her true face would be revealed.

Settling into her illusion, Lune set out, walking briskly through the gate and out of London.

The morning was bright, with a crisp breeze that kept her cool as she walked. The houses crowding the lane soon spaced themselves more generously, but there was traffic aplenty, an endless flow of food, travelers, and goods into and out of the city. London was a voracious thing, chewing up more than it spat back out, and in recent years it had begun to swallow the countryside. Lune marveled at the thronging masses who flooded the city until it overflowed, spilling out of its ancient walls and taking root in the formerly green fields that lay without. They lived like ants, building up great hills in which they lived by the hundreds and thousands, and then dying in the blink of an eye.

A mile or so farther out, it was a different matter. The clamor of London faded behind her; ahead, beyond the shooting fields, lay the neighboring village of Islington, with its manor houses and ancient, shading trees. And along the Great North Road, the friendly, welcoming structure of the Angel Inn.

The place was moderately busy, with travelers and servants alike crossing the courtyard that lay between the inn and the stables, but that made Lune’s goal easier; with so many people about, no one took particular notice of one more. She passed by the front entrance and went toward the back, where the hillside was dominated by an enormous rosebush, a tangled, brambly mass even the bravest soul would be afraid to trim back.

This, too, had its own protections. No one was there to watch as Lune cupped a late-blooming rose in her hand and spoke her name into the petals.

Like the roots of the alder tree in London, the thorny branches rustled and moved, forming a braided archway starred with yellow blossoms. Inside the archway were steps, leading down through the earth, their wood worn smooth by countless passing feet. Charmed lights cast a warm glow over the interior. Lune began her descent, and the rosebush closed behind her.

The announcement of her name did not open the bush; it only told the inhabitants someone had come. But visitors were rarely kept waiting, outside or in. By the time Lune reached the bottom of the steps, someone was there.

“Welcome to the Angel, my lady,” Gertrude Goodemeade said, a sunny smile on her round-cheeked face as she bobbed a curtsy. “ ’Tis always a pleasure to see you here. Come in, please, please!”

No doubt the Goodemeade sisters gave the same friendly greeting to anyone who crossed their threshold — just as, no doubt, more courtiers came here than would admit it — and yet Lune did not doubt the words were sincere. It was in the sisters’ nature. They came from the North originally — brownies were Border hobs, and Gertrude’s voice retained traces of the accent — but they had served the Angel Inn since its construction, and supposedly another inn before that, and on back past what anyone could remember. Many hobs were insular folk, attached to a particular mortal family and unconcerned with anyone else, but these two understood giving hospitality to strangers.

The edges of the tension that had frozen Lune’s back for days melted away in the warmth of the brownies’ comfortable home.

Lune suffered Gertrude to lead her into the cozy little chamber and settle her onto a padded bench at one of the small tables. “We haven’t seen you here in some time,” Gertrude said. She was already bustling about, embroidered skirts swishing with her quick movements, fetching Lune a cup of mead without asking. It was, of course, exactly what Lune craved at that moment. The talents of brownies were homely things, but appreciated all the same.

One brownie, at any rate. Lune opened her mouth to ask where Gertrude’s sister was, then paused at sounds on the staircase. A moment later her question was answered, for Rosamund entered, wearing a russet dress that was the twin of Gertrude’s save for the embroidery on its apron — roses instead of daisies — just as her cheerful face mirrored that of her sister.

Behind her came others who were less cheerful. Lune recognized the haggard male hob immediately; the others were less familiar, having mostly pressed their faces into the floor of the Onyx Hall when she last saw them.

Gertrude made a sympathetic sound and hurried forward. For a short time the room seemed overfull, wall-to-wall with hobs and pucks and a slender, mournful-faced river nymph Lune had missed among them the first time. But no brownie would suffer there to be confusion or standing guests for long; soon enough a few of the strangers were ensconced at the tables with bread fresh out of the oven and sharp, crumbly cheese, while the more tired among them were bundled off through another door and put to bed.

Lune wrapped her fingers around her mead and felt uncomfortable. She had dismissed her illusion of mortality — she would have felt odd maintaining it inside, as if she had kept a traveling cloak on — but the bite of human bread she had eaten still made her proof against church bells, iron horseshoes, and other anti-faerie charms. How the refugees had gotten to the Angel from the Onyx Hall, she did not know, but she doubted it had been so easy. Rosamund must have been present at court, though. Lune chided herself for not studying the crowd more closely.

Gertrude had not forgotten her. Moments later, the smell of roasted coney filled the room, and Lune was served along with the others. The food was simple, prosaic, and good; one could easily imagine mortals eating the same thing, and it made the elaborate banquets of the court seem fussy and excessive.

Perhaps,
Lune thought,
this is why I come here. For perspective.

Would it be so bad, to leave the court? To find a simpler life, somewhere outside of London?

It would be easier, certainly. In the countryside, there was less need to protect oneself against mortal tricks. Peasant folk saw fae from time to time, and told stories of their encounters with black dogs or goblins, but no one made trouble of it. Or rarely, at least. They generally only tried to lay creatures who made too much a nuisance of themselves. And out there, one was well away from the intrigues of the Onyx Court.

Next to Lune on the bench, a tuft-headed sprite began to sniffle into his bread.

Wherever these rural fae had come from, it was not far enough to save them from Invidiana.

No, she could not leave London. To be subject to the tides of the court, but unable to affect them . . .

There was another choice, of course. Across the boundary of twilight, down the pleasant paths that led neither to Heaven nor Hell, and into the deeper reaches of Faerie, where Invidiana’s authority and influence did not reach. But few mortals ever wandered so far, and for all the dangers they posed to fae, Lune would not leave them behind. Mortals were endlessly fascinating, with their brief, bright lives, and all the passion that fueled them.

Rosamund began to shepherd the others off, murmuring about baths and nice soft beds. Gertrude came by as the sprite vacated Lune’s bench. “Now then, my lady — forgive me for that. Poor things, they were starved to the bone. Was it just a bite to eat you were looking for, and a breath of good country air?”

Her apple-cheeked face radiated such friendly helpfulness that Lune shook her head before she could stop herself. On the instant, Gertrude’s cheerful demeanor transformed to concern. “Oh, dearie. Tell us about it.”

Lune had not meant to share the story, but perhaps it was appropriate; she could hardly ask for aid without explaining at least some of why she needed it, and the Goodemeades were generally ignorant of politics. They might be the nearest fae who had
not
already heard.

“I am disgraced at court,” she admitted.

She tried to speak as if it were of small moment. Indeed, sometimes it was; if everyone who angered Invidiana suffered Cadogant’s fate, there would soon be no court left. But she stood upon the edge of a knife, and that was never a comfortable place to be.

Gertrude made a sympathetic face. “Queen’s taken a set against you, has she?”

“With cause,” Lune said. “You listen to the talk in the mortal inn, do you not?”

The brownie dimpled innocently. “From time to time.”

“Then you know they fear invasion by Spain, and that a great Armada was only recently defeated.”

“Oh, we heard! Great battles at sea, or some such.”

Lune nodded, looking down at the remnants of her coney. “Great battles. But before them and after, great storms as well. Storms for which we paid too high a price.” She had confessed the details only to Invidiana, and would not repeat them; that would only deepen the Queen’s wrath. But she could tell Gertrude the shape of it. “I was Invidiana’s ambassador to the folk of the sea, and did not bargain well enough. She is displeased with the concession I promised.”

“Oh dear.” Gertrude paused to assimilate this. “What was so dreadful, then? I cannot imagine she wants us to be invaded; surely it was worth the price.”

Lune pushed her trencher away, painting a smile over her ever-present knot of worry. “Come, you do not want to talk of such things. This is a haven away from court and its nets — and long may it remain so.”

“True enough,” the brownie said complacently, patting her apron with plump but work-worn fingers. “Well, all’s well that ends well; we don’t have any nasty Spanish soldiers trampling through the Angel, and I’m sure you’ll find your way back into her Majesty’s good graces soon enough. You have a talent for such things, my lady.”

The words returned Lune to her original purpose. “I hesitate to ask you this,” she admitted, looking at the doorway through which the last of the refugees had vanished. “You have so many to take care of now — at least until they can be settled elsewhere. And I wonder Rosamund could even bring them here safely.”

Her reluctance had exactly the desired effect. “Oh, is that all?” Gertrude exclaimed dismissively, springing to her feet. The next Lune knew, the brownie was pressing an entire heel of bread into her hands. It was not much different from what the Goodemeades had served, but any fae could tell one from the other at a touch. Mortality had a distinctive weight.

Looking down at the bread, Lune felt obscurely guilty. The maidservants of the Angel put out bread and milk faithfully; everyone knew that. And Invidiana taxed the Goodemeades accordingly, just as she taxed many country fae. Many more rural humans than city folk put out food for the fae, yet it was in the city that they needed it most. The Onyx Hall shut out the sounds of the bells and other such threats, but to venture into the streets unfed was an assurance of trouble.

She needed this. But so did the Goodemeades, with their guests to take care of.

“Go on, take it,” Gertrude said in a soft voice, folding her hands around the bread. “I’m sure you’ll find a good use for it.”

Lune put her guilt aside. “Thank you. I will not forget your generosity.”

M
emory
:
May–August 1588

I
n villages and towns all along the coast of England, piles of wood awaited the torch, and men awaited the first sight of the doom that was coming to devour them.

In the crowded harbor of Lisbon, the ships of the
Grande y Felicícisma Armada
awaited the order that would send them forth, for God and King Philip, to bring down the heretic queen.

In the waters that separated them, storms brewed, sending rain and heavy winds to lash the lands on both sides of the English Channel.

The Armada was a greater thing in story than it was in reality. The five hundred mighty ships that would bear an unstoppable army to England’s shores, their holds crammed with implements of torture and thousands of Catholic wet nurses for the English babies who would be orphaned by the wholesale slaughter of their parents, were in truth a hundred and thirty ships of varying degrees of seaworthiness, crewed by the dregs of Lisbon, some of whom had never been to sea before, and commanded by a landsman given his posting only a few months gone. Disease and the depredations of the English scourge Sir Francis Drake had taken their toll on God’s weapon against the heretics.

But the worst was yet to come.

In this, the quietest month of the year, when all the experienced seamen had assured the Duke of Medina-Sidonia that the waters would be calm and the winds fair for England, the storms did not subside; instead, they grew in strength. Gales drove the ships back when they tried to progress, and scattered the weaker, less seaworthy vessels. Fat-bottomed merchantmen, Mediterranean galleys unsuited to the blasts of the open sea, lumbering supply ships that slowed the pace of the entire fleet: the Great and Most Fortunate Armada was a sorry sight indeed.