Midnight Never Come (41 page)

So he kept silent as always, and closed his eyes, losing himself in the silky touch of her hair, the quiet rippling of the Walbrook.

The gentle sound lifted him free of the confines of his mind, floating him into that space where time’s grip slackened and fell away. And in that space, an image formed.

Suspiria felt his body change. She sat up, escaping his suddenly stilled arms, and took his face in her delicate hands. “A vision?”

He nodded, not yet capable of speech.

The wistful, loving smile he knew so well softened her face. He had not seen it often of late. “My Tiresias,” she said, stroking his cheekbone with one finger. “What did you see?”

“A heart,” he whispered.

“Whose heart?”

Francis shook his head. Too often it was thus, that he saw without understanding. “The heart was exchanged for an apple of incorruptible gold. I do not know what it means.”

“Nor I,” Suspiria admitted. “But this is not the first time such meaning has eluded us — nor, I think, will it be the last.”

He managed a smile again. “A poor seer I am. Perhaps I have been too long among your kind, and can no longer tell the difference between true visions and my own fancy.”

She laughed, which he counted a victory. “Such games we could play with that; most fae would believe even the strangest things to be honest prophecy. We could go to Herne’s court and spread great confusion there.”

If it would lighten her heart, he would have gladly done it, and risked the great stag-horned king’s wrath. But sound distracted him, something more than the gentle noise of the brook. Someone was coming, along the passage that led to the garden.

Suspiria heard it, too, and they rose in time to see the plump figure of Rosamund Goodemeade appear in an archway. Nor was she alone: behind her stood a fae he did not recognize, travel-stained and weary, with a great pack upon his back.

Francis took Suspiria’s hand, and she raised her eyebrows at him. “It seems another has come to join us. Come, let us welcome him together.”

W
INDSOR
G
REAT
P
ARK
, B
ERKSHIRE
:
June 11, 1590

The oak tree might have stood there from the beginning of time, so ancient and huge had it grown, and its spreading branches extended like mighty sheltering arms, casting emerald shadows on the ground below.

Beneath this canopy stood more than two score people, the greatest gathering of faerie royalty England had ever seen. From Cumberland and Northumberland to Cornwall and Kent they came, and all the lands in between: kings and queens, lords and ladies, a breathtaking array of great and noble persons, with their attendants watching from a distance.

They met here because it was neutral ground, safely removed from the territory in dispute and the faerie palace many still thought of as an unnatural creation, an emblem of the Queen they despised. Under the watchful aegis of the oak, the ancient tree of kings, they gathered to discuss the matter — and, ultimately, to recognize the sovereignty of a new Queen.

It was a formality, Lune knew. They acknowledged her right to London the moment they obeyed her command to leave. Her fingers stroked the hilt of the sword as one of the kings rolled out a sonorous, intricate speech about the traditional rights of a faerie monarch. She did not want to inherit Invidiana’s throne. It carried with it too many dark memories; the stones of the Onyx Hall would never be free of blood.

But that choice, like others, could not be unmade.

The orations had gone on for quite some time. Lune suspected her fellow monarchs were luxuriating in the restoration of their dignity and authority. But in time she grew impatient; she was glad when her own opportunity came.

She stood and faced the circle of sovereigns, the London Sword sheathed in her hands. The gown she wore, midnight-blue silk resplendent with moonlight and diamonds, felt oddly conspicuous; she still remembered her time out of favor, hiding in the corners of the Onyx Hall, dressed in the rags of her own finery. But the choice was deliberate: many of those gathered about her wore leather or leaves, clothing that less closely mirrored that of mortals.

Lune had a point to make. And to that end, she lifted her gaze past those gathered immediately beneath the oak, looking to the attendant knights and ladies that waited beyond.

Lifting one hand, she beckoned him to approach.

Standing between the Goodemeade sisters, Michael Deven hesitated, as well he might. But Lune raised one eyebrow at him, and so he came forward and stood a pace behind her left shoulder, hands clasped behind his back. He, too, was dressed in great finery, faerie-made for him on this day.

“Those of you gathered here today,” Lune said, “remember Invidiana, and not fondly. I myself bear painful memories of my life under her rule. But today I ask you to remember someone else: a woman named Suspiria.

“What she attempted, some would say is beyond our reach. Others might say we
should not
reach for it, that mortal and faerie worlds are separate, and ever should stay so.

“But we dwell here, in the glens and the hollow hills, because we do not believe in that separation. Because we seek out lovers from among their kind, and midwives for our children, poets for our halls, herdsmen for our cattle. Because we aid them with enchantments of protection, banners for battle, even the homely tasks of crafting and cleaning. Our lives are intertwined with theirs, to one degree or another — sometimes for good, other times for ill, but never entirely separate.

“Suspiria came to believe in the possibility of harmony between these two worlds, and created the Onyx Hall in pursuit of that belief. But we do wrong if we speak only of her, for that misses half the heart of the matter: the Hall was created by a faerie and a mortal, by Suspiria and Francis Merriman.”

Reaching out, Lune took Deven by the hand, bringing him forward until he stood next to her. His fingers tightened on hers, but he cooperated without hesitation.

“I would not claim the Onyx Hall if I did not share in their belief. And I will continue to be its champion. So long as I reign, I will have a mortal at my side. Look upon us, and know that you look upon the true heart of the Onyx Court. All those who agree will ever be welcome in our halls.”

Her words carried clearly through the still summer air. Lune saw frowns of disagreement here and there, among the kings, among their attendants. She expected it. But not everyone frowned. And she had established her own stance as Queen — her similarity to Suspiria, her difference from Invidiana — and that, more than anything, was her purpose here today.

The day did not end with speeches. There would be celebrations that night, and she would take part, as a Queen must. But two things would happen before then.

She walked with Deven at twilight along the bank of a nearby stream, once again hand in hand. They had said many things to one another in the month since the battle, clearing away the last of the lies, sharing the stories of what had happened while they were apart. And the stories of what had happened while they were together — truths they had never admitted before.

“Always a mortal at your side,” Deven said. “But not always me.”

“I would not do that to you,” Lune responded, quietly serious. “ ’Twas not just Invidiana’s cruelty that warped Francis. Living too long among fae will bring you to grief, sooner or later. I love the man you are, Michael. I’ll not make you into a broken shell.”

He could never leave her world entirely. The faerie wine he drank had left its mark, as Anael’s power had done to her. But it did not have to swallow him whole.

He sighed and squeezed her hand. “I know. And I am thankful for it. But ’tis easy to understand how Suspiria came to despair. Immortality all around, and none for her.”

Lune stopped and turned him to face her, taking his other hand. “See it through my eyes,” she said. “All the passion of humanity, all the fire, and I can do no more than warm myself at its edge.” A presentiment of sorrow roughened her voice. “And when you are gone, I will not grieve and recover, as a human might. I may someday come to love another — perhaps — but this love will never fade, nor the pain of its loss. Once my heart is given, I may never take it back.”

He managed a smile. “Francis gave Suspiria’s heart back.”

Lune shook her head. “No. He shared it with her, and reminded her that she loved him, still and forever.”

Deven closed his eyes, and Lune knew he, like her, was remembering those moments in the Onyx Hall. But then an owl hooted, and he straightened with a sigh. “We are due elsewhere. Come — she does not like to be kept waiting.”

W
INDSOR
C
ASTLE
, B
ERKSHIRE
:
June 11, 1590

When all the attendants and ladies-in-waiting had been dismissed, when the room was empty except for the three of them, Elizabeth said, “I think ’tis time you showed me your true face, Mistress Montrose.”

Deven watched Lune out of his peripheral vision. She must have been half-expecting the request, for she did not hesitate. The golden hair and creamy skin faded away, leaving in their place the alien beauty of a faerie queen.

Elizabeth’s mouth pressed briefly into a thin, hard line. “So. You are her successor.”

“Yes.” Deven winced at Lune’s lack of deferential address, but she was right to do it; Elizabeth must see her as a fellow queen, an equal. “And on behalf of my people, I offer you a sincere apology for the wrongs your kingdom suffered at the hands of Invidiana.”

“Is that so.” Elizabeth fingered her silken fan, studying Lune. “She did much that was ill, ’tis true.”

Deven could not make up his mind which queen to watch, but something in Elizabeth’s manner sparked a notion deep within his brain. “Your Majesty,” he asked, directing the words at the aging mortal woman, “how long did you know Anne Montrose was not what she seemed to be?”

Elizabeth’s dark gaze showed unexpected amusement, and a smile lurked around the corners of her mouth, proud and a little smug. “My lords of the privy council take great care to watch the actions of my royal cousins in other lands,” she said. “Someone had to keep an eye on the one that lived next door.”

This
did
startle Lune. “Did you —”

“Know of others? Yes. Not all of them, to be sure; no doubt she sent temporary agents to manipulate my lords and knights, whom I never saw. But I knew of some.” Now the pride was distinctly visible. “Margaret Rolford, for one.”

Lune gaped briefly, then recovered her dignity and nodded her head in respectful admission. “Well spotted. I would be surprised you allowed me to remain at court — but then again, ’tis better to know your enemy’s agents and control them, is it not?”

“Precisely.” Elizabeth came forward, looking thoughtful. She stood a little taller than Lune, but not by much. “I cannot say I will like you. There is too much of bad blood, not so easily forgotten. But I hope for peaceful relations, at least.”

Lune nodded. Looking at the two of them, Deven marked their choice of color: Lune in midnight blue and silver, Elizabeth in russet brocade with gold and jewels. Neither wore black, though Elizabeth often favored it. For the striking contrast with her auburn hair and white skin, or out of some obscure connection to or competition with Invidiana? Either way, it seemed both were determined to separate themselves from that past, at least for today.

Elizabeth had turned away to pace again; now she spoke abruptly. “What are your intentions toward my court?”

This was the true purpose of the meeting, the reason why “Mistress Montrose” had made a visit to Windsor Castle. Deven and Lune had talked it over before coming, but neither could guess what answer Elizabeth wanted to hear. All they could offer was the truth.

“ ’Tis a delicate balance,” Lune said. “Invidiana interfered too closely, appropriating your actions for her own ends, and treading upon your sovereign rights. I have no wish to imitate her in that respect. But we also have no interest in seeing England fall to a Catholic power. I do not speak for all the faerie kingdoms, but if there is need of defense, the Onyx Court will come to your aid.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly, evaluating that. “I see. Well, I have had enough of pacts; I want no swords in stones to bind us to each other. If such a threat should arise, though, I may hold you to your word.”

Then she turned, without warning, to Deven. “As for you, Master Deven — you offered to free me from that pact, and so you did. What would you have of me in return?”

His mind went utterly blank. How Colsey would have laughed to see him now, and Walsingham, too; he had come to court with every intention of advancing himself, and now that his great opportunity came, he could not think what to ask. His life had gone so very differently than he expected.

Kneeling, he said the first thing that came into his head. “Madam, nothing save your gracious leave to follow my heart.”

Elizabeth’s response was cool and blunt. “You cannot marry her, you know. There’s not a priest in England that would wed you.”

John Dee might do it, but Deven had not yet worked up the courage to ask. “I do not speak only of marriage.”

“I know.” Her tone softened. Deep within it, he heard the echo of a quiet sorrow, that never left her heart. “Well, it cannot be made official — I would not fancy explaining it to my lords of the council — but if our royal cousin here finds it acceptable, you shall be our ambassador to the Onyx Court.”

He could almost hear Lune’s smile. “That would be most pleasing to us.”

“Thank you, madam.” Deven bowed his head still further.

“But there is one difficulty.” Elizabeth came forward and put her white fingers under his chin, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to meet her dark, level gaze. “ ’Twould be an insult to send a simple gentleman to fill such a vital position.” She pretended to consider it, and he saw the great pleasure she took in this, dispensing honors and rewards to those who had done her good service. “I believe we shall have to knight you. Do you accept?”