Midnight Never Come (19 page)

Surely Madame Malline could work out why Lune would fear Invidiana’s retaliation, once she had spoken.

The French elf’s eyes finally moved back to Lune’s face. “I see,” the ambassador said, her voice slightly breathless. “I thank you, Lady Lune. Your Queen has listeners on this room, of course, but I have paid them off. For your honesty, I will do more than have you freed; I will also protect you from her retaliation. She will hear from her spies that you told me a persuasive lie. I cannot promise it will be enough, but it is all I may do.”

Lune smoothed the lines of worry from her own face. Rising from her seat, she curtsied to the envoy. “You have my most humble thanks,
madame ambassadrice.
”

T
HE
S
TRAND
,
OUTSIDE
L
ONDON
:
April 13, 1590

The list Beale gave Deven was depressingly short.

Gilbert Gifford had been granted a handsome pension of a hundred pounds a year for his work in passing along the letters of the Queen of Scots, but Thomas Phelippes had reported more than two years ago that he’d been arrested by French authorities and slung in prison. So far as Beale knew, Gifford was still there. By all accounts, he was as untrustworthy and mercenary a man as Walsingham had ever hired; rumors said he’d later tried to arrange Elizabeth’s murder with Mendoza, the former Spanish ambassador to England. He might well have been serving another master. But Deven could not very well question him when he was in a French jail. And his cousin among the Gentlemen Pensioners, though a dubious character in his own right, was not useful to Deven.

Henry Fagot was another informer Walsingham had suspected of coming too easily to hand, but he was even less accessible than Gifford; no one knew who he had been. He had passed information out of the French embassy some six or seven years before, but hid behind a false name. The potential suspects, of course, were long gone from England.

And those were his two strongest prospects. From there, the list degenerated even more. Some individuals were dead; others were gone; others weren’t individuals at all, but rather suspicions of “someone in the service of Lord and Lady Hereford,” or leads even less concrete than that.

This was the information Walsingham had not given him, for fear of prejudicing his mind and leading his thoughts down paths others had already explored. Having considered it, Deven had to agree; the past would not give him the answer. He had to look at the present. If Walsingham was right, and the player was still active, with a hand in the Irish situation . . . a great many ifs, as Beale said. But what other lead could he follow?

Nothing save his suspicions about Walsingham’s death. And Beale had argued well against those.

Carrying a message from a council meeting at Somerset House to St. James’ Palace, his cloak pulled tight around him in feeble protection against a driving rainstorm, Deven abruptly remembered Beale’s words.

“I know it would be easier to believe that someone poisoned or cursed Sir Francis . . .”

Poison, no. But Deven could think of at least one man who might have the capacity to bring about a man’s death through infernal magic.

Doctor John Dee.

He raised his head, heedless of the water that streamed down his face, and stared blindly through the gray curtain of rain. Dee. A necromancer, they said, who trafficked with demons and bound spirits to his will. But also Walsingham’s friend; would Dee have betrayed him so foully?

There were other problems. Dee had been on the continent for six years — six crucial years, in the tale of the Queen of Scots. But Fagot’s work in the embassy had begun around the time that Dee departed. And Gifford, too, had conveniently shown up in that time.

Could they have been working for the astrologer, while he was abroad?

Someone had persuaded Elizabeth, possibly by meeting with her in person. Dee could not have done that, unless someone had gone to a great deal of effort to fabricate rumors about his travels with Edward Kelley. It was a stretch to imagine the man working so effectively through intermediaries. And what would Dee care about events in Ireland?

Deven shook his head, sending water flying. Beneath him, his bay gelding kept stolidly putting one foot down after another, ignoring both the rain and the preoccupation of his rider. Too many questions without answers — but it was the strongest possibility yet. Before his departure for the continent, Dee had spun out grand visions of England’s destiny in the world, with Elizabeth upon the throne. The Queen of Scots would have been an obstacle to those visions, one he might take steps to remove.

And perhaps his difficulties now stemmed, at least in part, from Elizabeth’s disillusionment over how she’d been managed into killing her Scottish cousin.

What did Deven know about Dee’s activities now, the positions and benefits for which he was petitioning the Crown?

The answers came obediently to mind — and with them, something else. The reason why he knew those answers.

Anne.

“ ’Tis listening, not spying, and you are not asking me. I do it of my own free will.”

Yes, she had volunteered information on Doctor Dee quite eagerly. Deven knew all about the man’s penury, the theft of books and priceless instruments from his house at Mortlake, the dispute with his wife’s brother over the ownership of that house. Even Burghley’s attempts to get Dee’s confederate Edward Kelley back to England, so he could put his Philosopher’s Stone to work producing gold for Elizabeth. Information Deven had taken in and set to one side, because he could not see what to do with it.

The thought of Anne twisted like a knife in him. They hadn’t spoken since that confrontation in the orchard; shortly thereafter, according to the Countess of Warwick, Anne had begged and received permission to leave her service. Deven did not know why, nor had he asked; the subject was too painful, the unresolved questions between them too sharp. These thoughts, however, cast the entire situation in a new and unpleasant light.

What she could possibly be doing in Dee’s service, he did not know. But if Dee were the player . . .

More ifs. He had so few names to chase, though. And going after Dee directly would not be wise.

Was he thinking of this because he truly suspected Anne, and thought finding her would accomplish something? Or did he just wish to see her again?

“A bit of both,” he admitted out loud, to no one in particular. The gelding flicked his ears, scattering droplets of rain.

By the time he arrived at St. James’ Palace, drenched and shivering, he had made up his mind. He stopped to change clothes only because it would not do to drip on the floor of a peer.

The Countess of Warwick frowned when Deven asked what reason Anne had given for leaving. “She did not speak of your argument, though I suspect that played a part. No, she named some other cause. . . .”

Deven stood in his wet hair and dry clothes, and tried not to chafe with impatience.

“ ’Tis hard to recall,” the countess admitted at last, looking embarrassed. “I am sorry, Master Deven. An ailing family member, perhaps. Yes, I remember, that was it — her father, I believe.”

“I have no father,”
Anne had said, when he asked her why she could not marry.

So either she had lied to the countess, or to him. And she had lied to him before.

He put on a look of solicitous concern. “I am very sorry to hear it. Perhaps it was concern for her father that led to our troubles. Do you know where her family lives? I have been given a leave of absence from my duties; I might call upon her, to offer my sympathies if nothing else.”

The countess’s confusion melted away, and she smiled indulgently at him, no doubt thinking of young love. “That would be very kind of you. She is London-born, from the parish of St. Dunstan in the East.”

Little more than a stone’s throw from Walsingham’s house, south and west along Tower Street. Deven would have ridden to Yorkshire, but he need not go far at all.

“I thank you, my lady,” Deven said, and left with all the haste decency would allow.

T
HE
O
NYX
H
ALL
, L
ONDON
:
April 14, 1590

Though almost everything of value had been stripped from Lune’s chambers following her disgrace, her gowns remained. No one, apparently, wanted to be seen wearing the clothing of a traitor imprisoned beneath the White Tower.

She dressed herself in raven’s feathers, simple but elegant, with an open-fronted collar and cuffs that swept back from her hands in delicate lacework. Now, of all times, she wanted to show her loyalty to Invidiana by wearing the Queen’s colors. The plain pins holding up her silver hair were her only adornment; humility, alongside loyalty, would be her watchword tonight.

When she was ready, she took a steadying breath, then opened the door to her chamber and stepped outside.

“Are you ready?” Sir Prigurd asked in his resonant bass voice, and waited for her brief curtsy. “Come along, then.”

Two guards accompanied them through the palace. Lune was not taken to the presence chamber. A good sign, or a bad one? She could only speculate. Prigurd led her onward, and soon Lune knew where they were going.

The Hall of Figures was a long gallery, sunken below the usual level of the rooms by the depth of a half-flight of stairs. Statues lined it on both sides, ranging from simple busts to full figures to a few massive works large enough to fill a small chamber on their own. Some were made by mortal artisans, others by fae; some had not been crafted at all, unless the basilisk could be called a crafter.

Lune prayed the stories were not true, that Invidiana kept a basilisk in some hidden confine of the Onyx Hall.

Prigurd and the guards stayed on the landing at the top of the stairs. Lune went down alone. As her slipper touched the floor, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye; she flinched despite herself, thinking of basilisks.

No monster. In her distraction, she had simply taken the man for a statue. The mortal called Achilles had more to recommend him to Invidiana than just his battle furies; his nearly naked body might have been a sculpted model for the perfection of the human form.

He took her by the arm, his hard fingers communicating the violence that always trembled just below the surface. Lune knew better than to think it directed at her, but she also knew better than to think herself safe from it. She offered no resistance as Achilles led her down the gallery, past the watching statues.

A chair had been placed partway down the Hall of Figures, and a canopy of estate erected above it. Before Lune came anywhere near it, she sank gracefully to her knees — as gracefully as she could, with Achilles still holding one arm in an iron grip.

“Bring her closer.”

The mortal hauled Lune to her feet before she could stand on her own, towed her forward a few steps, and shoved her down again.

The moments passed by in silence, broken only by breathing, and a scuff at the entrance to the gallery as Sir Prigurd shifted his weight.

“I am given to understand,” Invidiana said, “that you have been telling Madame Malline lies.”

“I have,” Lune said, still kneeling in a sea of raven feathers. “More than she realizes.”

A few more heartbeats passed; then, on some unspoken signal from the Queen, Achilles released Lune’s arm. She remained kneeling, her eyes on the floor.

Invidiana said, “Explain yourself.”

There was no point in repeating the early steps of it; Invidiana knew those already. She might even know what Lune had said at the end. But that was the part she wished to hear, and so Lune related, in brief, honest outline, the lie she had told the ambassador. “She believed me, I think,” Lune said when she was done. “But if she does not, ’tis no matter; the lie tells her nothing she can use.”

“And so you gained your freedom,” Invidiana said. Her voice was as silken and cold as a dagger of ice, that could kill and then melt away as if it had never been. “By slandering your own sovereign.”

Lune’s heart thudded painfully. “Your Majesty —”

“You have spread a lie that will damage my reputation in other lands. You have given the
ambassadrice du Lys
information about the undersea that might be turned against England. You have sold details of a royal mission, for the sake of your own skin.” The whip crack of her words halted. Invidiana murmured the next part softly, almost intimately. “Tell me why I should not kill you.”

Feathers crumpled in her fingers, their broken shafts stabbing at her skin. Lune’s heart was beating hard enough to make her body tremble. But she forced herself to focus. Invidiana was angry, yes, but the anger was calculated, not heartfelt. A sufficiently good reply might please the Queen, and then the rage would vanish as if it had never been.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered, then made her voice stronger. “When those in other lands hear that you dream of extending your control over the folk of the sea, they will fear you, and this is no bad thing. As for Madame Malline, indeed, I
hope
she tells her king what I have said, and he attempts to pursue it; if he threatens war undersea, thinking to win himself some concession thereby, then we will have the pleasure of watching those proud and powerful folk destroy him. Moreover, by satisfying her with this lie, I have ended her prying questions, that might otherwise have uncovered the truth of my embassy, and the secrets I have kept on your Grace’s behalf.”

Having offered her political reasons, Lune risked a glance upward. A flash of white caught her eye, and she found herself meeting an unfocused sapphire gaze. Tiresias knelt now at Invidiana’s feet, leaning against her skirts as a hound might, with her spidery fingers tangled in his black hair. He wore no doublet, and the white of his cambric shirt blazed in the darkness of the hall.

She swallowed and lifted her chin higher, fixing her attention just below Invidiana’s face. “And if I may be so bold as to say it, your Majesty — no fae who cannot find a way to benefit herself while also serving the Onyx Throne belongs in your court.”