Midnight Never Come (25 page)

Lune looked to the Goodemeades. The brownies’ faces showed identical resolution; it was not hard to guess what they thought should be done.

But what he was asking of her was treason.

Deven wondered if Walsingham had ever felt such compunctions, asking his agents to betray those they professed to serve.

Lune closed her eyes and said, “I will.”

M
EMORY
:
January 14–15, 1559

D
espite the cold, people packed the streets of London. In the southwestern portions of the city, in the northeast — in all those areas removed from the center — men wandered drunkenly and women sang songs, while bonfires burned on street corners, creating islands of light and heat in the frozen air, banners and the clothing of the wealthy providing points of rich color. Everywhere in the city was music and celebration, and if underneath it all many worried or schemed, no such matters were permitted to stain the appearance of universal rejoicing.

The press was greatest in the heart of the city, the great artery that ran from west to east. Crowds packed so tightly along the route that hardly anyone could move, save a few lithe child thieves who took advantage of the bounty. Petty Wales, Tower Street, Mark Lane, Fenchurch, and up Gracechurch Street; then the course straightened westward, running down Cornhill, past Leadenhall, and into the broad thoroughfare of Cheapside. The cathedral of St. Paul awaited its moment, and then the great portal of Ludgate, all bedecked with finery. From there, Fleet Street, the Strand, and so down into Westminster, and every step of the way, the citizens of London thronged to see their Queen.

A roar went up as the first members of the procession exited the Tower, temporarily in use once more as a royal residence. By the time the slender figure in cloth of gold and silver came into view, riding in an open-sided litter and waving to her people, the noise was deafening.

The procession made its slow way along the designated route, stopping at predetermined points for pageants that demonstrated for all the glory and virtue of the new sovereign. No passive spectator she, nor afraid of the chill; when she could not hear over the noise of the crowd, she bid the pageant be performed again. She called responses to her loyal subjects, touching strangers for a moment with the honor and privilege of royal attention. And they loved her for that, for the promise of change she brought, for the evanescent beauty that would all too soon fade back to show an architecture of steel beneath.

She reached Westminster late in the day, exhausted but radiant from her ordeal. The night passed: in drunkenness for the people of London, in busy preparation for the great officials in Westminster.

Come the following morning, when she set forth again, a shadow mirrored her elsewhere.

In crimson robes, treading upon a path of blue cloth, one uncrowned woman passed from Westminster Hall to the Abbey.

In deepest black, moving through subterranean halls, a second uncrowned woman passed from the Tower of London to a chamber that stood beneath Candlewick Street.

Westminster Abbey rang with the sonorous speeches and ceremony of coronation. Step by step, a woman was transformed into a Queen. And a few miles away, the passages and chambers of the Onyx Hall, emptied for this day, echoed back the ghostlike voice of a fae, as she stripped herself of one name and donned another.

A sword glimmered in her hand.

The presiding bishop spoke traditional words as the emblems of sovereignty were bestowed upon the red-haired woman. The sound should not have reached the Onyx Hall, any more than the shouts of the crowd should have, but it was not a matter of loudness. For today, the two spaces resounded as one.

Then the fanfares began, as one by one, a succession of three crowns were placed upon an auburn head.

As the Onyx Hall rang with the trumpet’s blast, the sword flashed through the air and struck a stone that descended from the ceiling of the chamber.

Drunken revelers in London heard the sound, and thought it a part of the celebrations: the tolling of a terrible, triumphant bell, marking the coronation of their Queen. And soon enough the bells would come, ringing out in Westminster and spreading east to the city, but this sound reached them first, and resonated the most deeply. Sovereignty was in that sound.

Those citizens who were on Candlewick Street at the time fell silent, and dropped to their knees in reverence, not caring that the object they bowed to was a half-buried stone along the street’s south edge, its limestone surface weathered and scarred, unremarkable to any who did not know its tale.

Three times the stone tolled its note, as three times the sword struck it from below, as three times the crowns were placed. And on the third, the sword plunged into the heart of the stone.

All mortal England hailed the coronation of Elizabeth, first of her name, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, et cetera; and all faerie England trembled at the coronation of Invidiana, Queen of the Onyx Court, Mistress of the Glens and Hollow Hills.

And a dozen faerie kings and queens cried out in rage as their sovereignty was stripped from them.

-Half-buried in the soil of Candlewick Street, the London Stone, the ancient marker said to have been placed there by the Trojan Brutus, the mythical founder of Britain; the stone upon which sacred oaths were sworn; the half-forgotten symbol of authority, against which the rebel Jack Cade had struck his sword a century before, in validation of his claim to London, made fast the bargain between two women.

Elizabeth, and Invidiana.

A great light and her great shadow.

Act Four

O no! O no! tryall onely shewes

The bitter iuice of forsaken woes;

Where former blisse present euils do staine;

Nay, former blisse addes to present paine,

While remembrance doth both states containe.

—Sir Philip Sidney

“The Smokes of Melancholy”

S
unlight caresses his face with warmth, and grass pricks through the linen of his shirt to tickle the skin inside. He smiles, eyes closed, and lets his thoughts drift on the breeze. Insects sing a gentle chorus, with birds supplying the melody. He can hear leaves rustling, and over the crest of the hill, her laughter, light and sweet as bells.

The damp soil yields softly beneath his bare feet as he runs through the wood. She is not far ahead — he can almost glimpse her through the shifting, dappled emerald of the shadows — but branches keep hindering him. A silly game. She must have asked the trees to help her. But they play too roughly, twigs snagging, even tearing his shirt, leaf edges turning sharp and scoring his face, while acorns and rocks batter the soles of his feet. He leaves a trail of footprints that fill with blood. He does not like this game anymore.

And then he teeters on the edge of a pit, almost falling in.

Below, so far below . . .

She might be sleeping. Her face is peaceful, almost smiling.

But then the rot comes, and her skin decays, turning mushroom-colored, wrinkling, swelling, bloating, sinking in at the hollows of her face, and he cries out but he cannot go to her — the serpent has him fast in its coils, and as he fights to free himself it rears back and strikes, sinking its fangs into his brow, six stabbing wounds that paralyze him, steal his voice, and she is lost to him.

The fae gathered around laugh, taking malicious pleasure in his blind struggles, but it loses all savor when he slumps into the vines they have bound around him. His dreams are so easy to play with, and the Queen never objects. Bored now by his silent shudders, they let the vines fall away as they depart.

He is left in the night garden, where the plants have never felt neither sun nor breeze. High above, cold lights twinkle, spelling out indecipherable messages. There might be a warning in them, if he could but read it.

What good would it do him? He had warnings before, and misunderstood them.

Water rushes along at his side. Like him it is buried, forgotten by the world above, disregarded by the world below, chained to serve at her pleasure.

It has no sympathy for him.

He weeps for his loss, there on the bank of the brook — weeps bloody tears that stain the water for only an instant before dissolving into nothingness.

He has lost the sunlit fields, lost the laughter, lost
her
. He shares her grave, here in these stone halls. It only remains for him to die.

But he knows the truth.

Even death cannot bring him to her again.

T
HE
A
NGEL
I
NN
, I
SLINGTON
:
April 25, 1590

“We must get you back into the Onyx Hall,” Rosamund said to Lune.

Gertrude was in the corner, murmuring to a sleek gray mouse that nodded its understanding from within her cupped hands. Lune was watching her, not really thinking; her thoughts seemed to have collapsed in fatigue and shock after she committed herself to treason. It was a reckless decision, suicidal even; tomorrow morning she would regret having said it.

Or would she? Her gaze slid once more to Deven, like iron to a lodestone. His stony face showed no regrets. She had never expected him to become caught in this net, and could not see a way to free him. However lost he might be right now, he would not back away. Though this pact might benefit Elizabeth, it was also harming her; so Tiresias had said — no, Francis Merriman. The seer had fought so hard to reclaim that self. Having killed him, the least Lune could do was grant him his proper name.

Francis Merriman had believed this pact was wrong. The Goodemeades obviously agreed with him. And Deven’s master might well have been murdered at Invidiana’s command. She knew him too well to think he would let that pass.

Lune herself had nothing left to lose save her life, and even that hung in the balance. But was that sufficient reason to betray her Queen?

Faint memories stirred in the depths of her mind. The thought, so fleetingly felt, that once things had been different. That once the fae of England had lived warmer lives — occasionally scheming against one another, yes, occasionally cruel to mortals, but not always. Not this unrelenting life of fear, and the ever-present threat of downfall.

Even those who lived far from the Onyx Hall dwelt in its shadow.

The Onyx Hall. Rosamund’s words finally penetrated. Lune sat bolt upright and said, “Impossible. I would be executed the moment I set foot below.”

“Not necessarily,” Gertrude said. The mouse had vanished; now the brownie was prodding the fire, laying an additional log so that bright flames leapt upward and illuminated the room. “I’ve sent Cheepkin to see if anyone has found Francis’s body. So far as we know, that jewel doesn’t tell Invidiana when someone dies, so she may not yet know.”

Lune’s stomach twisted at the mere thought of being in the same room as the Queen when she learned of it. “She will know
how
he died, though. And she will wonder to whom he betrayed her.”

Rosamund’s nod was not quite complacent, but it didn’t show half the alarm Lune felt it should. “Which is why we shall give her another target to suspect. And do you some good in the bargain, I think, as you will be the one to tell her.” The brownie’s soft lips pursed in thought. “She will be angry regardless, and afraid; how much, she will wonder, did Francis manage to say before he died? But that cannot be helped; we cannot pretend he died by other means. What we must do is make certain she does not suspect
you.
”

“Who did you have in mind?” Gertrude asked her sister.

“Sir Derwood Corr. We can warn him to leave tonight, so he’ll be well clear of the palace before she tries to arrest him.”

Deven was looking at Lune, but she had no more idea than he what the Goodemeades meant. “Who is Sir Derwood Corr?”

“A new elf knight in the Onyx Guard. Also an agent of the Wild Hunt.”

Gertrude nodded her approval. “She fears them anyway; it cannot do much harm.”

They seemed to be serious. An agent of the Wild Hunt, infiltrating the Onyx Guard itself — and somehow the Goodemeades knew about it, and were eager to get the knight out of harm’s way. “Are you working with the Wild Hunt?”

“Not
exactly,
” Gertrude said, hedging. “That is, they would like us to be. We choose not to help them, at least most of the time; someone else brought Sir Derwood in. But we do keep an eye on their doings.”

Lune had no response to this extraordinary statement. Deven, slouched on his stool as much as his stiff doublet would allow, snorted. “The Principal Secretary said ’twas infamous to use women agents, but I vow he would have made an exception for you.”

They are not spies,
Lune thought.
They are spymasters. With the very birds and beasts of the field their informants.

“So,” Rosamund said briskly. “As soon as Cheepkin reports in, Lady Lune, we shall smuggle you back into the Onyx Hall. You can tell Invidiana that Sir Derwood is an ally of the Wild Hunt; she will discover that he has fled; she will assume Francis spoke to him, and not to you. With any luck, that will sweeten her mind toward you, at least a bit.”

Lune did not hold out much hope for that. Was she truly about to return to her rat’s life, hiding from Vidar and Dame Halgresta and everyone else who might think to curry favor by harming or eliminating her?

The low, smoldering fire that had lived in her gut since her imprisonment — no, since her inglorious return from the sea — had an answer for that.

Yes, she would. She would go back, and tear every bit of it down.

Then I am a traitor indeed. May all the power of Faerie help me.

“Very well,” she murmured.

Deven took a deep breath and sat up. “What may I do?”

“No time for that now,” Gertrude said. “We must return Lady Lune, before someone finds Francis. Might I ask a favor of you, Master Deven?”

He looked wary. “What is it?”

“Nothing dangerous, dearie; just a bit of dodging around Invidiana. Come with me, I’ll show you.” Gertrude took him by the hand and led him upstairs.

Lune watched them go, leaving her behind with Rosamund. “Is this safe?” she asked quietly. “I did not think of it before I came, but Invidiana has spies everywhere. She may learn of what we have said here.”

“I do not think so,” Rosamund said, and now she
did
sound complacent. “We’re beneath the rosebush, here — very truly
sub rosa.
Nothing that happens here will spread outside this room.”

For the first time, Lune looked upward, to the ceiling of the hidden chamber. Old, gnarled roots spread fingerlike across the ceiling, and tiny roses sprang improbably from their bark, like a constellation of bright yellow stars. The ancient emblem of secrecy gave her a touch of comfort. For the first time in ages, she had friends she could trust.

She should have come to the Goodemeades sooner. She should have asked them about Francis Merriman.

They lied too well, convincing everyone that they stayed out of such matters. But if they did not, they would never have survived for so long.

Lune realized there was something she had not said. The words came awkwardly; she spoke them so often, but so rarely with sincerity. “I thank you for your kindness,” she whispered, unable to face Rosamund. “I will be forever in your debt.”

The brownie came over and took her hands, smiling into her eyes. “Help us set this place right,” she said, “and the debt will be more than repaid.”

A lantern glowed by the door of the inn, and light still showed inside. Lying as it did along the Great North Road, the Angel was a major stopping point for travelers who did not gain the city before the gates closed at dusk, and so there was always someone awake, even at such a late hour.

Deven led his horse toward the road in something of a daze. The part of him that was accustomed to following orders had for some reason decided to obey the little brownie Gertrude, but his mind still reeled. Faeries at court. How many of them? He remembered the rooftop chase, and the stranger that had vanished. Perhaps he had not imagined the flapping of wings.

He mounted up, rode into the courtyard of the inn, and dismounted again, so that anyone inside would hear his arrival. Looping his reins over a post, he stepped through the door, startling a sleepy-eyed young man draped across a table. The fellow sat up with a jerk, dropping the damp rag he held.

“Sir,” he said, stumbling to his feet. “Needing a room, then?”

“No, indeed,” Deven said. “I have some ways to ride before I stop. But I am famished, and need something to keep me going. Do you have a loaf of bread left?”

“-Uh — we should —” The young man looked deeply confused. “You’re riding on, sir? At this hour of the night? The city gates are closed, you know.”

“I am not going into the city, and the message I bear cannot wait. Bread, please.”

The fellow sketched a bad bow and hastened through a door at the far end of the room. He emerged again a moment later with a round, crusty loaf in his hand. “This is all I could find, sir, and ’tis a day old.”

“That will do.” At least he hoped it would. Deven paid the young man and left before he would have to answer any more questions.

He rode away, circled around, came back to the rosebush. Gertrude had provided him with a bowl; now he set it down by the door of one of the inn’s outbuildings, with the loaf of bread inside, and feeling a great fool, he said, “Food for the Good People; take it and be content.”

The little woman popped up so abruptly he almost snatched out his blade and stabbed her. The night had not been good on his nerves. “Thank you, dearie,” Gertrude said with a cheerful curtsy. “Now if you could pick it up again? We have some of our own, of course, a nice little supply — we so often have to help out others — but if Invidiana finds we’ve been giving Lady Lune mortal bread . . . well, we aren’t giving it to her, are we? You are. So that’s all right and proper. Never said anything about
mortals
giving her bread or milk, and not as if she has any right to tell you what to do. Not that it would stop her, mind you.”

Bemused, Deven picked up the bowl and followed the still chattering brownie back to the rosebush, which opened up and let them pass below.

Lune was still in the hidden room, washing her feet in a basin of clear water. She glanced up as he entered, and the sight made his throat hurt; the motion was so familiar, though the body and face had changed. He thrust the bowl at her more roughly than he meant to, and tried to ignore the relieved pleasure on her face as she took the bread. “I shall have to think where to hide this,” she said. “You are clever, Gertrude, but Invidiana will still be angry if she learns.”

“Well, eat a bite of it now, my lady,” the brownie said, retrieving the bowl from Deven. “You could use a good night’s sleep here, but we can’t risk it; you need to go back as soon as possible. Has Cheepkin returned?”

“While you were out,” Rosamund said. “No one has found Francis yet. I’ve made sure Sir Derwood knows to leave.”

“Good, good. Then ’tis time you went back, Lady Lune. Are you ready?”

Deven, watching her, thought that she was not. Nonetheless, Lune nodded her agreement. Holding the small loaf in her hands as if it were a precious jewel, she pinched off a bite, put it in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He watched in fascination, despite himself; he had never seen anyone eat bread with such attentive care.

Rosamund said to him, “It strengthens our magic against those things that would destroy it. Traveling through mortal places is dangerous without it.”

As he had seen, earlier that very night. No wonder Lune treated it as precious.

“Now,” Gertrude said briskly. “Master Deven, would you escort her back to London? ’Twould go faster riding, and unless Lady Lune makes herself look like a man, she should not be traveling alone.”

The comment about disguise brought him back to unpleasant matters with a jolt. Lune was toweling her feet dry with great concentration. He very much wanted to say no — but he made the mistake of looking at Gertrude and Rosamund. Their soft-cheeked faces smiled up at him in innocent appeal. His mouth said, “I would be glad to,” without consulting his mind, and thus he was committed.