Midnight Never Come (7 page)

“Of course you were.” He let the cynical note hang in the air, then offered, “Wine?”

Lune nodded, and took the cup a goblin brought to her. The wine was a fine red, tasting of the smoky, fading light of autumn, the flamboyant splendor of the leaves and their dry rustle underfoot, the growing bite of winter’s chill. She recognized it from the first sip: surely one of the last remaining bottles brought as a gift to Invidiana when Madame Malline le Sainfoin de Veilée replaced the old ambassador from France. Some years hence, that had been. Madame Malline had remained at the Onyx Court when the ambassador from the Courts of the North departed, but relations were strained. There would be no more such gifts, not for a long time.

“You might,” Vidar said, breaking her reverie, “have a chance to serve her Majesty again.”

She failed to hide entirely the sharp edge that put on her interest. “Say on.”

“Return to the mortal court.”

The blunt suggestion made her breath catch. To live among mortals again . . . it was exhausting, dangerous, and exhilarating. Few fae had the knack for it, or even a liking. No wonder Vidar had sent for her.

But what purpose did he have in mind? Surely not her former assignment, Lettice Knollys. If the fragments of gossip Lune had heard were correct, she was no longer at court; she was in mourning for the death of her second husband, the Earl of Leicester.

She took another sip of wine. This one burned more than the first. “Return, my lord? To what end?”

“Why, to gather information, as you did before.” Vidar paused. “And, perhaps, to gain access to — even leverage over — a certain individual.”

She had concerned herself too much of late with fae politics: the bargain with the folk of the sea, the raids of alfar ships, the never-ending tensions with the Courts of the North. Lune cursed herself for not keeping a closer eye on the doings of mortals: she did not know who was prominent now, whom she might be dispatched to trouble. She might not even recognize the name Vidar gave. “And who might that be, my lord?”

“Sir Francis Walsingham.”

Cut crystal dug into her fingers.

Lune said carefully, “I believe I recognize that name.”

“You should. He has lasted quite a long time, for a mortal, and risen high. Principal Secretary to Queen Elizabeth, he is now.” Vidar gestured, and a goblin brought him his wine cup again. “Have you ever met him?”

“He did not come to court until after I had ceased my masquerade.” Though she knew who he was, enough to be afraid.

“You will find him easily enough. The mortal court is at Richmond now, but they will shift to Hampton Court before long. You can join them there.”

Lune handed off her goblet to a servant. The wine tasted too much of regret, and impending loss. “My lord, I have not yet said I would undertake this task.”

A thin, predatory smile spread across Vidar’s face. In a purring voice, he said, “I do not think you have a choice, Lady Lune.”

As she had feared. But which was the greater risk: refusal or acceptance? Whatever honey Vidar used to coat it, she was not being offered this assignment out of a desire to see her redeem her past mistakes. Walsingham was not merely Principal Secretary; he was one of the foremost spymasters of Elizabeth’s court. And his Protestantism was of a puritan sort, that assumed all fae to be devils in disguise. Any attempt to approach him, much less keep watch over him, might result in him catching her out, and if he caught her out . . .

Only mortal food given in tithe to the fae protected glamours and other magics. A short period of imprisonment could have disastrous results.

Food. Lune said, “Such masquerades are costly, Lord Ifarren. To maintain a plausible presence at court, one must be there every day. Mortal bread —”

“You will have it,” Vidar said dismissively. “A spriteling will bring it to you each morning — or evening, if you prefer.”

He had capitulated far too easily. “No. Such a plan leaves no margin of safety. Were I to be bidden to some duty elsewhere and missed the messenger, we would risk exposure. A whole loaf at a time, or more than one.” A whole loaf, eaten only when needed, could cover quite a long journey in mortal disguise. Long enough, perhaps, to reach safety in another land.

If worse should truly come to worst.

Vidar’s cynical eye seemed to see her thoughts. “You overestimate her Majesty’s trust in you. But a week could be arranged. On Fridays, perhaps. Mortals assume we favor that day; we might as well oblige their fancies. And then you need not fear their holy day. I take it by this hard bargaining that you have agreed?”

Had she? Lune met Vidar’s gaze, searching the flat blackness of his eyes for some hint of — something. Anything. Any crumb of information that might guide her.

She could not even be certain these orders came from Invidiana. Vidar might have concocted them, as a means of removing her permanently.

No. Even he would not endanger the Onyx Court in such fashion, to risk her true nature being revealed.

. . . Or would he? His desires were no secret in the higher circles of court. Even Invidiana knew her councillor coveted her throne. Where the Wild Hunt would destroy the Queen and tear the Onyx Hall down stone by stone, scattering her court to the four winds, Ifarren Vidar was more subtle; he would leave all as it was, but claim the Crown for himself. If he could but find a way.

Was this it? Was Lune to become a pawn in some hidden scheme of his?

If so — if she could discover the pattern of it, and inform Invidiana —

There was more than one route to favor.

Lune spread her skirts, and gave him no more humble a curtsy than she had before. Humility would be more suspicious to him than pride. “I am most grateful for the chance to be of service to her Majesty.”

“Of course.” Vidar eyed her with satisfaction. “Would it please you to be seated, Lady Lune? I have prepared a description of the role you are to take —”

“Lord Ifarren.” She took pleasure in interrupting him. “My task is to be as you said? To gather information, and gain access to Sir Francis Walsingham?”

“And leverage, of whatever sort may offer itself.”

Nothing would
offer
itself, but she might create something. But that was neither here nor there. “Then I will create my own role, as her Majesty trusted me to do in the past.”

Displeasure marred the line of his mouth. “Her Majesty likewise trusted you to bargain sharply against the sea people.”

Lune damned the day she had ever been sent beneath the waves. Vidar had not been there, with the task of convincing the inhabitants of an alien land that the doings of mortal nations were their concern. Fae they might be, but unlike their landbound brethren, the mermaids and roanes and other denizens of the sea had not adopted current customs of courtly rule. And their idea of interaction with humans involved shipwrecks and the occasional lover, not politics. She had been lucky to find
anything
they wanted.

But to say so would sound peevish and weak. Instead she said, “You disdain mortal life, Lord Ifarren. Would you ride a horse raised by one who detested animals?”

“I know Walsingham,” Vidar said.

“And I will most humbly hear your advice where he is concerned. But you asked for me because there is none in the Onyx Court more talented at this art than I. When I approach the mortal court, I will do so on my own terms.”

The challenge hung in the air between them. Then Vidar waved one hand, as if it did not matter. “So be it. I will inform you of the court’s movements. And
you
will inform
me
of your chosen role, before you go to join them.”

“I will need some bread before then.”

“Why?”

Now he was the one sounding peevish. Lune said calmly, “To familiarize myself with the situation, my lord. I have not been among that court in many years.”

“Oh, very well. Now get out of my sight; I have other things to attend to.”

Lune made her curtsy and withdrew. If Vidar had meant to position her where she would fail, she had at least escaped one trap. And with the allotment she would be given, she could afford to trade her own bread to other fae for information.

Once upon a time, she had clawed her way up from insignificance to favored status, by shrewd trading and well-timed service. If she had done it once, she could — and would — do so again.

H
AMPTON
C
OURT
P
ALACE
, R
ICHMOND
:
October 14, 1588

Deven rode into the spacious Base Court of the palace and dismounted almost before his bay gelding came to a halt. The October air had picked up a distinct chill since sunset, nipping at his cheeks, and his fingers were cold inside his gloves. There was a storm building, following in the aftermath of the day’s gentle autumn warmth. He tossed his reins to a servant and, chafing his hands together, headed for the archway that led deeper into the palace.

Stairs on his left inside the arch led upward to the old-style Great Hall. No longer the central gathering place of the monarch and nobles, at Hampton Court the archaic space was more given over to servants of the household, except on occasions that called for great pageantry. Deven passed through without pausing and headed for the chambers beyond, where he could find someone that might know the answer to his question.

The Queen was not using that set of rooms as her personal quarters, having removed to a different part of the sprawling palace, but despite the late hour, a number of minor courtiers were still congregated in what was sometimes used as the Queen’s watching chamber. From them, he learned that Elizabeth was having a wakeful night, as she often did since the recent death of her favorite, the Earl of Leicester. To distract herself, she had gone to a set of rooms on the southern side of the Fountain Court to listen to one of her ladies play the virginals.

The door was guarded, of course, and Deven was not in that elite rank of courtiers who could intrude on the Queen uninvited. He bowed to his two fellows from the Gentlemen Pensioners, then turned to the weary-eyed usher who was trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“My most sincere apologies for disturbing her Majesty, but I have been sent hither to bring her a message of some importance.” Deven brought the sealed parchment out and passed it over with another bow. “It was Sir James Croft’s most express wish that it be given to her Grace as soon as may be.”

The usher took it with a sigh. “What does the message concern?”

Deven bit back the acid response that was his first reflex, and said with ill-concealed irritation, “I do not know. ’Tis sealed, and I did not inquire.”

“Very well. Did Sir James wish a reply?”

“He did not say.”

“Wait here, then.” The usher opened the door and slipped inside. A desultory phrase from the virginals floated out, and a feminine laugh. Not the Queen’s.

When the usher reemerged, he had something in his hand. “No response to Sir James,” he said, “but her Majesty bids you carry these back to the Paradise Chamber.” He held out a pair of ivory flutes.

Deven took them hesitantly, trying to think of a way around embarrassing himself. He failed; the usher gave him a pitying smile and asked, “Do you know the way?”

“I do not,” he was forced to confess. Hampton Court had grown by stages; now it was a sprawling accretion of courtyards and galleries, surpassed in England only by Whitehall itself, which his fellows reassured him was even more confusing to explore.

“The quickest path would be through these chambers to the Long Gallery,” the usher said. “But as they are in use, go back to the Great Hall . . .”

It wasn’t as bad as he feared. A pair of galleries ran north to south through the back part of the palace, connecting to the Long Gallery of the south side, with the chambers where Elizabeth had chosen to reside for this visit. At the most southeasterly corner of the palace, and the far end of the Long Gallery, lay the Paradise Chamber.

Deven unlocked the door and nearly dropped the flutes. The candle he bore threw back a thousand glittering points of light; raising it, he saw that the dark chamber beyond was crammed to the walls with riches beyond words. Countless gems and trifles of gold or silver; tapestries sumptuously embroidered in colored silks; pearl-studded cushions; and, dominating one wall, an unused throne beneath a canopy of estate. The royal arms of England decorated the canopy, encircled by the Garter, and the diamond that hung from the end of the Garter could have set Deven up in style for the rest of his life.

He realized he had stopped breathing, and made himself start again. No, not the rest of his life. Ten years, maybe. And ten years’ fortune would not do him much good if he were executed for stealing it.

The entire contents of the room, though . . .

No wonder they called it Paradise.

He set the flutes on a table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and backed out again, locking the door on the blinding wealth within, before it could tempt him more.
They would hardly miss one small piece, in all that clutter. . . .

Perhaps it was his own guilty thoughts that made him so edgy. When Deven heard a sound, he whirled like an animal brought to bay, and saw someone standing not far from him.

After a moment, he relaxed a trifle. Rain had begun to deluge the world outside, obscuring the moon, and so the Long Gallery was lit only by his one candle, not enough to show him the figure clearly, but the silhouette lacked the robe or puffed clothing that would mark an old courtier or a young one. Nor, he reminded himself, did he have anything to feel guilty about; he had done nothing more than what he was ordered to, and no one, servant or otherwise, could hear the covetous thoughts in Deven’s mind.

But that recalled him to his duty. Though the Queen was not present, surely he also had a duty to defend that which was hers. “Stand fast,” he said, raising the candle, “and identify yourself.”

The stranger bolted.

Deven gave chase without thinking. The candle snuffed out before he had gone two strides; he abandoned it, letting taper and holder fall so he could lunge for the door through which the stranger had vanished. It stood just a short distance from the Paradise Chamber, and when he flung himself through it, he found himself on a staircase, with footsteps echoing above him.