Midnight Never Come (9 page)

And that, he hoped, would strike a sympathetic chord. Walsingham had been born to a family with far greater connections than Deven’s own, but he had earned his knighthood and his position on the privy council. Whether Deven could strike a target so high, he doubted — but he would aim as high as he could.

Or perhaps his words would turn, like a knife in his hands, and cut him. Walsingham said, “So you serve, not out of love for England and her Queen, but out of ambition.”

Deven quelled the urge to flinch and salvaged what he could. “The two are not in conflict with one another, sir.”

“For some, they are.”

“I am no dissident Catholic, Master Secretary, nor a traitor tied to the purse strings of a foreign power, but a good and true-hearted Englishman.”

Walsingham studied him, as if weighing his every virtue and vice, weakness and use, with his eyes alone. He was, in his way, as hard to face as Elizabeth.

Under the sharp edge of that gaze, Deven felt compelled to speak on, to lay on the table one of the few cards he possessed that might persuade the Principal Secretary and undo the damage of his own previous words. “Have you heard of the incident at Hampton Court?” Walsingham nodded. Of course he had. “Then you know ’twas I who came across the intruder.”

“And pursued him over the rooftops.”

“Even so.” Deven’s fingers had locked tight around each other, behind his back. “You have no reason to believe me, Master Secretary — but ambition was the farthest thing from my mind that night. I pursued that man without concern for my own safety. I do not tell you this out of pride; I wish you to understand that, when I had only an instant to think, I thought of the Queen’s safety. And when the man was gone — vanished into the night — I blamed myself for my failure to catch him.

“I have no wish to run across rooftops again. But you, Master Secretary, are dedicated to making such things unnecessary, by removing threats before they can approach so near to her Grace. That is a task to which I will gladly commit myself. I had rather be of more use to the Queen and her safety than simply standing at her door with a gold ax in my hands.”

He hadn’t meant to speak for so long, but Walsingham had let him babble without interruption. A shrewd move; the more Deven spoke, the less planned his words became, and the more inclined he was to speak from the heart. He just hoped his heart sounded more like a fervent patriot than a callow, idealistic boy.

Into the silence that followed his conclusion, the Principal Secretary said, “Then you would do what? Fight Catholics? Convert their faithful? Spy?”

“I am sworn to her Majesty’s service here at court,” Deven said. “But surely you have need of men here, not to find the information, but to piece together what it means.” He offered up an apologetic smile. “-I — I have always liked puzzles.”

“Have you.” The door creaked behind Deven; Walsingham waved away whoever it was, and then they were alone again. “So the short of it is, you would like to solve puzzles in my service.”

And to benefit thereby — but Deven was not fool enough to say that again, even if they both heard those words still hanging in the air. He hesitated, then said, “I would like the chance to prove my worth in such matters to you.”

It was the right answer, or at least a good one. Walsingham said, “Inform Beale of your wishes. You shall have your chance, Michael Deven; see you do not squander it.”

He was kneeling again almost before the words were finished. “I thank you, Master Secretary. You will not regret this.”

Act Two

There is no treasure that doeth so vniuersallie profit, as doeth a good Prince, nor anie mischeef so vniuersallie hurt, as an yll Prince.

— Baldesar Castiglione

The Courtyer

T
he chamber is a small one, and unfurnished; whatever lay here once, no one claims it now. There are rooms such as these in the Onyx Hall, forgotten corners, left vacant when their owners died or fled or fell from favor.

For him, they feel like home: they are neglected, just as he is.

He came in by the door, but now he cannot find it again. Instead he wanders to and fro, from one wall to another, feeling the stone blindly, as if the black marble will tell him which way to go, to be free.

One hand touches the wall and flinches back. He peers at the surface, leaning this way and that, as a man might study himself in a mirror. He stares for a long moment, then blanches and turns away. “No. I will not look.”

But he
will
look; there is no escape from his own thoughts. The far wall now draws his eye. He crosses to it, hesitant in his steps, and reaches out until his fingers brush the stone, tracing the image he sees.

A face, like and unlike his own. A second figure, like and unlike her. He spins about, but she is not there with him. Only her likeness. Only in his mind.

Against his will, he turns back, wanting and not wanting to see.

Then he is tearing at the stone, pulling at the mirror he imagines until it comes crashing down, but that brings him no respite. All about him he sees mirrors, covering every wall, standing free on the floor, each one showing a different reflection.

A world in which he is happy. A world in which he is dead. A world in which he never came among the fae, never renounced his mortal life to dwell with immortal beings.

A world in which . . .

He screams and lashes out. Blood flowers from his fist; the silvered glass is imaginary, but it hurts him just the same. Beyond that one lies another, and soon he is lurching across the room, breaking the mirrors, casting them down, pounding at them until they fall in crimson fragments to the floor. His hands strike stone, again and again, lacerating his flesh, cracking his delicate bones.

Until he no longer has the will to fight, and sinks into a crouch in the center of the chamber, mangled fingers buried deep in his hair.

All around him, the pieces of his mind reflect a thousand broken other lives.

He could see much, if he looked into them. But he no longer has the will for that, either.

“There are no other lives,” he whispers, trying to make himself believe it, against all the evidence of his eyes. “What is over and done cannot be redone. ’Tis writ in stone, and will not fade.”

His bleeding hands drift downward and begin to write strange, illegible hieroglyphs upon the floor. He must record it. The truth of how it went. Else those who come after will be lost in the maze of mirrors and reflections, never knowing reality from lies.

It will not matter to them. But it matters to him, who tried for so long to tell the truth of the futures he saw. That gift has turned traitor to him, bringing nothing more than pain and despair, and so he takes refuge in the past, writing it out amidst the shattered pieces of a hundred might-have-beens.

H
AMPTON
C
OURT
P
ALACE
, R
ICHMOND
:
January 6, 1590

The winter air carried a crisp edge the sunlight did little to blunt, but for once there was hardly more than a breeze off the Thames, scarcely enough to stir the edge of Deven’s cloak as he hurried through the Privy Garden. He passed bare flowerbeds protected beneath layers of straw, squinting at the brightness. He had been assigned to serve the Queen at supper for the Twelfth Night feast, but that duty hardly precluded one from participating in the merriment. Deven had no idea how many cups of hippocras he had downed, but it felt like a dozen too many.

Nor was he the only one who had overindulged, but that was to his advantage. Deven had not risen at this ungodly hour without reason. With so many courtiers and the Queen herself still abed, he could snatch a few moments for himself, away from prying eyes — and so could the one he was hurrying to meet.

She was waiting for him in the Mount Garden, standing in the lee of the banqueting house, well-muffled in a fur-trimmed cloak and gloves. The hood fell back as Deven reached for her face, and lips met cold lips in a kiss that quickly warmed them both.

When they broke apart, Anne Montrose said, a trifle breathlessly, “I have been waiting for some time.”

“I hope you are not too cold,” Deven said, chafing one slender hand between his own. “Too much hippocras, I fear.”

“Of course, blame the wine,” she said archly, but smiled as she did so.

“ ’Tis a thief of men’s wits, and of their ability to wake.” Frost glittered on the ground and the bare branches of trees like ten thousand minuscule diamonds, forming a brilliant setting for the gem that was Anne Montrose. With her hood fallen back, her unbound hair shone palest gold in the sun, and her wide eyes, a changeable gray, would not have looked out of place on the Queen of Winter that featured prominently in last night’s masque. She was not the greatest beauty at court, but that mattered little to him. Deven offered her his arm. “Shall we walk?”

They strolled sedately through the hibernating gardens, warming themselves with the exercise. It was not forbidden for them to be seen together; Anne was the daughter of a gentleman, and fit company for him. There were, however, difficulties. “Have you spoken to your mistress?” Deven asked.

He was hesitant to broach the topic, which might ruin the glittering peace of this morning. It had weighed heavy upon him, though, since he first voiced it to Anne, some months prior. The increased duties of winter court and the never-ending ceremonies of the Christmas season had prevented them from doing more than exchange brief greetings whenever they passed, and now he fretted with impatience, wanting an answer.

Anne sighed, her breath pluming out in a cloud. “I have, and she has promised to do what she may. ’Tis difficult, though. The Queen does not like for her courtiers to marry.”

“I know.” Deven grimaced. “When Scudamore’s wife asked permission, the Queen beat her so badly she broke Lady Scudamore’s finger.”

“I am glad I do not serve
her,
” Anne said darkly. “The stories I hear of her temper are dreadful. But I am not the one who will bear the brunt of her wrath; she cares little what a gentlewoman in service to the Countess of Warwick does. You, on the other hand . . . ”

Marriage is no scandal,
his father had said, when he went into service at court, over a year ago.
Get thee a wife,
his fellows in the band had said. It was the way of the world, for men and women to marry — but not the way of the Queen. She remained virginal and alone, and so would she prefer her courtiers to be.

“She is envious,” Anne said, as if she had heard that thought. “There is no love in her life, and so there should be none in the lives of those who surround her — save love for her, of course.”

It was true as far as it went, but also unfair. “She has had love. I do not credit the more sordid rumors about her and the late Earl of Leicester, but of a certainty she was fond of him. As they say she was of Alençon.”

“Her froggish French prince. That was politics, nothing more.”

“What would you know of it?” Deven said, amused. “You could not have been more than ten when he came to England.”

“Do you think the ladies of court have ceased to gossip about it? Some say it was genuine affection, but my lady of Warwick says not. Or rather, she says that any affection the Queen may have felt was held in check by her awareness of politics. He was, after all, Catholic.” Anne reflected on this. “I think it was desperation. Mary was old when she married; Elizabeth would have been older, in her forties. It was her last chance. And, having lost it, she now vents her frustration on those around her who might find happiness with another.”

The breeze off the Thames was picking up, forging a sharper edge. Anne shivered and pulled up the hood of her cloak. Deven said, “Enough of the Queen. I am one of her Gentlemen Pensioners; she calls me fair, gives me minor gifts, and finds me amusing at times, but I’ll never be one of her favorites. She cannot take much offense at the prospect of my marriage.” It had been Mary Shelton, chamberer to her Majesty, not John Scudamore of the Pensioners, who suffered the broken finger.

Anne laughed unexpectedly from within the depths of her hood. “So long as you do not get me with child, and end up in the Tower for it, like the Earl of Oxford.”

“We would run away, first.” It was a romantic and stupid thing to say. Where would they go? The only places he knew were London and Kent, and the Netherlands. The former were too near the Queen’s grasp, and the latter, no refuge at all. But Anne favored him with an amused smile, one he could not help returning.

All too soon, though, frustration returned to plague him, as it so often did. They walked a little way in silence; then Anne, sensing his mood, asked, “What troubles you?”

“Practicalities,” he confessed. “A growing awareness that my ambition and I dwell in separate spheres, and I may well never ascend to meet it.”

Her gloved hand rose and tucked itself into the crook of his elbow. “Tell me.”

This was why he loved her. At court, a man must always watch what he said; words were both currency and weapons, used to coax favor from allies and strike down enemies. And the ladies were little better; Elizabeth might forbid her women to engage heavily in politics, but they kept a weather eye on the Queen’s moods, and could advance the causes of petitioners when they judged the moment right — or hinder them. Even those without the Queen’s ear could carry tales to those who had it, and a man might find his reputation poisoned before he knew it, from a few careless words.

He never felt the need for such caution with Anne, and she had never given him cause, not in the year he had known her. She had said once, last autumn, that when in his company she could be at ease, and he felt the same. She was not the greatest beauty at court, nor the richest catch, but he would gladly trade those for the ability to speak his mind.

“I look at Lord Burghley,” he said, approaching the subject from a tangent. “Much of what Walsingham does is built on foundations laid by Burghley, and in fact the old baron still maintains his own links with agents and informants. When Burghley dies, or retires from her Majesty’s service — which won’t happen until after the Second Coming — his son Robert will inherit his barony, his offices, and his agents.”

When he paused, Anne said, “But you are not Robert Cecil.”

“Sidney might have been — he was married to Walsingham’s daughter, before either of us came to court — but he’s dead. And I am not sufficiently in Walsingham’s affections to take his place, nor ever likely to be.”

Anne squeezed his arm reassuringly. They were walking too close together, her farthingale shoving at his leg with every stride, but neither of them moved to separate. “Do you need to be?”

“To do what Walsingham does? Yes. I haven’t the wealth to support such an enterprise, nor the connections. Beale and I are forever passing letters and petitions up and down the chain, obtaining licenses for foreign travel, pardons for prisoners who might be of use, requests for gifts or pensions to reward those who have been of service. They do not often receive payment, but the important thing is that they believe they might. I cannot promise that and be believed. And even if I could . . . I am not in the Queen’s councils.” Deven’s mouth twisted briefly in inarticulate frustration. “I am the son of an unimportant gentleman, distinguished enough by my conduct in the Netherlands to be rewarded with a position at court, pleasing enough to be granted the occasional preferment — but nothing more. Nor ever likely to be.”

That speech, delivered in a low monotone from which familiarity had leached all the passion, carried them back to the center of the garden where the banqueting house stood. The morning was upon them in full; the Queen would be waking soon, and he had to be there for the honor guard when she processed to chapel for the service of Epiphany. But the chambers of the palace were close and stuffy, too full of people flocking to the winter court; out here the air was clean and simple, and he did not want to leave.

Anne turned to face him and took his gloved hands in her own, buff-colored leather against brown. “-You are twenty-seven,” she pointed out. “The men you speak of are
old
men. They achieved their positions over time. How old was Walsingham, when Elizabeth made him her Secretary?”

“-Forty-one. But he had connections at court —”

“Also built over time.”

“Not all of them. Much of it is a matter of family: fathers and sons, brothers and cousins, links by marriage —”

Her fingers tightened fractionally on his, and Deven caught himself. “I’ll not lay you aside for political advantage,” he promised.

The words brought a smile to her face that warmed her gray eyes. “I did not think you would.”

“The true problem is the Queen. I do not speak against her,” he added hastily, and could not restrain a quick glance around, to reassure himself they were alone in the garden. “I am her loyal servant. But her preference is for those of families sh-e knows — often those bound to her already by ties of blood. Of which I am not one.”

Anne relinquished his hands so she could straighten her hood. “Then what will you do?”

He shrugged. “Be of use to Walsingham, as much as I can be. Hope that he will reward me for my service.”

“Then I have something for you.”

Deven cast a startled glance at her, then frowned. “Anne, I have told you before —’tis neither meet nor safe for you to carry tales.”

“Gossip is one of the great engines of this court, as you well know. I am not listening at keyholes, I promise you.” She was a tallish woman, the top of her hood at eye level for him, and so she did not have to tilt her head back much to look at him; instead she tilted it to the side, eyes twinkling. “Are you not the least bit curious?”