Midnight Never Come (6 page)

“You should go,” she murmured, and the seer nodded absently, as if he had forgotten where he was, and why. He turned away, and when the door closed behind him, Lune returned to her table and collected the scattered pins that had fallen from her hair.

There were possibilities. She simply had to bring one to fruition.

And quickly, before the whirlpools of the court dragged her down.

R
ICHMOND
P
ALACE
, R
ICHMOND
:
September 29, 1588

“. . . You shall be retained to no person nor persons of what degree or condition, by oath, livery, badge, promise, or otherwise, but only to her Grace, without her special license . . .”

Deven suppressed a grimace at those words. How strictly were they enforced? It might hamstring his plans for advancement at court, if the Queen were jealous with that license; he would be bound to her service only, without any other patron. Certainly some men served other masters, but how long had they petitioned to be allowed to do so?

Hunsdon was still talking. The oath for joining the Gentlemen Pensioners was abominably long, but at least he did not have to repeat every word of it after the band’s captain; Deven only affirmed the different points that Hunsdon outlined. He recognized Elizabeth as the supreme head of the Church; he would not conceal matters prejudicial to her person; he would keep his required quota of three horses and two manservants, all equipped as necessary for war; he would report any fellow remiss in such matters to the captain; he would keep the articles of the band, obey its officers, keep secrets secret, muster with his servants when required, and not depart from court without leave. All enumerated in elaborately legalistic language, of course, so that it took twice as long to say as the content warranted.

Deven confirmed his dedication to each point, kneeling on the rush matting before Hunsdon. As ordered, he had dressed himself more finely, driving his Mincing Lane tailor to distraction with his insistence that the clothing be finished in time for today’s Michaelmas ceremony. The doublet was taffeta of a changeable deep green, slashed with cloth-of-silver that blithely violated the sumptuary laws, but one visit to court had been enough to show Deven how few people attended to those restrictions. The aglets on his points were enameled, as was the belt that clasped his waist, and he was now a further fifty pounds in debt to a goldsmith on Cheapside. Listening to Hunsdon recite the last words, he prayed the expense would prove worthwhile.

“Rise, Master Deven,” the baron said at last, “and be welcome to her Majesty’s Gentleman Pensioners.”

The Lord Chamberlain settled a gold chain about his shoulders when he stood, the ceremonial adornment for members of the band. Edward Fitzgerald, lieutenant of the Gentlemen Pensioners, handed him the gilded poleax he would bear while on duty, guarding the door from the presence chamber to the privy chamber, or escorting her Majesty to and from chapel in the morning. Deven was surprised by the heft of the thing. Ceremonial it might be, and elaborately decorated, but not decorative. The Gentlemen Pensioners were the elite bodyguard of the monarch, since Elizabeth’s father Henry, eighth of that name, decided his dignity deserved better escort than it had previously possessed.

Of course, before Deven found himself using the gilded polearm, any attacker would have to win through the Yeomen of the Guard in the watching chamber, not to mention the rest of the soldiers and guardsmen stationed at any palace where the sovereign was in residence. Still, it was reassuring to know that he would have the means to defend the Queen’s person, should it become necessary.

It meant that
he
was not purely decorative, either.

His companions toasted their newest member with wine, and a feast was set to follow. In theory, the entire band assembled at court for Michaelmas and three other holidays; in practice, somewhat less than the full fifty were present. Some were assigned to duties elsewhere, in more distant corners of England or even overseas; others, Deven suspected, were at liberty for the time being, and simply had not bothered to come. A man might be docked pay for failure to attend as ordered — that was in the articles he had sworn to obey — but a rich enough man hardly need worry being fined a few days’ wages.

Despite the revelry, Deven’s mind kept returning to the question of patronage. His eyes sought out Hunsdon, across the laughing, boisterous mass of men that filled the chamber where they dined. The officers of the band sat at a higher table — Hunsdon and Fitzgerald, plus three others who were the company’s standard bearer, clerk of the check, and harbinger.

He could ask Hunsdon. But that would be tantamount to telling the baron that he intended to seek another master.

Surely, though, that would come as no surprise. Hunsdon knew who had secured Deven’s position in the Gentlemen Pensioners.

Deven reached reflexively for his wine, grimaced, then grinned at himself. He did not know how he was going to handle his patronage, but one thing he
did
know: making any plans about such things while this drunk was not wise. Attempting to ask delicate questions of his captain would be even less wise. Therefore, the only course for a wise man to follow was to go on drinking, enjoy the night, and worry about such matters on the morrow.

R
ICHMOND
P
ALACE
, R
ICHMOND
:
September 30, 1588

Deven had been among military men; he should have expected what the morrow would bring. William Russell, who either possessed the constitution of an ox or had not drunk nearly as much as he appeared to the previous night, arrived in his chamber at an hour that would have been reasonable had Deven gone to bed before dawn, and rolled him forcibly out of bed. “On your feet, man; we can’t keep the Queen waiting!”

“Nnnnnngh,” Deven said, and tried to remember if there was anything in the articles that forbade him to punch one of his fellows.

Between the two of them, Colsey and Ranwell, his new manservant, got him on his feet and stuffed him into his clothes. Deven thought muzzily that someone had arranged for a Michaelmas miracle; he didn’t have a hangover. Round about the time he formed up with the others for the Queen’s morning procession to chapel, he realized it was because he was still drunk. And, of course, Fitzgerald had assigned him to duty that day, so he was on display in the presence chamber when the inevitable hangover came calling. He clung grimly to his poleax, tried to keep it steady, and prayed he would not vomit in front of his fellow courtiers.

He survived, though not happily, and passed the test to which he had been put. Moreover, he had his reward; the Queen emerged from her privy chamber just as he was handing off his position to Edward Greville, and she gifted him with a nod. “God give you good day, Master Deven.”

“And to you, your Majesty,” he answered, bowing reflexively; the world lurched a little when he did, but he kept his feet, and then she was gone.

The Queen remembered his name. It shouldn’t have pleased him so much, but of course it did, and that was why she did it; Elizabeth had a way of greeting a man that made him feel special for that instant in which her attention lighted upon him. Even his headache did not seem so bad in the aftermath.

It came back full force as he left, though. Handing off his poleax to Colsey, he suffered Ranwell to feed him some concoction the man swore would cure even the worst hangover; less than a minute later his stomach rebelled and he vomited it all back up. “Feed me that again,” Deven told his new servant, “and you’ll find yourself sent to fight in Ireland.”

Colsey, who still did not appreciate having to share his master with an interloper, smirked.

Deven cleaned his mouth out and took a deep breath to fortify himself. He wanted little more than to collapse back into bed, but that would never do, so instead he addressed himself to the business at hand.

It made no sense to ask Hunsdon about the permissibility of acquiring another patron, if he did not have such a man already friendly to him. Deven hoped he did, but until that was confirmed, best not to broach the subject with Hunsdon at all.

Squaring his shoulders, Deven gritted his teeth and went in search, hangover and all.

But luck, which had preserved him through the morning’s ordeal, was not on his side in this matter. The Principal Secretary, he learned, was ill and thus absent from court. His inquiries led him to another man, ink-stained and bearing a thick sheaf of papers, who was attending the meetings of the privy council in Walsingham’s absence.

Deven made bold enough to snatch a moment of Robert Beale’s time. After introducing himself and explaining his business, at least in broad outline, he asked, “When might the Principal Secretary return to court?”

Beale’s lips pressed together, but not, Deven thought, in irritation or offense. “I could not say,” the Secretary said. “He requires rest, of course, and her Majesty is most solicitous of his health. I would not expect him back soon — for some days at least, and possibly longer.”

Damnation, again.
Deven forced a smile onto his face. “I thank you for your time,” he said, and got out of Beale’s way.

He could hardly go asking favors of a man on his sickbed. He could send a letter — but no. Better not to press the matter. As much as it galled him, he would have to wait, and hope the Principal Secretary recovered soon.

T
HE
O
NYX
H
ALL
, L
ONDON
:
October 20, 1588

Tens of thousands of mortals lived in London, and more in the towns and villages that surrounded it. In the entirety of England, Lune could not begin to guess how many there were.

Except to say there were too many, when she was trying to find a particular one.

She had to be discreet with her inquiries. If Tiresias was to be trusted — if he truly had a vision, or overheard something while lurking about — then this Francis Merriman knew something of use. It followed, then, that she did not want to share him with others. But so far discretion had availed her nothing; the mortal was not easily found.

When a spindly little spriteling came to summon her before Vidar, her first thought was that it had to do with her search. There was no reason to think that, but the alternatives were not much more appealing. Concealing these thoughts, Lune acknowledged the messenger with a nod. “Tell the Lord Keeper I will come when I may.”

The messenger smiled, revealing sharp, goblinish teeth. “He demanded your immediate attendance.”

Of course he did. “Then I will be pleased to come,” Lune said, rising as she mouthed the politic lie.

In better times, she might have made him wait. Vidar’s exalted status was a new thing, and Lune had until recently been a lady of Invidiana’s privy chamber, one of the Queen’s intimates — inasmuch as she was intimate with anyone. That freedom was gone now; if Vidar said to leap, then leap she must.

And of course he kept her dangling. Vidar’s rise to Lord Keeper had made him a most desirable patron, rich in both wealth and enchantment, and now his outer chamber thronged with hopeful courtiers and rural fae begging some favor or another. He might have demanded her immediate attendance, but he granted audience to a twisted bogle, two Devonshire pisgies, and a travel-stained faun in Italian dress before summoning Lune into the inner chamber.

He lounged in a chair at the far end of the room, and did not rise when she came in. Some fae held to older fashions of clothing, but he closely followed current styles; the crystals and jet embroidered onto his doublet winked in the light, an obvious mimicry of Invidiana’s clothing. Rumor had it the black leather of his tall, close-fitting boots was the skin of some unfortunate fae he had captured, tortured, and executed on the Queen’s behalf, but Lune knew the rumors came from Vidar himself. It was ordinary doeskin, nothing more. But the desire for that belief was telling enough.

She gave him the curtsy rank demanded, and not a hair more. “Lord Ifarren.”

“Lady Lune.” Vidar twiddled a crystal goblet in his bony fingers. “How good of you to come.”

She waited, but he did not offer her a seat.

After a leisurely study of her, Vidar set aside the goblet and rose. “We have known one another for a long time, have we not, my lady? And we have worked together in days past — to mutual benefit, as I weigh it. It pains me to see you thus fallen.”

As a stag in season was pained to see a rival fall to a hunter’s arrow. Lune cast her gaze modestly downward and said, “ ’Tis kind of you to say it, my lord.”

“Oh, I have a mind to offer you more kindness than just a sympathetic word.”

She instantly went on guard. Lune could think of nothing Vidar might gain by offering her true help, but that did not mean he
would
not. As cut off as she had been from the inner circles of court gossip, he might have some gambit in play she did not see. But what would she have to offer him?

No way to find out, save to walk farther into his trap. “I would be most glad to hear anything your lordship might extend to me.”

Vidar snapped his fingers, and a pair of minor goblins hurried to his side. At his gesture, they began unlacing the points of his sleeves, drawing them off to reveal the black silk of his shirt underneath. Ignoring them, Vidar asked, “You once lived for an extended period of time among mortals, yes?”

“Indeed, my lord.” He raised one needle-thin eyebrow, and she elaborated. “I was a waiting-gentlewoman to Lady Hereford — as Lettice Knollys was known, then. Her Majesty bid me thence to keep a daily eye upon the mortal court, and report to her its doings.”

The skeletal fae shuddered, a twitchy, insectlike motion. “Quite a sacrifice to make on the Queen’s behalf. To live, day and night, under a mask of mortality, cut off from all the glory of our own court . . . Ash and Thorn. I would not do it again.”

It might be the first sincere statement he had made since Lune entered. Vidar’s own mortal masquerade, the one that had earned him his new position, had been more sporadic than sustained, and he had not enjoyed it. She said temperately, “I was pleased to serve her Majesty in such a capacity.”