The Shadow of Albion (2 page)

have a bearing on the events of later years – even centuries – but immediate events

are similar to those in the real world. The strongly Whig-Protestant English fight

against France. The Duke of Marlborough comes to center stage as a military leader

– he is also a bosom friend of the Duke of Clarence, the late king’s illegitimate

second son and Charles His half-brother. (The Stuarts continue their merry custom

of producing bastards and granting them tides so the highest grades of the English

peerage are frequently expanded.)

After the reign of three more Stuart kings (Charles IV, James II, and Charles V)

we reach the 1800s, and a world like – and unlike – our own. The English

government is strongly Whig and the King depends on that party for backing.

Without the weak and unpopular Hanovers on the throne, political relations with the

American colonies have never degenerated into warfare; in 1805 America is simply

the westernmost of England’s possessions. Its citizens are English citizens with full

representation in Parliament. It is governed (similarly to Ireland) by a Lord Protector;

in 1805 the Lord Protector of America is Thomas Jefferson, the Earl of Monticello.

Like Irish tides, American tides are considered „second-class“ titles, but many of the

nobility holds both English and American titles, and America is a popular destination

for land-hungry younger sons. The ties between the mother country and her vast

colony are becoming thinner with time, and political theorists predict that someday

America will govern itself practically free of any strong supervision from the

motherland.

One major divergence from history as we know it in this alternate 1805 is that the

Louisiana Purchase does not take place, and the thirteen colonies’ western

expansion is halted in vicinity of Kentucky (or, as it is known in this world,

Transylvania).

The French Revolution pf 1789 – which occurs in both worlds – is a shock to

both England and her New World colony. There were suggestions in our world at

the time that England intervene, which she does not do in either world. In 1795

Napoleon Bonaparte begins his climb to power and France’s ambitions become

imperial. England goes to war once more. Though plagued by civil and religious

unrest at home, it is Britain’s funding that keeps the Triple Alliance – England,

Prussia, and Russia – in the field against Napoleon. The simmering discontent at

home might break out into full-fledged civil war, however, were England suddenly

left without an heir.

Just as in the Real World, many European nations considered making a „separate

peace“ with Napoleon. A key flayer in this political arena is Denmark, which, as a

member of the Baltic League, vacillates between neutrality and a pro-French

position. A French-allied Denmark would cause Russia to withdraw from the Triple

Alliance.

In the Real World, England sent fleets to Denmark in 1801 and 1806 to keep

French sympathies at bay. In our world, the widowed King Henry DC of England

hopes to accomplish the same thing by betrothing his only son, James Charles Henry

David Robert Stuart, Prince of Wales and Duke of Gloucester, to Princess

Stephanie Julianna, granddaughter of the weak and vicious King Christian VII, whose

eldest son, Prince Frederick, is currently his Regent. This marriage, to one of the few

Protestant royal houses in Europe, will link Denmark firmly with the Allied cause.

And our story begins….

 – Andre Norton

Chapter 1

A Lady Bought with Magic

(Wiltshire, April 1805)

The house had always been called Mooncoign, though it had passed through

several families before becoming King Charles III’s gift to the first Marchioness of

Roxbury over a century ago. The Roxburys had reigned at Mooncoign for longer

than living memory ran, and to those within their domain, it seemed they always

would.

Even in that bygone generation there had been no one left who could say how the

house had come to be so named – or if there were, they deemed it wiser, in a climate

of uncertain political and theological tolerance, to keep the knowledge to themselves.

For while Charles II, that merry monarch, had often said that the witches of England

should be left in peace, the temper of his son, the once-Earl of Monmouth, was a

chancier – and far more Protestant – thing.

But the time of both merry father and ambitious son was long past now. It was

early in April, on a morning of no particular note in the calendars of alchemists and

philosophers: a day much like any other day on the Wiltshire downs for every

inhabitant of the great house save one.

The room’s furnishings were opulent and old; heavy walnut pieces that might

have occupied this very chamber when Charles Stuart had used it to shelter from his

Roundhead persecutors some one hundred fifty years before. The oak wainscoting

glowed golden with long and loving application of beeswax and turpentine even in

this pallid early spring sunlight, while higher upon those same walls fanciful

plasterwork ornamentation spread its delicate lacelike tracery against the darker

cream of the lime-washed background. The room was oven hot, heated by the

blazing fire of sea-coals upon the hearth and by the tall bronze braziers the doctor

had prescribed.

Now that same physician regarded the luxurious scene with disapproval, although

it was not the elegant Jacobean room itself which had earned his censure. He turned

to the waiting servant and, reluctantly, said what he must say.

„You ought to have called me earlier. Her Ladyship’s condition is very grave. In

fact – “ He hesitated, choosing how best to break the hateful news.

„Speak louder, Dr. Falconer; I cannot quite hear you.“ The mocking young voice

was hoarse with coughing and breathless with its owner’s affliction, but it still held

arresting power.

Dr. Falconer straightened from his colloquy with Lady Roxbury’s

formidably-correct dresser and returned to the ornately-caparisoned bed of state.

Pulling back the bedcurtains with one well-manicured hand, he gazed down at the

bed’s occupant. His patient stared back with brilliant unflinching eyes.

Sarah, Marchioness of Roxbury, had never been a beauty – her eyes (quite her

best feature) were grey, her hair was silk-straight rather than fashionably curled (and

light brown rather than guinea-gold or raven-black or any of the other unlikely hues

so beloved of the romancers), and she was tall and slender – but she had always

carried herself with the arrogance and style of the Conynghams. Now, however, even

the animal vitality that had lent her passable plainness an aura of glamour was gone:

the Marchioness of Roxbury looked exactly like what she was. A plain woman, and

a dying one…

„As bad as that, is it?“ she whispered. „You had best tell me, you know; Knoyle

is a treasure with hair, but she will only cry.“

The Marchioness’s mother, the second Marchioness of Roxbury and illegitimate

daughter of James the Second, the present king’s grandfather, had died in childbed

along with the babe who would, had he lived, have been the two-year-old Sarah’s

younger brother and heir to the Marchionate. Now mother and son slept in the small

family burial ground at Mooncoign, and from the moment of their deaths, Sarah

Marie Eloise Aradia Dowsabelle Gonyngham had become Lady Roxbury,

Marchioness of Roxbury in her own right. And each year, since her presentation to

the Polite World at the early age of sixteen, the young Marchioness of Roxbury had

anticipated the Season with a houseparty at Mooncoign. The entertainment was

lavish and theatrical, and in this year of Our Lord 1805, ten days since, during an

enactment of the Battle of the Nile upon Mooncoign’s ornamental water, her

ladyship’s craft had accidentally been sunk, even though it was meant to represent

Admiral Nelson’s .flagship, the Victory.

She had been rescued by the Vicomte Saint-Lazarre and, though her crew had

deserted to the house to repair their soaked toilettes, Lady Roxbury had remained to

fight the engagement to an English triumph. She had ignored a steadily-worsening

cough to mastermind the entertainment of her guests all the following week; the cost

of that mock sea-battle was something she had not counted until today.

Outside the windows, pale April daffodils pushed up through the rich loam of the

downs. Dr. Falconer studied Lady Roxbury for some moments before he spoke. „It

is a galloping consumption, Your Ladyship. You will not see out the month.“

Lady Roxbury’s mouth tightened and the teasing light vanished from her eyes.

She had suspected as much; only a fool would not, once the blood began to appear

on her lawn kerchiefs.

There was a strangled sob from Knoyle.

„Hush your howling,“ Lady Roxbury rasped hoarsely. „Anyone would think you

were to be turned out without a character! It was only a chill,“ she said to Dr.

Falconer, hating the note of pleading she heard in her voice.

„It has settled on the lungs.“ His voice was gentle, but her ladyship heard me

death sentence in it. Dr. Falconer was no country horse-leech after all, but King

Henry’s own physician, His skill was preeminent; there were few he would, have left

Town for, but the Marchioness of Roxbury was one.

„I… see,“ she said. Each breath was a struggle. A greater struggle was to resist

the feathery unsoundness in her throat and chest that brought the wracking spasms

of bloody coughing. „Thank you for coming, Doctor,“ Lady Roxbury said. She

held out one slender jeweled hand, and Dr. Falconer bent over it with courtly

punctilio.

„Please consider yourself my guest for as long as you care to – and assure my

other guests I will be joining them soon,“ she said.

Dr. Falconer hesitated a moment before replying. „Of course, Your Ladyship. I

shall carry out your wishes to the letter.“ He hesitated over her hand a moment

longer, as if there were something he would say, then turned and left.

Lady Roxbury turned to her abigail.

„Knoyle.“ The one word was all she could manage; the tainted brittleness in her

chest was rising into her throat, choking her. She reached out blindly, grabbing the

abigail’s broad warm hand with chill fingers of surprising strength.

„No one! Tell – no one!“ she gasped. Then the treacherous creature in her chest

woke to willful life and spasm after spasm shook her slender body, until she lay

weak and trembling beneath a coverlet starred with her life’s blood.

It is not fair, she thought to herself some hours later. The pop and hiss of the

burning coals and the measured ticking of the long-case clock in the dressing room

were the loudest sounds in Lady Roxbury’s world. She did not doubt that all was

being done within Mooncoign’s walls just as she would have it done, but she

realized unwillingly that the time was coming when she would no longer be able to

enforce her wishes – when, in fact, she would have no wishes at all.

And then Mooncoign and the Marchionate, which was entailed upon the heirs of

her body, male or female, would revert to the Grown, and someone not of her blood

would walk Mooncoign’s galleries of age-mellowed stone.

It is not fair! Though the side-curtains of the bed were closed, Lady Roxbury had

ordered the curtains at the foot drawn back so that she could see the portrait over

the fire. Within its frame of gilded plaster, the painted visage of Lady Roxbury’s

grandmother Panthea, the first Marchioness, gazed mischievously down at her

descendent, magnificent in satin and lace. Panthea’s bejeweled hands toyed with a

key, a dagger, and a rose, in sly allusion to the Roxbury arms and their motto: „I

open every door.“

Oh, if there were only a door for this, away from the cruel weakness of her body

and the knowledge of duties unfulfilled –!

„A visitor for you, my lady.“ Knoyle’s voice trembled – as well it might, since

she was acting against her mistress’s express orders to admit no one.

Lady Roxbury struggled upright against her pillows, anger deepening the hectic

color in her cheeks. „Who – “ she began, before the inevitable spasm of coughing

took her. As she clutched her handkerchief to her lips, she felt strong cool hands,

against her back, supporting her and pressing the worst of the pain away.

„Who dares?“ she demanded at last, when the paroxysm passed.

„I dare,“ a voice said calmly. „As Your Ladyship knows, there is little I do not.“

Lady Roxbury’s eyes widened fractionally as she caught sight of her visitor for

the first time.

Dame Alecto Kennet had been a great beauty in her day, and was still a woman of

commanding and formidable presence. In her time she had been actress and