He hung from the crenellations, gasping for air, with the rain sending rivers of water through his hair and clothes to puddle in his boots.
His left shoulder and hand ached from the force of stopping his fall, but Deven dragged himself upward, grunting with effort, until at last he could hook one foot over the bricks and get his body past the edge. Then he collapsed in the narrow wedge where the pitch of the roof met the low wall of the crenellations and let himself realize he wasn’t about to fall to his death.
The stranger.
Deven twisted to look over the wall, onto the roof of the chambers where Elizabeth listened to the virginals. He saw no sign of the intruder anywhere on the rain-streaked lead, and no hatches hung open in the turrets that studded the corners of the extension; through the grumble of the storm, he heard a faint strain of music. But that meant nothing save that no one had been hurt yet.
Even if Deven could have made the jump down, he could not burst in on the Queen, soaked to the bone and with his doublet torn, its stuffing leaking out like white cotton entrails. He hauled himself to his feet, wincing as his bruised knees flared, and began his limping progress back along the Long Gallery, to the door that had led him up there to begin with.
His news, predictably, caused a terrible uproar, and soon a great many people were roused out of bed, but the intruder had vanished without a trace. Some time later, no longer dripping but still considerably damp, Deven found himself having to relate the story to Lord Hunsdon, from his arrival at Hampton Court that night up to the present moment.
“You saw nothing of his face?” Hunsdon asked, fingers tapping a worried beat on the desk before him.
Deven was forced to shake his head. “He wore a cap low on his head, and we stood some ways apart, with only one candle for light. He seemed a smallish fellow, and dressed more like a laborer than a gentleman, but beyond that I cannot say.”
“Where do you think he went, after you lost him?”
The chambers there connected at their corner to the courtiers’ lodgings that ringed the Base Court; from there, the man might have run nearly anywhere, though the soaring height of the Great Hall would have forced him to circumnavigate the courtyard if he wished to go somewhere else. There was no good access to the ground; everything was at least two stories. With rope, he might have gone through a second-floor window, but they found no such rope, nor sign of a very wet man coming in anywhere.
The last Deven had seen of the man was when they reached the end of the gallery, and the stranger . . . leapt over the edge.
No, not quite. The man had leapt, yes, but upward, into the air — not as a man would jump if he intended a landing on a pitched roof below.
After that, his memory only offered him the flapping of wings.
He shook his head again, shivering in his damp, uncomfortable clothes. “I do not know, my lord. Out into the gardens, perhaps, and from thence into the Thames. Or perhaps there was a boat waiting for him.” How he would have gotten from a second- or third-floor roof to the gardens, Deven could not say, but he had no better explanation to offer.
Nor, it seemed, did Hunsdon. The baron’s mouth was set in a grim line. “It seems the Queen is safe for now. But we shall stay alert for future trouble. If you see the fellow again . . .”
Deven nodded. “I understand, my lord.” He might walk past the man in the street and not know him. But Deven believed now, as he had not truly before, that the Queen’s enemies might stage threats against her life. His duty was more than simply to stand at her door with a gold-covered ax.
He prayed such a threat would not come again. But if it did, then next time, he would be more effective in stopping it.
MEMORY: July 12, 1574
T he sleeping man lay in an untidy sprawl on his bed. The covers, kicked aside some time earlier, disclosed an aging body, a sagging belly usually hidden by the peasecod front of his doublets, and his dark hair was thinning. He was still fit enough — not half so far gone as some other courtiers — but the years were beginning to tell on him.
In his mind, though, in his dreams, he was still the young man he had been a decade or two before.
Which suited very well the purposes of the being that came to visit him that night.
How it slipped in, no observer could have said. Under the edge of the door, perhaps, or out of the very stuff of shadows. It showed first as a stirring in the air, that coalesced into an indistinct shape, which drifted gently through the chamber until it reached the bed.
Hovering over the sleeping man, the figure took more distinct shape and color. A fluttering linen chemise, freed from the constraints of bodice and kirtle and the usual court finery. Auburn hair, flowing loose, its tips not quite brushing the man below. A high forehead, and carmined lips that parted in an inviting smile.
The man sighed and relaxed deeper into his dream.
Robert Dudley was hunting, riding at a swift canter through open fields, pursuing hounds that gave the belling cry of prey sighted. At his side rode a woman, a red-haired woman. He thought, faintly, that she had been someone else a moment ago — surely it was so — but now she was younger, her hair a darker shade of red.
And they were not riding, they were walking, and the hounds had vanished. A pleasant stream laughed to itself, hidden somewhere in the reeds to one side. The sunlight was warm, casting green-gold light down through the trees; up ahead the landscape opened into a grassy meadow, with something in it. A structure. A bower.
Curtains fluttered invitingly around the bed that stood within.
Clothing vanished at a thought, leaving skin upon skin, and together they tumbled into bed. Auburn hair cascaded around him, a second curtain, and Robert Dudley gazed adoringly into the face of Lettice Knollys, all logic and reason crumbling before the onslaught of passion that overwhelmed him.
Easy enough, to fan the flames of an early flirtation into a conflagration. He would not remember this upon waking, not as anything more than an indistinct dream, but it would serve its purpose nonetheless. And if Lettice Knollys were in truth Lettice Devereux, Lady Hereford, and wed elsewhere, it did not matter. Dudley did not have to marry her. He had only to give his heart, turning it from the target at which it had ever been fixed: his beloved Queen Elizabeth.
Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, moaned deep in his throat as he writhed on the bed, aware of nothing but the dream that suffused his mind. Above him hovered the ghostly form of Lettice Knollys, perfect as she had never been, even in the blossom of her youth.
The scholars of Europe spoke of demons they called succubi. But more than one kind of creature in the world wielded such power, and not all served the devil.
Some served a faerie Queen, and did her bidding with pleasure, dividing from the mortal Queen her most loyal and steadfast admirer.
A man might die of such surfeit. The ghostly figure lost its definition, fading once more into indistinct mist, and with an unfulfilled sigh the Earl of Leicester subsided into dreamless sleep.
There would be other nights. The creature that visited him considered itself an artist. It would work upon him by slow degrees, building his desire until he thought of no one else. And when his heart turned away from the mortal Queen, and the creature’s work here was done. . . .
There would be other mortals. Invidiana always had use for this creature’s talents.
WHITEHALL PALACE, WESTMINSTER: November 3, 1588
Deven stood in front of the polished mirror and ran one hand over his jaw, checking for stubble. Colsey had shaved him that morning, and his hair was newly trimmed into one of the more subdued styles currently fashionable; he wore a rose-red doublet with a falling collar, collected from the tailor only yesterday when the court completed its move into Whitehall, and even his low shoes were laced with silk ribbons. He looked better than he had when he was first presented to the Queen, but felt very nearly as inadequate.
From behind him, Colsey said, “Best you get moving, master.”
The reminder w
as appreciated, though a little presumptuous —Colsey occasionally forgot he was not Deven’s father, to order him about. It made Deven take a deep breath and turn away from his blurred reflection in the mirror, setting himself toward the door like a man at the tilt.
Tilting. He had thought about entering the upcoming Accession Day jousts, but knew it would be a waste of his time and coin; certainly one could catch the Queen’s eye by performing well, but he was at best indifferent with the lance. He would have to content himself with the usual pageantry of the Gentlemen Pensioners, who would make a brave show around Elizabeth during the celebrations.
He had a hard time focusing on pageantry, though, when his feet were leading him toward a real chance for success at court.
He fingered the tabs at the bottom of his new doublet and wondered if it looked too frivolous. A useless thought — he had not the time to go change — but he was second-guessing himself at every turn today.
Deven gritted his teeth and tried to banish his nerves.
Several men were in the chamber when he arrived, and a number more came and went. Such was the inevitable consequence of absence from court, even with someone like Beale to cover one’s duties. But Deven was expected, and so he waited very little before being ushered into the chamber beyond, where the Principal Secretary sat behind a small mountain of paper.
Deven advanced halfway across the floor and then knelt on the matting. “Master Secretary.”
Sir Francis Walsingham looked tired in the thin November sunlight that filtered through the palace’s narrow windows. They had not been lying, when they said he was ill; the marks of it showed clearly. Deven had met him twice before — the rest of their dealings had been through intermediaries — and so he had sufficient basis for comparison. Walsingham was dark complected for an Englishman, but his skin had a pale, unhealthy cast to it, and there were circles under his eyes.
“I am glad,” Deven said, “that God has seen fit to restore you to health.”
Walsingham gestured for him to rise. “My illness was unfortunate, but ’tis past. Beale tells me you have some matter you would beg of me.”
“Indeed.” He had expected more small talk beforehand, but given the pile of work facing Walsingham, perhaps he should not be surprised the man wished to cut directly to what was relevant. That encouraged Deven to speak plainly, as he preferred, rather than larding his words with decoration, which seemed to be a substantial art form at court.
He clasped his hands behind his back and began. “I wished to thank you in person for your good office in securing for me the position I now hold in the Gentlemen Pensioners.”
“ ’Tis no great matter,” Walsingham said. “You did me good service among the Protestants in the Low Countries, and your father has much aided her Majesty in the suppression of seditious pamphlets.”
“I am glad to have been of service,” Deven answered. “But I hope my use might not end there.”
The dark eyes betrayed nothing more than mild curiosity. “Say on.”
“Master Secretary, the work I did on your behalf while on the continent made it clear to me that the defense of her Majesty — the defense of England — depends on many types of action. Some, like armies and navies, are public. Others are not. And you are clearly a general in the secret sort of war.”
The Principal Secretary’s lips twitched behind their concealing beard. “You speak of it in poetic terms. There is little of poetry in it, I fear.”
“I do not seek poetry,” Deven said. “Only a chance to make my mark in the world. I have no interest in following my father in the Stationers’ Company, nor does Gray’s Inn hold me. To be utterly frank, my desire is to be of use to men such as yourself, who have the power and the influence to see me rewarded. My father earned the rank of gentleman; I hope to earn more.”
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, feelin
g 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.