“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.
HAMPTON COURT PALACE, RICHMOND: 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?”
He was and she knew it. “You will find a way to tell me, regardless.”
“I could be more subtle, but this is so much easier.” Anne folded her hands demurely across the front of her cloak. “ ’Tis a minor thing, to my eyes, but I never know when some minor thing fits into the greater patterns you and your master see. You are aware of Doctor Dee?”
“The astrologer? He had an audience with the Queen a month gone, at Richmond.”
“Do you know the substance of it?”
Deven shook his head. “He was at court only a day or two, and I did not speak to him.”
“My lady of Warwick tells me ’tis some difficulty with his house and books. Someone despoiled them while he was abroad; he seeks redress. You may expect to see more of him, I should think — or at least to hear people arguing on his behalf.”
“People such as your countess?”
“I thought you did not want me carrying tales.” She laughed as he mock-scowled at her. “I imagine your master knows of his situation — they are friends, are they not?- — but I can learn more if you would like.”
This, he was unpleasantly aware, was often how espionage worked. Few of those who fed Walsingham information did so in an organized and directed fashion, deliberately infiltrating places where they did not belong, or masquerading as that which they were not. Most of the intelligence that reached the Principal Secretary came from men who simply kept their eyes and ears open, and wrote to him when they saw or heard something of interest.
Men, and the very rare woman.
As if she had heard that thought — he must be as transparent as glass to her — Anne said, “ ’Tis not as if I were offering to return information from the court of the Holy Roman Emperor, or the Pope’s privy closet. I will simply tell you if Doctor Dee calls on the countess again.”
“I cannot ask a woman to spy,” Deven said. “It would be infamous.”
“ ’Tis listening, not spying, and you are not asking me. I do it of my own free will. Consider it a dowry of an intangible sort, paid in advance.” Anne took his hand again, and tugged him a step forward, so they stood in the shadow of the banqueting house. There she cupped his jaw in her gloved fingers and kissed him again. “Now I must return; my lady will be rising.”
“As will mine,” Deven murmured, over the rapid beating of his heart. “You will tell me what the countess says — whether the Queen would be angry at the thought of our marriage?”
“I will,” Anne promised. “As soon as I may.”
MEMORY: December 21, 1581
M any parts of the subterranean palace consisted of adjoining chambers, one opening into the next with never a break. Some were arranged around cloistered courtyards of sculpture or night-blooming plants; others connected via long galleries, hung with tapestries and paintings of rich hue.
But there were other passages, secret ones. Few fae ever saw them, and almost no mortals.
The man being escorted through the tunnel was a rare exception.
Of the other mortals who had been brought that way, most were attractive; those who were not held influential positions at court or in trade, and compensated for their lack of handsomeness by their use. This one was different. His cowl taken from him, his clipped, mutilated ears were bared for all to see, and though he was not old, cunning and suspicion — and at the moment, fear — robbed his face of any beauty. Nor was he a powerful man.
He was no one. But he knew a little of faeries, and now his investigations had brought him here, to a world whose existence he had never so much as suspected.
A door barred the way at the end of the passage, bronze-bound and painted black. One of the escorting fae, a hunched, goblinish thing, raised his bony-knuckled hand and knocked. No response came through the door, but after a moment it swung open on oiled hinges, as if of its own accord.
The chamber into which the mortal man stepped was as sumptuous as the corridor outside was bleak. The floor was bare of either rushes or carpets, but it was a fine mosaic in marble, strange figures that he would have liked to study more closely. Cool silver lights gleamed along the walls; out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw wings moving within their depths. The walls were likewise marble, adorned at regular intervals by tapestries of colored silk studded here and there with jewels. The ceiling was a masterwork display of astrological notation, reflecting the current alignment of the stars far above.
But all this richness was dominated into insignificance by the curtain before him.
&nb
sp; Was it black velvet, worked elaborately in silver? Or cloth-of-silver, painstakingly embroidered with black silk? His escort, his guards, stood between him and it, as if he would have approached to examine it. Some of the gems encrusting the fabric appeared to be diamonds, while others were more brilliant and alive than any diamonds he had ever seen. Pearls as large as hummingbird eggs weighted its bottom edge. The curtain alone displayed wealth only the crowned heads of Europe could hope to equal, and not even all of them.
He was not surprised when one of his escorts kicked him in the back of the knee, forcing him to the floor.
The stone pressed hard and cold against his knees as he waited.
And then a voice spoke from behind the curtain.
“You seek after magic, Edward Kelley.”
“I do.” The words came out rusty and faint on the first try; he wet his lips and said it again. “I do. And I have found it.”
Found more than he had ever dreamed of.
A soft sound came from behind the curtain, a cool laugh. The voice was melodious and controlled, and if the face that accompanied it was anything to match, she must be the most beautiful faerie lady to ever call England home.
-Lady — or queen? Even among fae, he doubted such riches were common.
The lady spoke again from her concealment. “You have found only the meanest scraps from the table of magic. There is more, far more. You wish to know the secrets of creation? We have them bound in books. You wish to transform base metal into gold? ’Tis child’s play, for such as us.”
Faerie gold. It turned to leaves or stones before long — but a man could do a great deal with it, while it still shone. And though it was a poor substitute for true transformation, the Philosopher’s Stone, learning of it might advance his alchemical work.
Yes, there was a feast here for him.
“I would be your ladyship’s most humble student,” he said, and bowed his head.
“I am sure,” the lady said. “But you must know, Edward Kelley — all gifts carry a price. Especially those from fae.”