“Begin,” Lune said.
Cerenel barely waited for the word to leave her mouth. Quick as a snake, he leapt forward, and Leslic recoiled. With a rapid flurry of blows, they crossed the sand, Leslic dodging aside from a thrust to keep from being trapped against the low wall. No question of it: Cerenel was a fine swordsman.
But Leslic had for the last year been tutored by Il Veloce, an Italian faun resident in the Onyx Hall. He had a clever dagger hand, and was quick to use Cerenel’s momentum against him. First once, then again, the dark knight found his accuser unexpectedly within his guard, and saved himself only with a desperate twist away.
The silence that had marked their beginning was long since broken, fae shouting out encouragement to the one they favored. Cerenel’s name sounded but rarely. Leslic was the hero of the moment, but that was not all; listening, Lune identified more of his allies, more fae who shared his views on mortals. Their approval did not stop at one dead murderer.
Below, the blades continued their glittering dance. Whether above or below, the point of a duel was to show oneself willing to defend one’s honor; the outcome was almost immaterial. Almost, but not quite: in the final accounting, Cerenel had been negligent. Leslic’s words were true. And so while the audience came hoping for a good show, everyone knew how it would end.
Leslic beat his opponent back to the wall and trapped his sword against it; the swift thrust of his dagger would have maimed Cerenel’s hand, had the other knight not abandoned his sword and pulled away. But however desperately he retreated, twisting and leaping, he could not defend himself long with only a knife, and Leslic closed in for the kill.
“Hold!” Lune called out, just before the blade would have slid home.
Cerenel had fallen to his knees; the tip of Leslic’s rapier stopped a mere finger’s-breadth from his throat. Duels rarely went to the death, but in a matter touching so closely on the Queen’s honor, no one would have faulted Leslic. To proud to cry craven and thus save his life, Cerenel would have died.
But Lune had other plans for him.
“To shed the blood of a fae is an abominable thing,” she said. “Such a fate, we must reserve for true traitors to our realm. The negligence of Cerenel has been proved. Let his punishment be thus: that for a year and a day, he be exiled from the Onyx Court and all its dominions, and his place in our guard revoked. But when that time ends, he will be welcomed back in our halls, and may in time regain the honors he formerly held.”
Did she imagine the brief flash of anger in Leslic’s eyes? It was quickly hidden, regardless; he sheathed his rapier and dagger and said, “Your Majesty’s wisdom and mercy is a great gift to this realm.”
Looking across the sand, Lune caught the gazes of the Goodemeades, who nodded minutely.
“Go,” she said to Cerenel, where he still knelt in the sand. “Your exile begins at once.”
THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON : May 11, 1640
“Would you like more privacy, madam?”
“No,” Lune said. “That will not be necessary.”
She hoped it would not. If matters had come to such a pass that she needed to take elaborate measures to protect her secrets, she was in a worse state than she believed. But Lune doubted anyone would be following her movements closely enough to eavesdrop on the comfortable chamber in which she now sat.
Not yet, at least.
Cerenel stood rigid by the hearth, hands locked behind his back. He had accepted the Goodemeades’ offer of shelter; their home lay within the bounds of Lune’s realm, but Rosamund had assured him the Queen would not take it amiss if he tarried there a single night. Lune had watched his face settle into hard, understanding lines when she came down the staircase and threw back the hood of her concealing cloak.
She came out in secret, not even informing Sir Prigurd of her departure. It was easy enough to ensure she would not be disturbed in her chamber—all it took was a protest of exhaustion, after the excitement of the duel—and wearing a crown had not made her forget how to sneak about.
Lune arrayed herself in the chair Gertrude provided, and judged whether or not to offer Cerenel a seat. No; he was too stiff with anger, and might refuse.
“I will be brief,” she said. “For I suspect you wish not to see me just now.”
A shift in the tendons of his neck was her only reply, as he clenched his jaw.
“You were negligent,” she went on, and saw him flinch. “It was obvious before the duel, and proven with it. But I tell you now what is not obvious: that the mortal you brought below was bait, for a trap you unwittingly sprung.”
Cerenel was far from the stupidest of her knights. He paled in anger and spoke for the first time since he knelt at her arrival. “Leslic.” His hands came free from behind his back and flexed, wishing for the hilt of the sword he had laid aside. “Madam, let me but stay a moment to challenge him—”
Lune cut him off. “You may not. Did I wish Leslic exposed, I had done it myself. There is no proof, nothing direct. And though you could fight him again, this time with right on your side, that would simply remove him from play, with nothing gained. I am not concerned with Leslic. I am concerned with those who gave him his orders.
“This murderer was part of a pattern. There have been attacks on the Onyx Hall—subtle ones, not those of armies. Subtle enough that I have, until now, kept them secret. I must know more of their source.” She held his gaze. “The Unseely Court of Fife.”
The knight’s body stilled. Lune watched his face, trying to read his expression through the shadows that flickered over it, cast by the fire’s wavering light. He licked his lips before speaking. “You suspect my brother?”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, born of bitter amusement. “No more than others in the Gyre-Carling’s court. Cunobel holds no love for me, I know. But he left here in peace—which I cannot say of another who once called this court home. Presumably he has told you that Kentigern Nellt is there as well.”
He said, with a touch of bitterness, “Another exile. Like me.”
“Not like you.” Rosamund’s voice came from the corner; by the twitch of Cerenel’s shoulders, he had forgotten the Goodemeades were listening, quiet as mice. “Her Grace exiled him permanently.”
“And for better cause,” Lune added. “You made a mistake, Cerenel—a foolish one, for which you are duly shamed. But I do not consider you my enemy.”
His relief spoke plainly. “Then you suspect Kentigern.”
Lune laughed. “Of subtlety and intrigue? He is no more capable of it than a thunderstorm. No. Someone else is the architect of these new troubles.
“Ever since the coalition in the North dissolved, Nicneven has lacked the military might to strike directly at us, and she has never had the subtlety for more insidious attacks. The worst she could do was to encourage the baser elements of my court—fae such as Leslic. I believe someone else must have come to her, someone with both the mind and the will to craft this new malignance. I wish to know who.”
Only a blind man would not see where she aimed. “You wish me to spy.”
“You have the justification you need. Exiled from London, disaffected with our court—who is to say you would not journey north to Fife, and throw your lot in with Nicneven and your brother?”
Cerenel’s eyes glittered in the firelight. He said quietly, “How do you know I would not?”
Because you ask that question. Lune stood from her chair and took one of his hands in her own. His fingers were very cold. “I know you nearly followed your brother,” she said. “You stayed because you wished to see what manner of Queen I would be, and in time you came to believe in my ideals. I do not doubt your honor, and when the year and a day has passed, we shall welcome you back with open arms. If you can bring us the information we need... you will be richly rewarded.”
He knelt and pressed his lips to her hand. “I shall do as you bid, your Majesty.”
Excellent. Cerenel was not the tool Lune would have chosen for th
e task, but he had the pretext she needed, to get someone close to the Gyre-Carling. Still, she must be cautious.
Laying her free hand on his head, she said, “Then swear it.”
His fingers tightened involuntarily on hers. The dim light darkened his eyes to deepest amethyst; in that instant, they were guileless, speaking eloquently of his surprise.
“If you swear it,” Lune said, “then I need not fear a misstep on your part. You will let slip no accidental word that might endanger you, or us here in London. Give me your vow, and I will know for certain we are safe.”
Surprise gave way to anger, mounting with her every word. Lune had known it would offend him, but she could not afford to do otherwise. Cerenel was no practiced spy, and though she was confident he would not turn traitor now, she could not trust what would happen after a year and a day spent among those with cause to hate her.
For him to refuse would cast his loyalty into doubt. He could imagine for himself the consequences of that. She watched him struggle with it, swallowing his fury down, and did not move.
At last the knight bowed his head, and repeated in a dead voice the words she proposed. “I swear to you, in ancient Mab’s name, that I will seek out the malignance in Fife that sets itself against the Onyx Court, and neither by speech nor by action betray to another my purpose in being there.” His fingers never once relaxed their stone-hard grip on her hand.
“Learn what you can,” Lune said when he was done, her tone as gentle as she could make it. “Then return to us for your reward.”
ST. STEPHEN’S CHAPEL, WESTMINSTER: November 11, 1640
If there was one decision that could have made the dissolution of Parliament in May seem an even graver error, it was the choice to summon it again six months later.
There was little joy this time, except of a fierce and battle-ready sort. All over England, supporters of the Crown went down in resounding defeat. And although Antony did not consider himself a King’s man, he was not godly enough, and not sympathetic enough to Pym’s cause, to win reelection easily. Publicly, he said he regained his seat through the grace of God; in truth, he owed it to the fae. Lune had not said one word of complaint when he asked her for aid. It was the only way to keep the Onyx Court represented in the Commons.
So in the bleak days of November, they gathered once more in Westminster Palace, to fight over the governance of England. Damply unpleasant winds blew in through the broken windows of the chapel, causing the men who gathered within to shiver and wrap their cloaks more firmly about their shoulders. The windows had been as badly off the previous spring—victims of the long years when the Commons was disbanded—but no one had minded them then. Now, in the chill grip of an early winter, they added a grim touch to grimmer proceedings.
Arrayed along one wall were the King’s opponents, with their officers all in a row. Antony doubted anyone did not see John Pym as a general in this political war, leading Hampden, St. John, Strode and Holles, Hesilrige and Secretary Vane’s fanatical son, against the Crown’s own disorganized forces. They would cripple the King if they could, paring away slivers of his power until it all rested in their own hands; indeed, they had already begun. Now they prepared for their next move.
Antony watched Pym unblinking from the moment the opening prayers concluded. Without question, he knows what has happened. His intelligence is at least as good as mine.
And if Antony had learned anything about Pym in the three and a half disastrous weeks last spring, it was that the man was a master of timing. Unlike his subordinates, he never let the passion of his beliefs carry him out of the course of effective action. Though Penington was chafing at the bit to attack the bishops and destroy the episcopacy, root and branch, Pym held him back, lest such Puritan zeal alienate more moderate members of the House. But when his time came ...
Antony, not attending in the slightest to the debate currently under way, saw Pym receive a message and rise with his hat off.
He must have taken his seat.
Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford, had arrived in London the previous night. Parliament was nearly a week into its new sitting, but Pym delayed his attack, waiting for his enemy to arrive and take his place in the House of Lords. Now, at last, Pym could move against the King’s “evil councillor”—the man he would make a whipping boy for all the troubles in Scotland and Ireland both, and England, too. Pym could not strike directly at Charles, but he could harry the King like a dog at a bear, inflicting a hundred small wounds to bleed and weaken him of his power.
Lenthall, the weak-willed man who had succeeded Glanville as Speaker, gave Pym permission to speak. “I have something of gravest import to say,” Pym told them all, “and so I call upon the sergeant-at-arms to clear the antechamber, and to bar all doors from this House.” He waited while this was done, while the rumors ran up and down the benches, and then commenced his assault.
From tyranny to sexual misdeeds, he laid a whole series of crimes at Strafford’s feet. Nor was he alone: his minion Clotworthy succeeded him with another speech, far less coherent but far more inflammatory, and then more after him. All riding hard toward the same end: the impeachment of the Earl of Strafford, on the charge of treason.
Pym had tried it years ago, with the Duke of Buckingham; Charles had dissolved Parliament rather than let his chief councillor of the time suffer attack. Now the leader of Parliament took aim again, when Charles could not evade it. This time, he might strike home.
But first, a committee; hardly anything was done anymore without a committee to chew it over first. The composition of that body was no surprise, either. Pym had planned for this, as he planned for everything, and the committee returned in remarkably quick time, opening the general debate. Antony seized his own opportunity to speak.
“Of a certainty, Lord Strafford has taken many actions both here and in Ireland that bear closer scrutiny,” he said, meeting the eyes of his fellow members. “Whether those actions constitute treason is a matter for the law to decide. But we must not let them pass unremarked, for fear that others might then try to press that liberty beyond the bounds of what is just and right. By all means, gentlemen—let us send to the Lords a message of impeachment.”
He took perverse pleasure in seeing the astonishment on Pym’s face as he sat once more. You think I support you and your junto. But I do not do this for you; I do it for Lune.
They had no word yet from Cerenel, though they knew he had arrived in Fife. And while no madmen with iron knives had shown up again, the disturbances at court had not ended. They needed the information Eochu Airt had—and that meant getting rid of Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford.
For once, Antony was glad of Pym’s attack. He still despised the man’s junto, and many of the things it fought for, but in this one matter, they stood as temporary allies.
The message summoned Antony out into the Old Palace Yard, where he found Ben Hipley waiting for him on the cobblestones.
“Have they impeached the earl?” the other man asked, hardly even pausing to make his greeting.
“Yes,” Antony said. “They have taken the message in to the Lords—Pym and the others.”
Hipley swore sulfurously. “And Strafford just came back. He left this morning for Whitehall, to talk to the King, but I saw him return not five minutes ago. Damnation!”
The curses were drawing far too much attention. They were hardly the only people in the yard; Parliament scarcely sat but there were mobs outside, thronging the streets of Westminster. These were the same apprentices and laborers, mariners and dockhands who had attacked Archbishop Laud’s palace earlier in the year. Riots had become a common feature of London life, no doubt encouraged by Pym and the others. Antony drew Hipley to one side and lowered his voice. “Temair wants him gone. Lune has told me to do it if I can. Why balk now?”
“Because Strafford was going to impeach Pym and the others,” his spymaster said through his teeth. “For treasonous dealings with the Covenanters. He might have br
oken their strength—so they are determined to break his first.”
It set Antony back on his heels. That Pym was deep in alliance with the Covenanters, he did not doubt. But he had not realized such a good opportunity existed to curb the opposition’s power.
He spun without a word and hurried back into the palace, Ben close behind, but even as he neared the Lords’ chamber the roar of the crowd there told him he was too late—even supposing he could have done anything to stop it. He could just glimpse Strafford exiting the chamber; gems glinted in the light as the earl removed his sword and surrendered it to Maxwell.
Illness had ravaged Wentworth; his complexion was sallow, his skin sagging in loose curves. He hardly looked the terrible figure popular opinion made him out to be. But the watching masses showed no respect; Antony heard many cutting remarks, and did not see a single man doff his cap to the bare-headed earl.
“What’s the matter?” a jeering voice cried out, as Strafford wearily faced the gauntlet he must run.
Strafford answered as confidently as he could, but his voice was weak and hoarse. “A small matter, I warrant you.”
“Yes, indeed,” someone else shouted. “High treason is a small matter!”
Under the cover of the ensuing laughter, Antony said to Ben, “The charges are weak. It may well be that he can defeat them.”
“I hope so,” his companion replied, watching the crowd dog Strafford’s heels as he crossed to the outer door. “For the sake of us all. Pym’s power worries me.”
And me, Antony admitted privately. He had hoped to do some good for Lune, but it appeared the good of England would have to come first.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: December 28, 1640
Of all the practices fae had adopted from mortals, the giving of Christmas gifts puzzled Lune the most. They were never called by such name, of course, but midwinter exchanges had become common, and served a particular purpose in courtly life.
As she was reminded of, cynically, when Sir Leslic appeared one day with a hound following at his heels.