In Ashes Lie
The creature was a paragon of its kind, with a long, sleek, cream-furred body, and ears of russet. A faerie hound, not a faerie in the form of a hound, and a breed raised by the Tylwyth Teg of Wales, if she did not miss her guess. She wondered what he had given up to gain it.
Leslic bowed, sweeping his hat wide, drawing every eye in the chamber. Naturally he picked a moment of leisure, and one well attended by Lune’s idle courtiers. “Your radiant Grace—I cannot sleep at nights, fearful as I am for your safety. I beg you to allow me to make this poor gift to you, a faithful companion to watch over your rest.”
Lune did not miss the annoyance among some of her courtiers. Leslic’s one failing, in his pursuit of her favor, was an over-ready will to invoke the rescue that had catapulted him from relative obscurity to a place in the Onyx Guard, and therefore close by her side. But he redeemed the error quickly enough; peeking slyly up from his bow, he added, “Or at least to pursue the fox for you, when next you ride to the hunt.”
He had a charming smile, she granted him that. Lune made herself return one equally charming, or rather charmed. When she extended her hand, the dog came without prompting; there was no need for leashes and beatings, such as humans used to train their beasts. The animal sniffed her fingers delicately, then bent his head into her friendly scratch behind his ears.
Leslic sighed grandly and pressed one hand over his heart. “Fortunate hound, that comes home to his mistress’s touch. I shall sleep in envy instead of fear tonight, wishing I might have his place at the foot of your bed.”
They had gathered a small audience, the courtiers who flocked to his rising star. Not all of them, certainly; fae were capable of great oceans of jealous resentment. Lewan Erle pouted incessantly, feeling himself slighted. Lune was disappointed to see Valentin Aspell drifting near. She wished she could believe her faerie spymaster was simply keeping close watch on the knight, but the truth was that he found Leslic’s opinions congenial.
What to do with the hound? She was not at all certain she could trust the beast at the foot of her bed. Not out of fear for her safety; if Leslic wanted her dead, he could simply have let the lunatic kill her. Far as he had risen, there was much farther to go, and he needed her alive for that. But the hounds of the Tylwyth Teg were intelligent creatures, capable of much more than a normal dog. The gift was to curry favor; all these midwinter presents were simply another path to advantage at court. That did not, however, mean Leslic had no other purpose for it.
She had to draw him out. “Wouldst sleep at the foot of my bed, then?” she said teasingly, arching one eyebrow. “Is that your desired place?”
“I would account the cold stone there a finer bed than any that stood farther from your presence,” he answered, less in jest than before. A trace of longing threaded his answer, taut in the air between them.
Lune let him come closer; heeding that cue, the watchers faded back, returning to their diversions. They had the illusion of privacy, at least. “But you dream of a warmer bed.”
“What man would not?”
There was no possibility of deluding herself. The hunger in Leslic’s heart was not for her. In body, perhaps a little, but none for her spirit; it was power he sought, and a closer place in her counsel. All else was merely a pretext, a mask for the truth.
Every breath of their encounters was a sham. Amadea had made so bold as to ask Lune why she showed such favor to a knight who made no secret of his disdain for mortals; Lune excused his behavior as concern for the threat they posed, though she knew it went far deeper and fouler than that. The fae who scorned mortals as lesser creatures were calling themselves Ascendants now, and looked to Leslic as their captain. As the godly became more vocal above, the Ascendants became more common below.
Yet the true root of that threat lay, not here, but in Scotland. Lune could not tell her Lady Chamberlain the truth: that clasping this viper to her breast would teach her more of his aims. The closer she brought him, the more she learned of his connections to Nicneven.
Giving Leslic what he desired might gain her a great deal. Men said things over a pillow they might not let slip otherwise.
But bile rose in her throat at the thought. She had loved once, with her heart as well as her body, and once given, a faerie’s love did not fade. Now, though she took the occasional gentleman to her bed, they were rare, and never from her own court; the favor thus granted would upset the delicate balance she strove to maintain. And if she were to break that prohibition, it would not be for this golden-haired devil, this smiling traitor, who would betray her to her death if it suited his ambition.
Not even for the safety of her crown and her court would she take Leslic into her bed.
Her hesitation had gone on too long. Lune forced a smile onto her face, forced promise to hide behind that smile. “You are no man, but an elfin knight. Yet dreams come to our kind, even in our waking hours, and some dreams, they say, are prophecy.”
He took her hand and kissed it, feather-light; she fought not to shudder at his touch. “I shall petition the Fates to make me a seer, then, and until that day, live in hope.”
ST. STEPHEN’S CHAPEL, WESTMINSTER: April 21, 1641
“Consider the law,” Antony said, endeavoring to sound stronger and more confident than he felt. “For weeks, we have seen the Earl of Strafford defend himself upon the charges laid against him. He has established beyond doubt that, however much we may dispute the choices he has made, the actions he has taken, they have not crossed the line into treason.
“What are the strongest pieces of evidence against him?” A rhetorical question, but he had come to learn some of the theatrics of oration. Though he could not match the eloquence of Strode or Holles, he had to try. Antony raised a sheet of paper. “A copy of a copy of a note, made against Secretary Vane’s knowledge.” On a bench across the way, Vane’s son glared, not in the least embarrassed by his theft. “And Secretary Vane’s statement regarding the privy council meeting at which that note was made. The same piece of evidence, rendered twice, does not become twice as strong.
“Lord Strafford suggested the Irish army be used to reduce ‘this kingdom.’ Had he meant England, that would be treason indeed—but he did not say England. Others present at that meeting have no doubt he meant Scotland, which was, after all, the rebellious land then under debate. There is no treason here.”
He tossed down the paper, contemptuously, and locked his hands behind his back to conceal their trembling. “The charge of impeachment has failed. This bill of attainder seeks to circumvent that failure—to declare that Strafford intended to subvert the laws of this land, and that such intent, unproved and not acted upon, yet constitutes treason. In effect, the bill declares that Strafford must die for the good of England, because we say it is so.”
A pause, to let that sink in. But the benches around him were far too empty; where were the men who should have packed into the aisles for such an important vote? Scarcely half of the Commons had come today, despite the penalties for absence. They were afraid to commit themselves.
Afraid to put themselves in the path of Pym’s relentless assault, which struck not only at this one man, but the roots of sovereignty itself. Laud was in the Tower with Strafford; other servants of the Crown had fled abroad. Parliament—which was to say, the Commons—asserted the right to question and oversee the King’s councillors, to alter the Church as it saw fit, to control the revenues of the state; they wanted authority over the militia given into their hands. The only thing yet passed into law was a bill to call Parliament not less often than every three years—but if Antony lost this chance to thwart the opposition, who knew where the avalanche would end?
“Let us not make ourselves into a tyrannous mob,” he said, quietly, into the watchful silence. “The law has rendered Strafford innocent of treason. We must heed its voice.”
Then he sat down, before his knees could give out.
“The question,” said Speaker Lenthall, “is the bill of attainder for Th
omas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. The House will divide.”
The lobby to the chapel was cleared of all its usual rabble. Sir Gilbert Gerard and Sir Thomas Barrington stood by the door, ready to mark down the names of those voting against the bill.
Antony was the first to rise and pass outside the bar. In that moment, he hated this arrangement, which encouraged the lazy and the fearful to remain in their seats, while those who stood against were forced to walk out, under the eyes of their enemies.
Even before he turned around in the lobby, he knew it would not be enough.
A score. Two score. Watching, praying, he ended his count at fifty-nine. The dissenters recalled into the chamber, Lenthall read out the division: the yeas had gathered two hundred and four.
There was still a chance. The Lords had not yet passed the bill, and the King had not assented. And Charles had promised Strafford repeatedly that he would suffer no such ungrateful reward for his service.
But whatever the outcome for Wentworth’s life, the earl was defeated; Pym had won.
TOWER HILL, LONDON: May 12, 1641
The sea of people stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions: on rooftops, hanging out windows, flooding Petty Wales and Tower Street and Woodroffe Lane, packing into the open spaces of Tower Hill until there was scarcely room to draw breath. How many are there? Antony wondered.
How many thousands have come to see him die?
Katherine was not one of them. Antony had asked that morning, tentatively, whether she wished to accompany him. Other wives stood with his fellow aldermen, just as eager as their husbands to see Black Tom Tyrant meet his end. But while Kate had as strong a heart as any for most things, she could not abide blood; she had gone into Covent Garden for the day, far from the thousand-headed monster that now waited with unholy glee.
That monster frankly scared Antony. He’d already fled one angry mob a few days after the vote in the Commons, discovering only then that the divisions had been published, and that he was tarred as a Straffordian. And as bad as the riots had been lately, the celebration tonight would be worse. London had become a beast that answered to no man’s command.
Noon was nearly upon them. Sunlight gilded the tops of the White Tower, and the scaffold where the headsman waited. The wind off the river was cool, but with so many bodies pressed so close, the air sweltered and stank. Despite that, hawkers wandered tirelessly through the crowd, selling beer and onions and cheese. A few enterprising souls seemed even to have brought chamber pots, so they need not risk losing their places.
Antony prayed for it to be over soon, and was answered with an animal roar. Mail and pike heads glittered along the Tower wall: they were bringing Strafford out.
Thomas Wentworth, born of a wealthy Yorkshire family, bore himself as proudly as any duke. Illness and imprisonment had weakened his body, but his spirit was yet strong; he had even written to the King, telling him to sign the bill of attainder, for the good of England. Antony suspected it a political gambit on Strafford’s part, a ploy to gain sympathy from the Lords by his noble self-sacrifice, but if so, it had failed signally. All it had bought him was death.
Movement flickered in a window of the fortress: craning his neck, Antony saw Laud, looking out from his own cell. The archbishop raised his hands in blessing as his friend passed; then he staggered, weeping, and crumpled out of sight.
Having mounted the steps to the scaffold, Wentworth composed himself and addressed the crowd. Only fitful snatches of the man’s final speech reached Antony’s ears. “I do freely forgive all the world—”
Even his King, Antony thought, and shifted uncomfortably. All Charles’s promises to Strafford had come to naught. The King had even made one last, frantic attempt to free the earl by force, dispatching soldiers to break him from the Tower of London, but it accomplished nothing. No, something more, and worse: it had fed the hysterical rumors of gunpowder plots and invasion from abroad, and strengthened Pym’s position. Who could trust the King now?
His speech concluded, Wentworth was praying. The rumble of the crowd subsided, waiting for the moment. And in that hush, Antony heard a voice, hissing venomous words.
“Put not your trust in princes, nor in the sons of men, for in them there is no salvation.”
He thought at first it was one of his fellow aldermen. But they were all watching the scaffold, where Strafford refused a blindfold. Scarcely breathing, Antony cast his eyes about, trying to find the source of the voice. All about him were merchants and gentlemen, common councillors—
There. A man he did not know, standing a little distance in front and to the left of him. Respectably dressed, with nothing about him to draw attention—save some indefinable quality in how he held himself, some feral touch in his bearing, that most would not remark. But Antony had seen it before.
Wentworth knelt and stretched out his arms.
Disturbance was spreading around the stranger, ugly muttering, men scowling in anger and hate. The executioner raised his axe, and as it fell home, the stranger’s lips curved in a wicked smile.
Antony was moving almost before the roar began, well before the severed head was lifted for all to see. Not toward the stranger; anything he tried to do in this crowd would get him killed. He was a known Straffordian, and the howls coming from that knot of men sounded more like the cries of wolves than civilized Englishmen. It would be a riot, if he did anything to provoke it.
It might become one regardless.
Hoofbeats at the far verges of the crowd, men riding to bring the glad news to the rest of the country. Elbows jostled Antony, almost knocking him from his feet. If I fall, I will be trampled. He caught the sleeve of a nearby man and regained his balance while the fellow spat a curse in his face. I must get out of here!
Free air, finally, as he broke through into more open space. The fringes of the crowd, packed into the farthest reaches of the streets that still had some view of the scaffold, were roiling away now, shouting, singing joyous melodies. Antony joined their movement, but not their song, and headed for the realm below.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 12, 1641
“It has been a year and a day,” Lune said to Gertrude, pacing the small, painted chamber in a back corner of the Onyx Hall. Someone had decorated it decades ago for their mortal lover; now it lay empty, unused, forgotten. Which made it very suitable for private audiences. “Where is he?”
“Well,” the little brownie said philosophically, “times aren’t what they used to be. Can’t just go flying through the air on a bit of straw anymore; someone might see. Perhaps the roads were bad.”
Perhaps. Lune fretted, though. Had the oath been enough? Or had the knight found some way to betray her?
Or been discovered and killed.
She worried without cause. Scotland was far away; Cerenel might, as Gertrude suggested, have misjudged how long the journey would take. Or perhaps he could not slip away so easily. They were assuming, regardless, that he would go first to the Angel, and from there Rosamund would guide him. Cerenel might be planning a more public return, testing before the court Lune’s promise that he would be welcomed back.
A year and a day. A year and a day of the Ascendants rising in power, and brawls between courtiers about the proper relations of mortals and fae. No attacks as obvious as the murderer or Taylor’s attempt on the alder tree, but one of her more idealistic knights—one come to the Onyx Court after her accession, drawn by her rhetoric of harmony—was found dead in the streets, while wandering in mortal guise. Chance accident? Or a deliberate weakening of her support?
She hoped to find out today. Lune breathed more easily when the door opened, and Rosamund bowed Sir Cerenel into the room.
He was just as he had been; they were not mortals, to be aged and worn by their trials. True, he wore barbarous fashion—a loose, belted tunic laced at the neck and sleeves with leather thongs—but then, he had taken nothing with him in his exile save the clothes and sword he wore. Studying him, though, Lune
saw stiffness in his posture. Whatever else happened, this banishment had forever changed how he would serve her.
I hope it was not in vain.
Cerenel knelt, the curtain of his black hair falling forward. When Lune offered her hand, he kissed it with dry lips. “Rise,” she said. “And tell us what you have learned.”
She settled into her chair as he began, hands clasped behind his back. “As commanded, your Majesty, I have been to the Gyre-Carling’s court in Fife. You have weighed her heart to an ounce: her animosity to you and yours is unequaled.”
Sun and Moon knew where the Goodemeades had vanished to, though Lune was sure they would be ready to hand if she needed them. Cerenel had not appreciated their presence before.
“All of this is known,” Lune said, trying not to show her impatience too obviously. “Who is the architect of our troubles?”
“I suspect one they call the Lord of Shadows,” Cerenel said. Lune’s mouth twitched at the ostentatious title. “He is newly come to Nicneven, though his arrival there seems to have preceded the attacks by some span.”
Hardly an argument against him. Unless Nicneven were a fool—and would that she were—she would weigh the merits of any newcomer before deciding to follow his advice.
“How stands he in the court? Who are his allies?”
“Kentigern Nellt,” Cerenel replied, not at all to Lune’s surprise. “The giant rails against the subtlety and slow progress counseled by the Lord of Shadows, but their goals are in accord. My brother keeps more free of him, wishing to be rid of all politics in his life. But others fled from this court are there, and many declare themselves his followers.”
Lune curled her fingers into the point that edged her cuffs. Was Cerenel understating his brother’s involvement to protect him? It hardly mattered. If she could remove the head of the snake, the body, if not dead, would at least be robbed of its fangs. “And what can you tell me of him? His name, where he came from—”