Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  The skirt was split in front, opening into a broad V to expose the kirtle beneath. This was of the same gold velvet as the lining of the sleeves and was enlivened by the girdle of richly embroidered dark green satin, loosely tied at the groin and flowing down over the underskirt. On her head Elizabeth wore a dark green French hood, also lavishly embroidered, set well back to show her bright hair. Since her skirts swept the floor, he could not see her shoes.

  Aleneil laughed aloud. “If the dress is your own doing, my lady, I would say that you no longer need me here giving you advice.”

  “Oh, no, I never meant that,” Elizabeth said, looking distressed.

  “Of course you didn’t, my poppet,” Mistress Champernowne said, putting an arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “And Lady Alana didn’t mean she wouldn’t come to visit anymore. She was just complimenting you on your excellent taste. It is true, too. I had suggested a red kirtle, but Lady Elizabeth complained that it was too glaring and she was quite right. The gold goes better with her hair also.”

  “Yes, it does. But I never thought Lady Elizabeth would suspect me of giving up my visits. Indeed, I take too much pleasure in her company, and in yours, Mistress Champernowne, to stop coming. Nonetheless, we must stop chattering about dress. Nothing could be duller for poor Denno, who looks respectable only because he allows his man to chose his clothing.”

  “I am not so bad as that,” Denoriel protested, smiling. “But it is true enough that clothing does not hold much interest for me. Still, I can tell when a dress is becoming, and Lady Elizabeth’s dress is very becoming indeed.”

  It was a proper response, but the smile that Denoriel produced to go with it was patently artificial. Kat Champernowne might not be the most perceptive person, but she had adequate skill to recognize a polite falsehood.

  “And so it is,” she said, “but I doubt we can find more meat in that subject. I understand from Lady Alana that you are devoted to gardens, Lord Denno. Since the day is so mild, perhaps you would be willing to accompany Lady Elizabeth into our garden. We are just about to begin spring planting, and Elizabeth and I do not agree on what should be done. You must have seen a great many gardens, some in distant lands. We would welcome your opinion.”

  Denoriel gave a prompt, relieved approval. Walking in the garden might provide an opportunity for him to talk in a less formal way with Elizabeth. There was a brief, less strained, period while Dunstan returned the cloaks he had taken when he led Denoriel and Aleneil into Elizabeth’s quarters and instructed servants to bring cloaks for Mistress Champernowne and Elizabeth. When they passed into the great hall and thence through a side door into the rather barren garden, they had sorted themselves out into two couples, suitable to the rather narrow paths between the fallow beds.

  As soon as there was a distance between them and Kat Champernowne beside whom Aleneil was deliberately walking with tiny, mincing steps, Elizabeth looked up and said, “Should I put my cross into its pouch so you could take my hand?”

  “God’s Grace, no!” Denoriel exclaimed. “No, you must never cover your cross or take it off. And if someone should ever ask that of you, run away. Run away quickly to Blanche Parry or if you cannot reach her to Dunstan or Ladbroke or your guardsmen.”

  “Ah.” The stiffness in Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed and when she glanced up again, her eyes no longer looked dark. In the bright daylight they were like molten gold. She sniffed slightly in a pretense of hurt, and said, “You do not wish to hold my hand?” Then the eyes darkened to dull brown again. “You used to hold his hand.”

  His. The emphasis made certain it could only be Harry she meant, even though her governess had said she believed the child had forgotten her half-brother. She had been only three when Harry went Underhill and at that time he was almost a man and he and Denoriel no longer held hands. Could what she said refer to tales Harry had told her about his own childhood? How could she remember anything like that?

  She was staring up at him … challenging? “I am one of those that cold iron touches only lightly,” Denoriel said, wondering if he were mad to say so much to a girl-child of eight years. But surely the remark would be meaningless to anyone to whom she repeated it. “So, if you will do me the honor of permitting it, I will gladly hold your hand.”

  He held out his own and she grasped it and squeezed it, pulling on it so that Denoriel bent closer to her. But it was not affection she wanted.

  “Where is my Da?” she hissed.

  Denoriel blinked, swallowed. Elizabeth had always called Henry Fitzroy her Da. It had been explained to her more than once that he was not her father but her half-brother. Her father was King Henry VIII. Even at two she had had the ability to look down her nose at adults far taller than she was in a kind of exasperated contempt. “Of course,” she had said all those years ago. “King Henry VIII is my father, but he” —pointing at Harry— “he’s my Da.”

  Denoriel swallowed again, snapped back to the present by an impatient tug on his hand and the repeated, intense, if low-voiced “Where is my Da?”

  “Far away,” Denoriel said, keeping his voice so soft it would not carry even on a vagrant wind to those behind. “You know that. You know he was sent away after your father married Queen Jane and there was a hope of healthy male issue.”

  “Sent away.” Elizabeth’s tone was so flat that Denoriel squeezed the hand he held comfortingly.

  “It was not cruelty on the king’s part,” he assured her. “To travel to strange places was always what Harry wanted. When he was a little boy he used to beg me to take him with me on my voyages. He wanted to be a merchant so he could travel.”

  She turned her head away and bit her lips. “He is dead,” she whispered. “Why do you lie to me? I hate lies.”

  “Child,” Denoriel murmured. “I do not lie. He is not dead. I swear it. But he is very far away.”

  “Then why does he not write to me? Why cannot I write to him?”

  “That would be dangerous, Lady Elizabeth, and you know it. If your letter fell into the wrong hands it could be made to sound as if you preferred Richmond to Prince Edward, as if you might be conspiring to commit treason. Harry is over twenty now, a fine man. Your brother Edward is hardly more than a babe, still subject to many threats to his health. For you to urge Harry to return to England …”

  “But if I just asked about his health, told him about my lessons and that I still remembered him and loved him. What could be wrong in that?”

  Denoriel bit his lips. The wrong might be in wakening in Harry a longing for the mortal world to which he could never return. And yet Harry loved Underhill, loved Mwynwen; the one thing that made him discontented in Underhill was his concern for Elizabeth. Why should he not receive a letter from her?

  “Let me think,” Denoriel muttered.

  It would not be a rapid correspondence. He could say it would take two to three months for the letter to go to Harry and the same time for his reply to return. There could not be much danger to Elizabeth in writing two letters a year.

  “There is the problem of how to send such a letter,” he continued. “You know your governess has been forbidden to allow you to write—”

  “She will not know,” Elizabeth interrupted sharply. “I write all the time, lessons, letters, copies of sermons and hymns and poems. Unless I ask her to look at my work, she allows me to practice in privacy.”

  “Excellent, only that was not what I meant. The letter cannot be sent as yours usually are, by the king’s messengers and—”

  “I may be a little girl but I am not an idiot,” Elizabeth interrupted again. “If I knew how to send a letter or where to send it, do you think I would not have done so?”

  Denoriel had to laugh. This was no sweet child who first desired to be good and obedient. This was a young devil who first desired to have her own way. She was looking up at him again, and her eyes were lion-yellow, almost glowing from within.

  “I suppose you would have. That you had been forbidden would
not have troubled you, would it? But, Lady Elizabeth, the prohibition was for your own protection, not a whim of your governess.”

  There was a silence in which her face froze into a pale mask. Denoriel felt a pang of remorse when he saw how stricken she was. She believed, alas, that the only danger that could threaten her came from her own father, and that King Henry should not trust her was almost more than she could bear. Still, Denoriel did not dare explain that there were others who wished her ill.

  Finally she said, “Then why are we talking about this?”

  Perhaps it was unwise to reawaken Harry’s strong feelings for Elizabeth … no, that was silly; Harry felt just as strongly about the child as he had when he was with her. More important, Denoriel was reasonably certain there could be no earthly repercussions, since her letter would come directly to him. There was no chance anyone else would see it and he ached for the child’s loneliness and longing.

  “We are talking about this because I know where your ‘Da’ is,” he said, “and I can send him a letter from you.”

  The eyes raised to his were wide and bright with hope. “And will you?” she breathed.

  “Of course.” Denoriel chuckled. “I am not an idiot either. Would I have said I knew where he was if I did not intend to serve as your messenger? But it will not be quick, my lady. Richmond really is far away and my trading ships do not sail direct from here to there as the king’s ships do on his command. It will be some months before Richmond receives your letter, and more months before his reply can come back to you.”

  “And you hope I will forget.” A slow smile curved her thin but well-shaped mouth. “I never forget anything.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes, and what he saw there brought the fervent ring of truth into his answer. “No, my lady, I do not believe that you will forget. I do not believe that you will ever forget anything that you have willed yourself to remember.”

  She held his eyes with that strange, too-wise gaze. “Good,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  “Two hearts!” Rhoslyn exclaimed, taking a step backward and crying, “Avaunt!” coupled with a gesture designed to break illusion.

  However the being standing on her step remained Pasgen, a Pasgen with a very irritated expression, who snarled at her, “I have not got two hearts! I have a finding token, and if those idiot constructs of yours will not try to tear me apart, I will show it to you.”

  Knowing that her “girls” would protect her against any attempt to harm her no matter what she said, Rhoslyn barely hesitated before she ordered, “Watch only,” as Pasgen reached into the front of his doublet and removed a small, square, tortoise-shell box.

  “Tell one of your girls to take it and open it, but not touch what is inside.”

  “Elyn.” Rhoslyn gestured and the girl with the yellow ribbon around her neck stepped forward and took the box.

  “It is this that is beating like his heart,” the construct said, turning her enormous eyes up to her mistress’s face. “He does not have two hearts now. Should we let him in?”

  Rhoslyn laughed weakly. “Yes. Let’s all go in. Sorry, Pasgen.”

  He made an irritated growl and then said, “No, the girls were right, and the more alert they are now the better. Vidal is up and around again.”

  “Vidal!” Consternation and disappointment surged within her, and since this was Pasgen, after all, she did not mind that it showed on her face. “But I thought we were rid of him. And the court has been … almost a pleasure to attend since you have ruled it.” Then, belatedly, she realized that the shock must have been even greater for her brother. “Oh, Pasgen, I am so sorry. You must be disappointed too.”

  “On the contrary, I would be delighted … except for what Elyn holds.” He looked more angry than afraid, but he was her twin; how could she not be aware that with Pasgen, anger was often a mask for fear? “I know Vidal is in Caer Mordwyn because an imp summoned me to ‘attend’ Vidal—and it came to my own domain, to my own withdrawing chamber.”

  Rhoslyn just stared at him, eyes wide. “How?” she whispered. “How did he find your domain?”

  “With what Elyn holds.” He shook his head like an angry stallion. “The accursed creature had swallowed it and just followed the beat of my heart. No more than elvensteeds or air spirits do the imps need Gates.”

  Before she spoke again, Rhoslyn gestured and the girl with the violet ribbon went through the door and stood waiting. Elyn followed, still carefully holding the tortoise-shell box in her spider-leg fingers. Roslyn crossed the huge hall, larger inside than it would seem possible from the external appearance of the castle.

  In the middle of the hall was a raised central hearth on which a bright fire leapt and crackled—smokeless, of course; this was no mortal hall to be plagued by smoking fires. On the right, a magnificent staircase rose to an upper story; the balustrade of carved battle maidens, outstretched spears and arms making a banister. On the left a pair of doors stood open. Three others, closed, broke the gray stone wall. Between the doors hung marvelous tapestries, showing scenes of the wild hunt and embattled knights. At each door were suits of armor which looked like nothing more than inanimate decorations.

  Pasgen, however, had no doubt that a word or gesture from Rhoslyn or any sign of danger would animate them. And that the battle maidens would also come to life and give a good account of themselves. Rhoslyn made for the open doors and Pasgen followed her into another unexpectedly large chamber. Tall arched windows admitted the silvery twilight of Underhill and between them a large stone hearth held another leaping fire.

  To each side of the fireplace were high, carved chairs, cushioned in embroidered velvet. Two on each side of the hearth angled toward each other with a small but equally elaborately carved table between them. Pasgen could feel his nose wrinkle. They were so ornate that he could not help himself, and the footstools in front of them were all carved too. There was hardly a straight line or simple, unadorned curve in the room, except the large polished wood table in the center. Given free rein to indulge her taste for frills and frippery, Rhoslyn had let no decorative opportunity go unexplored. Unfortunately.

  He sighed softly, his eyes caught by more tapestries, these with more homely scenes—of men and women seated for a banquet, others engaged in an elaborate dance, and a group listening to a handsome mortal playing a lute and singing. He looked away, only to note still more tapestries on the far wall with a row of elaborately carved chairs in front of them. The chairs for the table, of course. Pasgen sighed again.

  Rhoslyn broke into his attempt to find a restful place for his eyes, urging him toward the tall, cushioned chairs. The fire lit the area with a warm, golden glow. Each took a chair angled so that conversation would be easy. Crinlys, the girl with the violet ribbon, went to stand beside Pasgen’s chair. Elyn stood by Rhoslyn’s.

  “What will you do now that Vidal knows where your domain is?” Rhoslyn asked, anxiously. “Will you destroy it and begin anew? I will help. I will make whatever you desire—”

  Pasgen smiled slightly; he knew how proud Rhoslyn was of her own domain, and he would not hurt her feelings by telling her what he thought of her creations. “Thank you, sister, but it will not be necessary. Vidal knows no more now than he knew when he sent the imp abroad. I retrieved the token and destroyed the imp. There was no tracking spell—I made sure of that.”

  “No tracking spell,” Rhoslyn repeated slowly. “That … that seems very careless.” She hesitated, then said again, “Very careless. Even more careless than Vidal used to be.”

  “I think so too.”

  Rhoslyn’s eyes lit and the set of her mouth hardened. “Then drive him out … destroy him. Rule the Unseleighe as you were plainly meant to do. I will stand by you. My girls … I can make more, and more of your guards also to fight for us.” And, as Pasgen shook his head, she cried, half in disappointment, “Why not? Surely you are not afraid of him?”

  “Not at all,” Pasgen assured her, smiling. “I think I
am stronger now than Vidal was at his best, and I suspect he is far from his best now. Very simply, my dear Rhoslyn, I do not wish to rule an Unseleighe Court.” A delicate shudder passed through him and he was no longer smiling. “Horrible beasts! Even the dark Sidhe are little more than beasts. They cannot let an hour pass without conspiring to overthrow whoever has charge over them—and if they cannot overthrow him, they spend their time in making his rule as difficult as possible. I cannot think of anything I desire more than to be free of the burden of ruling them.”

  “I see.” Roslyn shook her head. “I thought you took some pleasure in bringing the court to order, in directing the depredations of the ogres and bane-sidhe.” She sighed, and looked at him with undisguised admiration. “It was so clever to use them to clean out Beelzebub’s domain and give it as a feasting hall to the dark Sidhe.”

  The faint smile returned to Pasgen’s lips. “I did enjoy that, but I was not exactly overjoyed that the High King held me responsible for controlling their excursions into the mortal world. It is like herding cats! No, worse, for at least cats do not take a malicious pleasure in doing whatever will cause the most chaos in order to disgrace the herder! Let Vidal have his throne back. Let him be the one Oberon calls to answer for a whole herd of sheep slaughtered, or goblins playing tricks on miners, or boggles waylaying too many travelers.”

  Rhoslyn’s brow wrinkled. “But Vidal will be even worse at controlling them than you are, especially if he is so much weaker now. No one can bind them completely.”

  “Actually Vidal will not be worse at controlling them,” he felt himself forced to admit. “All I did was destroy the ones who disobeyed me and the others cared very little for that. They have no imaginations, and do not connect the disappearance of those who transgressed with what they themselves might do in the future. Vidal makes them tear each other apart right in the court and issues orders in the lulls in the screaming. That generally makes an impression, at least on those with enough mind to remember for more than a few minutes.”