Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  Pasgen nodded judiciously, sighed, then said, “A seeking out of one man’s future takes time and effort, but I have been watching the general progress of affairs in England. You are not my only client, Sir Thomas, but most of the others are merchants, bankers, and suchlike. They only need to know the state of the kingdom to guide their businesses. They are of too little importance to impose their images on events. However, perhaps if you tell me exactly what has been happening in the court, I will be able to apply what I know in general to you.”

  Wriothesley had gone a little pale. “Ah, yes, that would give me a direction at least,” he stammered. “Well, the king did not seem very angry about the confiscations, which was just as you implied—”

  He stopped speaking abruptly as the door opened and the servant reentered carrying a tray upon which were two precious glass goblets held in twisted silver frames. At Pasgen’s nod, the servant poured a rich, ruby-red wine into each glass. He offered a glass to Pasgen, who gestured toward Wriothesley. Sir Thomas then took his choice of the two glasses and Pasgen quietly accepted the other. A last gesture sent the servant from the room, shutting the door behind him, but Sir Thomas said nothing, seeming to be fascinated by the exquisite goblets.

  “Go on, Sir Thomas,” Pasgen urged.

  “Yes. Oh, yes. The king was not angry, but he did remark that Cromwell took more for granted than he should and mentioned his persuasions toward a German alliance, which had brought no advantage at all at the cost of an unendurable wife. I remembered then what you said about the chance that Cromwell had to save himself and I went to him on the first of June, and again on the fifth and urged him to speak to Queen Anne, to get her agreement to a divorce and take that information to the king.”

  Pasgen cocked his head. “And did he take your advice?”

  Wriothesley shook his head slightly. “No. All he said was that he could not think what to offer her or how to go about it.”

  “So I supposed it would be.” Pasgen sighed theatrically. “The glass showed no escape, but my common sense told me there was a way out.”

  “And for me, Master Otstargi? What does common sense suggest for me?” Common sense, occult vision, Wriothesley would take any straw of hope, it seemed.

  Pasgen smiled. His purpose had been accomplished. Sir Thomas Wriothesley was his creature again and would grow more dependent when accusations were leveled against him—as Pasgen would see that they were. Yes, Wriothesley would do as he was bid, and through his hands would flow Elizabeth’s doom. It would be easy to arrange. Sooner or later the secretary of the king was likely to visit the king’s daughter. It would be normal for Sir Thomas to bring a gift to Lady Elizabeth—a book, perhaps, in an elaborate binding with inset semiprecious stones. Something no young woman could resist touching, handling.

  “Common sense suggests that you take the advice you gave to Cromwell. While others bend their efforts to exposing and destroying Cromwell, do you visit and carefully sound out Queen Anne.” This, of course, was so logical that it was doubtful anyone would think of it. “Learn what will satisfy her, remembering that the king will not be willing for her to return to her brother where she might be free to say too much or make another marriage.”

  Wriothesley nodded eagerly. “I am very willing to take your advice, but I am not sure that Queen Anne will speak openly to me.”

  “If you need a woman’s touch, let me recommend to you a friend of the Lady Mary, a Mistress Rosamund Scot.” If Rhoslyn could not persuade the woman with sense, she could do so by magic, and it would scarcely violate the High King’s admonitions. “I am sure, being partial to the Catholic way, that Mistress Scot will present your arguments convincingly.”

  Although Wriothesley did have a meeting with Mistress Scot and she, through a note from Lady Mary, gained an audience and spoke to Queen Anne, she hardly needed to have bothered. Raised in the strict and penurious court of her brother of Cleves, Anne had blossomed—at least in matters of dress and enjoyment of luxury—at the lavish court of Henry VIII. Rhoslyn found that Aleneil, as Lady Alana, a consummate authority on dress, was before her and already had Anne’s close confidence. And what the Lady Alana had advised was precisely what Pasgen wanted.

  Lady Alana had laid a good groundwork, confiding to Anne the king’s interest in Catherine Howard. Restraining her shudders, Anne said, in her broken English, what amounted to “better she than I.” But Lady Alana had passed a warning on along with the information—a warning that Anne had not needed, as it turned out, for the moment she heard about the king’s new paramour, her hands had flown to her neck in an unconscious gesture of fear. The fear, of course, that it would be her neck that would next feel the edge of a blade.

  Thus, when the duke of Norfolk presented King Henry’s case to her, Anne hardly resisted at all; indeed, she did little more than to chaffer for the best possible bargain she could extract from the king. She was no fool, and understood when Cromwell fell that whatever political use she had had was over. As soon as Anne was certain that it was a divorce Henry wanted, not her head—and the king assured her of that himself—she became very cooperative.

  She made no defense against Cromwell’s assertion—in a paper written from his prison—that she had a previous contract to marry. On those grounds, the lords and commons of parliament addressed the king on the subject of his marriage on 6 July. Henry agreed to issue a commission to convocation to try the matter. On 9 July the convocation pronounced the marriage invalid, on the grounds of a possible precontract and on a lack of inward consent for the bridegroom.

  Pasgen was hardly surprised. What the king wanted these days, the king got. And the Lady Anne was not doing badly out of the situation, either. She was shrewd, that German, from a long line of shrewd bargainers, and Pasgen had the odd feeling that of the two of them, it was Anne who would be the happiest with what she got.

  Rhoslyn reported to Pasgen that though Anne went meekly off to Richmond, feigning distress over her husband’s repudiation, among her own household she was radiant with smiles. A dutiful sister, she had obeyed her brother and would have endured the attentions of the gross and ageing monarch to whom she had been married. However, she was delighted with the bargain she had been offered. She would have a house and lands, four thousand pounds a year to spend as she pleased, and precedence at court over every lady except the wife and daughters of the king. And she did not have to return to her brother’s Spartan and cheese-paring court. She had enough and more than enough to be supported in all of the luxury and pleasure that she had become accustomed to.

  Henry was equally delighted with his former wife’s cheerful complaisance, Rhoslyn told Pasgen, who was not terribly interested, but listened because he felt he had to be aware of what was going on in Henry’s court. Anne’s quick acceptance of the divorce, her quiet removal to a comfortable retirement, permitted Henry to marry Catherine Howard—eighteen to his forty-nine—on 28 July 1540, the same day that Cromwell was executed.

  Pasgen made a disgusted noise and Rhoslyn nodded. It was not the first time Henry had celebrated someone’s death with a new wedding. Then she giggled and commented that although Henry seemed to be in seventh heaven with his “rose without a thorn” the thorns would be pricking him soon enough. The girl was as light-minded as an air spirit, Rhoslyn said, and as promiscuous as a nymph. Rhoslyn had apparently taken no thought to what that might mean later.

  At that comment, Pasgen sat up straighter, for the first thing that sprang into his mind was the fate of Anne Boleyn. If Catherine Howard was that promiscuous—if charges of adultery were real this time …

  “Keep Mary away from her,” he said. “We don’t want Lady Mary smeared with Catherine’s dirt when Henry is made aware of it, which I will make sure will not take long. Those favorable to the Reform religion will want to be rid of a wife who favors the Catholic rite.”

  “Simple enough.” Rhoslyn shrugged. “Mary is already unhappy. She is hardly pleased at having a stepmother six years younger than
she. Rosamund Scot will only need to mention this and that impertinence on Catherine’s part—and there will be plenty of them because the girl is as heedless as a baby bird. Mary has great dignity and will withdraw herself from the court before long.”

  Pasgen nodded his approval. “And is there any way that you can encourage Catherine to favor Elizabeth?”

  Rhoslyn pursed her lips and looked past her brother’s shoulder at a handsome tapestry on the wall. “I am not as certain of that, as I am of keeping Mary clear, but I think … hmmm. Yes, perhaps. I can warn Mary that her father will be displeased if she is on bad terms with Catherine and suggest that she show herself willing to be friends. Then I can approach Elizabeth’s governess, who is a good-natured fool, and ask whether Elizabeth would be willing to try to reconcile Queen Catherine and Lady Mary.

  “Didn’t you tell me that Elizabeth can see past your illusions?” he asked, sharply, remembering his own dangerous encounter with the child. “Didn’t she ask why you had eyes like a cat and long pointed ears?”

  “That was years ago. Mostly children grow out of that kind of awareness.” Rhoslyn frowned a little. “But to be absolutely sure, I won’t speak to Elizabeth herself. I’ll bring Lady Mary’s gift and note to Mistress Champernowne.”

  Pasgen nodded approval. “That should work very well. I’ve heard that Elizabeth has a real craving to go to court. Champernowne will jump on Mary’s note and gift as an excuse to present Elizabeth, and Elizabeth is Catherine’s cousin of some kind, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Unlike Pasgen, Rhoslyn was interested in mortals and their relationships, and could chatter about them until he was ready to fall asleep with boredom. “Anne Boleyn’s mother was a Howard, and so was Catherine’s father. One was sister, the other brother to the duke of Norfolk; thus they are both Norfolk’s nieces.” She giggled again. “I doubt he will be able to squirm out of it this time when Catherine is exposed.”

  “Not until Elizabeth is established as Catherine’s favorite,” Pasgen warned. “We have come too far this time. There may be no better opportunity.”

  Chapter 9

  “I don’t like it,” Denoriel said to Aleneil, who was curled up in a corner of his settle.

  She was looking out of the huge window into a garden bordered by a lawn that ended in a tangled forest. She knew there was no garden and certainly no lawn, that likely beyond the window was one of the walls of the palace of Llachar Lle, but she was fascinated by the illusion, which was just a trifle different each time she saw it. She was not certain whether Denoriel simply changed the illusion almost every day or whether he had discovered a way to make the illusion alter itself. His studies with Treowth and Gilfaethwy were truly bearing fruit.

  “Something smells of Unseleighe,” Denoriel said when his sister did not respond to his first remark.

  Aleneil shifted her gaze from the illusion to her brother. “I know you cannot keep the air spirit near Elizabeth when she is at court, but she has pretty well proven she has Sight. Has she complained about an Unseleighe intrusion? Has Blanche? And you get reports from Dunstan and Ladbroke and both tell you the child is happy. Has anything suspicious or dangerous happened?”

  “No,” Denoriel admitted. “But I feel … Am I to dismiss what I feel?”

  “Usually I would say no. In this case …” Aleneil shook her head. “Denoriel, you are jealous of her joy in company other than yours.”

  “No!” Denoriel protested. “She is only eight years old. You talk as if we were lovers.”

  Aleneil sighed. “I don’t mean you are jealous of her in that way. She may be but a child, but in many, many ways she has the intellect of an adult, and you do crave her company and resent being deprived of it.”

  “That is true.” Denoriel also sighed but then grinned. “I really do miss being thrown into a rage every other time we speak. It is so stimulating.” Then the grin faded into grimness and he shook his head. “Trust me, Aleneil—this is true danger that I sense. And there is something else, nothing to do with the Unseleighe. Norfolk is not as happy or confident about his niece’s success as he should be. He is uneasy, like a man waiting for a blow to fall, and I fear that somewhat is amiss in that direction.”

  His sister’s brows knit. “Are you sure? Is it not possible that the king’s mood is sufficient reason for his disquiet? Henry has grown more and more …” she shrugged ” … absolute. He hardly looks to his ministers for advice.”

  “True, but I am sure that Norfolk’s anxiety has to do with Catherine.” He frowned; he did not like the new queen, for she seemed to him as heedless as a flower sprite. “The girl is very shallow and very greedy, and I wonder how long she can be content with her lot.”

  Aleneil laughed. “Well, the king did not marry her for the power of her mind.”

  Denoriel laughed too, but uncertainly. “No. Anne Boleyn seems to have cured him of that.” He sighed. “There is not a thing on which I can put a finger, except the knowledge that Elizabeth is so much in the queen’s company puts me on edge. Why? Why would a light-headed and light-hearted young woman seek out the company of a child of eight?”

  “They are cousins, and there are mortals, particularly female mortals, who simply love children and take the greatest pleasure in their company,” his sister ventured.

  Denoriel snorted gently. “But I do not believe Catherine Howard is one of those. In fact, she has not petitioned the king to bring Edward to court, and I think she could win more of the king’s favor by coddling the heir. No, it sits like a lump in my breast that she wants Elizabeth for some purpose.”

  Aleneil just stared at him for a moment, but then she nodded her head slowly. “That has the ring of truth, but the purpose—ah—has no weight to it. It is as if she wanted the child to hold a skein of thread while she wound it.” Her brows knitted while she thought. “Do you not think it is out of pure boredom? You know that the king intended to go on progress to Dover as soon as the worst of the winter was over, but then he fell ill and the royal party was confined to Hampton Court.”

  “Yes, and from what Dunstan told me, Henry’s temper is so awful that anyone who could fled the court.” Denoriel sighed. “Perhaps you are right, love. Since company is so thin and it is by her word that Elizabeth goes or stays, it is indeed possible that Catherine has kept the child by her for amusement. Elizabeth is a right minx and can make her company laugh, and it is true enough that when Henry is in a temper, laughter is hard to come by.”

  But even as he said the words, he knew they were nothing but a thin illusion over the truth—a truth he could not yet see.

  The conversation between Denoriel and Aleneil took place in February, and still the king and queen lingered at Hampton Court. However, in March Elizabeth had returned safely enough to Hunsdon Palace some weeks before Henry and his queen were to begin an extended tour through his kingdom. At last, Denoriel was able to see Elizabeth and speak with her—and perhaps, probe at the truth for himself.

  “And has being virtually a prisoner at Hampton Court for months finally cured you of your craving for the court and courtiers?” Denoriel asked as he and Elizabeth, warmly wrapped in heavy cloaks, walked in the formal garden, still mostly leafless in early March of 1541.

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth said. “My father was ill and we had to be quiet—no leaping about and singing loudly, so there were no masques or plays or even much music—but we were merry enough in the queen’s chambers. One of the king’s gentlemen, Thomas Culpepper, was often with us and he knew all sorts of games, with cards and with marked bones. How we all laughed when he lost most of the forfeits.”

  “Forfeits?” Denoriel said sharply. “You were gambling?”

  Elizabeth looked at him sidelong, her thin, sensitive lips drawn back as if she were either displeased … or hiding laughter. “Only for comfits, or occasionally kisses.”

  A slight chill ran up Denoriel’s back. “And who was winning these kisses?” he asked.

  “Mostly me,” Elizabeth said, g
iggling.

  The cold sensation along Denoriel’s spine increased. Elizabeth was clever and precocious, but whatever the game, what were the chances that an eight-year-old would often win against two adults? Unless they wanted her to win, or unless their minds were so busy with other matters that they played very badly indeed.

  Unaware of his anxiety, Elizabeth continued blithely, “Culpepper said he had no money and the queen said she was afraid to be accused of corrupting the king’s daughter if she gave me too many sweets. But I like being kissed. The queen gives gentle, tickley kisses, and Master Culpepper kneels down and formally kisses my hand—like an ambassador.”

  At least the man had sense enough not to taste the lips of the king’s daughter, Denoriel thought, feeling somewhat better. He had swallowed a violent flash of rage at the notion that the queen might be trying to fix Elizabeth’s affection on her favorite. Apparently that was not true. Even Catherine was not fool enough to believe her influence with the king would be enough to give Culpepper a royal wife. But Denoriel was still very uneasy. Something unhealthy had been going on. Were the queen and a gentleman alone with no better chaperone than an eight-year-old child?

  And just who thought that an eight-year-old was a sufficient chaperone?

  “Did no one else join the play?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, most times. Lady Rochefort and an old friend of the queen’s, Francis Dereham. Lady Rochefort was mostly the one who walked with me to my apartment when the queen decided it was time for me to go to bed, but she never seemed to be much interested in the games, except the few times they played for money, and then I was sent away earlier.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Elizabeth said, “What, no lecture on the sins and dangers of gambling? I do enjoy play, you know.”

  Denoriel laughed to cover his unease. “Not from me. Especially not if you win. The important thing to remember when gambling is to stop at once when you begin to lose. Who has been lecturing you about gambling?”