Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  Stafford waited, barely restraining himself from pacing and wringing his hands. He realized that this was the best opportunity he would ever have to be rid of Lady Elizabeth and have a chance to supplant her in the prince’s affection. Beside that, Stafford had been annoyed by the bare-faced lie, told so innocently that he had begun to doubt his own eyes, that it had been her maid and not a man kneeling before her in the maze. The maid’s gown was dull gray, the man’s doublet a vibrant golden brown—the sun had not dazzled his eyes.

  He was not held in suspense very long. In a very little time, Jane Dormer returned with the page. “I am very sorry, Lord Stafford,” she said coldly, “but my lady does not receive gentlemen in the middle of the night.”

  Stafford bowed. “Then two words with you in private, Mistress Dormer. My news is not … not such as should be spread abroad.”

  For a moment she stared at him, seemingly unmoved, but then she nodded, stepped out of the door, and walked along the road just far enough that the guard could not hear low voices, although he could still see them.

  “Well? What is this news?”

  “I do not know what to do, Mistress Dormer. What I saw cannot be allowed to continue and yet … yet I dare not …”

  “Dare not what?”

  “Speak of it.”

  “Are you mad?” Jane said, irritably. “If you dare not speak, what are you doing here requesting an audience with my lady?”

  He primed up his face. “She is the only one I could think of to entrust with this horror. Her long affection for Lady Elizabeth assures me she would do her best for her sister—”

  Jane’s eyes widened.“Lady Elizabeth! Out with it. What horror?”

  He tried to make himself look indignant rather than excited. “It is so warm that I was dozing by the open window of my chamber when I heard a man call out ‘Elizabeth.’ I came awake, thinking I was dreaming, but then I saw Lady Elizabeth come out of the building into the little garden at the front and run to the man. She clipped him and kissed him and he her—”

  “Clipped and kissed.” It was the lady’s turn to look prim. “But Lady Elizabeth is only a child, not yet eleven years old.”

  “I could hardly believe it myself,” he replied, drawing himself up to look as tall as he could, “but when I left my room to come here they were still locked in each others’ arms, and I minded several times that I thought I had seen her riding with a man, but when I rode closer she was alone. I did not know what to do. If Lady Mary comes to the nursery and sees them in the garden, surely her authority would banish this man and she could explain to Lady Elizabeth that what she was doing is wrong.”

  “Wait here,” Jane said, and hurried back to the building, nearly running.

  Stafford paced the road back and forth, wondering if Elizabeth was still in the garden with her lover. How long would they dare stay together? So young as she was, surely she could not be ruled by passion. How could she be such a fool? But her mother had been fool enough to betray a king because of her passions.

  Or was it worse than that? Was it conspiracy? But then, why the embraces? Unless the man he saw was one she had known long and thought of as a father? And in that case, who could the traitor be? For traitor he must be, if he could not come to Lady Elizabeth openly by day, and with King Henry’s favor.

  Stafford bit his lip. There was no one else that Edward favored, except his whipping boy, Fitzpatrick, but Barnaby was no match for the prince’s scholarship. Stafford’s lips twitched. He was no match for Edward’s ability either, but in years more of lessons, however unwillingly, he had learned more than the prince yet knew.

  If he were clever, when Elizabeth was gone, he could get Edward to turn to him. He began to plan his campaign, and so soothing did he find those plans that he was surprised to hear Jane Dormer’s voice, and when he turned to her to see Lady Mary, two more of her women, and two grooms of her chamber wearing swords.

  He was appalled at the size of the party, but all he could do was to beg Lady Mary for quiet. He pointed out that any unusual noise would undoubtedly send Elizabeth’s lover—

  At which point Mary angrily reminded him that Elizabeth was only eleven years old, and could not have a lover. Stafford bit his lip, knowing there were houses of pleasure that offered children even younger to those who craved such amusement.

  “I do not mean that any physical intimacy—aside from the kisses—is involved, only that there is a man who is perhaps trying to win Lady Elizabeth’s love so that she will favor him strongly in the future when her father is looking for a husband for her. She is now so far down in the line of succession that the king might—”

  Stafford did not realize that he had hit a sore spot in Mary. She had long craved to be married, to have a husband and children of her own, but every negotiation for her marriage had fallen through. That Elizabeth should be courted, even by an unsuitable person, was an outrage.

  “That is not to be thought of!” Mary exclaimed. “If she is meeting a man, she should be confined in a convent where she can be properly controlled.”

  Stafford did not remind Mary that the king had long since closed all the convents in England. He merely said “If she or her … ah … visitor hear us … We are a rather large party and the garden is very small and very quiet. He will disappear out into the Wilderness and … and I am also afraid that Lady Elizabeth will not admit to her fault.”

  “I do not believe my sister would lie.”

  Stafford did not reply to that, and after a significant silence, Mary continued, “And how could anyone get to the Wilderness? There is a guard at the gate, is there not.”

  “Whoever it is got in,” Stafford said, dryly. “Guards can be bribed. And it would be greatly to the guard’s advantage if the person escaped without being caught.”

  They were now approaching the back of the nursery lodgings, and Stafford added desperately, “My lady, if you wish to warn Lady Elizabeth, it would still be best if the others of your party would remain inside the building. You could step out of the door and then do what you think best about calling your ladies and grooms.”

  Mary looked away, wringing her hands and biting her lip. Elizabeth. Always a thorn in her side. Winning Edward’s affection, drawing him away from the true faith so that his soul would be lost and the whole realm would be corrupted. A part of her wanted to prove the Boleyn bitch’s daughter a loose wanton like her mother. Another part remembered how Elizabeth used to coo at her as an infant, run to greet her with outstretched arms as a babe and wanted to protect the little sister. But she realized that Stafford’s advice was sensible; it could be turned either way.

  She bade her party remain in the corridor while she herself stepped outside. Stafford touched her arm and pointed to one of the benches. The moon was just overhead and only one corner of the bench was in deep shadow. A dappled silvery light showed the upright figure of a girl near the middle of the bench. Elizabeth.

  Hands, large, square hands, certainly a man’s hands, reached from the shadowed side of the bench, took Elizabeth’s hands, lifted them, presumably to kiss. One hand disappeared, appeared again to press something into the girl’s hands. Then the shadow within a shadow stood and stepped backward into the moonlight.

  “FitzRoy!” Mary cried, in involuntary recognition.

  Chapter 20

  Elizabeth shot to her feet and interposed her body in front of Harry’s as Mary hurried from the door toward her. She knew she could not hide all of him, but she assumed that he and Denno had a plan for escaping if they were caught. Her Da would, she was sure, have disappeared from sight as soon as he heard the voice.

  “Lady Mary,” she cried. “Oh, how you surprised me! Did you find it impossible to sleep in this heat as I did? I could not breathe and I begged Blanche to let me sit in the garden before I went to bed.”

  “I saw … I saw … Fitzroy! But he is dead, dead.” Mary shuddered. “Who was the man I saw kissing your hands?”

  “Kissing my hands?” Eli
zabeth repeated, shaking, despite her outward bravado. “Sister … Lady Mary … There was no man. Who is FitzRoy?”

  The last question was perfectly honest. At first Elizabeth did not remember Harry’s surname. She had always known him as her Da—or the duke of Richmond—or Harry. Her servants had called him Your Grace or Richmond; Denno had called him Harry.

  Mary made an infuriated noise and cried, “Liar. I saw his hands. A man’s hands.” Her voice was high, near hysterical. “Guard! Guard!”

  Her summons did not betray them. From the shadow cast by the wall, Denoriel had been watching the garden and both exits from the nursery buildings. He had seen Mary and Stafford as movement within the doorway even before they stepped out into the garden. Praying Harry would remember his amulet and disappear, as he was supposed to, Denoriel rushed to the guard at the gate. Quickly, Denoriel turned him around, and whispered to him—as he broke the spell he had laid on him— “See, Lady Elizabeth is in the garden where she has been with her maid for this last half hour.” The guard’s eyes cleared.

  Denoriel stepped away, leaving the guard staring at Lady Elizabeth and Lady Mary, who was just calling out, “Guard! Guard!”

  The guardsman rattled the gate behind him to make sure it was closed and hurried forward, bowing. “Yes, m’lady?”

  “Who did you let in through that gate?”

  The man stared at her, wide-eyed and suddenly fearful. “No one, m’lady. Didn’t let in no one. All the young gentlemen were in before I come on duty.” He looked around the garden. “And there’s no one here, except Lady Elizabeth. Her ladyship didn’t come through the gate, she came out of the building, and she’s been out in the garden for maybe half an hour. Her maid’s here too, though I don’t see her.”

  “Here I am,” Blanche said, coming forward from the far side of the small tree near the bench.

  Mary ignored her, staring at the guard. “How much did he pay you to let him in?”

  “My lady!” The guard went down on his knees. “On my soul, no one gave me nothing and no one passed through that gate since I came on duty. M’lady, your gentlemen are just behind you. This isn’t a big place. Ask them to search it. You saw that no one went out, so if there was someone here, he must needs still be here. But I swear there’s no one here but us you can see.”

  Lady Mary’s entourage had appeared as soon as she began to cry for the guard. Jane Dormer had been right in the doorway. She had been looking at the bench, but had not been able to see it clearly. Then Mary had cried “FitzRoy” and Jane had looked at her mistress. What she saw next was Elizabeth jump from the bench and turn to face Mary.

  When Mary called for the guard, Jane had looked in that direction. She knew that no one had run across the moonlit garden from where Mary stood to the gate; she knew also that no one had gone out of the gate, and that the guard had been standing upright, seemingly awake and alert.

  “My lady,” Jane said, coming forward and laying a hand on Mary’s arm; she spoke very softly, a murmur no one but her lady could hear. “If you accuse the guard of taking bribes, it could be his death, and unless you are very, very sure, you will never forgive yourself.”

  Sure? How could she be sure when she had seen a dead man, a dead man who disappeared before her eyes. No, that was … must be … a failure of her eyesight. It was true she did not see clearly at a distance. Surely the resemblance to FitzRoy was an accident. But there had been a man.

  “But I saw …” Mary hesitated, uncertain of just what to say. The hands, she had seen a man’s hands take Elizabeth’s. “I saw a man’s hands—”

  “Perhaps mine, sister?” Elizabeth asked eagerly. “I was holding my cross; it soothes my heart to do so.”

  Elizabeth held out her hands, long-fingered, thin hands, startlingly white in the moonlight against the black of her gown. From the fingers of one hand a heavy black iron cross dangled from a black iron chain. One could hardly see the cross and chain until Elizabeth swung the cross, caught it in her other hand, released it, swung it again.

  “Or perhaps mine?” Blanche said, holding out her hands, which were larger, square and darker colored. “I was sitting on the other end of the bench, Lady Mary. I thought I heard a noise and got up and walked around the tree.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from Mary’s two ladies, and Jane Dormer wondered aloud whether a brief sight of the black-dressed maid disappearing around the bole of the tree as Elizabeth jumped to her feet could have been what her lady had seen.

  By the time Jane spoke, Mary’s gentlemen had returned from their search. The garden was small. The moon was high and clear. Dutifully, the gentlemen had examined every shadow within the walled area, but it was easy to see that there was no one in the garden but the party standing near the bench.

  Even so they had searched carefully, hoping that they would find some page or groom—some boy on whom an eleven-year-old girl might fix her affections. All Mary’s ladies and gentlemen loved her. She was gentle and considerate and struggled to support them with limited means—but they all also knew she was a very unhappy lady, a lady who sorely needed a husband. It was not impossible that she had seen the maid moving from the bench to behind the tree and her own desires had made her see a man.

  “There is no one, my lady,” the elder of the two grooms said, bowing, shaking his head just a little. “And the gate is securely locked.”

  Mary turned and looked at Stafford.

  “There was a man,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I woke from a doze by my window and heard a man’s voice cry ‘Elizabeth.’ I saw Lady Elizabeth run to him and embrace him. Then I dressed and came to you. Perhaps he left before we came here.”

  “No!” the guard cried. “I swear that no one came into the garden while I was on duty, and I didn’t let no one out.”

  “Could not someone have hidden in the garden from before you came on duty?” Stafford asked. “It is true that I did not see anyone come in.”

  “Don’t know,” the guard admitted, relieved. “Didn’t look. Never been told to clear the garden.” He frowned. “But if someone hid in here, where is he now?”

  Mary swallowed hard. Witch. Anne Boleyn had been said to be a witch. How else could she have perverted and corrupted so wise and good a man as the king? Could not the daughter have inherited the power from her evil mother? Moreover, Mary had heard of the unnatural love her father’s bastard son had shown for the bitch Boleyn’s child. Had the witch’s daughter conjured up the ghost of the bastard who had loved her?

  “I didn’t. There was no man,” Elizabeth cried and burst into tears.

  Blanche moved to her at once, and took Elizabeth in her arms. Looking over her sobbing charge’s head, her face set like stone, the maid said, “Beg pardon, Lord Stafford, but could you have been dreaming about my lady running to and embracing a man? It is not her way, you know, to rush up to people and embrace them. She has been taught better manners than that. She knows what is proper; and you know she is no hoyden.”

  Stafford glanced like a hunted animal, from the sobbing girl, to Lady Mary, who looked frozen. Elizabeth would never forgive him, no matter what he said now. Mary might excuse what she might consider overzealousness. And how had the man disappeared? Where had he gone? Stafford wished he could believe the guard had been bribed and was lying, but he himself had seen that no one went out the gate after Mary had cried out … cried out as if she recognized the man. FitzRoy, she had called him.

  “I saw what I saw,” Stafford said, but he allowed a sense of doubt to creep into his voice.

  Blanche clung to her weeping charge. “Lord Stafford, you said you were dozing by the window. Is it possible that you heard me call out to Lady Elizabeth and that got wound up into your dream? The guard swears, and I do too, that there was no living man in this garden with us tonight. Lady Mary’s people have searched and found no one. The gate is locked. Could you have been dreaming?”

  “It did not feel like a dream. I got to my feet and got
dressed and they were still standing on the lawn—”

  “Myself and my lady,” Blanche insisted. “It is possible you saw that. I do not remember exactly what we did when we came out of the house. Perhaps we did stroll along the lawn for a while. I am taller and broader than Lady Elizabeth. From above …”

  By now Mary’s two ladies and gentlemen were sighing with relief and nodding agreement with Blanche’s explanation. This near attack on a child of eleven, an accusation of her meeting a man was a very ugly thing. To bring this accusation to the king would be a disaster; a worse disaster when there was no proof. All of them felt the truth of the guard’s statement. The gate was locked. The guard was already walking toward Lady Mary when they all came into the garden. No one had gone out of the gate. No one had been found in the garden. There had not been any man.

  Living man. Mary shivered and took Jane Dormer’s arm. Stafford had seen what she had seen, but he was a weak reed. And it was only him and her. The rest of her people had seen nothing. How could she convince them that a little girl of eleven had conjured up a dead man, not a wavering, misty ghost but a dead body solid enough to hug and kiss. Mary’s free hand went up to cover her mouth to suppress a retch.

  “Man or no man,” she said, turning on Blanche. “Take that child to her chamber and see that she does not again go walking in the middle of the night. This is no fit place for a child of eleven to be, near to midnight.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Blanch curtsied as well as she could without releasing her hold on Elizabeth and hurried her shuddering charge into the building and up into her rooms.

  “Am I never to be happy?” Elizabeth sobbed quietly as Blanche readied her for bed. “Is there some curse on me that I cannot be happy for more than a moment? It was so wonderful to be with Da. And then Stafford spoiled it all!”

  “Do not take a pet against him, my love,” Blanche warned, bringing Elizabeth a glass of wine. “Perhaps a sharp word or two about dreaming in the next day, but to hold a grudge too long might imply he was telling the truth.”