Ill Met by Moonlight

by Mercedes Lackey

  Denoriel’s brow wrinkled. “What this Bertano offered was thought to be tempting?”

  Aleneil pursed her lips. “Mary believes that the pope offered to accept everything Henry has done, the divorce, the dissolution of the monasteries … everything … so long as Henry would acknowledge the pope’s primacy.”

  Denoriel shook his head. “But that, although it was several times wrapped up in white linen, and perhaps Henry did not himself see it at first, was what the king really wanted from the beginning—to rule absolute in his own realm with no interference from the Church. Wasn’t it?”

  “I am not sure Mary ever understood that or could understand it.” Aleneil sighed at Mary’s thick-headedness.

  “Elizabeth could.” Denoriel laughed. “But how did you become familiar with this? I thought Lady Mary would have nothing to do with you.”

  Aleneil smiled. “From Rhoslyn.” She shook her head at Denoriel’s scowl. “I tell her nothing about Elizabeth and she does not ask. I think you are wrong about her. She is trying to change Mary’s mind about Elizabeth. When Mary asked if Elizabeth would turn back to Rome if Henry agreed to Bertano’s terms, Rhoslyn replied very cleverly that Elizabeth always bowed to the authority of the king, and would obey him in everything. And thus she has also covered Elizabeth’s acceptance of the reformed religion in Edward’s reign.”

  “Which brings us back to whether we should or should not warn Elizabeth that her father may soon die,” Denoriel pointed out.

  “She is so happy now,” Aleneil said in a small voice. “There have been so few times in her life when she could be happy. I cannot bear to take it away from her.”

  “But the shock …” Denoriel’s voice faltered. He, too, could not bear the thought of spoiling even a few days of this halcyon time.

  So they said nothing, and Elizabeth, usually so quick to perceive anxiety in her guardians, did not seem to notice. Later they both thought she had been deliberately blind, but the blindness had given her two more months of peace.

  It was not so peaceful for others. In December Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey and Harry Fitzroy’s childhood friend, was accused first of heresy and then, worse, of treason. Denoriel had lost touch with the young man whose faults of quick temper and intemperate pride had worsened as he grew.

  More shocking to Denoriel was that the duke of Norfolk, who had survived with no more than a brief period of eclipse the adultery of two nieces married to the king, was also seized, stripped of his staff of office and his garter, and thrown into the Tower. Judicious bribery bought Denoriel a secret visit with Norfolk, to whom he offered what help he could give, but the old man only laughed bitterly.

  “I have done this and that evil in my life,” he admitted without a sign of regret, “but I can truly rejoice in my absolute and unfailing loyalty to my master. And if it is his will to take my life without cause, in this I will be obedient, too. No, Lord Denno, there is nothing you can do for me—but I must say that I see I was mistaken about you. You, too, have never failed in friendship.”

  Denoriel left the Tower feeling both troubled, and strangely, honored.

  However, Norfolk did not lose his life. His son was found guilty of treason—on no evidence beyond rumor and hearsay and the fact that he had dared quarter his arms with those of Edward the Confessor—and was executed on January 21. The duke, however, confessed various crimes, although not treason, and threw himself on the king’s mercy.

  This time it seemed obedience would not save him. A bill of attainder was passed in Parliament and orders were given on January 27 for Norfolk’s execution on January 28 … only in the dark hours before dawn of the same day, it was the king who died.

  Chapter 30

  A month earlier, when the king was first so ill that his ministers despaired of his life, Wriothesley sat across the handsome table from the man he believed to be his tame magician. He wrung his hands.

  “What will become of this nation?” he moaned. Thin veils of smoke wafted in and out of the light coming from the lone mullioned window.

  Vidal was worried himself, because he was not at all sure he would be able to keep the conflict between Scotland and England alive, especially not if King Henry died. Cardinal Beaton had been murdered in May, and without his fanatical resolve to resist any rapprochement with the English, and without Henry’s equally fanatical resolve to subdue the Scots, Vidal was afraid that peace would be made. For the present, the hunt for Beaton’s killers and the violent resistance of the Calvinists (who had brought about Beaton’s death) against the Catholic government was causing sufficient trouble to keep the Unseleighe well satisfied. But that could not last forever.

  “Its government will change,” Vidal said impatiently; he needed to be alone to think out how to keep strife alive, if not against the Scots—why then, a civil war in England would do as well. He wanted to be rid of this importunate mortal so that he could lay other plans. “You, however, are fortunate in being where you can know what is happening and perhaps in some small measure direct it.”

  “It will be very difficult … and dangerous, too,” Wriothesley said, looking pale and drawn. “Paget and I have almost no support in the council. We tried—we even induced Denny to present our case because he is not of our persuasion but is far less extreme than Hertford—to have Bishop Gardiner restored to the Regency Council. The king would not hear of it.”

  Vidal curbed his impatience. “Cannot the principal secretary add a line to the will?”

  “God’s Grace, no!” Wriothesley exploded. “The whole council was present when the will was read. And Hertford, Paget, and Sir William Herbert were with the king when the fair copy was signed at the top and the bottom. It was witnessed by the officers of the household, sealed with the king’s signet, and handed to Hertford.” Wriothesley snorted. “Add a line indeed!”

  “Then I suggest you pray hard for the king’s recovery, which will give you more time to assemble supporters,” Vidal replied shortly, already weary of this fool who could not arrange matters properly.

  “Does your glass say nothing of this, of an event of such monumental importance?” Wriothesley said, despairingly.

  Vidal frowned. The man had a point. If he was what he was pretending to be, how could he not be able to ForeSee the king’s end? He shook his head slowly. “It shows nothing of the king’s death or of a ruling council. Hmmm. Perhaps, deceived by how ill the king seemed, I was looking too closely in time. I will try to see further into the future.”

  “Please,” Wriothesley said, “do so. With all speed.”

  Vidal stood up, frowning—which allowed him to look down on Wriothesley. “Speed is not a word compatible with the workings of the ancient secrets, my lord,” he replied portentously. “Nevertheless, I will attempt to pierce the veils of time on your behalf. But I do require privacy—”

  That was enough (at last!) to make Sir Thomas take his leave.

  Having rid himself of his client, Vidal Gated right from Otstargi’s house to Caer Mordwyn. However, his efforts to force his FarSeers to a more certain prediction about the king’s life resulted only in their exhaustion and collapse. All Vidal learned was that Henry would not die in the next two weeks but would be dead before spring.

  Vidal left the FarSeers, some weeping, some unconscious, cursing everything and everyone as he made his way to his private quarters for allowing Pasgen and Rhoslyn to slip out of his absolute control. They could have made sense of the FarSeers’ mouthings, he told himself, but Pasgen was gone and Rhoslyn was nothing without him.

  Vidal knew he needed new plans, more options. The king was not yet dead, but by the time that happened, he must have decided what to do.

  If all else failed, could he goad Rhoslyn into bespelling Mary into a try for the throne? But in the next moment, he discarded the plan. It was one that risked much—too much. If that ploy failed, Mary would be lost and Elizabeth would be the next heir to the boy. Elizabeth … Vidal licked his lips. He had forgotten all about Elizabeth
.

  Now Vidal cast himself into the most favored, deeply cushioned chair in his apartment. With one hand idly caressing the black leather, he pondered the situation. One thing he was sure of without any prediction was that there would be a desperate scrambling for place and power when the king did die. A second thing he was sure of was that Wriothesley was a frail reed to lean on for information or influence.

  He needed several things: a way to reach Elizabeth so he could decide whether to try again to take her or just arrange for her to die; he needed also a tool of strength and daring who would have some influence on the regency government; and finally he needed the information that would make the first two needs possible of fulfillment.

  First, and above all else, he needed information. With King Henry at death’s door, there was no one with power enough to launch or even cry for an assault on Underhill, even if absolute evidence that all would believe was held before the foolish mortal noses.

  Vidal smiled. He could do quite as he pleased … so long as no strong trail of magic led back to him for the High King to follow.

  The smile turned into a grimace. That accursed Oberon would hunt down anyone who bespelled the king’s council or household just for his pride’s sake, because he had ordered it not be done.

  But servants …

  Servants! Vidal ground his teeth. That idiot Aurelia and her need for revenge! She had cost him dearly; he needed her competence now, and her quick wits, and he had neither. Now she was almost back to forgetting her own name and was useless to him.

  However, there was a crumb to be salvaged out of her idiocy. Her attempt had proved that Oberon was not going to avenge attacks on the servants of royalty. Yes. That would permit him to put a Sidhe right into the royal household—

  In fact, he decided, he would replace a body servant to the king. Whoever looked at a servant? So long as the service was satisfactory—oh, perhaps the servant’s immediate supervisor might, but that minor point was easily taken care of with a befuddlement spell.

  Now that was a plan with no drawbacks. A few commands, a spell or two, and he would have news as soon as Henry died.

  Then there was Elizabeth to consider.

  Vidal tensed in his comfortable chair. The satisfaction he had felt when he decided he would be able to place a Sidhe in Henry’s very bedroom disappeared. No Sidhe could infiltrate Elizabeth’s household. The girl could see through illusion, as Aurelia’s misadventure proved, and her maid could sense Sidhe.

  Very well, then, to get to Elizabeth he must have a minion in the household of someone who would visit her.

  Ah. Vidal relaxed again against his cushions. Her brother, the little king-to-be. Until very recently they had lived together and it had been impossible to place a Sidhe in his household either—but of late, they had been separated. The separation was likely to hold, at least until Henry died, so Elizabeth would not be in the way when Edward was pronounced king.

  However, the boy was said to be very much attached to her. It was possible he would be allowed to visit her to assuage his grief when he heard of his father’s death. And a servant, a long-familiar and faithful body servant, could suggest a visit if the boy did not think of it himself. Yes, that would be ideal; Elizabeth would not look for a Sidhe planted among her brother’s men.

  As to the tool who could influence the council, Vidal had an idea, although he was not yet ready to move on it. He remembered Wriothesley complaining about Hertford’s brother, Thomas Seymour. A wild young man and dangerously ambitious, Wriothesley said, but he acknowledged that Seymour was extraordinarily handsome and appealing to women and well liked among many of the courtiers too.

  Yes. Seymour must fall into the toils of Fagildo Otstargi … but that was for after Henry died and the council was ruling England.

  Meanwhile, Vidal thought over the dark Sidhe who were the least likely to betray him, and the most able to withstand the cold iron in the mortal world. When he had fixed on those two best suited to his purpose, he sent imps to summon them.

  They came with commendable alacrity, and he was so pleased by this that he did not even keep them waiting. Instead, he had them brought before him immediately. As the two of them, garbed quite soberly in black velvet and scarlet satin, stood before him in attitudes of servility, he lounged on his dais and explained what they would need to do.

  They were agreeable, even eager, and suggested at once that they kill the servants whose places they would take. Knowing how his minions would react once the reality of their situation hit home, Vidal had to point out that then they would need actually to perform the servants’ duties, and remain in the mortal world all the time lest the servant be missed.

  The underlings were not pleased to hear that, but Vidal suggested another expedient.

  “You will merely take the place of these servants temporarily. In that way the servants themselves can perform the actual labor. You would not know, after all, just what all those duties are—some might include a great deal of handling of cold iron, for instance.”

  After some objection, and a little growling over the loss of the exhalation of pain and life force they would have gained by killing, the dark Sidhe agreed.

  “It will be simple enough to control them,” Vidal said. “You have magic enough for that, I suppose. There will be no difficulty in replacing their memories. No new memories need be grafted into their minds; all they would remember was that they had gone about their usual tasks in their usual way.”

  Agreement was reached. The servants would be accosted in their own rooms and their memories tapped; then they would be rendered unconscious and concealed, unless they were needed to perform some task that the Sidhe could not or would not undertake themselves. The Sidhe wearing the servant’s features and clothes would attend on the king or the prince just long enough to be sure of what was happening. As soon as the king died, an imp must be dispatched to tell Vidal. Then the mortal who had served the king could be put back in place, and that Sidhe return.

  The Sidhe attached to the prince need do nothing until a visit to Lady Elizabeth was arranged. Then he must prepare the slow-acting poison that so closely mimicked consumption and form it into a thorn. When they visited Elizabeth, he must be in the group that accompanied the prince, even if he needed to kill and replace another gentleman on the road.

  Vidal considered for a moment and then added the fact that the Sidhe should throw a bolt to numb the girl’s mind as soon as he could focus on her. Otherwise she would recognize him as Other and might cry out—although she was accustomed to having Sidhe about her and might not react with fear.

  As soon as she was subdued, he must find an excuse to pass by her and stab the thorn into her. As reward if he were successful, Vidal would not only give him a domain of his own but he was free to take anything of value that he wanted from the prince or anyone else.

  And the Sidhe in the king’s household was also free to help himself as he wished as soon as the king died.

  Only the king did not die. He hung on the brink the entire first week of January then slowly began to mend. Vidal sighed with exasperation. By the sixteenth of January, Henry was again well enough to receive ambassadors.

  Vidal had had enough. In Scotland the first furious reactions to Beaton’s death were fading and the government was gaining control. Vidal had to find a new tool who would resist England and arouse the animosity of the reformists if he wanted the misery of that nation to continue. He made sure that the Sidhe he had left to watch the king and encompass Elizabeth’s death still understood their duties and were bound to them, then he left for Scotland.

  Coincidentally Denoriel was also away from London. When the king had first fallen ill in the beginning of January, he had hurried to Elizabeth at Enfield, which was conveniently only ten miles east of London. This permitted him to ride Miralys, who could cover the distance in a few minutes if necessary, and saved him from the effort of creating Gates.

  Enfield was convenient in other ways. There
was a huge chase for hunting and gardens with formal beds, archways, trellises and arbors for climbing vines—although they were not of much use in winter weather—and there was also a chapel that had dark corners, where a frightened girl could be cuddled and reassured: corners dark enough, that if any footstep was heard, or Blanche coughed a warning, there was no possibility of the sort of mischance that had befallen them over Harry’s first visit.

  That first week of January, Denoriel simply found an empty room in the palace and made himself as comfortable as he could when he was not actually with Elizabeth. He expected to be summoned by the air spirit any moment after she had news of Henry’s death and he was forced to use the Don’t-see-me spell more than he liked.

  By the eleventh or twelfth of January, Denoriel was feeling dangerously empty, and Henry still would not die. When it seemed as if the king had recovered as much as he was likely to—which meant he might die in two days or live another six months—Aleneil insisted Denoriel go Underhill to restore himself.

  Since Lady Alana would remain with Elizabeth and could send for him if he were needed, Denoriel left word at his house in London and sent special messages to particular friends to say he would be away until the end of the month. He would actually have returned sooner because he now found the affairs of the mortal world much more interesting than balls and celebrations Underhill, but Harry came to visit him to relate a most curious circumstance.

  Elidir and Mechain had found their wandering Unformed land. It was now, as they suspected, nearer to Unseleighe domains than those of the Seleighe; still they had not been able to resist slipping quietly in and examining the mists. Could the mists be sentient enough to help those who praised them and resist manipulation by others?

  While they were composing themselves to think kindly of the mists rather than setting their minds to commanding, they noticed that instead of an aimless shifting and flowing, thin tentacles were approaching them as if they were curious. That was odd, but they never discovered whether the behavior had meaning, because a tall Sidhe, who looked something like Denoriel had before his hair had turned to white, stepped out of the mist and asked them what they were doing there.