Stubbornly Linnet shook her head, fists knotted in her lap. This was some dreadful misunderstanding, the Queen had mistaken her for someone else—save that Kat Ashley too had seemed to know her.
Clearly she’d gotten mixed up in some plot or scheme during her lost years, become some manner of cat’s paw. Perhaps the business had ended badly, and the trauma had shocked her out of her memory. Could that be it?
“Yer Majesty,” she began helplessly, “I can tell ye nothing—”
“Then you are no friend to Rhiannon at all? Is this what you maintain?”
Flinching before the sharp note of suspicion in her sovereign’s voice, Linnet said miserably, “Aye, madam. I know naught of her, I swear it. If ever I did know her, I—I can’t recall.”
“And you are Catholic, and Scottish, and a not-so-royal Stuart. Yet you call yourself loyal to me? Cecil calls you an outright threat.”
Unable to remain still, Elizabeth Tudor sprang to her feet and paced, agitated as the caged lion in her menagerie. “Are you aware the Scottish succession is a matter of desperate concern to this court? I must contend with that viper Mary Stuart, raised and nurtured in the bosom of the French court, and her damned French mother who keeps the throne in Edinburgh warm and waiting for her. This Scottish-French alliance is the greatest threat to my realm.
“And the nightmare that wakes me sweating in the night is the prospect that my loving brother-in-law Spanish Philip, who plots ceaselessly to steal my throne, will ally with the French. Then I’ll have them all at my throat.”
Aye, this was the Protestants’ great fear—a Catholic alliance that would again force the fanatical Philip and his Inquisition down their gullets. The Catholic faction prayed for it. Unsurprising that Elizabeth Tudor should suspect Linnet, with her antecedents, of divided loyalties.
Unsurprising, but deadly if the Queen chose to act on her suspicions.
Gathering her trembling legs beneath her, Linnet rose and steeled herself to face down her angry Queen. “I can’t blame ye, madam, for yer suspicion, for all the reasons ye’ve said.”
She lowered her eyes and made herself say it. “No doubt ye’ve heard what they all whisper. For two years, I vanished from the face of the earth. I can make no account of myself for that time. When I returned, my brother thought me mad, and locked me away where my madness would bring no shame to our clan.
“God alone knows where I spent those lost years. If ye wish to think I spent them scheming against ye, madam, I can offer no defense.”
She glanced up to gauge the Queen’s response. Elizabeth had stopped pacing and stood poised near the casement, listening. Linnet met her gaze directly. “But I do most earnestly proclaim my innocence and loyalty to ye now. The whole of my heart is devoted to my duty, to Glencross and my people.”
Linnet dared to approach her, turning her back to the avid court, and peered blindly through the casement. “Madam, I’m two-and-twenty, and yet unwed. If I die without heir, the Norwood line of earls is broken. My goal is to cleanse the stain from my name, prove my right to the title, and marry a proper laird to give Glencross the strong heir we must have. None of this is possible without yer trust. If ye find ye can’t trust a Catholic whose grandsire was King of Scotland, best I know it now.”
Overcome by her own audacity, she stared at her fractured reflection in the mullioned glass. Behind her, Elizabeth Tudor’s face glowed like a distant star. The silence stretched between them, thinly bridged by the somber strains of the passomezzo floating from the musicians’ gallery.
The Queen had been silent too long. Linnet had lost her trial. The only prudent course was to leave the Tudor court with what little dignity she retained.
But every iota of her being rose up against the thought of giving up, admitting failure, retreating in disgrace to Glencross to wallow in her own despair. She could seek a husband in Edinburgh, but that would set her own sovereign against her—
Elizabeth stepped forward to stand beside her. Together they stared into the night.
“I thank you for your honesty, Lady Norwood,” she said. “In all decency, I cannot fail to acknowledge your difficult position. You’ve already discerned that the Protestant faction distrusts you, led by my own Cecil, whose strong views on this matter I cannot entirely dismiss.
“If you can prove, by your researches, that your father was indeed Edward Norwood and a loyal English subject, that will aid in easing their fears, and render it easier for me to embrace you as my loyal magnate. To that end, I urge you Godspeed and good fortune in your studies.”
The Queen raised a hand to stay the grateful words that bubbled on Linnet’s lips. “In all candor, my lady, I must warn you to take great care in your associations at court. The same antecedents that make Cecil distrust you also make you a lightning rod for Catholic dissent. I cannot countenance, so early in mine own reign in this hour of England’s peril, to see sedition and rebellion foment on English soil, nor to give the Spanish or the Scots-French any pretext to intervene in our affairs.
“Should that occur, or any whisper of it, I should be forced to strong measures to remove that threat. Make no mistake, my lady. I will not shrink from taking those measures if I must.”
Linnet froze in her place, so paralyzed by dread she could barely breathe. Her own sovereign had just threatened her in no uncertain terms. If Linnet made a misstep in the political dance of court, the Queen would have her arrested for treason—or killed.
Elizabeth Tudor might be a woman, but she was not given to idle threat.
After all, Linnet knew better than most how very easily a mere woman could be made to vanish.
Chapter Six
The Queen of England would not stint to command her death.
Never mind that she’d granted Linnet the freedom to pursue her studies, and would no doubt prefer to see the Glencross heirship tidily resolved.
Elizabeth Tudor was her father’s daughter. If Linnet strayed from the tightrope of loyalty, or even seemed to waver, the Queen would turn against her without compunction.
Around her, the sprightly strains of the volte piped through the Great Hall. The leaping dancers glistened with sweat, possessed by a savage gaiety as foreign to her sober character as the Orient. As she crept along the fringes of the overripe throng, Linnet felt like a pilgrim from an alien land.
Like a flushed fox on the hunting field, she scurried toward the distant shelter of her earth. In private, she’d build up her fire to banish the shadows, burrow beneath her blankets, and give way to the tears that threatened.
Without warning, a lithe shadow leaped from the mass of spinning dancers, directly into her path.
Nerves strung tight as lute strings, Linnet cried out and jumped back. Her slippered heel came down hard on her skirt, tugging her off-balance. As she flailed, the shadowy figure gripped her elbows and set her gently on her feet.
Her panicked heart still rabbiting, blood surging through her veins, she glimpsed a colossal form armored in glistening jet, overshadowed by mighty wings of ebony and indigo. Violet fire poured through the open portals of his gaze. In his fist burned a sword of fire—
“My lady, are you well?” The melodious tenor shredded this hallucinatory vision like a knife through cobwebs.
She blinked into the concerned gaze of Zamiel, Lord of Briah. Heat rushed into her cheeks. Must she always be so infernally clumsy?
Still he held her, so close she could smell the cinnamon bite of hippocras when his warm breath teased her cheek. A single step forward, and she’d be in his arms.
For a dangerous instant, she yearned to take that step, bury her face in the plush velvet of his doublet, and hide from this dangerous world she’d blundered into.
Blushing fiercely, she stepped back. His gauntleted hands fell away.
“M-my thanks, Lord Zamiel,” she stammered. “It seems ye’ve made a habit of saving me from disaster.”
He bowed, that mane of raven silk slipping forward to frame his knife-sharp beauty
.
“It’s a different sort of role for me.” His eyes glimmered with secret amusement. “Playing the savior. But I find I’m enjoying it. Do you dance?”
Alarm spiraled through her at that horrifying prospect. Just let her attempt a dance as lively as this one, and she’d be sprawled on her bahoochie in no time. Then they’d have another reason to laugh.
“Forgive me, my lord. I’ve had quite enough frolic for one night, aye? There’s plenty of work that awaits in my chambers.”
“Enough frolic? Is there such a thing?” Playfully he pressed a hand to his chest, eyes wide in feigned astonishment. “I can scarcely imagine it! If you insist, however, I’d better escort you to safety—before some other misadventure befalls you.”
“What of yer new companions? Won’t they miss ye?” She’d intended light mockery, not this acidic tone.
“Left with better company than mine.” He shrugged, but his gaze was keen. “My darling girl, dare I hope you’re jealous?”
“Hope anything ye like.” In the wake of her encounter with the Tudor lion, her knees were still wobbly. “I’ve accounts to settle and a barrage of correspondence from my steward at Glencross to answer. Without a laird, that work’s never done.”
Weariness shaded her tone. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how drained the royal encounter had left her.
As though he sensed it, his face sobered. Gently, he laced her arm through his. When she wrapped her fingers around his arm, the taut strength of muscle flexed beneath her palm. Ripples of awareness eddied between them. A pulse fluttered like a trapped butterfly against the hollow of her throat.
Deft as a pickpocket, Zamiel charted a course through the crowd, dodging overloaded servants, stray lapdogs and drunken gallants with ease.
“Your little encounter with the Queen stirred considerable comment,” he murmured. “Such high emotion for a casual audience! One wouldn’t expect the prospect of your sober-sided husband to send you swooning to your knees in rapture. The Queen must have proposed quite a match.”
So he’d been watching her, had he, despite the distraction of his charming company? She felt both flattered and flustered by his interest. But she’d no intention of pouring the secret of her traumatic audience into the eager ears around them.
“Curiosity killed the cheetie, aye? The cat,” she amended, at his blank look.
“My dear girl, has anyone ever told you that Scottish lilt of yours is utterly beguiling?”
Was he mocking her? Somehow she didn’t think so. Zamiel of Briah might be flippant and far too playful, but he didn’t seem to possess a particle of spite.
“There’s naught about being Scottish at this court that’s beneficial, my lord, believe me.”
The corner of his mouth curled up. “As long as she doesn’t betroth you to that stick of a Pickering. Tell me it’s not him who set you swooning.”
“Blessed Bride, are ye daft? Pickering’s her own suitor.” She glanced at the avid faces around them and lowered her voice. “She can’t marry Dudley, can she, since he’s already got a wife squirreled away. If she takes an English husband, Pickering’s the likely candidate.”
To her relief, they’d reached the door, warded by the Yeomen of the Guard with their crossed halberds. Zamiel collected his sword, a basket-hilted rapier nestled in a sheath of silver filigree, and buckled it around his lean hips.
Elaborate rules governed the presence of weapons at the Tudor court. No man could bring a blade bigger than an eating knife into the Royal Presence, and none could draw steel within the Verge of the Court except to protect the sovereign. These strictures mutely bespoke the unease with which the Tudor monarchs sat their throne.
Linnet escaped the overheated hall into the welcome coolness of the corridor. Away from the crush, the worst of her tension eased its grip. Her next order of business must be to escape the figure of vice and scandal beside her.
“Well?” Zamiel prodded, stubbornly keeping pace. Drat the man. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What paragon of piety and diligence are you now doomed to marry?”
His dry tone coaxed forth a reluctant smile. “If ye must know, she gave me access to the royal archives for my research. I was merely thanking her. She said naught of my marriage.”
“Ah.” His face lightened. “Then there’s hope for the rest of us.”
She slanted him a wry look. Oh, aye, they’re trampling each other to beat a path to the privilege.
What was his interest in her? After his dashing performance as Lord Indolence and the Queen’s obvious favor, he could have been squiring any beauty at court.
Side by side, they descended the wide stair. A wall of crisp cold encased them, delicious against her overheated skin.
“It means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?” he asked. “This business with your mother?”
“Aye,” she said softly. What use denying it? Her obsession was fast becoming common knowledge. “’Tis no mere hobby for me.”
They emerged from the covered stairwell onto the cobblestoned expanse of the Clock Court. In silent accord they paused, eyes skimming the glistening expanse of the rimed courtyard, enclosed by russet brick and tall windows glowing with saffron light. Overhead, the vault of Heaven glittered with the pinprick brilliance of stars, scattered like diamonds across a mantle of black silk.
Linnet flung back her head and inhaled. The rush of tingling air seared her lungs, cleansing them of the court miasma of perfume and sweat. Beside her, Zamiel stood with eyes closed, face turned toward the heavens, brow furrowed with some emotion that could be pain or pleasure or inexpressible yearning.
Caught by his peculiar intensity, she whispered, “What is it?”
“Listen,” he breathed.
From the Great Hall rose a melancholy galliard, the trembling voice of a single lute, the poignant notes shimmering like starlight. Muted, the faint glissade floated distant and pure as Faerie music.
A strange twinge of longing plucked at her heart, an ache of yearning for something she could almost name.
“It’s like the music of Heaven,” he murmured. “Summoning me home.”
The trill of falsetto laughter shattered the fragile enchantment. A couple reeled past, clinging to each other, much the worse for drink.
Zamiel shivered and opened his eyes. Something like defiance flared in his eyes as he scowled at the heavens.
“Where to, my lady?”
“My apartments overlook the Fountain Court. But ye needn’t—”
“I need.” A dark note throbbed in his voice.
His words slid down her spine like a warm finger. Liquid heat pooled low in her belly.
He angled their steps toward the narrow tunnel that burrowed into the residential quadrant. Oddly breathless, she didn’t resist. No doubt she’d be quit of him in the Fountain Court.
“Why?” he said suddenly.
“Why what?”
“Why are those archives so important to you?”
She hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. No man had ever given her reason to trust him with a matter so sensitive, so precious to her bruised heart. Still, if she dared trust anyone at court, Lord Zamiel of Briah had given better reason than most.
For so long, she’d yearned to share with someone the sorrow that burned and smarted in her heart.
“Ye’re new-come to court,” she said abruptly. “Ye won’t have heard the tale. When I was very young, my mother vanished. My father put it about she’d been roaming the moor, as she liked to do, and was lost in a snowstorm. But her—her body was never found.”
“Such a tragedy to befall a young mother.” He bowed his head. “I always regret it, when they die so young.”
Her jaw tightened. “However, my father lied. She stole into the nursery to bid me farewell, aye? She left behind this locket, bid me care for wee Colin, said she could no longer bear to stay. She yearned to find her own people.”
His face sharpened with interest. “Did she mean the Stuarts?”
>
“Ye’d think so, wouldn’t ye? Yet she never went to Holyrood Palace, nor any of the royal castles of her Stuart kin. My father looked there for her straightaway. She must have meant her mother’s clan.”
She swallowed past the aching lump that burned in her chest when she thought of Catriona, the crystal tears spilling from her mother’s golden eyes. “The trouble is, no one but she ever knew who they were.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, as though some minor mystery had been revealed. “Of course, she would have had to conceal... Hell’s Bells, you’re weeping. I must have a blasted handkerchief somewhere in this rig. Heaven knows I paid enough for it.”
Impatient, she dashed a hand across her brimming eyes. “It’s ancient history, my lord. I don’t know why it makes me weepy. But I intend to prove my mother’s virtue that summer, prove she was faithful to my father. If I can find her intimates at court, maybe I can also find some clue where she fled. Maybe—she was still young, in robust health—maybe she’s still alive.”
There, she’d said it, the secret closest to her heart, the fool’s hope that had sent her on this fool’s quest to begin. She’d said it, and like a fool she couldn’t seem to stop crying.
Before the yawning tunnel that burrowed through the walls to the Fountain Court, he halted.
“My dear girl.” Caution and compassion struggled in his features. “Clearly, your mother must have had compelling reason, if she abandoned her own children. If she lives, perhaps she doesn’t wish to be found. It might be best to—”
“I tell ye I will find her.” She lifted her chin and glared at him. “To anyone who says I can’t, I say be damned to ye!”
He lowered his head until his hair fell in raven curtains around his face and gave her an upward look, eyes wide and wondering beneath the dark wings of his brows, lips parted as though she astonished him.
Laura Navarre - [The Magick Trilogy 02] Page 10