Magick by Moonrise

by Laura Navarre

  Firmly, she quelled a flicker of self-pity. She was what she was, and ever would be. No sense pining for the girlish dreams of love she’d long since resigned herself to abandon.

  These thoughts raced through her mind in a flash. Elizabeth was still watching her expectantly, a quizzical smile curving her lips. Rhiannon found herself still blushing.

  “I—I’ve never been in love, Your Grace,” she stammered. “And he...he is sworn to the Church.”

  Elizabeth glanced toward his averted form, gaze flickering over his broad back and corded thighs. “In that case, what a pity.”

  Arms linked, the two women strolled along the banqueting hall. Shafts of sunlight spilled through the leaded glass windows, gleamed on the wood-paneled walls, glittered on the fortune in gold and silver plate that dazzled the eye on table and sideboards.

  “Tell me,” Elizabeth said casually, still in Latin, “what business brings you out in the Godforsaken weather we’ve suffered this spring? You’ve journeyed long, have you not?”

  Rhiannon’s heart quickened. Here was her opportunity, fallen into her lap like a Midwinter gift, the chance to win over Queen Mary’s closest kin—though the two were hardly intimates. Still, if Protestant Elizabeth championed her cause, it could damage her chances with Mary rather than the reverse.

  Yet she was reluctant to utter a falsehood. Her father had been renowned throughout England for his honesty, his integrity, his sense of chivalry. She was Arthur’s only daughter. Her father might never open his eyes and look upon her face as she’d always yearned for, but she would not sully his name with falsehoods.

  She tried for a light laugh, not very convincing. “How do you know I’m long traveled? Was the state of my gear and garments so desperate?”

  Clever as a fox at scenting avoidance, Elizabeth shot her a keen glance. “You looked as though you fled a battlefield—that desperate indeed, that bedraggled, with almost no baggage, no maid or governess for chaperone though your station clearly warrants it. Your escort mysteriously lost, and a Blade of God hardly qualifies as a suitable replacement, no matter how fearsome with a sword he’s rumored to be.”

  Well, no one had ever called Elizabeth Tudor a fool, that much was certain. Pausing, Rhiannon turned toward the window and lifted one hand to the glass. Inches away, bathed in sunlight on the sill, an early primrose quivered, its folded petals trembling.

  “As for Lord Beltran, Your Grace, you’re correct that he’s no protector of mine, though he surely saved my life. He happened upon us in the forest and rescued me from bandits.”

  She’d resolved to say nothing of the fiery Being he’d channeled, for who on earth would believe her? She hardly understood what had happened herself.

  “Chivalrous of him,” Elizabeth murmured, eyeing the trembling primrose. Pale yellow petals began to unfurl from the leaves. “Although that is not his reputation. Nor is it generally considered chivalrous to bind a lady’s hands.”

  Rhiannon could hardly refute that. “As you’ve rightly concluded, I’m a foreigner in these lands and no fervent Catholic. My lord has determined I should be questioned, and I’ve given my word of honor not to plot escape within these walls. So you need fear no disturbance beneath your roof. You may be certain I would do nothing to compromise you, or worsen your uncertain situation.”

  “God-a-mercy, I had no thought of it!” Elizabeth said lightly. Unlike Rhiannon, her hostess appeared to have no such fine sensibilities where honesty was concerned. “I wondered only how I might assist you. I’ve great sympathy for a woman alone in the world, pushed hither and yon by the whims of men.”

  Rhiannon absorbed this in silence, while the primrose unfolded into yellow glory beneath her fingers. In her world, the Faerie Queene ruled supreme, balanced only by the cruelty and caprice of her daughter Morrigan. Yet Rhiannon had been warned, by Ansgar and Linnet both, that the mortal realm was ruled by men.

  It was a lesson Elizabeth herself must have learned quickly, with her first love—reckless Lord Admiral Seymour—dead on the block for wooing her without the council’s permission. Reportedly, he’d all but seduced the smitten girl when she was barely fourteen, and Elizabeth had lost her heart to him.

  Yet this mortal history could not help Rhiannon. The question before her, both pressing and dangerous, was whether she dared trust the disgraced Tudor princess. The fate of both their nations could depend upon her choice.

  “I...am indebted for your assistance.” Thinking furiously, she dipped a little curtsey to buy a few moments. “My lady Elizabeth, have you ever heard of the Convergence?”

  Her hostess blinked, the only sign of recognition Rhiannon could detect. Otherwise, Elizabeth’s face remained carefully blank. She was still watching the primrose that opened now into full-throated splendor, its petals stroking the glass where Rhiannon’s fingers rested. Realizing what she’d caused, this flowering of wild Fae magick she could no more control than her own heartbeat, Rhiannon dropped her hand swiftly.

  “Let us take the air, my lady.” Abruptly, Elizabeth turned toward the door that opened onto the gardens.

  Rhiannon was quite certain Beltran wouldn’t care for this plan—neither her intimate congress with their royal hostess and her Lutheran leanings, nor her escape from his vigilance. Uneasily she glanced toward the high table, where servants were carefully laying trenchers of white manchet bread before each place.

  “Your Grace, the dinner...”

  “Will not be on the table for another thirty minutes,” the lady said dismissively. “At this very moment, my cook and my governess—my own dear Kat—are being questioned in the solar by another of the Lord Privy Seal’s bloodhounds over this damnable Dudley business. They’ve done nothing, of course, just as I’ve done nothing. We’re all utterly loyal and devoted to the Queen’s Grace here.”

  Elizabeth paused to invite her agreement. But Rhiannon was exclaiming with delight as they emerged into the clipped green hedges of an elegant knot garden, leaves sparkling with rain in the sunlight beneath spring skies of eggshell blue. Well-tended grass wove a carpet of emerald velvet underfoot, tan ribbons of raked soil unfurling in paths before them. The delicate buds of mauve and lilac crocuses, newly opened, quivered in rows beside the path.

  The rigid order of these English gardens was foreign to one who’d grown up running barefoot through the moss-draped forests of Faerie. Still, to feel sunlight on her face and breathe clean air after the wretched stench of perfume, roast meat and sweating fear inside! Her anxious spirits rose and spread like a sail before the wind.

  “Do our gardens please you?” Elizabeth too was smiling, face raised to the sky, the brisk wind whipping color into her pale cheeks. The Tudor princess stepped lightly as a wood-sprite along the path—joyful as any soul with a drop of Faerie blood in the open outdoors. “I was raised here, you know, and I love this old manor, but sometimes one does long for an hour of freedom...”

  Casually Elizabeth glanced around them. The green-walled paths were unoccupied, classical statues and fountains standing sentinel.

  “You’d mentioned something inside, Lady Rhiannon? We’d best finish sharing our girlish secrets quickly, or we’ll have Sir Henry and God’s Vengeance breathing down our necks.”

  Recalled to her purpose, Rhiannon glanced back toward the russet brick manor. The sun reflected brilliantly from its rows of lead-glassed windows. Any one of them could conceal unfriendly eyes.

  “I mentioned the Convergence, Lady Elizabeth.
Perhaps you’ve heard this term?”

  “I cannot recall,” the other said vaguely, leading them ever farther from the house. When they rounded a corner, the high hedges rose up on either side to conceal them.

  Rhiannon approached the matter cautiously. “’Tis said you’re a student of history, my lady. You must know the tale of Arthur, King of Britain, who fought the Celts and Picts and Saxons to bring peace to these shores after the Romans left.”

  “He’s a legend to every English schoolchild. They say Arthur is merely sleeping, and will return again when his people need him.” Elizabeth arched her brows. “But that was a thousand years past. Surely you’ll not tell me this ancient history has somehow propelled you onto the road?”

  Rhiannon reached to caress the hedges as they strolled and wondered how much time she had before Beltran noticed her absence. Minutes at best, surely. She quickened her stride.

  “There is another legend about Arthur, Your Grace. According to folklore, he sleeps in another realm—a hidden realm, a shadow land that lies alongside the Christian lands like an estranged lover—lying in the same bed, but never touching. A Veil hangs between the worlds, concealing and protecting them from one another, so that any travel or congress between them is difficult.”

  “You speak of the Faerie realm, I suppose.” Elizabeth laughed lightly. “Of toadstool rings and standing stones and goblins who grant wishes. Children’s tales.”

  Rhiannon crossed her fingers and took a chance. “Are you so skeptical of the Faerie realm?”

  For an instant, Elizabeth’s level stride faltered. Something fluttered in her face. Then her burnished head regained its regal tilt.

  For certain she knows something, though Goddess knows from where. But she’s going to deny it. The instinct for self-protection was too strong in Elizabeth Tudor. She’d learned to deny everything, to lie about everything, just to keep her head off the block.

  Faintly, over the rustling wind, a man’s voice rose from the manor. “My lady Elizabeth?”

  “Every thousand years,” Rhiannon hurried on, “the two realms draw close, and eventually intersect. When this occurs the Veil thins, and creatures from both sides can cross the barrier at will, or even blunder across by accident. This event is called the Convergence, my lady. It last happened one thousand years ago, in the dark days after the Romans left—and it’s happening again very soon.”

  “Lady Rhiannon!” There was no mistaking the commanding bellow of that rumbling baritone. She shivered, although not precisely with chill, a tingle racing across her skin.

  “Hurry,” Elizabeth said briefly, not wasting time with foolish questions. She tugged Rhiannon around another corner, winding deeper into the garden, the high hedges still concealing them.

  “When the Convergence occurs, Your Grace, there is great suffering in both realms—for they are not meant to occupy the same space and time. Their energies are too different, and their respective natures too hostile to one another. The drawing-near causes famine, flood, pestilence, rebellion. When the two realms touch, it means full-blown war.”

  “In other words, precisely the circumstances that currently confront this realm,” Lady Elizabeth murmured. “Last time it was Arthur’s son Mordred, was it not, who’s said to have led the revolt against Arthur that ended his realm? At least, that was Sir Thomas Malory’s claim in his Morte d’Arthur.”

  “Yes. Mordred.” Rhiannon shivered. The spring wind had roughened from playful caress to a raw slap. “He was my half-brother, but I never really knew him. I was just a child...too young for him to bother with.”

  Elizabeth’s startled gaze flickered toward her, the only indication this revelation had surprised her.

  “You must share your beauty secrets,” she said lightly. “For you appear even younger than I.”

  “Things are not always as they appear, Lady Elizabeth. Surely you, of all women, have learned the truth of that.”

  Elizabeth laughed, low and grimly. Her stride lengthened, a fierce light burning in her silver eyes. “This time it’s the damned Spanish, isn’t it, and that fanatic Philip my sister’s taken into her bed.”

  Rhiannon released her held breath. Merciful Lady, thank you. She may not be prepared to believe me, and certainly not to acknowledge it. But at least she doesn’t dismiss my words out of hand as a lunatic’s ravings.

  “’Tis more than the Spaniards who threaten your realm. ’Tis the Scots on your very border, and the Catholic Church with its Inquisition, its instruments of torture and oppression and burning.”

  “Have a care,” Elizabeth murmured. “For those events of which you speak are now my sister’s life work. She is convinced she’ll never bear a son until she purges this land of heresy.”

  “Her very barrenness is a symbol of this divided land—”

  “Rhiannon.” Beltran’s shout was nearer now. “Where are you? Return at once!”

  Elizabeth pulled her through the garden until they were nearly running. The confining cage of her stomacher dug into Rhiannon’s ribs; the accursed farthingale swayed wildly around her legs. Desperately she longed for the graceful flowing garments of home, but her native garb would shock these prudish mortals speechless.

  “Quickly,” Elizabeth said. “How much time do we have before this...Convergence?”

  “Very little,” Rhiannon panted, clinging to her arm. “Time flows differently in the Faerie realm. We misjudged the year by a full generation. My mother, the Faerie Queene, seeks to avert this disaster. She charged me to bring before your sister a treaty of perpetual peace between England and Faerie, and to persuade your sister by any means necessary to sign it. But Lord Beltran has taken the document. Without it, I cannot—”

  Rushing breathlessly around a hedge, she collided against a hard body. She gasped and staggered, but hard hands closed around her shoulders to hold her upright. Her eyes flew upward, over a broad chest encased in sapphire brocade and glittering with gold, to meet the blazing blue fury of Beltran Nemesto.

  Instinctively, she tried to retreat, but his hands still gripped her. Heat radiated from his touch through the thin fabric of her sleeves. As she stared riveted into his gaze, wild fire spread through her, making her tingle, raising the fine hairs along her forearms. Her heart fluttered against her ribcage like a startled bird.

  “Lord Beltran,” she whispered. Dimly she sensed Elizabeth falling back, slipping between the hedges—driven by her honed survivor’s instinct to avoid interrogation.

  And leaving Rhiannon to face him alone.

  Chapter Six

  He’d found her. She hadn’t fled him after all. Beltran’s first reaction was sweeping relief, just as he’d felt when he found her in the banqueting hall. When she’d vanished five minutes later, he’d turned the entire hall upside down—aided by an annoyed Sir Henry, who’d clearly gone through the exercise for his own wayward charge too often—before they thought to search the gardens.

  Now, as he held her slight form between his hands—hands that hacked and butchered in God’s name—every thought of duty and piety and virtue was dissolving. He thought only that her wide green eyes matched her gown and the fresh spring garden surrounding them. That her lips were the pale pink of the primroses blooming, improbably out of season, from the hedge he’d backed her into.

  That the te
nder curve of her upper lip, with its ripe bow, was made for kissing.

  “Lord Beltran,” she whispered, hands rising to his chest as though she sensed the turmoil raging there. Her voice was trusting as a child’s, despite what she knew of him. The movement brought her that fatal inch closer. The faint haunting sweetness of violets rose to fill his head.

  Barely knowing what he did, driven by the need to really feel her—all that softness and warmth and innocence, all her unspoiled sweetness—he closed the remaining distance between them. A carpet of pale snowdrops was blooming somehow under their very feet. When his boot crushed the fragile petals, their elusive fragrance added to the sensory onslaught.

  His advance brought her slender frame up against him, the soft curve of her breasts encased in fabric thin as parchment, nipples brushing his chest like burning coals. His hands slid from her shoulders to her waist, eased the gentle swell of her hips against his. His blood surged beneath his codpiece, making him swell and harden.

  And still she stared up at him, wide-eyed, with the same trusting sweetness. When he pulled her against him, her lips parted. The battered armor of his self-control shattered.

  “Rhiannon,” he said hoarsely. “My God.”

  Beneath his hands, she shivered. “Don’t, my lord. That Name—”

  At that moment, he would have sworn to the Devil himself if that was what it took to keep her in his arms. Because nothing under Heaven was going to stop him from kissing her. His arm wrapped around her waist—his sword-arm, he must remember to be gentle. He cradled her head in his hardened palm, silver-gilt tendrils slipping from their knot to cascade around his fingers.

  “So sweet and warm and innocent,” he groaned. “You’ll be my undoing, Rhiannon.”