And Less Than Kind

by Mercedes Lackey

  "More than you love your sister," Gardiner said, but he spoke softly enough that only those closest could hear.

  "I—" Elizabeth began, but Lady Alana put a hand on her arm.

  Two members of the Council, Lord William Howard and Lord William Paulet had been following on Gardiner's heels and been forced to stop when he did. They had heard Gardiner's remark.

  Howard, in his loud seaman's voice, said, "King Edward loved you too, m'lady." He looked at Paulet. "Remember how he used to say he'd save this or that book or picture or tune 'until Elizabeth comes.' He looked forward to Lady Elizabeth's visits."

  "And I came as often as I was allowed." Elizabeth flicked a glance at Gardiner. She decided to make a bold statement of her detachment from politics to the courtiers around them and raised her voice. "I do not know why Lord Somerset and Lord Northumberland very often rejected my appeals to come to Court. The king never spoke to me of governing or politics and I did not wish for it. It is not my place to be political. We talked of our studies."

  "True enough," Paulet agreed and laughed heartily. "I was standing near one time. Didn't understand above one word or two. You were talking in Latin with now and again a sentence in Greek. All stuff you had both read in those texts your tutors set you."

  "Yes, because we studied together for years when our father still lived." She blinked away bright tears. "Edward was not king then, only my little brother. I could take him in my arms and give him a kiss . . ."

  Gardiner made an odd noise. Elizabeth did not acknowledge it but she knew she had won that round when he bowed and pushed past those in the group around her. Lord William Howard made an exaggerated wink in her direction just before he and Paulet took off after Gardiner.

  Elizabeth barely restrained a shudder. Perhaps she had not won after all. She had gained a little more sympathy, but at the cost of annoying Gardiner further. He had Mary's ear and the more favor Elizabeth won with the courtiers, the less he liked her. She knew that he had already advised Mary that it was unwise to acknowledge her sister, to hold her by the hand and show her favor.

  Chapter 15

  Elizabeth stiffened slightly as someone brushed her arm. She had been so deep into her memories of her first weeks at Court last summer that she had almost felt warm. Drawn from those memories into the present chill December, she began to shiver again. Lady Alana, herself looking pinched and pale said, "Mass is over," and helped Elizabeth to her feet.

  They were the first out of the chapel, but they paused no great distance from it and drew back against the corridor wall. Elizabeth stepped forward to greet several of the worshipers who left after she did with a smile and a small bow. As Mary passed, she curtsied deeply, gritting her teeth as her stubborn knees had to be forced to bend. Mary did not deign to look at her.

  The duke of Norfolk, however, paused and said, "Did you attend the Mass, Lady Elizabeth? I did not see you."

  "It is very beautiful," Elizabeth said. "Very uplifting. Unfortunately I came late and was at the back. I woke with a chill this morning." She smiled. "You can see I am shivering still."

  The duke frowned. "You should put yourself more forward. I know the queen would be glad to have you closer during Mass."

  "The queen is very gracious." Elizabeth forced a smile.

  Norfolk did not bother to pursue the subject. He asked, "Have you spoken to Lord Denno again? I arranged for him to have permission to visit you, but I have not seen him recently."

  Elizabeth shivered again. Her brief meeting with Denno had been acutely painful, exposing her passionate need for him and the impossibility of satisfying it while she was at Court.

  "He was very grateful for your kindness, Your Grace," Elizabeth said. "And so am I. As for Lord Denno, I believe he is on a trading voyage. He told me he would need to set out at the beginning of October. He expected to return before now, but the weather has been frightful. It is possible that he has been delayed by the heavy rain and contrary winds."

  "Hmmm. He had a wine I liked—a sweet rumney."

  "Your Grace, I will gladly write Lord Denno's man of business. Master Clayborne will see that you receive—"

  "Come along, Norfolk," Bishop Gardiner interrupted without apology, grabbing Norfolk's arm and drawing him away. "Rumney wine will get you in trouble. Now we will be buying only Spanish wines."

  Elizabeth stepped back against the corridor wall, ostensibly to get out of the men's way. Her face was mostly hidden, her head bent, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped lightly at her waist. Gardiner's voice was hard and sarcastic. He was her enemy, but in his opposition to Mary's choice of husband, Elizabeth was in total agreement . . . and she had to be very sure her expression did not display that agreement. Spanish wines indeed. Spanish everything. How could Mary be such a fool as to have chosen Prince Philip of Spain, the Emperor Charles's son, to be her spouse?

  Shocked anew at the thought, although the choice was a fait accompli and the Council was already working with envoys from Emperor Charles on the marriage contract, Elizabeth turned her back on those following the queen. She could not join the Court . . . she could not! She was cold with fear and her throat was tight with tears, aching for the comfort of Denno's arms, for the wise counsel of her Da.

  But Mary would not release her from attendance at Court and she dared not call Denno to come and take her Underhill. She dared not be missing from her bed or lock her doors. The new ladies in her household were spies. They found excuses to peep into her chamber at all hours and her guards could not keep them out, not ladies assigned by the queen. Elizabeth could bespell her own attendant lady to sleep, but not more than one. That all the ladies should sleep like the dead would be suspicious in itself. Mary had already called her "witch" in the past. If the queen called her witch . . . she would burn.

  Calling her witch was not impossible, Elizabeth thought, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering more convulsively. She had worked magic in the past few months . . . and Mary might have seen her do it. But she could not help it. It was use spells or die. She might die anyway. Why would Mary not let her go?

  In September, shortly after Elizabeth had attended Mass for the first time, she had been warned of danger by Alana's silent shout of "'Ware!" Ahead of her, Elizabeth saw a man roughly pushing his way into the front rank of those who were waiting to see the queen. As his hand lifted, Elizabeth caught the glint of steel and cried "No!" She knew the protest was useless, but to don a shield and let the whole court see a knife bounce off her was disaster; in desperation she had gestured and whispered, "Cilgwthio."

  The queen barely flinched at Elizabeth's shout but looked around at the sound. She was the only one, Elizabeth believed, who might have noticed her pushing gesture. Everyone else was staring at the disturbance as the attacker staggered back and then at the knife which thudded into the wall.

  Aim ruined, the knife had flown beyond Elizabeth, passing between her and Mary who was a few steps ahead. When it hit the wall by the queen's head, her attendants and the crowd erupted into chaos, shouting and grabbing at each other, seeking the attacker. Naturally enough in the confusion he escaped.

  Elizabeth was so terrified by Mary's seeing her cast a spell she almost fainted. Alana and Eleanor Gage supported her while she gasped and trembled. Some courtiers murmured contemptuously about Elizabeth's cowardice. They believed the attack had been directed at the queen, but Elizabeth knew she had been the target.

  Did Mary know? She was so shortsighted she might have missed Elizabeth's gesture. But Mary had looked at her so oddly when the knife hit the wall. Still she said nothing and remained completely calm as she made her way to the chapel where she had been headed.

  Elizabeth's blood ran cold, expecting that after Mary thanked God for her deliverance from danger she would accuse Elizabeth of spellcasting. But she did not, merely looking puzzled and troubled every time her eye fell on Elizabeth. Elizabeth began to hope that the queen was not sure of what she had seen and then, later, began to wonder whether it c
ould be Mary who had hired the assassin. What other reason could there be for Mary's calm, except that she knew the knife had not been aimed at her?

  No. Such an act was completely out of Mary's nature. And a second attack, soon after the coronation in the beginning of October, convinced Elizabeth that Mary was not directly involved. The second attack failed because Elizabeth now wore a shield when she was taking part in any large assembly. She thought that safer than needing to use a spell like Stickfoot or Cilgwthio, which required a word and a gesture that someone might notice. The shield was invisible and could be assumed or dismissed by a mental command, and she had practiced how to throw up her arms to seem to deflect any missile cast at her.

  Of course, if she were dancing or any gentleman tried to take her hand to kiss it, she had to dismiss the shield. But when the second attack came, Elizabeth had just come up to Mary and bowed. As she rose, a finely dressed man passed behind her. Suddenly he struck her so hard that her slight body fell forward . . . and Mary saw the knife slide across her back without penetrating.

  Elizabeth did not see Mary's reaction. Alana caught Elizabeth's arm (shocked as she was, Elizabeth had dismissed the shield) and cried out about the cut across the back of her lady's dress, thanking God the knife had been deflected by Elizabeth's stays. Lady Alana's explanation was reasonable, but Mary's long glance at Elizabeth was again both puzzled and doubtful.

  This assassin was captured, but without result. Mary told Elizabeth the next day—still looking at her strangely—that the assassin could not betray who had hired him; his tongue had been cut out in the past. Nor was the clothing, suitable for Court, suitable for the person who wore it. His body was marked by scars of whipping, his hands callused by hard labor. Moreover he had died a few hours later for no apparent reason, although the physicians sent to examine him suspected a delayed poison.

  That Mary should be involved in her own servant's death and in such a manner was ridiculous. But someone is trying to kill me, Elizabeth thought.

  Two attempts on her life were enough. Elizabeth asked for permission to leave Court . . . and discovered Mary still believed the attacks had been aimed at her. Convinced she was the target and Elizabeth the intended beneficiary of her death, Mary refused Elizabeth permission to retire from Court. Mary said, with mingled doubt and suspicion, that she wished to keep her sister close by.

  Later Rhoslyn reported to Alana that Mary was greatly disturbed by what had happened. Deep in the back of her mind she feared Elizabeth had used witchcraft to save her life—once by bespelling the knife thrower and again by getting in the way of the knife wielder. But Mary knew she could not prove witchcraft, and besides, if Elizabeth had used spells to save her, was not she also guilty? She could not destroy Elizabeth for saving her, no matter God's law, which said you must not suffer a witch to live.

  Rhoslyn had not meddled with the thought, not being able to reinforce the belief that Elizabeth had saved Mary without adding to Mary's conviction that Elizabeth was a witch. And on mortal Tuesday night in the Inn of Kindly Laughter, Rhoslyn warned Alana that Renard had changed Mary's near gratitude to Elizabeth into more doubt by saying that it was likely Elizabeth had hired the assassins herself. Mary did not, for once, completely believe the ambassador but her gratitude to Elizabeth was now tainted.

  The chancellor, to whom Mary mentioned the matter, did not believe Elizabeth had any connection with the assassins—Rhoslyn made sure he remembered a thorough investigation that did not uncover the smallest hint of evidence of Elizabeth being involved. But Elizabeth's desire to leave Court was very suspicious to him. The only reason he could see for that was to free her to plot rebellion. And there was nothing Rhoslyn could insert into his mind that would shake that conviction.

  Elizabeth walked almost blindly along the corridor in the direction of her own apartments. She knew should be following Mary, meek and bowing no matter what insult the queen visited on her, but she also knew it was useless. All of her skill in dealing with people, all her cleverness about what she said, seemed to desert her as soon as Mary was involved.

  As far back as August, before the worst of the pressure to convert to Catholicism was applied to her and misled by Mary's delight in music and dancing, which was so akin to her own, Elizabeth had misread her sister badly. She had taken far too much pleasure in one evening's entertainment. Stupidly, forgetting she was nearly twenty years younger than her sister and far more attractive, she gaily welcomed the young bloods who flocked around her, replying to their playful challenges with swift repartee.

  Robin Dudley was not among the young men, of course; he was in the Tower and might well be executed for his part in his father's scheme to deny Mary the throne. Elizabeth felt a mild prickle of regret. He was lusty and amusing, full of outrageous jests and warm glances, but although still wanting to believe she and Mary could be comfortable together, Elizabeth was not stupid enough to speak in his favor.

  Thought of Robin Dudley passed easily from her mind as she made lively conversation with the young courtiers and somewhat later danced until the queen ended the evening by retiring to bed. A few times Elizabeth was aware that Mary was watching her; it never occurred to her that Mary watched with envy. Elizabeth always tried to smile at her sister as she danced by. She had meant the smiles to show her gratitude and appreciation; later she learned Mary had taken them as smiles of contemptuous triumph.

  Tonight came a whisper in her mind. Elizabeth did not stop dancing, did not associate her pleasure with trouble even though she felt her heart sink. Lady Alana never used magic unless she had an urgent reason. Thus, when Elizabeth was undressed and her maid of honor deep in a spelled sleep, she was not surprised to see Lady Alana come softly into the room through the dressing room in which Blanche Parry slept. To make Elizabeth even more apprehensive, Alana got into the bed with her so their voices could be kept to a murmur.

  "You need to be less popular," Lady Alana said without any introduction; Elizabeth drew a shocked breath and Lady Alana went on, "She watches you. Perhaps she tells herself that she is not asked to dance because she is the queen, but she sees the way the young men look at you, the eagerness with which they contest with each other to be your partner, and the way few of them look for any other partner when you rest from the dancing."

  Elizabeth had been silent for a long moment and then said bitterly, "That too? I thought at least dancing and light talk of art and music were safe."

  Lady Alana shook her head and said, "Nothing is safe. Everything you do and are grates on the queen. She is envious of your appearance too. I have word from Rhoslyn that Mary asks her ladies if you do not use paint on your complexion and use potions to make your hair so light and bright a red. Perhaps you should ask permission to leave the Court."

  "No!" Elizabeth exclaimed, her voice still too low to be heard a foot away but carrying passionate conviction. "I cannot do that. I must be here at least until the coronation. I must follow in the procession directly behind Mary to be seen by all as the heir presumptive. I must be fixed in that place in the minds of the Court and the people. So far Mary has not dared to displace me. Northumberland's devise to change the succession is too clear in everyone's memory."

  "You cannot count on that for long."

  "I know." Elizabeth shuddered. "Gardiner is already telling her I am a danger to her rule. But there is still time for me to make my mark. Mary is better at defense than attack. She will want to think and pray, ask Emperor Charles's advice, convince herself it is God's will, before she tries to put me aside. Perhaps she does not realize that every time I walk directly behind her or follow her in procession, the people and the Court are more fixed in the idea that I am her heir."

  That much she had accomplished, Elizabeth thought. She was recognized by everyone except the most passionate Catholics as her sister's successor. Now she was ready to leave, ready to flee to safety and freedom . . . and Mary would not let her go and would not believe she was in danger. As she reached her apartment and ma
de her way toward her chair, Elizabeth set her teeth.

  She would not display how tired and frightened she was to all the watching eyes. That she had fixed in the minds of the people and some of the Court her place as heir presumptive was all but useless now. Another chill ran icy fingers along her spine. She was heir presumptive until Mary married and bore a child.

  Marriage was now certain and, Elizabeth knew, probably the worst marriage Mary could make, in a political sense. Elizabeth sank into her chair and watched as her ladies—her own loyal friends and those pressed on her by the queen—took their places around her. Which of them, she wondered, had hastened to carry to Mary's ears the most recent colossal blunder she had made?

  Only last month when she first heard that Mary would choose Philip of Spain as spouse, her political shock opened her mouth before her brain fully accepted what she had been told. Half believing the news was a jest, Elizabeth had denied that Mary had decided on Philip of Spain; even as a jest such a rumor about the queen was a political disaster.

  "No! No," Elizabeth remembered herself crying, half laughing. "The queen could not think of sharing the English throne with the future king of Spain."