Morning brought Brydges to Elizabeth's chamber, to ask angrily why Elizabeth's women were telling so mad a tale.
"Mad?" Elizabeth shrieked, and threw a knife at him. "Look at my bed. Just look at it. Do you think I spend my nights stabbing a dagger into my bedclothes for amusement? I admit that my days here are sorely tedious, but I have not yet come to ruining my sheets and coverlets."
"Madam," Brydges said, staring at the knife, which had cut his hand slightly when he caught it, "forgive me. You were well guarded. How . . . how could this happen?"
"Well guarded . . . Yes, by God's mercy, which alone protected me so that the assassin's knife strokes went awry. Not by the men you set to watch. They are keen to prevent me from escape, but not to protect me from harm. They do not care for me. They did not even stop to question whether I was awake and wished to receive a bottle of wine, they just let a murderer into my chamber."
She burst into tears. Brydges did too, but that was little comfort to Elizabeth. She would not listen to his offers of doubled or tripled guards. A hundred men lined up who did not care a pin for her would not protect her, she shouted. She wailed for her own guardsmen, men who loved her, men who had fought for her and kept her safe since she was three years old.
Soon after noon, Gerrit, Nyle, Shaylor, and Dickson were summoned to watch over Elizabeth's inner chambers. In fact, though they were either bald or greying and thickening around the waists, Brydges was rather impressed with the well-used and well-cared-for arms and armor. He was impressed, also, with how they dealt with their trembling mistress and with the Tower guards who would watch the outer door.
Having pacified Elizabeth, who agreed not to complain to the Council, Brydges had every intention of keeping news of the attack on Elizabeth a secret. However, although Elizabeth was confined to the Tower, her maids of honor were not. They were faithful servants of the queen and carried no gossip or rumor that could comfort Elizabeth back to the Tower, but the tale of the would-be assassin was something else entirely. Such excitement, such an adventure slipped out despite Brydges's warning.
Rumor passed from lip to lip. More unkind glances were cast at Renard. Mary did not believe what those looks said, would not believe that the Imperial ambassador had attempted murder because she would not execute her sister. Nonetheless the excuse that keeping Elizabeth in the Tower was for her own safety grew thinner and more tattered with every new rumor.
The people were tired of bloodletting and opposed to any further punishment of the rebels. Mary was tired of the bloody punishments also, and Gardiner realized that even if he found evidence of Elizabeth's involvement now, to attempt to bring her to trial or to induce Parliament to disinherit her was impossible.
Only a few days after Wyatt's death Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, who was actually guilty of having taken part in the rebellion, was acquitted at his trial. And only eight jurors were willing to condemn Sir James Croft even though he had confessed his guilt. The court dismissed those jurors and found other jurors more compliant, but it was clear that to try Elizabeth would waken a tornado of protest. And the queen was unwilling to go further. Despite Sir James's conviction, he was not executed. Mary pardoned him; she wanted to forget the whole horrible episode.
By the end of April Renard had given up any hope of having Elizabeth killed either by law or by stealth. No matter how the yellow diamond on his finger sparkled and tingled, he could find no path to that goal. As he spoke to Queen Mary, still urging some solution to the problem Elizabeth posed, he often pulled at the ring and twisted it on his finger. One day he pulled it off and dropped it. Then Rhoslyn was able to touch his mind when he was not actually in contact with Vidal's amulet. Swiftly she stabbed into his mind a distaste for the yellow diamond.
He never put the ring back on and for once he slept well without a single dream about Elizabeth. He did think about her, but without any roiling hate, without feeling sick because she still lived. The next morning before Rhoslyn's strike could wear off, he dropped the ring into his small chest of jewels. He never associated the yellow diamond with his hatred of Elizabeth, but suddenly he was able to think about other fates for her than death.
He wrote several of his suggestions to his master. By the beginning of the second week in May he had Emperor Charles's approval and he presented his ideas to Queen Mary. For now, he suggested, since the people were growing angry at Elizabeth's detention in the Tower, she should be sent to house arrest in the country.
"I have tried to do that already," Mary replied through stiff lips. "The great lords who could afford to keep her have refused to do me that particular service."
"Madam, I do not blame them," Renard said, smiling. "It would be an onerous burden. But why should the lords pay? Let Lady Elizabeth support herself. She will then have less money available for assisting rebels. If the pecuniary burden is removed, you can find a man totally loyal to yourself. He need not be a great lord, so long as he is a gentleman."
Mary looked at him for a moment with a kind of wondering disbelief and then with dawning joy. "Of course. Of course. My dear Ambassador. You are always of the greatest help. Why did I never think of that myself? And I know just the man. He was the very first to come to support me after Northumberland crowned poor Jane. And he is a man who will follow an order exactly, regardless of clever reasons or enchanting pleas—" Mary's lips twisted in distaste "—why he should not."
Rhoslyn was sitting at a tactful distance, supposedly out of hearing, with Mary's other ladies. She kept her eyes on the book of sermons she was seemingly reading, but if anyone could have seen them, they would have noted her ears were perked sharply forward. Most of the "smell" of Vidal's presence was gone from Renard, but enough remained to make Rhoslyn uneasy. She listened more intently than ever for every mention of Elizabeth's name and within days learned that Elizabeth was to be moved to Woodstock, an ancient and unvisited royal manor, on the nineteenth of May.
Soon the plans were approved by the Council. Gardiner was content because Woodstock was a royal manor, an honorable residence Elizabeth's supporters would accept. Renard was content because the place was old and run down. Elizabeth might fall ill and die there or become resentful enough to try to escape. When all was settled, Rhoslyn asked leave to visit Adjoran, Mercer.
"He has such fabrics as no one has ever seen before," she said, smiling hopefully up at Mary from her curtsey. "You remember the lace shawl. And with the arrival of the prince so soon . . . I wish to be sure my gowns are fine enough. I must choose the fabrics now so that the dressmakers have time to do their best."
Mary smiled indulgently, but a small frown creased her brow. "Yes, the shawl is beautiful, but to honor the prince perhaps you might first examine what the Spanish merchants have brought."
If she went to the Spaniards, she would have to buy from them and would lose her excuse to talk to Denoriel. "I have always bought from Adjoran," Rhoslyn said sadly. "Would it not be unkind to take my custom from him when so many others have gone to the Spaniards?" Then she smiled again, adding, "But I will have all my new gowns in the Spanish style. I find it most pleasing."
Mary put out her hand for Rhoslyn to kiss. "You are a most faithful friend, Rosamund. I do not forget that you rode with me when I escaped from Northumberland's men and stood by my side when many ladies fled Wyatt's attack. Indeed, you shall go to your own favorite merchant."
"You are always so kind, madam," Rhoslyn said, kissing the hand and then backing away as she sent the air spirit to Denoriel.
Mary was kind, but Rhoslyn was very tired of the queen's Spanish obsession. And when Elizabeth had been sent to the Tower, Denoriel, almost out of his mind with fear, had begged her to watch for the smallest hint of execution or assassination, and he had bound an air spirit to her to give him warning if she perceived a threat. Rhoslyn did not think Mary would condone assassination, but Denoriel was in such a state that his anxiety and suspicion caught her and would not let her rest.
Rhoslyn had managed to escape t
he mortal world almost every night, but it had not done her much good. The domains of the Bright Court were thin of power so her renewal was not complete. And Rhoslyn had discovered a few mortal months past, just before Wyatt's rebellion, that she was debarred from truly living among the Unseleighe ever again.
So far none of the Bright Court had been overtly unpleasant to Rhoslyn. Mostly they scarcely noticed her, but as the anger and dissatisfaction with Queen Mary's choice of husband diminished the general joy in England, power diminished in the Bright Court. Rhoslyn had heard complaints while walking in the public places of Elfhame Logres. The complaints were not directed at her, but Rhoslyn felt guilty about absorbing power that she felt was not rightfully hers.
To avoid taking from the limited supply of power for the Bright Court Sidhe, Rhoslyn had Gated to Caer Mordwyn. There she found power in plenty; the atmosphere was rich with fear as well as pain, anger and misery. Biting her lip in miserable expectation of the discomfort and distaste the sour/bitter power would cause her but needing the strength so freely available, Rhoslyn drew on it.
Her hand flew to her throat. She would have screamed, but she could not make a sound, could not breathe; her whole body was torn and pierced by the pain that had leaked from the mortal world. It was fortunate she had not moved far from the Gate and was able to fling herself onto the Gate platform although vision and sensation were fading.
Harry—
It was not a destination but a mental cry for help. And the Gate at Caer Mordwyn was capable of responding to a desperate need. That was a new ability Vidal had incorporated into his Gates since he realized what his past carelessness had cost him in subjects. He had decided that any creature he had punished so severely it could not think of a destination but still managed to get to the Gate was strong enough to deserve to live.
Darkness and falling . . . Rhoslyn did not know whether it was her failing senses or the operation of the Gate, but in the next instant, when her lungs filled with clean air and her eyes opened, she saw the sparkling bright moss and twinkling sky of Elfhame Elder-Elf.
She could breathe now, but was so weak that she could not stand up. She barely managed to creep to the edge of the platform. Harry must be here, she thought, with Elidir or Mechain or one of the others who had helped him rid Alhambra of evil, but the small, pretty dwellings seemed to be miles away across the flower-starred moss. And she did not know whether she would be welcome in this elfhame. Usually she met Harry at the Inn of Kindly Laughter and he took her to other domains in the Bright Court.
Tears burned in her eyes and she closed them, only to be startled by the pressure of a soft nose and a sharp nip. Her eyes snapped open and she sat rigid, wide-eyed and openmouthed with shock.
"Talog?" she whispered.
For a long time Rhoslyn had done her best not to think about the not-horses. Every time they crossed her mind she had become sick with worry. She had no idea what to do about Talog and Torgen. They were dangerous and certainly would not be welcome in any Seleighe domain. She knew they should be destroyed, but she could not!
Vicious as they were, the not-horses were faithful to her and to Pasgen. They had fought for them and saved them from attacks by the creatures of the Dark Court. Some would say they were only made things, but over time they had become more and more real. Now, knowing she could never live in the Unseleighe domains again, how could she arrange their care?
One red eye was fixed on her (no horse could look at anything close with both eyes), the red mouth was open showing the gleaming white teeth, one clawed foot impatiently raked the ground. But the foot did not strike out to disembowel her, the teeth had nipped very gently rather than tearing a gobbet of flesh from her arm.
"Talog?"
Tears ran over her lower lids and down her cheeks. Had her need for help to get to Harry been powerful enough to somehow summon the not-horse? But it was impossible! How could a construct have found her? How could a construct have directed a Gate to bring it to Elfhame Elder-Elf?
Rhoslyn struggled to her feet, reaching out for the arched and shining black neck . . . and found herself somehow mounted. Only there were no reins in her hands, no spurs on her heels. Before she could scream with terror . . . What would an uncontrolled Talog do in the peaceful elfhame? They were at the door of a large cottage . . . At least, she was at the door of the cottage. Of Talog, there was no sign at all.
The door opened and Harry came rushing out. "Rhoslyn!" he exclaimed. And put an arm around her asking, "My dear, what has happened? What is wrong?"
"I am no longer Unseleighe," she whispered.
Harry pulled her closer in a warm hug and laughed softly. "If that is a surprise to you, Rhoslyn, let me tell you that you are the only one who could be surprised."
"But I could not draw power in Caer Mordwyn!" she said, swallowing hard as tears began to run down her cheeks again. "Oh, Harry, what am I to do? I have no home, no place to go. And it is wrong for me to take power from Seleighe domains when there is so little."
"What do you mean you have no place to go?" Harry asked, raising a hand to wipe her tears away. "Rhoslyn, don't cry. I'll make it right for you, I promise."
"Dear Harry . . . But I don't see how you can make this right. I have not liked Unseleighe power for a long time, but this time when I tried to draw . . . I strangled! I felt as if I had been stabbed and torn with knives and swords. If I cannot draw power . . . I . . . will die."
"No you will not." A second voice, a little thin with age but not at all uncertain drew Rhoslyn's eyes.
On the step before the door of the cottage stood the oldest Sidhe Rhoslyn had ever seen. Her hair was so white and so thin it was like a silver mist; her face was actually graven with lines like an aged mortal. But her eyes, though their green was faded with time, were bright and her expression was more alive than many of the bored ladies of the Bright Court.
"But is it not wrong for me to draw power here when there may not be enough for those whose place this is?"
Mechain wrinkled her nose. "You have as much right to what there is as any other Sidhe . . . and more right than some, I would say. You are at least trying to protect dear Elizabeth, who will bring joy back to England and make the Bright Court rich again. All those others do is complain. Come in, my dear, and I will explain to you."
Harry urged Rhoslyn toward the three steps up to the small entryway. She was trembling and he supported her, asking "How did you get here, Rhoslyn? Did you walk from the Gate?"
Her eyes went wide. "No. Oh, the strangest thing happened to me. I cannot believe it, and yet if it was not Talog who carried me, how did I get here?"
"Talog?"
"My not-horse." Rhoslyn smiled slightly at Harry's puzzled expression. When he had helped her to a soft chair and settled her into it, she went on, "Pasgen and I . . ." Then her voice faltered. How did it come about that in her extremity she called for Harry instead of her brother? The obvious answer made her blush and continue hastily, "We desired elvensteeds, but you know that elvensteeds will not live in the Dark domains. And there is no way to compel an elvensteed."
"So you made not-horses?" Mechain, who had come in quietly from another room, handed her a beautiful goblet. "Drink this. It will make you feel better."
Rhoslyn sipped. "We were young and I was—" she shrugged "—I was so proud of my newly mastered ability as a maker. I made Talog and Torgen—Pasgen's steed. They were a terrible mixture of beauty and horror . . . Vicious, dangerous, but faithful to Pasgen and me and for constructs, quite intelligent." Her voice shook on the last words. "I don't know what to do about them now."
Mechain cocked her head like an inquisitive bird. "You say this Talog brought you here from the Gate?"
Rhoslyn nodded and described what had happened. Mechain smiled and a mischievous glint lit her faded eyes. "Don't worry about them any more. I promise you the problem will resolve itself." Then she frowned. "Now, your problem with using Dark Court power is lack of practice. You used to enjoy the bite of
the pain and rage it carries. You have just become unaccustomed and, because you don't like it any more, you tried to draw too much all at once to get it over with quickly. Go someplace—"
"Where did you wish to go, Mistress Rosamund? Do you want a horse or a litter or an escort?"
The sharp impatience in the voice jerked Rhoslyn out of her memories and she realized the gentleman usher of the outer chamber must have asked her the question more than once. Probably he had asked separately about each form of transport and she had just stared at him.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I have been trying to think what would be best. A horse, I suppose. The horse will not mind waiting no matter how long it takes me to choose the fabrics and if I must go on to the warehouse . . . Yes, a horse."
And Less Than Kind Page 48