Early in February Roy Gomez, Philip's closest friend, had arrived in England to say that Philip would soon follow. After a few days of Mary's excited concentration only on what she would do and say when Philip came, Rhoslyn decided that she could more profitably spend the next few mortal months playing with the self-willed mist and developing the domain she already loved. Harry would be there too.
The more Mary talked about Philip, excusing his infidelities and worrying about his needs for war, the more Rhoslyn thought of Harry, of his goodness and honesty, of his eager lovemaking and solid fidelity. She had not seen much of him recently. When the Bright Court was strong, she had Gated back Underhill almost every night. Now she did not dare make the transit often.
Poor Harry. When she came he complained of how much he missed her—and proved it with his ardent caresses—and then begged her not to come because the Gates to the mortal world were unstable and might be unsafe. But, Rhoslyn thought, if Philip is coming, Mary will not need or want my support. I can ask for a long leave—three months or even six—so I will only use the Gate once to reach Underhill and once to return here.
A week later—Philip was expected in March—Rhoslyn did ask for leave. But she made the mistake of saying Mary would be so happy and so occupied in her husband's presence that she would not want too many ladies taking up her time. To her surprise, Mary's face clouded.
"You do not like Philip. You, too, hate the Spanish."
"Oh no, madam!" Rhoslyn exclaimed. She was horrified at how Mary had managed to read the truth; Rhoslyn did not like Philip. She knew his unfailing politeness covered a strong distaste for his adoring wife—a distaste that grew stronger as Mary's love grew more intense. "How could anyone dislike so kind and courteous a king? I only want to be out of your way."
"You are never in my way Rosamund," Mary said fondly. "And you . . . you . . . somehow talking with you makes me feel calm, even better than that elixir Susan Clarencieux uses. You know I will give you leave if you really need to see to your brother's lands and people, but if you were thinking you would oblige me by going away . . . No. I would rather . . ." she hesitated and a look of anguish briefly twisted her face. "If there is war. If Philip must leave . . . I would rather you were here."
"Of course, Your Majesty. Of course I will be here."
The effect of that talk at the end of February was stronger than Rhoslyn had expected. Mary more frequently asked Rosamund to read to her, to pray with her. And even after Philip was back in England, Rosamund and Jane Dormer were the two ladies most often gestured to accompany the queen when she walked and talked with her husband.
It was hard on poor Rhoslyn, who could "hear" Philip's disdainful thoughts about Mary as a sort of undercurrent to what he said aloud. Not that most of his thoughts were a secret. There were times when he openly threatened Mary that if she did not bring her Council to heel and make them declare war, he would have no purpose in England and would leave.
Those times it took all of Rhoslyn's self-control not to reach out and just squeeze Philip's innards so he would suffer as he was making his poor wife suffer. By mid-April, however, external circumstances had come to Mary's aid. A new revolt was brewing, its purpose to prevent Mary from drawing England into a Spanish war. But the rebels landed in Scotland and were threatening to invade England with French and Scottish troops.
That was enough to raise the north country—not in support of the rebellion but to resist any French or Scottish army. The rebels were captured without the smallest difficulty and executed, but the people had been roused to indignation against the French. As reluctant as the Council was to be drawn into the Spanish war, the French insult must be avenged.
More money and more men were offered to Philip, but all through May the Council still resisted making an open declaration of war. By the end of May, Mary grew more strident, acting very much as her father would have done. She talked loudly of dismissing all but a few Council members, keeping only those who would obey her. Then she had them summoned one by one and she threatened them with the loss of their goods and estates if they would not consent to the will of her husband.
Rhoslyn was troubled by Mary's new vehemence, but she put it down to Philip's insistence. And, indeed, once the Council yielded and declared war against France on June seventh, Mary ceased to threaten them. Her thoughts and attention were taken up completely by the plans for war. Mary gave orders for securing the Scots border, for outfitting the fleet—and, to raise additional money, because she could force no more loans nor, Parliament not being in session, raise more taxes, she began to sell crown lands.
But nothing Mary had done or promised to do would keep her husband in England, and as soon as he received the news that Roy Gomez had brought the Spanish fleet carrying more troops and more gold, into the channel, Philip prepared to leave. All he could get had been wrung out of Mary and England; he offered no assurances of his return. When the war was over, he said vaguely; when he had settled the unrest that a war caused; perhaps some day . . .
Finally, on July seventh, Philip set sail from Calais. Mary retained her dignity until he was gone and then retreated to what privacy she could find and wept. Now she wanted no human comfort; for days she drank Susan Clarencieux's potion and slept. By the end of the month, good news from France seemed to bring her back to the world. St. Quentin was taken from the French with the capture of thousands of common soldiers, dozens of the most distinguished nobles, and the constable of France, Montmorency himself.
The good news buoyed Mary's spirits all through August and made her ladies cheerful and hopeful—all except Rhoslyn. She was more and more and unhappy. Something about Mary was making her uneasy. There was something just beyond her ability to sense clearly, as if a perfectly clean surface somehow gave a sense of being greasy. Perhaps, Rhoslyn told herself, she was, without realizing it, resenting the fact that the queen had grown less and less fond of Rosamund's company. During the last month of Philip's presence in England, Mary often sent her on errands or maneuvered so that Rosamund was seated well away from Mary's inner circle.
Rhoslyn was beginning to think longingly of asking again for permission to leave the Court, but some uneasy presentiment made her need to watch Mary, who was behaving in uncharacteristic ways. For one thing, all the doubts the kindhearted queen had begun to feel about the burning of heretics seemed gone. Some months earlier her doubts had driven her to write to Emperor Charles to ask if she should continue the policy, since it seemed to be encouraging rather than destroying heresy. Recently Mary had been eagerly reading the reports of the executions and even writing to her bishops to be expeditious in their questioning and punishment.
In September Rhoslyn's long ears caught Mary praying for the hope that had been rising in her to be true—that this time she truly be with child. As unlikely as that might be, it was possible. During the time Philip had been trying to make Mary force England into the war, he had slept with her most nights. Rhoslyn had not been Underhill for some time and had had no opportunity to consult the FarSeers. What if the Visions had changed?
There was no easy way for Rhoslyn to go Underhill. She surely was not about to try to build a Gate just to consult the Black Pool or the Bright Court's lens. However, if Mary was truly with child, it might be worth the effort, and it would be easy enough to find out. Last time she had known there was no pregnancy merely by touching Mary.
This time Rhoslyn had to find an excuse, since Mary no longer offered her hand to Rosamund to be kissed. Not such a difficult problem; Rhoslyn found a solution that very same afternoon. Mary had given Rosamund a book of prayers to be said in times of hope. Now Rosamund would ask Mary which prayers she felt were specially appropriate—not mentioning the pregnancy, of course, perhaps hope for victory in the war.
Shockingly, touching Mary was not so easy as Rhoslyn had thought. She found in herself the greatest reluctance to approach the queen. And when she did start toward Mary in spite of her reluctance, she felt as if she were thru
sting her body through resisting water. Mary eyed her with definite wariness, which puzzled Rhoslyn. Mary might shift her favorites now and again, but why should she be wary of Rosamund, who had been her faithful servant for near twenty years?
Perhaps in an attempt to warn Rosamund off, Mary turned her head away. Doggedly, Rhoslyn continued to advance, one step, two . . . holding out the book of prayers, which was suddenly heavy as iron. Then she felt as if her foot was sticking to the carpet.
"Madam—" she said, thrusting herself forward against the pressure, just as Mary rose from her seat and took a step sideways.
"I cannot—" Mary began.
And they collided.
Rhoslyn screamed, fell to the floor, and burst into tears. Mary stood over her for a moment, eyes wide and mouth open. Then she bent down and put her hand on Rhoslyn's shoulder. Rhoslyn cried out again and shrank away.
"What is it? My dear Rosamund, what is wrong?"
Curled in on herself, Rhoslyn fought her sense of horror, forced herself to lie still under Mary's touch, to sob aloud only, "A pain, madam. Oh, I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon."
Mary turned and gestured to two of her women. "Help Rosamund to her chamber and send someone for her servant." Then she bent over Rhoslyn again and stroked her arm. "Shall I send my physician to you, Rosamund my dear?"
"No, I thank you, madam," Rhoslyn said, fighting her desire to shudder and pushing herself upright. "I am better already. This is only an attack of the illness I used to suffer from when I was anxious about my brother. I have not had an attack in so long, I had almost forgotten the symptoms. But I do have a medicine for it. Only the pain recurs at unexpected times. I am afraid I will need to be away from the Court for a week or two."
"Of course, Rosamund," Mary said, not smiling but exuding a sense of relief and satisfaction as her women helped Rhoslyn to her feet. "Take as long as you need."
And yet that relief seemed apart from Mary herself, who also was filled with concern—as if Mary's heart warred with . . . something else.
Rhoslyn would have fled the palace at once, on foot if no better way was possible, but the queen had already given orders for a litter to take her to her accustomed lodging in London and for attendants to see she was well received and well cared for.
The next day, having rid herself of the people Mary had sent with her, Rhoslyn came down from her chambers in the Golden Bull. She walked slowly, holding to the stair rail, aware of a desperate need to reach Denoriel and a choking panic because she could not think of how to reach him. The air spirit that had once attended her to carry messages was gone, too feeble and faded to withstand the inimical conditions of the mortal world. All she could decide was to go to his house in Bucklersbury. It was unlikely he would be there, but perhaps Joseph Clayborne would know where he was.
How to get to Bucklersbury? Order a chair?
"Madam," the landlord's voice was deferential but uncertain.
Rhoslyn realized she had reached the foot of the stairs and stopped there, still clutching the end of the stair rail. She looked toward the man, who was holding out his arm for her to take, as if he thought she needed help to walk.
"Are you sure you wish to ride, madam?" he asked anxiously. "The horse—" he looked over his shoulder out the open door.
Past the landlord's bulk, Rhoslyn caught a glimpse of a shining black hide, an irritably stamping hoof. She barely bit back a cry of joy and relief.
"—looks to be . . . ah . . . rather spirited." The landlord went on. "It bit the hostler and kicked at anyone else who approached."
Smiling brilliantly although she felt more like staring with her mouth hanging open, Rhoslyn said, "I am accustomed to Talog's ways." And she directed all the power she had to invisibly changing her skirt into a divided form for riding.
"But are you well enough, madam?" the landlord asked more directly. "You were coming down the stairs so slowly . . ."
Rhoslyn had been a very welcome guest for many years, taking and promptly paying for the most expensive lodgings in the inn. He did not want to see her dashed to the ground and injured or killed.
"Only because I was thinking so deeply, good host," Rhoslyn replied. "Hold my rooms although I am not sure I will return for dinner or even to spend the night. I have a visit to make and business to do in the country."
Then she was out of the inn and had flung her arms around Talog's neck. "How did you come here?" She whispered. "How did you know I needed you when I did not even know it myself?"
The ostlers were standing well back and Rhoslyn wondered how she was to mount. Underhill, she was just suddenly in the saddle but that would be a disaster in the mortal world. Talog nudged her firmly, prodding her toward the mounting block, and Rhoslyn could only shake her head at her own bemusement. And when she was ahorse, Talog set out at a gentle pace for the main road on which the inn was sited.
They soon came to the edge of the West Chepe, where Talog turned aside into a narrow lane. Then the world seemed to blur around her. Rhoslyn was sure the elvensteed had not Gated because there was no darkness, no vertiginous drop. Instead she felt wind brushing her face and lifting her hair. Then they were on the grounds of a small but elegant manor house. And Miralys was grazing in a field bordered by a high stone wall.
Rhoslyn was deposited at the door—without any idea of how she dismounted—which opened to reveal Denoriel. "What is it?" he asked, drawing her inside and closing the door. "What is wrong? Can Mary be dead?"
"Worse," Rhoslyn said. "She is possessed."
Chapter 40
Having led Rhoslyn into a small parlor, seated her, and asked whether she wanted food or drink, Denoriel listened carefully to the tale she told. She described her slow growing uneasiness, Mary's slight but significant change in character, her reluctance to approach the queen and the horror that had seized her when they touched by accident.
"There is an Evil growing within her. It is still weak, but it is growing stronger day by day," Rhoslyn finished. "We must do something, but what? What can we do?"
"First we need Hafwen," Denoriel said. "Not that I do not trust you, Rhoslyn, but she is an expert in judging evil." He hesitated, then shook his head impatiently. "No, first we need to get one of the tokens I made for Elizabeth. If you have that and can lay it by an outer wall in Mary's bedchamber, I can build a Gate right into the room. Then I can freeze everyone there, and bring Hafwen and whoever else we need through the Gate."
Tears rose to Rhoslyn's eyes. "But Denoriel, is there power enough to build a Gate from Underhill to Mary's chamber? And will the Gate be firm enough to let us all come through?"
"Yes," Denoriel said, his expression rather grim. "There is more than enough power in the mortal world. And for this purpose I can use it."
"Don't," Rhoslyn said. "Elizabeth will kill me—and do not tell me that she will not be able to reach me. If harm comes to you through me, Elizabeth will somehow tap the power she has within her, drive a path through to Underhill, and harrow Underhill until I am butchered meat."
The grimness went out of Denoriel's expression as he grinned. That was his Elizabeth! A moment later he was sober again. "You are sure?" he asked Rhoslyn. "This is not some evil growing in the queen's heart because she knows she has lost her husband for good?"
"No." The color drained from Rhoslyn's face. "When I touched her . . . It was horrible . . . horrible. This was nothing of human hate or rage. This . . . it was like what had been in Alhambra before Harry and the elder Sidhe . . ."
Her voice drifted away and Denoriel watched fear and anguish chase each other in her expression. She clutched her arms around herself and began to shiver.
"Can it be that?" she whispered. "Harry told me that the evil disappeared from Alhambra altogether. They had bound it into that strange altar stone with magic sigils of iron and silver. They were going to try to send the stone into the Void, but one day when they came to check all was well, all the sigils were missing and the Evil was gone also. Could it have got lo
ose? Wait . . . wait. Remember Pasgen and Hafwen were pursuing some mad thing that was killing and destroying without reason . . ." She looked up into Denoriel's face.
"I do not know," he said. "I have given more attention to the mortal world than to Underhill for some time. I remember Harry saying something about going to Oberon with the tale of the missing Evil. But then Oberon left us and Elizabeth was suspected of treason." He stared at Rhoslyn for a moment and then said slowly, "But if that Evil has somehow found its way into the queen of England . . ."
Rhoslyn swallowed hard. "I cannot be sure, but I think it must be. It was . . . it was as if all the prayers Mary said were twisted awry, as if her God was twisted awry. Was that not what destroyed Alhambra and El Dorado? Priests from the mortal world who cursed those domains because they did not conform to their ideas?"
"But how did it come to Mary?"
"Vidal . . ." Rhoslyn breathed. "Remember that Pasgen told us what had happened in the gnome's domain, how the Evil had come and killed and destroyed and then suddenly was gone. Remember Pasgen said he had traced it through the Gate to the gnome's domain but it had not gone out through the Gate. He and Hafwen searched, but it was truly gone."
And Less Than Kind Page 68