By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  What Denoriel had been much tempted to do ever since he left Cecil’s house was to ride Miralys to Enfield and tell Elizabeth of the various forces he had assembled to give her her heart’s desire. The temptation to see her smile at him, to feel her take his hand or kiss his cheek in thanks, was inordinately strong.

  Nonetheless, he knew it was the wrong thing to do. Elizabeth, knowing what she wanted was near to hand, would be impatient and nagging. And the best laid plans that he and the queen and Denny and even Cecil made, might be turned amiss by those who wished Elizabeth ill but could hide their purposes under what would seem like conservatism.

  “Well, that is true,” he said reluctantly. “But cloth? Is it not too late to start making garments?”

  “Some bolts of brocade will be useful, but mostly we need special embroidered pieces for stomachers and trimmings. Fur, too, if you can get some from the Hanse.”

  They had reached the tavern and were recognized and led at once to the parlor off the main room. The parlor was well filled, although a table near a window was found for them. Denoriel stretched his ears to hear what was being said, but it was nothing new, mostly speculation on what would happen once young Edward was crowned. On one subject all were agreed, however; the young king was universally regarded with hope and love as most promising.

  Having assured himself that no new rumors which might lead to unrest were stirring, Denoriel gave his attention to the problem of securing the house on Bucklersbury.

  Dinner came and they ate slabs of beef roasted only to blood-tinged rareness, steak and kidney pie, pork pasty, bowls of well-buttered turnips flavored with wild onion and garlic, dandelion greens cooked with salt and fat bacon, supported by loaves of new-baked dark bread, heavy and moist.

  With most of his mind on Clayborne’s suggestions for the kind of goods he most needed and his proposal to hire two night guards if, and only if, he saw more suspicious attention given to the house, Denoriel was hardly aware of what he was eating. It was, indeed, only when he and Joseph were walking back to the house that he realized his Elven spirit should have been horrified by the crudity of his meal. Only it wasn’t.

  Thinking back, the strong flavors were still appealing—more appealing than the subtle delicacy of food Underhill. Definitely, Denoriel thought, grinning internally as he parted from Joseph at the foot of the stair, he was being corrupted by his long sojourn in the mortal world. He was actually grinning when he reached his bedchamber, ostensibly to change his clothing for traveling, but really to Gate Underhill. He was no longer hungry, of course, but he was looking forward to future meals.

  Chapter 7

  Vidal Dhu was in a foul mood. The dismembered parts of a half-dozen imps strewed the floor of his workroom. Five had come to their well-deserved fate through their inability to find Pasgen even though Vidal had reproduced for them not only Pasgen’s appearance but the essence of Pasgen’s being … as closely as he could remember it. But the imps failed him, time and time again. All his efforts had been useless and fury and frustration had brought death and destruction. Now he could not get an imp to approach him.

  Usually imps came to him willingly because they enjoyed the pain and misery his messages caused. What was even more delightful so far as they were concerned, Vidal never minded that they inflicted their own small tortures on those to whom they carried his commands—provided, of course that the beings in question were weaker than the imps, for imps were cowards at heart. Nor did they usually care when he injured or killed one of them, since those that survived were allowed to tear what was left of his victim apart and eat it.

  Normally, that is. Only now, his fury was warning them away.

  That, of course, made him even more furious. Why am I so surrounded by incompetence? It was certainly not his fault that the imps were stupid, and failed in anything more complicated than bearing a simple message. It was maddening that even when they brought him an answer to the message, it was only bad news. Of course he was furious! Any rational being would be!

  That was what had befallen the sixth imp. It had brought bad news from the servant in Fagildo Otstargi’s house in London. Vidal ground his teeth and kicked the pieces of imp around the room, stamping down on one torso that quivered although its legs and one arm were gone.

  Why had not that stupid servant of Otstargi’s warned him that Baron Wriothesley, the tool he had so carefully shaped and controlled, had been more damaged by King Henry’s death than he expected? In his heart, Vidal knew why; the servant was so mind-blocked he was far beyond thinking—but Vidal did not want to acknowledge that. Acknowledging that a failure was his and his alone was not an option.

  Idiot servant! Vidal told himself he would tear the stupid mortal apart … He drew a long breath. No, he would not. Mortal servants were not so easy to replace as imps. Grinding his teeth again, he Gated himself out of the hidden workroom into Fagildo Otstargi’s house in London.

  As he arrived, Vidal took on the appearance of Otstargi—not so much different from his own except for the round ears and eye pupils. As he checked the appearance briefly in the mirror in the bedchamber, his breath drew in sharply. Had Pasgen chosen Otstargi’s appearance deliberately to look like him? Had Pasgen planned to blame him for any crimes committed against Oberon’s laws? If so, he had another bone to pick with that overindulged Sidhe.

  After one last, fuming glance into the mirror, Vidal went out the door. He walked down the stairs and into the chamber Otstargi used to see clients and rang the bell that sat on the table.

  It was fortunate that the servant was so slow. In one way it irritated Vidal further; in another, however, it reminded him that the servant was scarcely more than half alive and gave him time to control his rage. Eventually the servant shambled into the chamber. He showed no surprise at his master’s presence, although Vidal had not played Otstargi in months. Had Pasgen been there?

  Vidal was not concerned that the servant would lie; he would have no chance to do so. With utter indifference to any further damage to the servant, Vidal stripped his mind of all that had happened since he was last there: First, Pasgen had not returned to the house at any time. Second, Baron Wriothesley had come twice in the past week to ask for Otstargi; the second time he had struck the servant for not being able to tell him when Otstargi would return. Third, four other messages were waiting.

  Being told to do so, the servant brought the salver on which the messages lay. Vidal opened them swiftly and breathed out quietly, his mood somewhat improved. All except one of the messages had been written after King Henry’s death had been announced. That was very good. No one would know how long he had really been absent. Otstargi could write to each of them, saying he had returned as quickly as he could when the news of the king’s death came to him and offer appointments the next day.

  The three clients, useful but not really molded tools so that their dependence on him was not great, would accept that excuse for his lack of response for a few days. From three of them he could garner valuable news … He made a sour moue. It was likely he would need it since he could not lay hands on Pasgen and was forced to deal with Henry’s courtiers by himself.

  The last message had been written very early in the morning of the twenty-eighth of January, although it had been delivered later in the day. Henry had died only hours before and the death had deliberately been concealed. Vidal noted the name with care: Richard Rich. Not previously a client. Vidal’s lips curved. Where had Rich got Otstargi’s name? No matter. It was clear to Vidal that Rich was a man whose own interests came first with him. Such a man was most easily bent, although likely he could not be broken. Vidal’s lips twisted. Of course not. There was nothing in the man to break.

  Vidal wrote carefully to Rich, saying he would be honored to meet him at any time Rich proposed. To Wriothesley his note was more abrupt, saying he had returned only that morning but if the chancellor needed so badly to talk to him, he could make time that evening. He was not really surprised to hear the bell an
d then the servant’s slow steps less than an hour after the servant had dispatched various street boys with the message.

  “That will be Baron Wriothesley,” Vidal called to the servant as soon as he heard the front door open. To that stupid human it would sound as if Vidal had predicted his too-early arrival. Ironic, really, that Vidal did have arcane powers—they simply did not include FarSeeing.

  “Where have you been, man?” Wriothesley gasped as he came in the door to Otstargi’s closet. “King Henry died—”

  “Yes, I knew when he died,” Vidal interrupted, “but only when it actually happened. Three times before this he had trembled on the brink. Twice I started back to England, only to have him greeting ambassadors the next day, so I am afraid I discounted much of the news of his failing.”

  “What am I to do? That upstart Edward Seymour is trying to seize the whole government, just because he is the king’s uncle. He is at heart a rabid reformer. He will drive us even further from the good old faith …”

  After urging him to sit down, Vidal let Wriothesley talk. Let him speak with indignation about how Seymour and Paget had concealed the king’s death until Seymour could get the new little king into his own hands. It was all news that Vidal could use and essentially he was in sympathy with Wriothesley. Vidal did not like Edward Seymour any better than Wriothesley did, though for entirely different reasons.

  After Henry had married Jane Seymour and she had borne him a living son, Vidal had made a tentative approach to Edward Seymour. The Seymours were in fact upstarts, as Edward Seymour had only been ennobled as earl of Hertford, after his sister’s marriage. Otstargi’s approach should have been welcomed by one who had so few friends and connections in Court; instead it had been coldly rejected. Well, Vidal thought, Seymour would have to go.

  Then Vidal jerked out of his own thoughts to full attention to what Wriothesley was saying. He had been bemoaning his opposition to Seymour and that he might lose his place as chancellor. But he had had a brilliant idea of how to redeem himself. He was formulating a proposal to the earl of Arran, the Scottish regent, and to Mary of Guise, the infant Scottish princess’ mother, that he believed would get little Mary to be Edward’s wife.

  “You fool!” Vidal snarled. “What have you done?”

  “I am not a fool!” Wriothesley snapped back. “Oh, yes, you can often see that this or that may happen, but it is I who again and again have arranged for the happening to take place. It will be best for this nation, and for Scotland too, that Princess Mary wed King Edward. The endless wars that drain our substance will be ended. By my plan, England will not interfere in the Scottish government and the Scots will be free to form their own Church, which will please the earl of Arran, but Mary will be raised Catholic, which will pacify her mother. God willing, Mary will draw her husband to the true faith, and who cares if the Scots go to Hell for …”

  Wriothesley had got this far in his explanation because Vidal was speechless with rage. He actually had to clench his fists to curb the simmering power from blasting Wriothesley, but he dared not do that until he knew how far this proposal had gone. It was, he feared, something the earl of Arran would be happy to embrace. Mary of Guise less so, even if the baby princess was raised a Catholic. Still, if enough pressure was brought to bear on her, she might agree.

  Mary would try to resist; she wished to tie Scotland even closer to France with a marriage of the princess into the French royal house. Vidal was an enthusiastic supporter of this idea, which would ensure the war between England and Scotland would continue, probably long into the future. There were French princes enough to spare, but Vidal had high hopes that Francis, the heir to the throne, would be chosen, that Scotland would thus be irrevocably tied to French policy, which was most often opposed to England.

  “Whom have you told of this plan?” Vidal’s voice grated.

  “Paget for one and several others, who all thought very well of it,” Wriothesley said resentfully.

  Vidal barely refrained from spitting in Wriothesley’s face. If Paget knew and approved of Wriothesley’s plan, there was little hope that the plan would not be brought up in Council, which meant news of it would surely be carried to Scotland. And without him there, stiffening Arran’s spine and urging Mary of Guise to stand her ground, who knew but that the Scottish government would agree to the marriage.

  “Perhaps they did,” Vidal snarled, “but it is not good for you. You have paid me to look out for your interests and I have done so. This plan, whatever its effect on England and Scotland—I have not considered that—will ruin you!”

  “Nonsense,” Wriothesley said. “If it is my plan and all think it good, how can it harm me?”

  “Will Seymour be pleased that the other Councilors wish to follow your lead in this matter? And how long do you think it will remain your plan rather than Hertford’s? He will be doubly eager to be rid of you to remove you from the memories of the other Councilors.”

  There was a silence while Wriothesley considered and then, weakly, he asked, “Then what am I to do?”

  Vidal wanted desperately to tell the stupid peacock to get out of his sight and stay out of it, but if he did, his other clients would feel he was disloyal and abandon him. And if Wriothesley was out of the government, he would need news. After a moment of staring into nothing, he shook his head.

  “I do not think it matters what you do now, Baron Wriothesley,” Vidal said, at least getting some satisfaction from the expression of dismay on Wriothesley’s face. He could not leave it there, however, or Wriothesley would rush off to tell all the people who knew he went to Otstargi that the soothsayer would desert them at the first difficulty. “I am sorry,” he continued, “that you will likely lose your office—I can do nothing about that. However, I have this comfort for you. Hertford will not rule England for long”—if Wriothesley took that as a prediction, that was fine, since Vidal intended to see that Hertford did not rule long—“and if the other Councilors remember you opposed Hertford’s policies you may well come back into office.”

  Wriothesley was silent for a moment and then looked down at his hands. “There is no way that I can hold my position?”

  Swept with irritation, Vidal snarled, “Be glad I have Seen no blood flowing over your image. Do not tempt fate. For now I can only suggest that you be circumspect.”

  Wriothesley paled. “How circumspect? Should I go to the country?”

  Ah, to be rid of this idiot. Vidal swallowed down his immediate and enthusiastic approval of that idea. He might still need the man, so he said, “I have no Seeing for that. You must do as good sense dictates. Do not make Hertford believe you are dangerous. Now first tell me of those closest to Hertford that I may look for them in my glass. He has a wife and children?”

  “You should find the wife easily.” Wriothesley made a face. “She is so proud that I have heard her complain because Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth, the king’s own daughters, have precedence over her. There is also his brother, Thomas Seymour, who is a bit of a madcap. I heard he suggested himself as a proper suitor for Lady Mary or Lady Elizabeth. His sons … those from his first wife are of no consequence and those of his second are too young to be important.”

  With some effort Vidal remained utterly expressionless, hardly hearing what Wriothesley said about Hertford’s sons. He was fixed on the fact that Hertford’s brother Thomas had already suggested himself as a suitor for Mary or Elizabeth. Thomas must be turned away from Mary; no scandal must touch her. Vidal wanted her on the throne. But Elizabeth … Yes, it was possible that Hertford’s brother might have access to Elizabeth and use it. He would act foolishly and impulsively because it was plain that Thomas Seymour had more pride than sense. Wonderful.

  It would take little effort to beglamour this fool to woo Elizabeth openly. She was only fourteen. She would be flattered if the brother of the man who would soon be king in all but name courted her. Perhaps, Vidal thought, if this Thomas is as much a fool as Wriothesley’s remark hints, I can co
nvince him that he should marry the girl quickly, before anyone can say him nay, and that the sin would soon be forgiven.

  “This brother, Thomas,” Vidal said, cutting off some inessential nonsense that Wriothesley was spouting, “I would like to meet him. It seems to me that he might be the doorway to his brother’s destruction.”

  Wriothesley, about to take offense at being interrupted, instead looked thoughtful. “True enough, he is a man of large ambition and too much belief in his own good fortune. But Hertford is not one to listen to foolish bombast. Still … I will do what I can to urge him to come to consult you. And now, I have taken up enough of your time.”

  On the words, Wriothesley rose and left the room. Vidal was too glad to be rid of him so easily. He was very much wrapped up in his own plans, and too concerned about whether it would be safe to ensorcel the man—once Wriothesley convinced Thomas Seymour to visit him—to give much thought to a tool that was now broken and near useless. Would Thomas Seymour be too close to the hand ruling England that Oberon would deem ensorcelling him dangerous? Hertford was definitely of the “thou shalt not suffer a witch to live” kind. If he suspected magic, he would pursue it relentlessly. Enough to bring Oberon’s wrath upon him?

  * * *

  Vidal was not happy, and the interviews he had with his three other clients the next day made him even less happy. Wriothesley’s scheme had found favor with much of the Council. All agreed that it was the purpose of their late monarch to have little Princess Mary as wife to King Edward. King Henry had made war for that purpose, but if the Scots could be cajoled into sending the princess to England, they would not be violating the late king’s will.

  Other news was little better but no worse. From what was hinted, it seemed that Hertford would rule … and so Vidal said he would. That he said so and thus inclined the three men who visited him to support Hertford now guaranteed that outcome. To Rich, whom he saw last, he hinted that Hertford must be watched and if his pride offended the other Councilors that Rich should somewhat withdraw himself.