By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Not you,” Denoriel said. “After what Oberon said—” Oberon was a name much used in poetry and betrayed nothing; moreover, there was no prohibition about him speaking of Underhill, though if it were reported he might be stripped of his power or even killed, “—I think you, personally, are safe from any attack. Mistress Ashley, though …”

  “Kat!” Elizabeth breathed, looking stricken now. “No! It would be because of me. I could not bear it if Kat were hurt.”

  “Yes, my dear,” Denoriel said. “I know that you would be wounded to the heart if any ill befell Mistress Ashley. That is just why I fear she might be a target, just as Blanche was last year. You must be watchful, and not only for what only you can see but for mortal attack also.”

  “But why did you not warn me sooner? I never thought of any danger to her. I did not watch at all …”

  “There was little danger in Enfield. Your household was so much reduced and there were no diplomatic visits nor any interaction with the Court. Any stranger would have been noticed at once. And Blanche is always watchful for … ah … other dangers.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth bit her lip gently. “Chelsea is much larger and it will be full of people I do not know.”

  “Yes, and Mistress Ashley must deal with the officers of the queen’s household and their servants, particularly for the few weeks immediately after your arrival to arrange where, when, and how your households will combine.”

  “What can I do?” Elizabeth breathed. “Can I send one of the guardsmen with her? Will she allow it? Will she not ask why I have ordered such a thing?”

  “Not a guardsman, no. However, could you not suggest that she take Dunstan with her? Much of what she will decide with the queen’s household officers will be what he will be responsible for. You can hint it would be better if he heard his duties and responsibilities directly from them rather than have her need to make notes and repeat what was decided. And Dunstan is handy both with the sword and with a knife.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is. I have seen him practice with the guardsmen.” She smiled, although her eyes were not quite as bright now. “Thank you, Denno. God’s Grace, what would I do without you?”

  “You are very welcome,” he said soberly, “but likely it would be better if you did not make any point of how useful I am to you. It will be construed as a common merchant exerting undue influence on a lady of importance and power.”

  They rode in silence for a little while. Denoriel thought Elizabeth looked delicious with the tip of her nose and her cheeks unusually pink because of the cold and her excitement.

  Suddenly she turned on him and said, “You did that apurpose! You did not want me to be so happy and carefree.”

  Denoriel opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was silenced by a terrible pang of guilt. Was it possible that he did not want her to be happy and carefree because then she would not need him? It was an ugly thought.

  Possibly true too, but it did not matter. Elizabeth was one step nearer the throne now than she had been during her father’s reign, and both threats and temptations would surround her. During the upheaval right after Henry’s death, everything had been too uncertain to allow her to be a target, and her own fears and depression insulated her. In Catherine’s household, she would not be so safe.

  “I always want you to be happy,” Denoriel said. He had to say it whether it was true or not, but he added soberly, “But it is true that I did not wish you to think that you were coming into a new stage of life in which there would be no dangers and dark places.”

  “Surely the queen does not wish me harm!”

  “No. No, indeed,” Denoriel assured her hastily. “Queen Catherine, I believe, loves you dearly and only wishes you the best of everything. However, you must remember that she is no longer your father’s wife. She … she has her freedom and much wealth. There will be many … ah … visitors to Chelsea.”

  “Denno, speak plainly! What are you saying to me?” Elizabeth’s red brows contracted into an angry frown.

  “That Queen Catherine will be courted. She might even marry again.”

  “Marry again? After being my father’s wife?” There was indignation in Elizabeth’s voice.

  That was dangerous. If Elizabeth showed disapproval of what Denoriel guessed would be Thomas Seymour’s courtship, Catherine might well decide that having Elizabeth in her household was inconvenient. And, since Elizabeth was still too young to live alone and since Catherine had always liked Mary, the odds were that Catherine would suggest Elizabeth join her elder sister. That, Denoriel had already decided, would be utter disaster.

  “Elizabeth!”

  Denoriel’s voice was so sharp that Elizabeth jerked her mare’s rein and the animal jibbed. He reached out to grasp the mare’s headstall, but Elizabeth already had her under control. She stared at him now, her mouth a sullen line.

  “You loved your father, most rightly, and to you he was like the sun, a great and glorious being. But think of him for a husband. Think of the physical man, not the king.”

  Her gaze, which had been fixed challengingly on him as soon as the mare was docile, first looked away, then dropped.

  “Did you know, Elizabeth, that your father was Queen Catherine’s third old husband, that she was married when not quite fifteen to a sick man old enough to be her grandfather? In fact Lord Borough’s son was suitably married to a woman who was seventeen years older than Catherine.”

  Elizabeth made a soft, horrified sound. She was nearly fifteen and knew that for diplomatic purposes she could easily be married to a king old enough to be her grandfather. Perhaps for once her mind’s eye recalled her father as he was that last year of his life—too grossly fat to walk, always stinking slightly from the unhealing sores on his leg.

  Denoriel was sorry to spoil her memory of the perfect being who had been king, but he continued inexorably, “Catherine was a perfect wife to Lord Borough, as she was to your father, and when the old man died, he left her rich. But in a way he died too soon. She was less than seventeen and her guardian—her mother had died the same year as Lord Borough—chose Lord Latimer for her second husband. He was not quite as old as Borough, but already ailing. She was his third wife.”

  Elizabeth had not raised her eyes again. She was looking down at her gloved fingers holding the reins.

  “Again Catherine was a good wife and the kindest and most loving of stepmothers to Latimer’s two children.”

  “As she was to us,” Elizabeth murmured. “It was no pretense. She really cared for us.”

  “Yes, indeed. You may well meet Latimer’s children. I am sure they will visit Queen Catherine now that she is no longer so hedged in with ceremony. They still love her dearly. Latimer loved her too. When he died, he left her even richer. And she was no longer a minor. She was old enough to make her own choice. As you can imagine, she was courted by a number of strong and handsome young men. I have heard rumors that she had almost decided among them, but then the king asked her to be his bride.”

  Elizabeth was silent again, but she looked at Denoriel and then looked away. He knew she was thinking, another sick old man.

  “She was young enough still to have children,” Denoriel said. “She is still young enough to have children, Elizabeth. And she loves children so much. Would you deny her the right to have her own child … because she was married to your father? Has she not waited long enough, been dutiful enough, to marry once for love?”

  Elizabeth did not reply, and Denoriel said no more, content to leave her to her own thoughts. Elizabeth did love Catherine; she would be—because of her personal fears of what she might be forced to accept—sympathetic to the queen and come to accept courtship and marriage for Catherine.

  Denoriel was not very happy about inclining Elizabeth in Thomas Seymour’s favor. Because of his suspicions it was Seymour who had tried to have him killed, once he was reasonably sure that Catherine would invite Elizabeth to live with her, Denoriel had taken some time to discover what he could
about Sir Thomas. He was very dissatisfied with what he learned. He sincerely wished that Catherine had not chosen so ill, that she had sought out worth rather than a beautiful body and flashy good looks. However, Denny had told him that it was Thomas Seymour the king had displaced and it was all too natural for Catherine to turn to the man she had loved once again.

  If that was true, Catherine would take Seymour. What could be more flattering than that he had waited for her, not endangering her with his attentions while she was Henry’s wife, but rushing forward to court her again as soon as she was free? Denoriel wondered if there were some way to let Catherine know that Seymour had proposed himself for both Mary and Elizabeth before he at last turned to her.

  Could Elizabeth drop that information—as if she had been warned that Seymour had asked for her and that he was not suitable? No! She was little more than a child, just over fourteen. But girl children, who knew they must some day marry, were fanciful. If Elizabeth knew that Seymour had asked for her, would she be flattered? Inclined to look at him as a suitor?

  Better to tell Elizabeth about Seymour’s earlier aborted courtship of Catherine, which would fix him in her mind as belonging to Catherine. Denoriel just prevented himself from wrinkling his nose as if he smelled something foul. Unfortunately that tale might also paint him to Elizabeth as noble and chivalrous, which was far from the truth. He was only greedy (Catherine was rich and Elizabeth well endowed) and ambitious, seeking to lift himself up to his wife’s position.

  “I suppose,” he said, “since I have said this much, I had better give you the rest of the rumors.”

  “Rumors? About Queen Catherine? Who dared …”

  “It was before she was queen, when the king first approached her. There was some anxious talk about whether his majesty was going to be cuckolded again because Mistress Parr had a lover already.”

  “A lover?” Elizabeth’s voice rose in protest.

  Denoriel reached over and patted her arm. “More was rumored than was true.”

  “Then why did you listen to such scurrilous talk?” she asked, hotly accusatory.

  “Elizabeth! Not for any dislike of the queen. She is and always was a woman I greatly admired. But, as you can imagine, I was concerned—particularly when I also heard of how good a stepmother she had been to Latimer’s children. I was afraid she would make you love her, and if she too were discovered to be unfaithful—”

  “Never! Never once did Queen Catherine show favor to any man or meet with any man except in public rooms in the presence of the entire Court. She never even entertained the officers of her household in her private withdrawing rooms.”

  “A wise and virtuous woman.”

  “Yes! She is! And, thinking back, no man sought her favor either. I think the rumors you heard were just mean-spirited gossip, made up to sully Her Highness.”

  “No, Elizabeth. The rumors were true enough. Oh, not that she had a lover but that many men courted her after Lord Latimer’s death and that she had all but decided on one of her suitors when your father intervened.”

  “She did not!” Elizabeth cried, tears standing in her eyes. “I tell you there was no man.” She uttered a sob and then said loudly, “I watched! I did watch this time in case … I would have warned her.”

  “There was no need for warning. The gentleman was clever in the ways of power.”

  Denoriel hesitated, wondering if he should tell Elizabeth that Seymour loved Catherine’s rich estates far more than her person, and that he suffered only a check to his greed not a wrenching of the heart when he gave her up. Swiftly, he decided against that kind of criticism. In fact he did not know Thomas did not care for Catherine. Considering Catherine Howard’s fate—and that of her lovers—Thomas’ restraint might have been to protect himself as well as a lady for whom he cared.

  “When he knew the king intended to make the lady an offer,” Denoriel continued when Elizabeth looked an inquiry at him, “he went away. And he never approached her in all the time she was your father’s wife. But after King Henry died, he came swiftly to offer the … the consolation of his condolences and his service.”

  “Oh.” There was a little silence in which Elizabeth looked straight ahead and blinked twice. Then in a small voice she asked, “Who?”

  “Sir Thomas Seymour.”

  For a little while she did not respond at all. Then she cocked her head to the side and said, “The king’s uncle … the younger uncle. Yes, I’ve seen him.” Her lips began to curve. “Yes. A tall man and well made. Not so tall and well made as you, my Denno, but still an impressive figure. And handsome too. A thick curling head of hair and an auburn beard to match, although I think I prefer you smooth shaven.”

  Denoriel was considerably startled by Elizabeth’s use of him as a model against which Seymour did not quite match up. He found himself warm and flattered … too warm! She was only a child! But before he could think what to say, she had glanced sidelong at him, eyes glinting.

  She paused as if to think and then giggled. “How would you look with a white beard?”

  “Like an old man,” Denoriel said somewhat bitterly, owing to the sudden bursting of his bubble of pleased surprise over her praise.

  “Oh, no.” The sharpness and mischief were completely gone from her voice. “You will never be old, my Denno.”

  The tone in which those last words were spoken sent a new pulse of warmth—no, think the truth—desire through him, but the words themselves were enough to add pain and chill to Denoriel’s desire. Within Elizabeth’s life-span, he would never be old. She would age while he would not.

  He remembered the many warnings given him when he began to love Harry FitzRoy, that Harry’s life compared with his was like the blooming of a flower, sweet and beautiful, but gone to brown death in a day. That did not matter. In the end he had not lost Harry, who was alive and well and making merry mischief Underhill.

  Only Elizabeth was not a little boy. She was female and from the tone of her voice not immune to him. Because he was the only male who had ever been so close to her? And she was, although high young breasts now shaped her riding dress and her narrow waist flared into broadening hips, still a child. His hurt in her short life was irrelevant; her hurt if he bound her love to him was wrong, dangerous to her.

  He would deliver her safe to the queen’s care and take himself Underhill. He would join Harry’s pursuit of the evils that had made El Dorado and Alhambra uninhabitable to the Sidhe … and he would strangle his unnatural desire.

  Rhoslyn returned to Lady Mary’s residence only an hour or two before dawn of the next day. She replaced the pillows in their usual position, gestured to remove her clothing, got into bed and released the maid. The girl blinked, yawned as if she had been asleep, which she believed she had been, and peered anxiously at her mistress. Assured that Rhoslyn was breathing quietly, she then clucked softly at her own carelessness and occupied herself with putting away the clothing Rhoslyn had left in a heap on the floor.

  When the maid came to look at her again, sometime later in the morning, Rhoslyn stirred and pretended to wake. She had spent the quiet hours between releasing the maid and this wakening thinking about Pasgen, and she had decided that she did not dare leave him all on his own. He would doubtless come to the mortal world as he promised, but if he did not discover anything to hold his interest, he would be consumed by curiosity and God alone knew what he then would do. Rhoslyn shook her head at herself for calling on the human God who meant nothing to her.

  Yes. She had spent far too much time listening to prayer and discourses on the human soul. She was not human and, she hoped sincerely, had no soul. It was enough to live for a few thousand years. There was no need to be greedy and desire immortality, particularly if one was threatened with unending torment for not adhering to the ridiculous patterns of righteousness demanded by the humans’ God. Rhoslyn had been amused at that thought, but she suddenly shivered. Was that not what she had lived in all of her life, a place of unending torme
nt?

  She tore her thoughts away and concentrated on choosing clothing, deliberately selecting a pale yellow shift gathered at the throat to make a small frill and a dark green gown. The combination made her dark skin sallow and she drew her hair back under her green and yellow headdress.

  The effect of her choice was immediately apparent when Susan Clarencieux, another favorite of Lady Mary, scratched and was admitted. “Oh,” she said softly, “Mistress Rosamund, I see you are still not well. You should not have dressed.”

  Rhoslyn sighed. “I felt it necessary. You are very right, Mistress Susan, I am not so much recovered as I hoped. I fear I must ask Lady Mary to give me a leave of absence until I am stronger and I wished—during this sad time—to ask her in person, rather than just write a note.”

  “Lady Mary is free now, Mistress Rosamund, and sent me to ask about your well-doing. Let me give you my arm and bring you to her.”

  Mary was so kind and so concerned that Rhoslyn almost felt guilty for diminishing her already thinned entourage. Rhoslyn suspected that she was not the only lady or gentleman who had had enough of prayers for the dead. Moreover, Pasgen was more important than Mary, actually more important than England. Whatever happened would be over and done with in little more than an eyeblink compared with Pasgen’s lifetime. Pasgen must be protected against himself.

  On the other hand this really was a good time to be away. Nothing at all of political importance was likely to happen for a few weeks. Rhoslyn knew she could not leave her post permanently. Mary was now the heir apparent to the throne and as soon as those who would control the government felt they were secure, they would begin to apply pressure to Mary to bend her one way or another. Until they were sure, however, Mary would be courteously left alone.