By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  “It is only the beginning of March, Lady Elizabeth,” Aleneil said. “Evening walks are better saved for later in the spring.”

  Elizabeth giggled. “There is a nice sheltered shed and we will not need to stay long.” Her nose wrinkled. “We may not need to stay at all, if Lady Jane spent so much time on the lesson that they are gone.”

  “Who?” Aleneil asked, but Elizabeth only giggled and shook her head.

  Blanche returned with their cloaks and Elizabeth hurried Aleneil out through the servant’s door to avoid her guards. Aleneil bit her lip. No matter how innocent the matter that enthralled Elizabeth, this escape of those provided to protect her was not good. She would have to talk to Elizabeth about that, but now was not the time.

  Fortunately they did not go far. A path led through the garden in which herbs and some vegetables were grown for the kitchen. The path had numerous narrow branches which divided the plant beds. Aleneil had begun to ask a question, but Elizabeth put her finger firmly over Aleneil’s lips and she was clearly taking care to step softly.

  About halfway down the path, Aleneil’s dark-seeing eyes noticed that there was a wall ahead broken by a low wrought-iron gate. Two people stood by the gate, which was closed, leaning toward each other. It was too dark for the human eyes of those standing by the gate to have seen her or Elizabeth, and she did not think that Elizabeth had seen them either.

  Aleneil’s long ears twitched forward, but before she could hear what they were saying, Elizabeth had turned left to draw her into a side path and then after about ten or fifteen steps right again into another narrow path but this one parallel to the main path. Aleneil could see where she was going, of course, but Elizabeth did not stumble, as if she had walked this way before. They did not go much farther.

  Aleneil saw a dark bulk ahead—ah, the shed Elizabeth had mentioned. Elizabeth slowed and put her hands out. When her fingertips touched the shed, she began to sidle around it toward the left, then along the side. At the edge she stopped and just poked her head around. Aleneil took a step to the side onto a narrow strip of unkempt land, too close to the shed to plant or bother mowing. She crouched down. It would be impossible to see her from the gate in the wall, but she could see the man and woman there.

  The woman was Catherine. The man—Aleneil doubted that Elizabeth could make out his features, but she could see him clearly enough to know that it was Thomas Seymour. He was objecting to something Catherine had said, saying it was too long, far too long.

  “I cannot wait, I cannot,” he said. “I am in agony, fearing every moment that you will be snatched away from me again. You do not know what I suffered, thinking of you in another man’s arms. Let me in! You cannot feel anything for me if you will not even let me in.”

  The gate clicked open. Elizabeth withdrew her head and then seeing how Aleneil was crouched down, knelt beside her. Aleneil had heard Seymour so clearly that she suspected Elizabeth could hear also.

  “You must trust me,” Catherine said. “I promise I will take no other husband. You know I could not withstand the king, nor did I wish to. If I brought him comfort in the last years, then I am well rewarded for my sacrifice. I did a duty with a glad heart for the good of the realm.” She raised a hand and stroked his cheek. “Tom, he is not cold in his grave yet, and he was a great man, a great king. I cannot act as if he were nothing and marry again so soon. Only two short years.”

  “Those years will not be short for me.” The man’s voice was petulant. “And I will need to watch you being courted by every fortune hunter in the country.”

  Catherine laughed softly. “You cannot fear I will be seduced by a man who cares more for my lands than for me! Not when I have so faithful a lover.”

  Seymour had passed through the gate and now drew Catherine aside, bending over her and leaning down to put his lips to the side of her jaw. She drew in a breath, sharply enough for Aleneil to hear, and beside Aleneil, Elizabeth shivered. Seymour kissed all along Catherine’s jaw and then her chin, forcing her head up slightly so he could press his lips to her throat. Catherine’s breath was coming quick and hard … and so was Elizabeth’s.

  “Tom, stop!” The queen’s voice was shaking, pleading.

  “I cannot bear it, I tell you! I need you. I want you.”

  His lips had found their way down to the pulse in the hollow where the collar bones met. Catherine’s hands came up and cupped his face, lifting it, but he turned his head in her hands and began to nibble on her ear.

  “Have I been too faithful? Belike you are so sure of me that I am a dull thing—”

  “No, no. I always favored you above all others. You must know that the other time I was free my mind was bent to marry you above any other man I had ever met.”

  “Then why must we wait? Catherine, you know my brother will not favor this union. If we do not seal it before the Church and with consummation, I fear he will find some other duty for you. Perhaps he will try to use you to bind the Empire to us, or to make peace with France. You are a great prize and he will tear you away from me.”

  “No one thinks me of any value. You have seen how the men in the government avoid me. No one will care that I wish to marry you, but the whole world will scorn me if I do not observe a decent mourning. Do not tease me so, Tom. I will be yours, I swear it. Perhaps we could become betrothed …”

  He began to kiss her again—her lips, her throat, her ears; Catherine was sobbing very softly but clinging to him. Suddenly Elizabeth shifted uneasily and then also made a very soft sound.

  Aleneil started. She had almost forgotten the girl beside her. The caresses exchanged by the humans had no effect on her. She had been thinking about what Denoriel had told her about Seymour. Apparently Denoriel had judged him correctly. He was a selfish lout; she sensed the insincerity of his passion. He was using lust to force poor Catherine, who had been starved all her life for a strong, young man’s desire, into an action that would profit him greatly. It might not profit her. She might be open to considerable criticism if she married so soon after King Henry’s death.

  That was not important, Aleneil knew. Catherine was not her duty and must manage her own affairs. Elizabeth, however … When she felt Elizabeth shiver, heard that low, breathy sound she had realized that the girl had been unfortunately aroused by Seymour’s caresses. Aleneil was annoyed with herself. She must stop thinking of Elizabeth as a child. Mortals ripened fast, and a girl of nearly fifteen years of age was likely more vulnerable, more likely to be affected and inflamed by the stench of human lust.

  Chapter 17

  Rhoslyn held a missal in her lap, her eyes seemingly bent on the pages, her lips moving occasionally, as if she repeated some words to herself. It was a safe occupation in Mary’s chamber and saved Rhoslyn from trying to embroider and join the gossip, which was the way most of the ladies in Mary’s service spent their time.

  She had been welcomed back by Lady Mary with warmth and some concern, but had assured her lady that the rest she had taken had restored her. She looked well, her hair springy and shining, her dark eyes bright, a faint color warming her olive complexion.

  Llanelli had indeed restored Rhoslyn, transferring power from her own body to Rhoslyn’s. When she realized what her mother had done, Rhoslyn cried out in protest, but it was too late. Llanelli was again drooping and faded, her hair no more than a white mist, her skin transparent, and her eyes clouded. But she had laughed softly and assured Rhoslyn that as she knew how to feed power to others, she knew how to draw it into herself. With that, Rhoslyn had to be satisfied, since she had no way to return what Llanelli had given her.

  She had spent three mortal weeks in her own domain, renewing the energy of her constructs—although she was very careful to sense for anything unusual in the Unformed lands she used—and making the landscape around her home more gentle and beautiful. When she returned to the mortal world the worst of the winter was over and, to her unspoken pleasure, Lady Mary had stopped reading prayers for the dead.

&
nbsp; Life had returned to its normal tempo, except that Rhoslyn detected a kind of tension under the placid exterior. The earl of Hertford was now duke of Somerset and Mary heard from her good friend—her Good Nan and Dear Gossip, Ann Stanhope, Somerset’s wife—that Somerset would soon be appointed Protector officially. Mary knew that Somerset leaned toward the reformed religion, but in the past he had ignored her Catholic rites. Naturally Mary hoped he would continue to do so, but she was slightly uneasy.

  Rhoslyn turned a page of the missal, her long ears cupped forward. Mary was sitting with two of her Spanish chaplains and was again lamenting to them the strongly reformist character of Somerset’s Council. This was nothing new and she and the chaplains could go on for hours, pointing out to each other how the lack of a universal mass and the dismissal of good works would bring anarchy and disaster.

  Rhoslyn relaxed and actually read a line or two of the missal, just in case one of the women asked what had been holding her attention. Then her head lifted, started to turn; she caught herself and uttered a small, false cough. None of the other women had yet heard anything.

  In the next moment a groom of the chamber entered the room and carried a letter to Lady Mary. She lifted it high to her nearsighted eyes and her body became a little tense and alert, not as if to brace herself against a blow but as if she was puzzled. Rhoslyn heard the very faint crackle as the wax of a seal was broken and the rustle as heavy parchment was unfolded.

  A few minutes later she heard Mary gasp and exclaim softly with dismay, “How dare he!”

  Rhoslyn laid the missal down in her lap and looked toward Lady Mary. She allowed a look of concern to wrinkle her brow, but did not rise and go to her. Rhoslyn was liked and trusted by Lady Mary but not quite as much as long-time and confidential servants like Jane Dormer, Eleanor Kempe, or Susan Clarencieux. Jane Dormer and Eleanor Kempe were not in the chamber. It was Lady Susan who put aside her embroidery, rose, and hurried to her mistress.

  “What is wrong, my lady?”

  “This!” Mary thrust the now crumpled parchment toward her lady but did not release it. “This letter is an abomination! How dare he?” She signed for the chaplains to leave.

  “Who, madam?” Susan urged, as the two men bowed and went out. “Who has insulted you? I am sure that His Grace of Somerset would put a quick end to any offense against you.”

  “From his own brother?” Mary cried. And a moment later because she was a fair and honest person, “He did not insult me, precisely.” Then color rose in her cheeks. “What he asks is an insult to honor and propriety. He has the—the effrontery to ask me to write in his favor to the dowager queen.”

  Susan looked puzzled. “Write in his favor to Queen Catherine? His favor for what purpose?”

  Mary stood up, crushing the letter further between her hands. “He wants to marry her! My father is not two months dead and Thomas Seymour has the gall to ask me to urge Queen Catherine to forget who her husband was and marry this—this no one from a family created noble only because their sister was fecund.”

  “It is a disgusting presumption,” Lady Susan agreed, breathing quick with her anger. “Write and tell him so.”

  Since none of the voices had been lowered, Rhoslyn could assume there was no secret in the matter. She rose, set aside her book and came toward Susan and Lady Mary, who had just raised a hand to summon a servant.

  “Forgive me,” Rhoslyn said softly, “but I could not help but hear. I agree, of course, with everything both of you have said, but I beg you, my lady, do not answer yet. You are overset. To reply so soon is to grant too much importance to this upstart. Let him wait on your answer. What he asks is almost comical—would be comical if his brother were not likely to be the ruler of this realm.”

  For a moment Mary looked as if she would push by Rhoslyn but fortunately Jane Dormer and Eleanor Kempe came in. Both saw at once that Lady Mary was greatly disturbed and they hurried forward at her gesture. They were informed by Mary in a furious voice of Seymour’s letter. Jane and Eleanor asked at once if they would be permitted to read the letter lest Seymour’s poor writing (not, of course, Mary’s faulty vision) might have made some words seem what they were not.

  “It is outrageous, yes,” Eleanor Kempe said, smoothing the parchment and folding it neatly, “but to refuse too quickly or with insult, my lady, might enrage Seymour and draw Somerset’s attention to us.”

  Mary had calmed somewhat. “Surely Somerset cannot know of this,” she said. “Surely he cannot desire his brother to gain so rich a prize both in Queen Catherine’s wealth and in the love of the people for her.”

  “There might be reasons for Somerset’s approval,” Jane Dormer said thoughtfully. “Could he hope the young king, who loves Queen Catherine dearly, would be angered and repulsed by her marrying again before King Henry was cold in his grave? And the queen’s casting off her mourning so swiftly might also turn the people away from her. Moreover the use of Queen Catherine’s purse might reduce Seymour’s demands on Somerset for more lands and appointments.”

  Mary peered from one face to another. “I do not know. I suppose it is possible.” She hesitated and then added, “Rosamund agrees with Eleanor that I should not answer him at once and not say openly how disgusting I find his proposal.”

  “Mistress Rosamund is wise in this.” Eleanor Kempe nodded. “He writes with such foolish certainty, as if merely to ask you to do something would oblige you to obey. And Jane’s notions must be considered. Wait a few days, as if taking advice before you answer. I feel, like you, that Somerset is not likely to favor a marriage between Queen Catherine and his brother. Waiting cannot hurt.”

  “There is an aspect of this that none of us have considered, my lady,” Jane Dormer said, looking anxious. “The letter says he has already asked the queen to be his wife. Does this not mean that he has been at Chelsea often? I mean, one does not come on one visit to a lady like Queen Catherine and say you wish to marry her.”

  Everyone looked at Jane, and she shrugged. “One must woo such a lady at length. That means that Lady Elizabeth has also been in Seymour’s company. Should you not discover if you can what is happening and if Seymour is too often there, write to your sister and offer her a refuge? It might be that Lady Elizabeth finds her position awkward. It might even be that Queen Catherine would be glad to be rid of her.”

  Rhoslyn blinked. Jane Dormer was the youngest of Queen Mary’s ladies, little more than a girl, but she was clever and as passionately devoted to the Catholic rite as Mary herself. Rhoslyn wondered whether Jane was as worried about contamination by Seymour as she was about contamination by Queen Catherine’s reformist leanings.

  Doubtless Jane meant well in wishing to bring Elizabeth under Mary’s influence. She would think of it as saving Elizabeth’s soul. But it would be terribly dangerous. Rhoslyn did not think it possible that Elizabeth would eagerly espouse the Catholic rite, which did not matter, but the girl was only fourteen. Far too likely, she would not dissemble and show Mary that she could not be bent in that direction.

  The FarSeers’ scrying pool showed as one possible future that Mary did come to the throne. In that case, Elizabeth would be killed. Mary would not allow her heir to favor the reform religion and reject the authority of the pope. If Mary had Elizabeth executed, the burgeoning life, the beauty, the richness that Elizabeth’s reign might bring to England would never happen.

  A discussion about the pros and cons of inviting Elizabeth to join the household went on around Rhoslyn, but she could think of nothing to say. To oppose the idea without compelling reason would not help Elizabeth and might damage her own position with Mary, which, if Elizabeth came into Mary’s household, would be more essential than ever. The sound of her mortal name drew her attention.

  “Rosamund,” Mary said, “you know one of Elizabeth’s ladies, Lady … ah … Alana. The one who dresses so well that one cannot see what she looks like.”

  “I cannot say I know her, my lady. We were thrown together when Lady
Elizabeth came to speak to you but you were too unwell. It was some years ago and Lady Elizabeth wanted permission to walk in your private garden. I took it upon myself to say I knew you would be willing, but I went with them—Lady Elizabeth was attended by Lady Alana—to be sure Lady Elizabeth had no mischief in mind. She felt at that time, that Edward preferred you and I feared was jealous.”

  Mary frowned. “But you have spoken to Lady Alana since then, have you not?”

  “Oh, yes, whenever our paths cross. She is a most civil individual and always greets me and asks how you do. In fact, I met her in London when I was there to see my physician. She had taken a brief leave of absence from her duties to Lady Elizabeth while they moved from Enfield to Chelsea and was staying with Lord Denno, a wealthy merchant.”

  “A merchant!” Susan Clarencieux was shocked.

  Rhoslyn smiled. “He is rich as Croesus and quite a favorite with Mistress Ashley, Lady Elizabeth’s governess.”

  “Perhaps another reason for Lady Elizabeth to live here with our lady,” Jane said. “I think Mistress Ashley is not careful enough of her charge and should be overseen.”

  “How does a merchant come to call himself Lord Denno?” Mary asked, frowning.

  “As I heard it, rightfully enough,” Rhoslyn replied. “It is not an English title, of course. Before the Turks overran Hungary, his family was of the royal line there. The lands are poor and unprofitable in Hungary and so most of the nobility were merchants of one kind or another.”

  Mary was still frowning. “How does Lady Alana, a maid of honor to Lady Elizabeth, come to live in a merchant’s house? Can she afford no better lodging?”

  “She can afford what she likes. Her clothes and jewels are lavish. You know, madam, that my brother is most generous to me, but I could not match her spending. As to her staying with Lord Denno … It is for comfort, I believe, for a house always ready, for well-trained servants that she need not oversee. Moreover she and Lord Denno are distant—very distant—relations, and call each other ‘cousin.’ I think her great-grandmother, or perhaps her great-great-grandmother, married some ancestor of his. They also know each other from her service to Lady Elizabeth and his frequent visits there.”