He frowned, trying to recall whether he had heard anything more about her, but nothing came back to him. Pasgen and Rhoslyn had never mentioned her again. It was possible she was dead or that they had been so disgusted they had simply turned away and left her, put her out of their minds.
Now he regretted throwing away a useful tool. He raised a hand to summon another imp. Finding Llanelli, if she was still alive, was a task he could leave to the Sidhe of his court while he attended to getting Elizabeth disgraced. He could not believe that Pasgen would keep a watch on his mother like that he kept on his beloved sister. But once Llanelli was in his hands, Pasgen’s blood tie would oblige him to protect her. So, if his Sidhe could find Llanelli, even if she were Dreaming and as good as dead, he could use her to control Pasgen.
One last glance around his apartment, which now looked just as he liked it—walls draped in black velvet with red hems, like thin streams of blood on the floor, edges bound in gold, enough to look rich but not so much as to lighten the atmosphere. He gestured to the newt servant who prodded the bespelled mortal from his room to Aurilia’s and through the door when it opened. If there were a trap in that seeming welcome, the prisoner would be caught in it.
If the bribe he was offering was not enough … However, Aurilia was easier to pacify than he had expected. She looked from him to the ensorcelled young man of heroic proportions and very little brain and nodded at the peace offering.
“What do you want?” she asked pleasantly enough.
“An amulet. An amulet that will draw Thomas Seymour to visit the magician Otstargi and fall into the magician’s power—an amulet that will make the man believe that Otstargi has the true key to his fortune and advancement.”
That produced a smile and a gracious nod. She even suggested he take a seat in her parlor and offered wine and sweet, sugary little cakes. Vidal did not hesitate to accept her offer; he only bespelled both the goblet of wine and the plate of cakes to be sure they were not poisoned. Aurilia did not seem to mind. She giggled.
That did not make Vidal as happy as it should. He had to wonder, as he saw another empty glass on the table near her chair, whether she had drunk too much of that potion her mortal healer provided. However, when he began to give her details about the amulet and what it must do, her questions and suggestions were solid and sensible.
Finally she said, “I cannot promise that one amulet will be able to do both tasks. In two days I can have ready one that will draw this Thomas Seymour to Otstargi. You can send an imp to touch him with it and then put it in his pocket. Once he is in your presence you can surely find some excuse to give him the other amulet.”
Vidal nodded. The less complicated the spells the better chance they would work. “For how long will the spell last?”
“Not very long, a week or two, but if your advice brings him success of one kind or another, he will believe without any further spelling. Or if you need another spell—” she glanced at the blankly staring young giant and smiled “—I will furnish it.”
“True enough.” Vidal’s lips pulled back so that his long sharp teeth showed. “And if what I advise is what this fool Seymour will enjoy and would have done anyway, he will not need a spell to coerce him and will believe in me even more fervently. How long did you say before the amulet will be ready?”
“Two days.”
Chapter 20
“Where the devil have you been?”
Elizabeth glared at Denoriel, the amber of her eyes seeming to be touched with red, but her voice was too low to be heard by the ladies that followed along the path behind her. In a swift, careful glance over his shoulder, Denoriel saw Lady Alana drop something, cry out softly, and gather the three young women closer to help her pick up the oddments that had somehow fallen out of the purse which had mysteriously come loose from her belt.
“You know where I was,” Denoriel replied, equally softly, but walking on swiftly. And in case some vagrant oddity along the path threw his voice back to the women, he added, “I was on a voyage, attending to my business.”
“And no doubt attending to some pretty foreign ladies, too,” Elizabeth muttered angrily.
Denoriel’s mouth opened, but nothing came out for a moment. His heart had leapt right into his throat, choking him. Was Elizabeth jealous? Did she want him to pay court to her or was her anger just because a possession of hers had not been where she wanted it when she wanted it? No, it could not be simple possessiveness. If she were just annoyed by his absence, she would have said something to imply she was more important than his business. Instead she had mentioned pretty ladies. But he had not the courage to put his hope to the test and have it destroyed.
“No,” he got out. “It was business.” Another glance behind showed the ladies still in sight but certainly out of earshot. “I was … I was with Harry. You can ask him.”
“And when am I ever likely to see him again?”
Denoriel chuckled. “Whenever you are ready and you promise to stop biting off my head.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said. She looked away, also glancing behind to make sure she would not be overheard. Then her eyes came back to him and her lips thinned. “Do you not deserve to have your head bitten off when you have so neglected me? You have been away nearly two months. On business, perhaps, but I am sure you made time for pleasure too and foreign women must be more attractive than plain English girls.”
For one moment Denoriel simply stared at her, his eyes wide. Elizabeth had seen elven women, had seen his bedchamber and knew that Sidhe did not sleep; she knew what the bed was for. The geas Titania had put on her prevented her from speaking of Underhill or anything in it. Foreign women was the closest she could come. He called his time Underhill foreign voyages. But in the past Elizabeth had never seemed to care whether he played with women. Aleneil was right; she was changing. It must be jealousy that had honed her tongue.
“There is no woman more attractive to me than you, my lady,” Denoriel breathed.
She hissed a little with anger and snarled at him, “I do not like it when you lie to me, Lord Denno.”
“I never lie to you, Lady Elizabeth,” he snapped back. “Never. There are things I do not say and things I cannot say, but I have never told you a lie.”
Elizabeth blinked at him, her firm lips beginning to soften and tremble. Then she lowered her head and glanced at him sidelong from under her lashes. “Well, but it cannot be the truth that no woman is more attractive to you than I. Surely there are more beautiful women with … ah … with better shaped bodies.”
“Yes, indeed.” Denoriel grinned down at her, laughing at the shock and fury on her face over his ready agreement. “I have certainly seen women with more beautiful faces and bodies than yours.” He paused and added, “So what? What I said is still true. Those women are not nearly as attractive to me as your ladyship.”
“You mean as a friend.”
Her head was down again. Denoriel glanced back. The women were once more following them, but at a greater distance and they were fully engaged in a lively conversation. Denoriel raised a hand and lifted Elizabeth’s chin.
“I am afraid to offend, my lady, being what I am and you what you are, but no, not as a friend, although I value you for that friendship also. To me you are the most beautiful and desirable lady in all the worlds. Indeed, you are the only lady for me, there is no room in my heart for any other—no matter how beautiful or how shapely.”
A faint color touched Elizabeth’s cheeks and she looked away from him again. “But in your own land, you were a prince,” she said softly. “So you need not fear to offend by … by saying you favor me.”
As if by an accident of the path Denoriel swayed closer so he could take her hand and in the shelter of their bodies kiss it. The color in her cheeks rose. A burst of laughter came from behind. Hastily Denoriel released Elizabeth’s hand.
“I wish I could take you on a voyage with me very soon,” he murmured.
Elizabeth’s eyes lit to brigh
t gold. “It would have to be a short one,” she responded. “I do not wish to alarm Queen Catherine by taking to my bed. I do not wish to do anything to diminish her happiness. She glows with joy.”
“Yes, I saw. I was required to gain her approval to visit you.” Denoriel paused and then added dryly, “I hope she remains happy.”
Elizabeth looked surprised. “Why should she not? At last, after three marriages to old men she has a young and vigorous husband. Thomas—” Her voice, which had been full of lively enthusiasm checked, and she went on with more restraint, “I mean Baron Seymour of Sudeley, but that is such a mouthful and he is so good-humored and not one to stand at all on ceremony. We have all begun to call him Thomas.”
“Have you?” Denoriel asked flatly. “All of your maidens and Catherine’s women call Seymour Thomas?”
“My maidens do,” she said defensively, and then with reluctant honesty, “Some of Catherine’s women are more formal.” She hesitated, aware of Denoriel’s disapproval, and frowned back at him. “I cannot see what has put your nose out of joint. Was it not you who told me that Catherine had a right to some joy after her dutiful behavior as wife to three old men? Now she has a lively man who enjoys lighthearted amusement. Why do you dislike Thomas?”
Denoriel was tempted to tell her the man was a flirt and a lecher and add what else he knew about Seymour. But some of it—like the fact that Seymour had tried to get Elizabeth herself for his wife before he returned to Catherine—was better she did not know. It might prove that Seymour was not the faithful lover he pretended to be, but it might make Elizabeth more vulnerable to him by indicating that he wanted her more than Catherine.
About to say something about Seymour’s boisterous manner, which he felt was unseemly, Denoriel suddenly saw a reason for dislike that was not only true but would advance his purpose of fixing Elizabeth’s mind on himself.
“I do not like any man who has your favor,” he said harshly, and abruptly drew her into a side path bounded by high hedges that led into a “wilderness.”
Surprise made her stumble against him, and he pulled her tight. That made her look up. Denoriel dropped his head and touched his lips to hers. She stood absolutely still, but rigid, as if turned to stone. Denoriel was too close to see her face. She could have been frightened or disgusted or simply surprised again, but he suddenly remembered Aleneil laughing and saying that surely he did not intend to leap on her and commit rape. Appalled, Denoriel was about to release her, but then her free arm began to slide up his back, holding them close.
A cry came from the path and then another voice asking, “Where did they go?”
Denoriel lifted his head. His eyes blazed like emeralds in the sunlight as he looked down into her face, but his voice was just as usual when he called, “Here, in the path to the right. Lady Elizabeth thought she saw a fox, but it was nothing but a rabbit.”
Still staring into his face, Elizabeth ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, but her voice, too, was natural, a little high and touched with irritation. “It was a fox. I could not mistake that shade of red.” Then she laughed. “But if you saw a rabbit, Lord Denno, then let us forget the fox. It will do more good than harm in the garden if it takes the rabbit.”
For just a moment their eyes locked. “Tonight,” he said. “Tell Blanche.”
* * *
In the first week of July, actually while Elizabeth and Denoriel were walking in the garden, Thomas Seymour was staring down at a letter bearing a most interesting seal. The letter on a salver had been carried in by a footman who begged pardon for disturbing his master but said he was told it was most important.
Seymour did not notice the man’s slack expression or that he should never have been carrying messages at all, his duty being to guard and open the door. Seymour rubbed the seal. It looked flat, but his fingers felt a definite thickness. He rubbed it again, aware of a subtle but pleasant sensation.
Well, he thought, this was telling him nothing, and he broke the seal. It resisted his pressure momentarily, confirming his feeling that the seal was thicker than it looked. And when it broke, one could see that it was not a thin, flat round of wax. Curious, he ran his fingers over the broken ends, but then grew impatient with the silly thing. After all, it was the letter that was important.
The message was from a Fagildo Otstargi, but the direction impressed Seymour favorably, being a house near the Strand where Seymour’s own Somerset House stood. Then Seymour remembered the name Otstargi. Wriothesley had sworn by the man, saying he had saved his position, even his life more than once. He had tried, Seymour also remembered, to induce him to consult the conjuror, but he had been too busy and Wriothesley had been eased away from power.
So the charlatan had not saved Wriothesley’s position as chancellor. The contemptuous notion was replaced in his mind by the fact that Otstargi had warned Wriothesley in time to retire gracefully … and with a handsome title and all his ill-gotten gains. Resentment pushed out any memory of the word charlatan. No common barony for Wriothesley, as had been passed off on him, making him a mere Baron Seymour of Sudeley; Wriothesley was earl of Southampton.
I deserve more, Thomas thought; I am the king’s uncle just as much as my damned brother. But Edward was now a duke no less. Thomas had thought he was clever enough, what with Catherine’s influence with the young king, to win himself more than the pittance he had received. True the king had supported his marriage to Catherine, but nothing since then. Perhaps a little help from Otstargi, who certainly had raised Wriothesley from knight to earl, would not be amiss.
The letter from Otstargi was simple enough. It apologized for intruding on so busy and important a person but claimed that this Otstargi had learned some facts he felt would be of interest and profit to Baron Seymour of Sudeley, who had been appointed Lord High Admiral of the English fleet. Vaguely Seymour had a feeling he had had a similar letter in the past, but it did not seem important. Why should he not see the man?
It happened that the rest of Seymour’s morning was free. John Fowler, a confidential servant who slept in Edward’s room and had been handsomely bribed to help make Thomas the king’s favorite uncle, had sent a hasty message that Edward had the sniffles and would not be walking out; the planned meeting between uncle and nephew would need to be postponed. So why not use the morning to discover what this Otstargi thought would be of interest and profit? Nothing could make him take the man’s advice if he did not like it. Without realizing what he was doing, Seymour pulled on the halves of the broken seal, which readily came off the paper and dropped them in his pocket.
He left no message with his servants as to where he was going. Somerset would have a fit if he heard his brother was about to consult a magician. The thought gave Thomas a certain amount of pleasure as he walked the short distance between his great house and Otstargi’s smaller one.
It was, however, a respectable house, large enough to show the owner was prosperous, and the door was opened by a respectable servant, although he was so expressionless as to look like a waxwork. Moreover Thomas was not kept waiting. Only a few moments after the servant carried in his name, the door reopened and he was invited in.
Master Otstargi was standing behind the table at which he had been working. He was a swarthy man, his dark skin hinting at travel in southern climes, his hair and eyes also dark. He bowed, not obsequiously low, but with politeness as if he knew his own worth. For once that did not annoy Seymour. He told himself that a man so sure of his value might actually have some value.
“Please sit, my lord,” Otstargi said, gesturing toward a substantial chair opposite his own at the table.
Thomas did not bother considering any particular approach. The man might be nothing more than a common charlatan. “What did your letter mean, that you had made discoveries of interest and profit to me?” he asked directly.
Vidal, in the guise of Otstargi, was no more loath to be direct. “You have been shabbily treated, my lord,” he said. “The king has two uncle
s and the power his office confers should have been shared equally. There can be no doubt that your brother, the duke of Somerset, is most fitted to control the petty details of managing the kingdom. Contrariwise, your warmth of heart and liveliness of nature should have been devoted to managing the king himself. You would win from him by love and laughter every benefit Somerset wrings out by command. That practice with a boy of the king’s age, only generates resentment and will, in the near future, breed disaster.”
Thomas’ mouth opened, but he did not speak. Otstargi had seemingly divined his plans, to split the power in the realm by dividing the duties just as Otstargi described. Thomas knew that for once he had not discussed these plans with anyone, not even with Catherine. Fowler knew, of course, that he was striving to make Edward his friend, but Fowler believed that was to make Edward support his marriage.
Finally Seymour asked sharply, “From whom did you hear this?”
Otstargi laughed. “I have my own methods for getting information and they do not involve bribing servants. You would be best advised, my lord, just to believe what I tell you, and act on it.”
Seymour had drawn an indignant breath over the almost contemptuous tone in which the charlatan spoke, but with the words, Otstargi spun across the table a brilliant crystal. Seymour grabbed for it instinctively, and when his hand stopped the stone, his indignation fled. It was a ruby, a deep glowing red with a design he could not quite make out carved into its surface.
For a moment as he picked up the stone to examine it more closely, a wave of dizziness swept over him and an unexpected roiling in his belly. He forgot both sensations, absorbed by the beauty of the ruby, and then he closed his hand over it.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Are you selling it?”
“No, it is not for sale, but you might have it as a gift with my goodwill.”
By Slanderous Tongues Page 32