In Ashes Lie (6 page)

Antony donned an equally deliberate smile. “Not at all. Merely addressing some business.”

“Good, good! We have some grand designs for these next few weeks, you know. I would not want you to miss them.”

Grand designs? That sounded ominous. And Antony suspected that
we
had a rather more specific meaning than the Commons as a whole. He sorted hastily through the names in his head, trying to remember who out of the hundreds of members might be in alliance with Penington. Antony’s own father had sat in Charles’s last Parliament, and though most of the leaders from that age had died or moved on, at least one was back again. The man had led the attempt to impeach the King’s old chief councillor, the Duke of Buckingham, and his political ambitions did not stop there. “Yourself and John Pym?” Antony hazarded.

Penington’s smile grew more genuine. “More than just us. Hampden, Holles—quite a few, really. We finally have an opportunity to make a stand against the King’s offenses, and we shall not waste it.”

Antony’s unease deepened. Hidden in the King’s opening speech the day before was the very real concern of an impending second war with the Scots. Charles had buried it in a morass of platitudes about the zealous and humble affection the Commons no doubt felt for their sovereign, but the simple fact was that he had called them because he needed money to put down the rebellious Covenanters, as he had failed to do the previous year. “Which offenses?”

“Why, all of them, man!” Penington laughed. “Religion first, I should think—Archbishop Laud’s popish changes to the Church, surplices, altar rails, all those Romish abominations. We will have the bishops out before we are done, I vow. Or this policy of friendship to Rome’s minions; bad enough to have a Catholic Queen, but the King tolerates priests even beyond her household. He would sell England to Spain if it would gain him some advantage. Or perhaps another approach; we may speak first of his offenses against the liberties of Parliament.”

“The King,” Antony said, choosing his words carefully, “will no doubt be more inclined to consider those matters once the venture against Scotland is provided for.”

Now the smile had a wolfish cast. “Oh, the King will have his subsidies—but not until we have had our voice.”

That was in direct contravention of Charles’s instructions. Antony caught those words before they left his mouth, though. Penington could hardly have forgotten that speech. He flouted it knowingly.

To some extent, he could see the man’s point. Once Charles had his money, there was a very real risk the King would feel free to ignore his Parliament, or even to dissolve it entirely, considering its business done. Those subsidies were the only advantage they held.

And the offenses, he had to admit, were real. Ten years without a Parliament—more like eleven, by now—were only an outward sign of the problem. The real contention was Charles’s philosophy, supported by his judges and councillors, that the sole foundation of all law was the royal will and pleasure, and by no means did that law bind that will. Unjust taxation and all the rest followed from that, for how could it be unjust if the King decreed it necessary?

Penington was watching him closely. “We shall make time for you to speak, if you like,” he said. “There must needs be some debate, though we hope to have bills prepared for voting before much longer. They will stall in the Lords, of course, but it’s a start.”

The unspoken words hung behind the spoken, with more than a little menace:
You are with us, are you not?

Antony did not know. He was no lapdog to the King, but what he knew of Pym and the others Penington had named worried him. Puritan zealots, most of them, and far too eager to undermine the King in pursuit of their own ends. Ends that were not necessarily Antony’s own. Fortunately, over Penington’s shoulder he saw the clerk he needed to speak to. With false humor, he said, “If I do not finish my work here, I shall never make it to Westminster in time to do anything. If you will pardon me?”

“Of course,” Penington said, and let him by—but Antony felt the man’s gaze on his back as he went.

Accepting a cup of mead with a grateful smile, Lune said, “I know you two keep yourselves informed. No doubt you can guess what has brought me here today.”

Rosamund Goodemeade blinked innocent eyes at her and said, curtsying, “Why, your Majesty, we thought you just wished our company!”

“And our mead,” her sister Gertrude added. “And our food, I suspect—we’ve bread fresh from the oven, some excellent cherries, and roast pheasant, if you fancy a bite to eat.” She scarcely even waited for Lune’s answering nod, but bustled off to gather it, and no doubt more besides.

As much as Lune loved her hidden palace, she had to admit that no part of it equaled the comfort and warmth of the Goodemeades’ home. Concealed beneath the Angel, a coaching inn north of the City, it was a favored sanctuary for courtiers needing a respite from the Onyx Hall and its intrigues. The brownie sisters who maintained it always had a ready meal and a readier smile for any friend stopping in, and they counted as friends more fae than Lune would have believed possible.

Rosamund tucked a honey-brown curl up inside her linen cap and settled herself in one of the child-size chairs they kept for themselves and other small guests. Any formality between them had long since melted away, at least in private; she needed no permission to sit, even from her Queen. “I’m guessing it’s Nicneven,” she said, returning to the purpose of this visit.

Lune sighed. As much as she would have liked to spend her afternoon merely enjoying the Goodemeades’ company, she could not spare the time. As Rosamund had clearly deduced. “You came originally from the Border, I know. I do not suppose it was the Scottish side?”

She was unsurprised when the brownie shook her head. “And the folk in Fife are different yet from Border folk, even on the Scots side,” Rosamund said. “We shall help you in any way we can, of course, but we know little of the Gyre-Carling and her people.”

Gertrude had returned, balancing a tray almost as large as she was, piled high with more food than Lune could possibly eat. Judging by the way Gertrude nibbled at the cherries while setting out dishes, though, she and Rosamund intended to share. “What were you hoping for?” she asked, licking her fingers clean of juice.

“Some sort of agent,” Lune admitted. “A friend you might have in Fife, or someone you know in one of the other Scottish courts, who could go there and not seem out of place. My courtiers are almost all English fae, or more foreign than that.”

“A spy?” Rosamund said.

As Ben Hipley conducted the Onyx Hall’s covert work among mortals, so did Valentin Aspell, her Lord Keeper, handle that which dealt with fae. But for certain matters—more delicate ones—the Goodemeades were Lune’s best, and least suspected, resource. She said, “You know of the attack on the alder tree. As much as I wish I could believe Taylor was sent on his errand by a traitor in my own court—as strange as it is to wish for such a thing—I have reason to believe Nicneven is behind it. Which means something has changed in the North. I must find out what.”

Gertrude gestured, admonishing her to eat, and obediently Lune began to butter a hunk of fresh bread.
This plainer food might appeal to Eochu Airt,
she thought, remembering his disdainful comments about the more elaborate meals of her court. The Irish, as she understood it, feasted in simpler fashion.
I may try this, and see if it sweetens his mood.

She was allowing herself to become distracted; the problem at hand was Scotland, not Ireland. Communicating through glances and the occasional half-finished word, the Goodemeades had already carried out an entire conversation. Now Rosamund said, “It might not be the Gyre-Carling. You know who’s at her court.”

The bread caught in Lune’s throat; she washed it down with mead. “Yes,” she said, heavily. “Kentigern Nellt. And yes, I have considered that this may be nothing more or less than revenge for Halgresta.”

The giant had not loved his sister; Lune sincerely doubted him capable of love. But Kentigern had taken deep offense when Halgresta died in battle, and he had cause to blame Lune, for that battle was her doing. She had exiled him precisely to avoid any attempt at vengeance; had he tried, she would have been forced to execute him, and that she would not do. But exiled, he had gone back to his old home in the North, and found a place serving the Unseely Queen of Fife.

Leaving behind his brother Prigurd. Who alone, among the brutal Nellt siblings, served out of loyalty instead of rapacious ambition, and was willing to bestow that loyalty upon Lune. Some had argued that she should not trust him, at least not so far as to award him Halgresta’s old position as captain—but the Onyx Guard was all Prigurd knew. And though he was not bright, he was at least faithful in his duty.

“If it’s revenge,” Gertrude said, “then it
might
be cleared away if you sent Prigurd north.”

Rosamund and Lune both frankly stared at her. “Prigurd as a diplomat?” the other brownie said, disbelieving. “Mab love him, but he hasn’t three thoughts in his head to call his own. Kentigern would skin him, joint him, and serve him to Nicneven raw.”

“I doubt anyone could dissuade him from revenge by words alone,” Lune said. Gertrude’s sweet disposition was admirable, but sometimes it resulted in naïveté. “But I also doubt that this is simply Kentigern’s doing. Left to his own devices, he would storm the Onyx Hall one night, axe in hand, seeking my blood. If anything, Nicneven is restraining him, not being driven by him.”

Kentigern was not the only courtier who departed at her accession, nor even the only one who had found a home in Fife. The others, though, had left peaceably—or else had fled so far she no longer feared them. And—

Lune groaned out loud as a thought came to her. The sisters gave her matched looks of startlement. “Eochu Airt,” she said. “He claims to have some information of use to me. There have been dealings between Ulster and Scotland before. It may be King Conchobar, or another in Ulster, knows something of this new malevolence from Nicneven.”

“What do they want in return?” Gertrude asked.

Ireland free of all English settlers, with no English King over her.
“The removal of Wentworth,” Lune said. “Which I have no graceful way to accomplish. I have offered him everything I can, but none of it suffices. I
must
find a way to get my own agent into Fife.”

The brownies exchanged dubious glances. “We shall try,” Rosamund said, without much hope. “We have a few friends along the Border, who might be of use.”

“I would be most grateful,” Lune replied.

“Good,” Gertrude said. “Now
I
would be grateful if you don’t let this pheasant go to waste. Tuck in, your most sovereign Majesty; you cannot solve all the island’s ills if you do not eat.”

Three weeks of this chaos, and nothing to show for it.

The refrain echoed incessantly in Antony’s mind as he crossed the lobby outside St. Stephen’s Chapel, where the House of Commons sat. Three weeks of increasingly contentious argument, Pym and his supporters holding firm even though hostilities with Scotland had opened once more. From religion to control of the militia, the list of changes they sought kept growing.

Antony was not without resources, but they only went so far. Lune’s faerie spies and Ben Hipley’s mortal agents kept their fingers on the pulse of the House of Lords and Charles’s privy council, but he had no control over those bodies; he only knew the general tenor of their discussions. And what he heard did not bode well. Charles believed, as he ever did, that the opposition in the Commons was the work of a few malcontented individuals, while the majority held a more tractable stance. But this was the same man who invariably expected matters to go according to his wishes, regardless of circumstances; the same man who closed his ears to any indication the reality might be worse than he thought. His advisers were weak men, and those few who were strong—Wentworth and Archbishop Laud—were also hated. The rottenness in England’s government went far beyond one man.

Even at this early hour, the lobby was well filled with clerks, servants, and men with business they hoped to place before the Commons. It was worse than the Guildhall; Antony had to fend off petitioners from three different counties before he passed the bar that marked the entrance into the chapel. Complaints about ship money, all three of them, and no surprise there. It was the most hated tax in all of England.

The problem—his thoughts kept returning to the Commons—was lack of leadership. Wentworth, who had been one of the most able men in the House eleven years ago, was recently created the Earl of Strafford, and as such had his seat in the Lords. In his own way the man was as blind as Charles, and far more adept at making enemies, but at least he was effective. In his absence, the King’s men floundered, while John Pym and his fellows organized a strong opposition.

Antony’s reservations about Pym had grown from niggling suspicion into outright distrust. It would be bad enough if the man were simply a champion of the godly reformers, but his ambitions did not stop there. Pym seemed to view Parliament, not as the King’s support, but as his leash. He wanted control of matters that were manifestly the prerogative of the King, and that Antony could not support.

Which left him caught in the middle. Standing on the floor of the chapel, with the tiers of seats rising around him in a horseshoe, Antony felt briefly like a bear staked out for baiting. Then he took his seat with the other members for London, near to the Speaker’s chair. He felt no allegiance with them: Penington and Craddock were firmly in Pym’s camp, and Soame was increasingly of their mind. But Sir Francis Seymour sat behind them—an old friend of Antony’s father, allied with him in the last Parliament, and a comforting presence in this maze Antony had not yet learned to thread.