Midnight Never Come (30 page)

But it was there, however briefly.

Now Deven dropped to his knees, his heart fluttering so wildly it made his hands shake. “Your Majesty,” he said, heedless of whether he might be cutting her off, desperate to get the words out before she could say anything, deny anything. “For days now I have thought myself a madman. I have met — people — spoken to them, heard stories that would be incredible were they played upon a stage. But I know them to be true. I have come to you today, risked speaking of this so openly, because events are in motion which could bring an upheaval as great as that threatened by Spain. Consider me a messenger, if you will.”

And with that he halted; he could think of nothing more to say. The light shifted around him, and the wind blew more strongly, as if a storm might be on its way.

From above him, Elizabeth’s measured, controlled voice. “She sent you to me?”

He swallowed. “No. I represent . . . others.”

Footsteps approached; a rustle of satin, as Elizabeth gestured whomever it was away. When they were alone again, she said, “Explain yourself.”

Those two words were very, very cold. Deven curled his gloved hands into fists. “I have come into contact with a group of . . . these people, who believe that a pact exists between their Queen and someone in your Majesty’s own court — perhaps you yourself. The man who told them of this pact was of our own kind, and had long dwelled among them, but he died in the course of confessing this information. He claimed the pact was detrimental to both sides. They wish it to be broken, and have asked me to discover its nature and terms.”

How he wished he could see her face! But Elizabeth had not told him to rise, nor did she interrupt his explanation. He had no choice but to continue. “Madam, I know not what to think. They say she is not their rightful Queen, that she deposed many others across England when she ascended to her throne. They say she is cold and cruel — that, at least, I most sincerely believe, for I do not think they could counterfeit such fear. They say their aid has helped maintain your Grace’s own safety and security, and perhaps this is true. But if so . . .” His heart was hammering so loudly, the entire camp must be able to hear it. “I do not know if this pact
should
be broken. Even if I knew its terms, that is not a decision for me to make. All I can do, in good conscience, is lay what I know at your feet, and beg your good wisdom and counsel.”

The long speech left his mouth bone dry. How many people were watching them discreetly, wondering what private suit drove him to his knees, with his face so pale? Did Elizabeth show anger, confusion, fear?

He might have just ended his career at court, in one disastrous afternoon.

Deven whispered, “If your Majesty is caught in some bargain from which you would escape, you have but to say so, and I will do everything I may to end it. But if these creatures are your enemies — if they threaten the security of your throne — then bid me stop them, and I will.”

The sunlight flickered, then shone down with renewed strength. His linen undershirt was soaked with sweat.

Elizabeth said in courteous, impassive tones, “We thank you, Master Deven, and will take this information under advisement. Speak of this to no other.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Luncheon is served, it seems. Go you and eat, and send Lord Essex to me.”

“I humbly take my leave.” Deven rose, not looking at her, backed away three steps, and bowed deeply. Then he fled, wishing it would not be an insult to quit the hunt early, before anyone asked him questions he could not answer.

M
OOR
F
IELDS
, L
ONDON
:
May 1, 1590

The celebrations began in the hours before dawn, and would fade away with the morning light. To dance out here — in the open, under the stars, yet just outside the city walls — was an act of mad defiance, a fleeting laugh at the masses of humanity from which they ordinarily hid, holding their revels underground, or in wilder places. It also required a tremendous outlay of effort.

The laundresses’ pegs and the archers’ marks that normally dotted the open places of Moor Fields had been cleared away. The grass, trodden into dusty brownness and hard-packed dirt, was briefly, verdantly green, growing in a thick carpet that cushioned the bare feet of the dancers. The dark, somber tones that predominated in the Onyx Hall had given way to riotous color: pink and red and spring green, yellow and blue and one doublet of violent purple. Flower petals, fresh leaves, feathers whose edges gleamed with iridescent light; the garb tonight was all of living things, growing things, in honor of the first of May.

And the fae of the Onyx Court danced. Musicians wove competing tapestries in the air, flutes and hautbois and tabors sending forth sound and light and illusions that ornamented the dance. Orpheus wandered the edges, serenading the many lovers. Blossoms sprang up where he walked. Great bonfires burned at the four corners of their field, serving more than one purpose; they provided heat, light, fire for the festival, and foundation points for the immense web of charms that concealed all this revelry from watching eyes.

When the sun rose, mortals would go forth for their own May Day celebrations. They would pick flowers in the woods, dance around maypoles, and enjoy the onset of benevolent weather. But a few had started early: here and there, a human strayed near enough to the fires to pierce the veils that concealed them, and become aware of the crowds that had overtaken Moor Fields. A young man lay with his head in Lady Carline’s lap, eating grapes from her fingers. Another scrambled on the ground in front of her, rump in the air, behaving for all the world like a dog in human form — but for once, those who laughed at him did so without the edge of cold malice their voices would ordinarily have borne. Maidens whirled about the dancing ground with faerie gentlemen who wove blossoms into their hair and whispered sweet nothings into their ears. Nor was everyone young: a stout peasant woman had wandered from her house on Bishopsgate Street to chase a dog not long after sundown on May Eve, and now stamped a merry measure with the best of them, her face red and shining with effort.

Amidst all this splendor, one figure was conspicuous by her absence: conspicuous, but not missed. The Wild Hunt could more easily strike at this open field than at the subterranean confines of the Onyx Hall, and so Invidiana stayed below.

They had more fun without her.

The Queen’s absence helped Lune breathe more easily. With wine flowing like water, everyone was merry, and many of them forgot to snub those who deserved snubbing. Nor did the snared mortals have any notion of politics. Shortly after midnight, a young man stumbled up to her, wine cup in hand, mouth languorous and searching for a kiss. He had brown hair and blue eyes, and Lune pushed him away, then regretted the violence of her action. But she did not need the reminder of Michael Deven, and the celebrations Elizabeth’s court would engage in today.

Even on a night such as this, politics did not entirely cease. Everyone knew Tiresias was dead; everyone knew the Queen had been little seen by anyone since his body was discovered. A few thought she mourned him. Remembering the Goodemeades’ tale, Lune felt cold. Invidiana mourned no one.

But his death created opportunity for those who needed it. Some who questioned Lune thought themselves subtle about it; others did not even try for subtlety. Certain mortals claimed the ability to foretell the future. Were any of them truly so gifted? Lune had lived among the mortal court; she might know something. They pestered her for information. Had she met Simon Forman? What of Doctor Dee? Did she perhaps know of any persuasive charlatans, who might be put forth as bait to trip up a political rival?

Lune joined the dancing to escape the questions, then abandoned dancing when it turned her mood fouler. There was no surcease for her here. But where would she go? Back down into the Onyx Hall? Its confines were unbearable to her now — and the Queen waited below. To the Angel Inn? She did not dare spend too much time there, and besides, the Goodemeades were here, along with every other fae from miles around. Lune knew the Goodemeades watched her, but she kept her distance.

A golden-haired elf lady she knew by sight but not name waylaid her. Was she familiar with John Dee? Where did he live? Was he old enough that it might not seem suspicious if he died in his sleep?

Lune fled her questioner, heading for one of the bonfires. Arriving at its edge, where the heat scorched her face with welcome force, she found there was one other person gazing into its depths.

From the far side of the bonfire, the hollow-cheeked, wasted face of Eurydice stared at her.

The mortal pet’s presence at the May Day celebrations was like a splash of cold water from the Thames. Her black, sunken eyes saw what few others did: the spirits of the dead, those restless souls who had not passed on to their punishment or reward. And this was not All Hallows’ Eve, not the time for such things.

But she did more than see. Few fae realized Eurydice was not just a curiosity to Invidiana; she was a tool. She not only saw ghosts: she could bind them to her will. Or rather, the Queen’s will.

Lune knew it all too well. Invidiana had formed plans that depended closely on Eurydice’s special skill, plans that Lune’s disastrous embassy had undone. The folk of the sea wanted for little, and so the things she had gone there to offer them went unremarked. What they had wanted were the spoils of their storms: the souls of those sailors who drowned.

To what use Invidiana would have put such a ghost army, Lune did not know. Had she been aware that her Queen planned to create one, she might have bargained harder; the folk of the sea had no way to bind ghosts to their service. But she thought it a harmless thing, and so she agreed that Eurydice would come among them for a time, provided the ghosts were not turned against the Onyx Court. As long as the ships never reached England’s shores, what did it matter?

Invidiana had seen it differently.

Eurydice’s mouth gaped open in a broken-toothed, hungry grin. And suddenly, despite the blazing bonfire just feet away, Lune felt cold.

Ghosts.

Those who died in the thrall of faerie magic often lingered on as ghosts.

Francis.

Somehow, she kept herself from running. Lune met Eurydice’s gaze, as if she had no reason to fear. That hungry grin was often on the woman’s face; it meant nothing. She had no assurance that Francis Merriman had lingered. After so long trapped in the Onyx Hall, his soul might well have fled with all speed to freedom and judgment.

Or not.

What did Invidiana know?

A chain of dancing fae went past, and someone caught Lune by the hand. She let herself be dragged away, following the line of bodies as they weaved in and out of the crowds of revelers, and did not extricate herself until she was at the far side of the field, safely distant from Eurydice’s ghost-haunted eyes.

She should run now, while she could.

No. Running would bring her no safety; Invidiana ruled all of England. And there might be nothing to run from. But she must assume the worst: that the Queen had Francis’s ghost, and knew from him what had transpired.

Why, then, would Lune still be alive?

Her mind answered that question with an image: a snake, lying with its jaws open and a mouse in its mouth, waiting. ’Tis safe, come in, come in. Why eat only one mouse when you might lure several? And that meant she could not follow her instinct, to run to the safety the Goodemeades offered. Invidiana could act on suspicion as well as proof, but would want to be sure she caught the true conspirators, and caught all of them. As long as she was not certain . . .

Lune stayed at the May Day celebrations, though it took all her will. And in the remaining hours of dancing, and drinking, and fielding the questions of those who sought a new human seer, she caught one moment of relative privacy, while Rosamund dipped her a mug of mead.

“He may be a ghost,” Lune whispered. It was all the warning she dared give.

P
ALACE OF
P
LACENTIA
, G
REENWICH
:
May 2, 1590

In the days following his audience with the Queen, Deven considered abandoning his lodgings and returning to where Ranwell waited at his house in London. What stopped him was the thought that there, he would be sitting atop a faerie palace.

So he was still at Greenwich, though not at court, when the messenger found him.

He threw Colsey into a frenzy, demanding without warning that his best green satin doublet be brushed off and made ready, that his face needed shaving again already, that his boots be cleaned of infinitesimal specks of mud. But one did not show up looking slovenly when invited to go riding with the Queen.

Somehow his manservant got him out the door with good speed. Deven traversed the short distance to the palace, then found himself waiting; something had intervened, and her Majesty was occupied. He paced in a courtyard, his stomach twisting. Had he eaten anything that day, it might have come back up.

Nearly an hour later, word came that Elizabeth was ready at last.

She was resplendent in black and white satin embroidered with seed pearls, her made-up face and hair white and red above it. They did not ride out alone, of course; Deven might be one of her Gentlemen Pensioners, and therefore a worthy bodyguard, but one man was not sufficient for either her dignity or well-being. But the others who came kept their distance, maintaining the illusion that this was a private outing, and not a matter of state.

Everyone at court, from the jealous Earl of Essex down to the lowliest gentlewoman, and probably even the servants, would wonder at the outing, and speculate over the favor Elizabeth was suddenly showing a minor courtier. For once, though, their gossip was the least of Deven’s concerns.

They rode in silence to begin with. Only when they were well away from the palace did Elizabeth say abruptly, “Have you met her?”

He had expected some preface to their discussion; her sudden question took him by surprise. “If you mean Invidiana, your Grace, I have not.”