It might at least free Antony. And Lune needed that, if she were to do anything about the rest of it.
Lune handed the Solemn Protestation back to Hipley. “Have a fair copy made; then take those to Lady Ware. This protestation should be printed above, where people can hear of it. And talk to Marchamont Nedham. His Mercurius Pragmaticus is too Parliamentarian for my taste, but it’s the most effective news-sheet in London; we may as well make use of it.”
Hipley bowed. “And for Lord Antony?”
She gritted her teeth. “If his voice is all he has left himself, then bid him use it well.”
WESTMINSTER AND LONDON: December 25, 1648
The guarded rooms in the Swan and the King’s Head made a more tolerable prison than Hell even when they had over forty men crammed into them; now, with half that number freed, they almost passed for comfortable.
Prynne sat at the table, scratching away at yet another lawyerly condemnation of the Army’s actions. “What other word can I use than villainous? ” he asked, frowning at his page.
“Working still?” Antony said, sitting with one boot propped against the wall. “Today is Christmas, you know.”
“What of it?”
Antony sighed. Why must so many Puritan Independents follow a vision of God that has no room in it for beauty or celebration?
Prynne chewed on the battered end of his quill, then scribbled a few more words. “It is madness,” he muttered to himself, as if it had not been said a thousand times before, by every man here. “If they had simply dissolved Parliament—”
“It would still have been an outrage.” Antony took down his boot and shook his head. “Parliament cannot be dissolved except by its own consent; we created that law years ago.” But Prynne was right: it would have had some savor of legitimacy about it, with a new Parliament elected to replace it. Arresting the dissenting members was possibly the worst course of action Ireton could have followed, comparable to Charles’s smaller, failed attempt before the outbreak of war.
An uneasy thought came, lifting him to his feet. “Prynne—you hear things, as I do. Did Ireton intend this purge?”
“What?” Prynne blinked up at him. The firelight was not kind to him, highlighting the scars where his ears had been, the brand on his cheek. Before he devoted his energies to arguing against the Army, it had been the Presbyterians, and before that the godly Independents he later joined, but it was his opposition to the King that had earned him repeated sentences from the Court of Star Chamber. “No, he wanted a new Parliament. Edmund Ludlow insisted on the purge.”
And where had Ludlow gotten that notion? Antony did not realize he had said it out loud until Prynne shrugged and said, “Villainy, no matter who its author. But I keep using that word; surely there must be others. For variety, you see.”
“Try Harley downstairs,” Antony said, distracted. “He has a talent for words.”
Prynne grunted and stood, gathering up his papers and pen. Antony paced as he left, scratching at his overgrown beard.
Purging the Commons: the most outrageous, divisive, destructive thing the Army could have done, short of declaring itself the sole authority over England, defying King, Commons, and all. And while Antony did not doubt Ludlow and the others mad enough to do it...
Evil thoughts, whispered into the right ears at the right time, had nurtured violence in London before.
Had Ifarren Vidar’s minions visited that council at St. Albans?
He and Lune had expected the next move to come through Sir Leslic’s Ascendants, who had seemed to be positioning themselves to create more anger against the Royalists, which would help the Army’s cause. But what if Vidar had gone directly for the Army itself? The Commons had voted to restore the King; a new House, if the old were dissolved, might well do the same. This purge was the only way to ensure a Commons composed solely of men who would act against Charles Stuart.
Which would please Nicneven very well.
And Antony’s own arrest would distract Lune, at this most crucial of times.
Movement in the shadows made him leap nearly out of his skin. But the figure Antony saw was familiar to him, and would hardly welcome the arrival of his Puritan fellow captives. He swallowed the cry just in time.
The mara Angrisla was not much prettier than Prynne, being a nightmare personified. But Antony had seen Lune’s secret messengers before, chosen more for their stealth than their social graces. “Lord Antony,” the mara said perfunctorily. “You’ll be out today. Her Majesty sent me to tell you.”
So much for his great martyrdom. But Antony had let his guilt over previous failures drive him into a greater one: he let himself be taken from Lune’s side, when she needed him most. And perhaps Vidar had predicted that, too.
Certainly Antony had not done here what he hoped. The surprise of the arrests had, in the end, come to nothing much; the prisoners were being released a few at a time, with little fanfare, while some troublesome few were moved to closer confinement in St. James’ Palace. Those still held here could do little more than write pamphlet after pamphlet, from the Solemn Protestation onward—most of which might as well be flung into the void, for all Antony knew of their effect.
He might not do much good outside, either. He would not swear his dissent from the treaty vote on the fifth—the vote overturned by the purged Commons a week later—and so would not be readmitted to his seat. But he might yet do some good in Guildhall. And if his suspicions were correct, he needed to be in the Onyx Hall, pursuing the question of Vidar. “Bear my thanks to her Majesty,” he told the mara, and resumed his pacing, worrying at his thoughts like a dog with a bone.
Soon enough a messenger came to take him and a few others to Whitehall. Fairfax, of course, was “too busy” to see them; Antony imagined the man was busy indeed, trying to check the excesses of his brethren in arms. In time, however, a lesser officer told them they were free to go.
Exiting into the frosty street, Antony found a familiar carriage waiting for him. The coachman opened the door, and a voice called out, “How long did they keep you waiting?”
Antony climbed in and sat across from Thomas Soame. The other man had been freed five days before, with many of their companions, and looked worlds more cheerful. “A few hours.”
“About what I expected. I passed the time by drinking.” Soame leaned out the window and called to the coachman, “Lombard Street.”
Home. And Kate. But Antony said, “No—take me to the Guildhall.”
Soame shook his head. “You don’t want to go there. Haven’t you heard?” At Antony’s alarmed look, he explained, “The Common Council elections were four days ago. Parliament passed an ordinance debarring anyone who favored the treaty with the King. We may have a Royalist Lord Mayor right now, but his councilmen are a pack of frothing Levellers.”
Even allowing for Soame’s tendency to exaggeration, it was appalling news. “Are we disabled?”
“You may be.” Soame fished around the coach floor and produced a small jug from behind his feet. Antony accepted a swig, expecting wine, and choked on aqua vitae. “Depends on whether they know you helped write the Solemn Protestation.”
Which was to say, another damnable ordinance. Word of it had reached them in prison, of course: no one involved with the Protestation could ever hold public office or a seat in Parliament again. “They don’t have the slightest shred of authority backing it,” Antony said. Anger warmed his body against the icy air. “To call the Commons a free and representative body, after what they did to us—”
“Not to mention they can barely manage a quorum most days,” Soame agreed. “Hell, even Vane isn’t attending, and he’s been the Independents’ leader for how long now? Some men are afraid to show their faces; others stay away in protest. The Lords muster six on a good day. It’s a farce.”
“I’m not laughing,” Antony said, more sharply than Soame deserved. “So tell me, then—what reply is planned?”
His friend blinked owlishly above the
furred edge of his cloak. “Reply?”
“What protest? You cannot tell me the people are taking this in silence.”
“Oh, they’re not. I’ve seen a few petitions—not that the Commons or the General Council will even receive them—and enough argumentative pamphlets to paper over St. Paul’s. Publishing is the latest fashion, you know.”
Indeed. What was well and good for men in prison, though, was hardly enough for men who had their freedom. “What action?” Antony demanded in frustration.
The bitter humor faded from Soame’s face. “None that I’ve seen.”
None? It was inconceivable. “But the London Presbyterians hate the Army.”
“And preach against them at every opportunity. More words. It’s all words, Antony, from the Thames to the City wall.”
He shook his head, curling fingers numb with cold into fists at his sides. “Then I will change that.”
“How? Man, there’s artillery at Blackfriars, and soldiers quartered three doors down from your house. The Army lets people talk, but anyone who moves will be crushed like an ant.”
“Are you telling me the citizens of London are afraid to defend their liberty?”
“I’m telling you they’re tired,” Soame answered bluntly. “Six years of unrest, civil war from one end of the land to the other—trade is decaying, we’ve had three bad harvests in a row, and there’s ice on the Thames already. They’re minded to hold on to what they have, rather than risk losing the rest.”
And so by their indifference, they will lose that rest. Except that Antony knew, even as he thought it, that he was wrong. The Army would make a mockery of their liberties, gut Parliament, force the King to the indignity of trial, and otherwise destroy half of the things the war had supposedly been fought to defend, but the average man could still expect to work at his trade and go home to his family at night. And so long as he had that, it was possible to overlook the things he had lost.
Those lost things mattered. But if pamphlets and preachers could not move men to action, what could? When would the people of London stand up?
The coach had rattled down the frosted streets while he and Soame argued, over the Fleet ditch, through Ludgate, and across the City to his home. Now it rolled to a stop, and a moment later the coachman opened the door for him. Soame reached over before Antony could move and gripped his arm. “I understand,” his fellow alderman and erstwhile member of Parliament said, quietly serious. “But I think they mean this trial to frighten the King into real concessions. Once that is done, we will have sanity again.”
“I hope you are right,” Antony replied. “But I will not trust only to hope.”
Then he descended from the carriage and turned to face his house. Kate stood in the door, well-muffled in a cloak, but she threw its edges wide to envelop him in a tight embrace. “Welcome home,” she said into his shoulder, “and merry Christmas.”
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON : January 9, 1649
“Six trumpeters,” Antony said through his teeth, “and two troops of horse to keep Dendy safe while he read the proclamation. The Act they passed three days ago was no bluff.” He spat the word out, contemptuous of its pretended authority. Acts were things passed by King, Lords, and Commons—not Commons in the absence of Lords or King.
Not Commons against the King.
“So they will do it,” Lune murmured, warming her hands at the fire. “They will put him on trial.”
“They will play at it, like mummers. This so-called High Court of Justice is nothing more than a pack of rogues and self-interested knaves. None of their original Chief Justices would have anything to do with it—a tiny show of principles and reason. The Commons has no jurisdiction to try the King.”
No one did. Lune knew little of the common law of England, but she knew that much. A sovereign monarch was authority. Mortals derived it from the Almighty; fae based it in the very realm itself, which answered only to its rightful master. Neither source allowed for subjects to declare their own preeminence, then use it against those set to rule them.
She recognized the touch of hypocrisy in her own thoughts. Invidiana had not designated Lune her heir and passed the crown to her; the change of Queens was born of rebellion. An accidental one, in some ways—Lune had not meant to claim the throne—and one could argue the illegitimacy of Invidiana’s own power. But in a very real sense, Lune was more guilty of treason than the fae now imprisoned beneath the Tower.
Perhaps that made her, of all people, qualified to recognize it in others.
Turning from the fire, she lowered herself into a chair. Antony needed no permission to sit, but he stood by choice, caged fury driving him to pace before he checked himself into stillness. This anger had burned brightly in him ever since Hipley confirmed his suspicion: there had been troublemakers at St. Albans, particularly around Edmund Ludlow, who argued for the purge. Lune had no messages from Cerenel since he fulfilled her final command, discovering Vidar’s presence in Fife, but it was easy enough to imagine what Nicneven had commanded her Lord of Shadows to do. Charles was humiliated; now he must be deposed.
Lune wondered how long it had been since Antony slept a full night through. But she could not reassure him into resting; there was no reassurance to be had. “Jurisdiction or not, they will do it,” she said. “I think you are right: this is no bluff. And they will find him guilty.”
“No, they will not.” Antony ground the words out. “We will stop them.”
“How?” She could not but pity the frustration that raged in him. “We have tried to move the people of London, to no avail. Their fear is too great, and their exhaustion.”
“Then we’ll try something else!” he shouted, whirling on her as if on an enemy. “You’re a faerie, God damn it; use your arts!”
The oath hit her like a blow to the gut, driving the wind from her lungs, the light from her eyes. The fire flickered low, and a tremor rocked the walls. Only a faint one; it was but a single word, and spoken in blasphemous anger, not prayer.
But it shook her to the bone.
When Lune’s vision cleared, she saw Antony’s white face mere inches away. He had her by the shoulders, steadying her. The iron wound throbbed under his hand. Then the door slammed open and a pair of attendants rushed in, wild and ready to fight off some assailant. Finding only the Prince, they faltered.
Marshaling her wits, Lune held up a shaking hand. “Be at ease—it was a slip of the tongue only. You need not be alarmed.”
They retired, uncertainly, and left her with Antony. “Forgive me,” he breathed. “I forgot myself.”
That he had done so showed the depth of his distress. Lune took his hands from her shoulders and held them in her own, looking down at him where he crouched on the carpet before her. “You are right,” she said, her voice coming to her ears as from a great distance. “I could save the King.”
His eyes widened. The velvet across his shoulders tightened, and he gripped her fingers hard. “I could,” Lune went on, “claim every piece of bread in the Onyx Hall, and arm a force of fae against the world above. I could send them to the King’s prison at Windsor Castle. They could mask themselves, beguile the guards, and spirit Charles away. With a friendly captain, we might get him to France. And then more charms might end the current chaos there and help Henrietta Maria persuade the French court to grant him the soldiers they refused before, which—with sufficient help at sea—might get through to England and make a third rising, more successful than his first two. And so the Army and this false Commons would be overthrown, and Charles restored to his throne.
“And if you ask it of me, I will do it.”
Her words hung in the quiet air.
Antony was staring, lips parted in shock. This was not how it went: they argued, each advocating for their own kind, resisting compromise but eventually finding it. That was how they ruled, as Queen and Prince.
Never had she offered him such a choice.
“It is not mine to decide,” Antony said, bare
ly audible.
“It is,” Lune told him. “You are the Prince of the Stone. Yours is to say when the fae of this land can be of aid. Such things are, and always should be, your decision. I have forgotten that on occasion, but not now. If you wish the King rescued, then say so.”
She spoke it more easily than it came. Even as the possibilities rolled out, her mind filled in the consequences. But principles adhered to only when they were easy were no principles at all.
If the well-being of mortal England depended on this, then she would do it.
Antony rose, pulling his hands from her grasp, and moved back a few steps, the toes of his boots feeling for the floor as if leading a blind man. “If we had acted but a little more strongly, years ago,” he said, “we might have averted this by less extreme measures.”
Lune nodded, gut twisting with regret. “Had we foreseen where it would end. But I do not think anyone—perhaps not even a seer—could have predicted then that the innumerable branching paths of our choices would lead us to this pass.”
Our choices in the broadest sense. She and Antony were hardly the only ones who mattered, or even the most important. Pym had not anticipated this end, when he began his troublemaking in Parliament years ago. Nor had Charles, when he belittled the threat so posed; nor the Army officers who now roared for a trial. No one person, mortal or fae, had created the disaster that faced them now. They had done it together. And now only violent action would end it.
Her consort had closed his eyes in thought. “Your subjects,” Antony began, then corrected himself. “Our subjects would resent the forcible taxation of their scarce bread. And the Cour du Lys would scream in outrage at such trespass in France.”
Lune said nothing.
“Such conspicuous interference would threaten your safety as well,” he went on. “For you cannot charm so many men so entirely without it being marked. It might draw attention to this very Hall, and even if not, accusations of witchcraft would dog the King to the end of his days.”
In Ashes Lie Page 16
