“The foundation of my sovereignty,” Lune said, through numb lips. The bond with London hummed in her bones. Nicneven’s venom against her and all her court suddenly became clear as fine glass. “Because she objects to the joining of mortal and fae, and my realm itself is the source of that problem. The roots of my sovereignty lie in the land—but she considers it twisted, does she not?” At the edge of her vision, she saw Amadea nod. “It is a mortal place, not a natural one. A place never meant for our kind. To be bound to such a land corrupts me, and through me, my subjects. If she wishes to end what we do, she must destroy its source.”
Now she understood the reports of destruction within the palace, chambers torn apart. Vidar was not merely searching for the London Stone; he was trying to break the enchantments of the Hall itself. Or at least creating the appearance of it. Lune had no doubt he would prefer to be the Onyx Hall’s master, rather than its destroyer—but if it ever became more beneficial to his own survival that he bring the palace down, he would do it.
And if he found the London Stone, that choice would be his.
Urgency flared beneath Lune’s breast. Living forever, it was easy for faerie-kind to take a patient view, and see nothing in the delay of years. This robbed her of such complacency. Delay, and she might not have a realm to retake.
The Onyx Court would die as surely as the Kingdom of England had.
Antony had removed his hand from beneath hers; now he said in an unemotional voice, “Then we must encourage Nicneven’s disaffection. It will risk her sending someone else to finish Vidar’s task, but if she withdraws her support, he will be vulnerable.”
Lune opened her mouth to ask Irrith a question, but swallowed it when she realized Wayland was there himself, standing just inside the doorway. He had entered with his usual, unnatural silence, and now he heard what she had been about to say. Wayland shook his head. “I understand your fears. And if the Scots withdraw from the Onyx Hall, you may have the war you desire. But until then, my answer is unchanged. My people are too few, and this is not their battle. I will not ask them to throw themselves into defeat.”
“I understand,” Lune said, and she did. But the desperation clawing its way up her throat made her add silently, Then help me find a way to prevent that defeat. Before it is too late.
HAM HOUSE, RICHMOND: September 3, 1658
Dressed in the rags he wore about the City, Antony might have encountered trouble as he rode along the south bank of the Thames, and so he had changed out his clothing for the sober respectability of a minor tradesman. With his hair and beard trimmed, and the fortification of a recent visit to the Onyx Hall burning in him, he looked and felt more like himself.
He was alert enough to ride warily, and to depart from the river path well in advance of his destination. Picking his way along smaller lanes, he came at the palatial manor of Ham House from the back, through the gardens that lay on the far side of the house from the water. After tying his horse in a thicket, he slipped down the broad avenues of the wilderness to the well-manicured lawn below the south terrace, and a gnarled old sweet chestnut that stood to one side.
Antony laid his hand on the bark and murmured, “I am here.”
The trunk had a protruding burl like a drunkard’s nose, and a gap below like a mustached mouth; when Antony took his hand away, the wood moved, and eyes blinked open in the bark. “Good evening,” the chestnut tree said with grave dignity.
Though not one of Lune’s subjects, the spirit of the tree had proven more than willing to help Antony. Ever since Kate struck up a friendship with the Lady of Ham House, in fact; he rather thought the spirit liked his wife. “Is all quiet?”
“Yes,” the tree said. “The harsh one has not been here in a long time.”
“Nor ever again.” Antony felt a surge of relief. “The harsh one, my friend, is dead. As of this afternoon.”
After pondering this, the tree said, “Good.”
“Are they expecting me?” At the chestnut’s affirmation, he touched a branch and said, “Thank you. I will see to it that my Queen rewards you for your aid.”
The old tree retired into sleep, nodding, and Antony climbed the stairs onto the south terrace. Silent approach was impossible; the gravel crunched beneath his feet, and so he was not surprised when the doors swung open, revealing a small, familiar figure.
He crossed the last distance at a half-run and caught her up in his arms. The house on Lombard Street had been a house, nothing more, and the Onyx Hall was simply the place he must go to survive. This was home, as much as he had one anymore: within the circle of Kate’s embrace.
She buried one hand in his cropped hair, the other holding him hard about the waist. Neither of them said anything; their kiss communicated all that was needed. She feared for him, hiding in London under a series of false identities, all the more so because she did not fully understand why he did it. Even now, he could not tell her the reason they had fled nine years ago, nor who it was that hunted him, nor why he continually went back. His political sympathies made him suspect, but no more than others who had kept their names and their homes.
Those were issues they had fought through before; she did not raise them again. Instead Kate smiled up at him and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. She was about to say something when the door on the opposite wall creaked open, and a young man stepped through.
Antony’s heart ached without warning. He might have been looking at his own elder brother, stepped straight from decades past, so closely did his son resemble the man for whom he had been named. Has it been so long since I have seen him?
It had. Any of his children, in truth; the last he had seen of his daughter Alice was at her wedding, and Robin had gone to sea with the East India Company, helping to maintain the trade that was the family’s sole remaining source of support. And Henry...
Kate had tensed under Antony’s fingers. He gave her a reassuring touch before crossing to take his eldest son’s hand. “You are looking well,” he said.
“As are you, Father,” Henry said stiffly, and falsely. He was clean-shaven, and his hair neatly trimmed; his clothing was sober, as befit one of his ideals. Not Puritan, but a Commonwealthsman to the bone—never mind that the Commonwealth of England, like the Kingdom before it, had fallen victim to these years of instability.
Kate broke the silence before it could stretch long enough to be uncomfortable. “We had word you were coming, and so dinner awaits. I’ll have a servant bring water for you to wash up.”
Clean and surprisingly hungry, Antony presented himself to Elizabeth Murray, Countess of Dysart and lady of the house, who reigned in solitary splendor with her husband gone. The first words out of her mouth were, “Is it true?”
He studied the woman with some curiosity. Though in her thirties, and with unattractive strawberry-blond hair, she was still remarkably pretty—a detail that had not gone unnoticed by those who marked her friendship with Oliver Cromwell. Despite his best efforts, Antony had never been able to puzzle out just how true that friendship was, at least on her part. How true could it be, when Elizabeth Murray worked in secret with her Royalist father to end the Lord Protector’s rule and restore the Stuarts to the throne?
Now was hardly the time to ask. “Yes, my lady,” he said, with as much kindness as he could muster. “Lord Protector Cromwell is dead.”
Henry made a satisfied noise. “Perhaps now we will have the freedom we once enjoyed, and no single person to rule England as King in all but name.”
His son was right about Cromwell, at least; in the streets of London, they called him King Noll, and celebrated his death. And the House of Lords might have been abolished, but earlier in the year the Lord Protector had created a new upper house to control his unruly Parliament. Only the bishops had not been replaced, after the dismantling of the episcopacy. Many of the Commonwealth’s ideals lay in tatters, thanks to Cromwell’s establishment of the Protectorate; naturally Henry would see his death as a chance to lift them up on
ce more.
Antony knew better, but he also knew better than to broach the subject of politics with his son. And Kate and Lady Dysart helped, diverting the dinner conversation to less dangerous topics, so that for a little while they could pretend it was nothing more than a meal in convivial company. Despite her precarious position, the lady maintained a good home, and good food with it.
When they were finished, however, Kate lured Henry downstairs on a pretext, and Elizabeth guided Antony through the long gallery to the library, a cramped room that already held an occupant. John Ellin rose as they entered and greeted him with all the honesty Henry had eschewed. “You look like hell.”
Gripping the young man’s hand, Antony said, “No doubt I do. And no doubt you will prescribe a course of bleeding or some such, to improve my health.”
“Bleeding? Not a chance. An excess of the sanguine humor is hardly your problem.” Ellin’s long, wry face turned thoughtful. “Black bile, I imagine. In which case—”
“In which case, Mr. Ellin, you shall do nothing.” Kate entered the library and closed the door behind her. The space was cramped with four in it, but at least they were private. “You have not finished your training as a physician or a surgeon.”
He acknowledged her point with a bow. “A shortcoming I strive to mend as soon as possible.”
It would not take him long; though four years younger than Henry, Ellin was already well advanced in his study of both the intellectual and practical aspects of medicine. Antony suspected his involvement in the Royalist cause was of a piece with that training: John Ellin saw the body politic as grievously diseased, weakened by the upheavals it had wrought upon itself from the civil war onwards.
Another such upheaval faced them now, but it might offer the chance for healing. “Cromwell is dead,” Lady Dysart told Ellin, who merely nodded. The man’s health had been bad for months, so it came as no surprise. Though there was a good deal of irony, it being the anniversary of his great victories at Dunbar and Worcester. “Sir Antony—what word of his successor?”
In reply, Antony drew a crumpled letter from inside his doublet. “It would have been Fleetwood,” he said. “But this was the only proof of it, and on his deathbed Cromwell named his son Richard.”
Kate took it from his fingers, with a look that said she was carefully not asking him how he got it. Ellin grimaced and said, “We might have done better with Fleetwood. He’s a milksop.”
“And let the Army’s council of officers consolidate its hold over England?” Antony said sharply. “I will lie dead in a gutter before I let that happen.”
“But Richard is the Protector’s son. Their loyalty to Oliver—”
“Is not an inheritance to be passed on in a will,” Elizabeth said. Ellin fell silent, conceding her greater knowledge of the family. “Oliver was an inspiring man, passionate in his convictions, with the capacity to carry others into his visions, and moreover he was a hero to the soldiery. Richard is all but a stranger to them.”
Antony nodded and took the chair next to Ellin, hoping no one guessed that the weakness of his knees betrayed him into it. “At best he will have six of the Council of State on his side, perhaps seven—and very little of the Army. What’s more, it won’t be long before he has to call a Parliament.”
Startled, Kate said, “Why?”
“Why does any ruler call a Parliament?” Ellin asked ironically. “Because he needs money.”
Lady Dysart claimed the remaining chair; Kate moved to settle on a cushion, but Ellin rose and convinced her through an argument of gestures to have his seat. The young man leaned against the desk instead, slouching his length so as not to loom over them. By the time this dance was done, Antony had his strength back, and asked their hostess, “What do you think will be the reaction abroad?”
He did not have to specify what he meant, and in fact rarely did; even here, in this safe house, they spoke obliquely when they could. The responses from the European states would matter, but what she had knowledge of was a much smaller group: the Sealed Knot, the alliance of exiled English noblemen who worked to restore Charles Stuart, second of that name, to his throne.
Elizabeth’s mouth quirked. “When they hear? The same as it is now, but stronger. Mordaunt will want a rising, and Hyde will argue against.”
“Hyde is right,” Antony said. “The worst thing we could do right now is give the Army something to fight. The people are tired of military control, taxation to support a standing force, and soldiers at free quarter. The longer we go without a war, the more disaffected they will become.” He heard in his own words an echo of the debate over Nicneven, and tried not to shiver. I must live as if I might not drop dead at any moment.
Ellin raised one expressive eyebrow. “But Charles will not claim his throne by neglect alone. He needs soldiers to control London and other key points—which means he needs a port to land them in, and someone must acquire that for him. Not to mention ships to get the forces across.”
The ships would have to come from France or Spain, but Antony agreed with Hyde that for the King to be restored by an outside power would poison opinion against him. Which was a philosophical concern backed by a practical one: until Europe stopped fighting itself, from Portugal to Sweden and everywhere in between, no one would spare any time for a King who only ever reigned in exile.
“No rising has succeeded yet,” Kate said. “And before you tell me, Mr. Ellin, that only the last one ever succeeds—yes, your thoughts are that transparent—let me remind you that they have been miserable failures, every one. Even when Scotland gave young Charles its support, he ended up hiding from soldiers in a Staffordshire oak tree. I doubt he is in any hurry to try again.”
Ellin spread his hands in florid submission. “Then what do we propose to do?”
“Wait,” Antony said.
“I had hoped for rather more than that.”
“Wait for Parliament,” Antony clarified. “I do not know everyone who will be elected to it, but I expect Hesilrige, Vane, and others from my own days there. I have ways of setting them at each other’s throats, and Parliament against the Army.”
Ellin frowned. “To what end? Other than pure chaos, which I’m sure you will achieve magnificently.”
“Chaos is what we need, at least for a time. The Protectorate is not popular, and will be less so without Oliver Cromwell to hold it together. The Army is despised. The Commonwealthsmen are passionate, but they’ve lost the people; men are tired of godly reformers prying into every corner of their lives and outlawing their pleasures. And they cannot present a united front, because they do not agree half so much as they think they do, and scarce one in a hundred can see past the glowing radiance of their proposed community of saints to the practical considerations of how to govern a country. What we cannot let happen is the officers of the Army claiming the little power that yet remains out of their hands, and turning all of England into their servants. To that end, I will sow what chaos I must, so that when they reach their hands forth they find nothing in their grasp but smoke.”
Where the vitality for that impassioned speech came from, he didn’t know; it surprised even him. Judging by the expressions that faced him, he was not the only one. Once he had recovered his jaw, Ellin began to clap quietly.
Antony flushed and looked away. Kate laid one hand on his, and kept it there until he met her eyes, whereupon she smiled. Elizabeth spoke, perhaps to cover his embarrassment. “If you are right about the Parliament, I can think of others we might see elected, to work from within.”
“Not my husband,” Kate said, before Antony could identify the knot of emotions that formed in him at the thought. “He cannot be known so openly.”
“They would not have me regardless,” he said, taking his hand from hers. “All who were purged before the trial will still be disabled from sitting.”
Elizabeth waved their concerns away. “I was not thinking of Sir Antony. But I will do what I can to foster others.”
“A
nd to keep Mordaunt on a leash,” Ellin added. “I don’t fancy bending knee to the Army.”
Antony watched soberly as they worked out the details. This was not something he ever had a gift for, this underhand work—not like Lune did. He had relied on Ben Hipley for precisely that reason. But it was the only tool left in his hand. If he was to restore either his King or his Queen, he must work from the shadows.
And pray for the day when he could live once more in the light.
WAYLAND’S SMITHY, BERKSHIRE: April 26, 1659
In all the long ages of her life, Lune had seen her designs thwarted, her achievements overthrown, her hopes trodden into the mud. Every time, she clawed her way back up again, rebuilding that which had broken, and she was determined to do so again.
She was determined, but she could not see how.
Those who kept by her in her exile were loyal, but they were not enough to overthrow Vidar. Lune had no great enchantments she could bring to bear against him, no army sufficient to crush him, and no means of dividing him from his allies, except to wait and hope that Nicneven’s growing fury accomplished that for her. They had seeded information about Vidar’s involvement with the execution of the Queen of Scots, and it seemed to be doing some good. But every day spent waiting put Antony’s life, and the security of her realm, in greater danger.
Antony distracted himself from it by throwing himself all the more fervently into the Royalist cause, as if determined to accomplish the restoration of that monarchy before he died. Lune wished him all the good fortune in the world, but she could no more see how to put Charles Stuart on his throne than herself on her own. They had this much in common, she and the mortal King: despite all the divisions among their enemies, neither of them could muster the force necessary to take back what was theirs by right.
The thought brought a bitter smile to her face as she paced the rustic chamber Wayland had given over to her use. The Almighty could anoint Charles as King, and the Onyx Hall could acknowledge Lune as Queen, but those rightful claims did them not the slightest bit of good, without the strength to enforce them.
In Ashes Lie Page 24
