Hesilrige at least knew; he and his minions had an unpleasant surprise when they came to call on Monck that morning. But as current members began to trickle in and found their old companions in their seats, their reactions were more than sufficient to entertain Soame.
Antony left his friend to enjoy their discomfiture, and settled more agreeably into his seat. Monck might delude himself that they had come to establish England once more as a commonwealth; at the very least he struggled to avoid war. In that latter, Antony would be more than happy to oblige him. But the time had come for a return to the old constitution.
The House of Commons. The House of Lords. And the King upon his throne.
England would be a kingdom once more.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: April 19, 1660
Convincing all her ladies to leave her in peace took some effort. Some had been with Lune in exile, and some had not, but to a lady, they were all determined to behave as if no disruption had ever occurred—which meant they stuck to her like burrs, as if sheer intensity of service could make up for long deprivation. She had to speak quite sharply before the last of them understood that when she said she wished to be alone, she meant true solitude.
With that achieved at last, she sat in one of her antechambers, hands playing over the keyboard of her virginals. She had no skill at the instrument: no expression such as mortals could evoke, no faerie entrancement, not even physical expertise. But it was new to her, and the challenge was diverting.
Enough so that when the door opened, unheralded, letting Antony into the chamber, she offered him an easy smile. He held a folded sheet in one hand—no small scrap of paper, but fine vellum, sealed with wax. Lune could not see the impression from where she sat, but a ribbon dangled from the seal; it was something formal. “What is that?”
“A letter I fear will damage your good spirits,” he said, extending it to her. “From Nicneven.”
The vellum perched loosely on her slack hand as Lune stared at him, taken utterly by surprise. Not once since her accession had the Queen of Fife deigned to communicate directly. Why now? And why did Antony have it?
“As to the second,” he said when she asked him, “it is because I found Valentin Aspell pacing outside your door, trying to devise a means of presenting it to you that would not result in him running for his life. I offered to hazard myself instead. But for why she has written to you—we must read it to know.”
She did not want to know; she wanted to throw the letter in the fire unread. Instead Lune settled into a chair by the hearth and cracked the seal with her thumb.
The missive was addressed to Lune alone, but that was no surprise; Nicneven would hardly wish to acknowledge a mortal as her co-ruler. She turned so Antony could read it with her, from the chair he pulled to her side. The script inside was sharp and unadorned, and its message unmistakably clear.
“Heaven and earth,” Antony said. “He is not in Fife?”
For his betrayal of our trust and goodwill, we lay claim to the life of Ifarren Vidar. Should you or any of your court apprehend him, surrender him to us at once, or we shall once more make war upon your realm, and destroy it utterly.
A breathless laugh escaped Lune, born more of disbelief than amusement. “It would appear not. And for good reason.”
During the long years in Berkshire, they had tried to encourage Nicneven’s disaffection with Vidar. It seemed she no longer needed prompting. Vidar was not in Fife; he had squandered any goodwill there by his failure in London.
Then where was he?
Antony sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Well, that is a weight off your shoulders, I should imagine. Let the Gyre-Carling dispose of him.”
“She must find him first,” Lune murmured.
The Prince knew her too well; he gave her a curious look, leaning forward once more. “You do not seem pleased.”
Lune folded the letter carefully, along the original lines. The seal was too battered now to make out—presuming it was Nicneven’s at all. Did the Gyre-Carling often send letters? Or had she borrowed someone’s seal, in an attempt to follow civilized standards? “It is blackmail, Antony.”
“But it would buy the security you have sought all this time.”
“Would it?” The words came out sharp. “Nicneven despises this place. She will not cease just because I help her kill Vidar. But that is not the point, Antony: the point is the threat itself.”
He paused, then said, “You do not wish to be seen bowing to it. I understand. But no one knows of it save us two. Aspell did not read the letter. If Vidar were found quietly, and sent north—”
“You do not understand.” Lune rose from her chair in an angry burst, the letter crumpling in her hand. “She threatens my realm. Not myself, not my subjects; the Onyx Hall itself. The very foundation of my sovereignty. If I bow to that—” Even speaking the words made her bones shiver. It was the same instability she had felt when they cut the head from Charles in King Street, the tremor that preceded the earthquake.
“If I bow to that,” Lune repeated, almost too faintly for herself to hear, “then I will be Queen no more.”
Antony shifted behind her, uneasy. “How so?”
She shook her head. “I—Sun and Moon. I cannot explain it, but I feel it. Beyond question. I know I ceded the palace to Vidar when I fled, but that was not the same...” Her breath caught. Lune swallowed painfully. “It would be as if, in his trial, Charles had renounced the divine, in order to spare his life. Or no—that is not it at all—” Frustration closed off her throat. She had never been a philosopher, to seek out the reasons for faerie customs, much less to explain them to others. “I do not have the words. But if I allow Nicneven to use my realm to force me to my knees, I will lose that realm. Likely to her.”
Lune turned and found Antony now standing as well, confused and worried in equal measure. “We must find him first,” she said, her determination hardening with every word. “Find him first, and dispose of him quietly, so that he cannot threaten us again. And if Nicneven does not like it—then we shall answer her as befits a Queen.” And she flung the letter into the fire.
LONDON: May 29, 1660
The City had burst into bloom, the warm spring sun calling out all the colors and gaiety the long, cold winter had suppressed—a winter that had, in some senses, lasted for more than ten years. Everyone wore their brightest, and banners hung from every jetty and balcony along the processional route. The fountains in the streets ran with wine. The roar was deafening, but above it all, trumpets rang out in brazen triumph as the procession made its way up London Bridge.
At the heart of all the pageantry was a tall, smiling man, his black hair hanging in thick curls past his shoulders, receiving with benevolent goodwill all the accolades of the City his father had fled nearly twenty years before. Antony knew well that Charles Stuart, second of that name, had no particular illusions about the circumstances of his restoration, but he was willing to accept the fiction thus offered. Indeed, the King laughed that it must be his own fault that had kept him away, for everyone so clearly desired his return. These smiles and jests were the bandages that would hold England’s wounds closed—to heal in time, they hoped.
“God save the King!” echoed from every window, when not long before those same voices had sworn never to accept a single person at the head of their state, be he King or Lord Protector. But here came this merry man, thirty years old today, with splendid display the likes of which had not been seen since Puritan rule began, and it was excuse enough for rejoicing. The trouble could come later.
Tears prickled in Antony’s eyes. So little of it made sense! The struggle now ended was not the one they had begun so long ago. The issues that troubled men back then were all but forgotten now. Few concerned themselves anymore about the Anglican episcopacy, or ship money, or control of the militia; though the New Model Army was far more dangerous a weapon, Parliament had ceded it to the King without a quibble. Half the names that led the fight twent
y years ago were dead now, or retired from the field of political battle. After so many wars and risings, the restoration of the monarchy was achieved not by arms, but by a few simple votes in the Commons.
It was the greatest of all ironies. Old Charles had rightly disputed Bradshaw at his trial, when the lawyer tried to call him “elected King”; a sovereign was not chosen by the people, as if he were a member of Parliament. Yet this celebration today was a triumph for those who held that sovereign power arose from below, rather than being bestowed from above; though the people of England had not chosen their King, they had chosen to have a King. All the divine right in the world had not brought young Charles home, until his people willed it.
Henry might be right. Charles the Second was a dissolute man, given to wenching and drinking, and he might be a bad king. Riding with his fellow aldermen in the bright May sun, Antony could not guess what the future would bring.
But for today at least, he refused to worry about the future. Today, the King enjoyed his own again, and England was at peace.
TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 4, 1666
The Battle for St. Paul’s
“The stones of Paul’s flew like granados, the melting
lead running down the streets in a stream, and the
very pavements glowing with fiery redness, so as no
horse nor man was able to tread on them; and the
demolition had stopped all the passages, so that no
help could be applied, the eastern wind still more
impetuously driving the flames forward. Nothing but
the almighty power of God was able to stop them, for
vain was the help of man.”
—John Evelyn
Diary, September 4
All through the night the Dragon has prepared, nurturing the power stolen from below, and as dawn breaks it begins its attack.
The fall of the Bow Bells heralds the onslaught. The inferno roars up the southern streets from Soper Lane to Old Change, crushing the church of St. Mary-le-Bow in its maw. The great bells, emblem of London’s soul, toll their last against the hard ground. East and west, all down the broad lane, Cheapside burns.
The precious works of the goldsmiths have been stolen away to safety, but other treasures cannot be moved. The Dragon strikes fast at the Standard, disabling the water conduit, further crippling the City’s defense. The Mermaid Tavern of story and song crumbles into cinders and ash.
In the narrow lanes to the north, where the houses stand so close together their jettied upper floors almost touch, the people flee like rats. Some drag beds, makeshift litters for those who cannot move themselves. Upon one, a mother clutches her infant daughter to her breast, baptized not two days ago at the church that now burns so fierce.
Had the defenses been ready, Cheapside might have stayed the beast; the broadest street in the City offers a natural place to stand. But those who have fought for two days straight now falter in their weariness, and what might have been a bulwark instead becomes a highway.
Riding the wind, the Dragon flies westward, into the Newgate Shambles, and beyond.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON : eight o’clock in the morning
Jack winced as Lune pulled a deerskin glove over the ruin of her left hand. He knew a bad burn could render flesh insensate, but all his medical instincts screamed at him to prevent the damage she would do by continuing to use the injured limb. It will putrefy and fall off...
But fae were proof against such infections, and Lune had work to do. As did he.
“The wall,” she said, flexing her fingers to settle the glove. “Soon the Dragon will reach it—at Aldersgate first, I expect. We can make a defense there.”
They spoke in her council chamber, surrounded by half a dozen others with knowledge of warfare, from the barguest Bonecruncher to the noble Captain of the Onyx Guard. To a man—to a faerie, rather—they stood straight and proud, unbowed for the first time since the Cailleach’s cold wind began to blow. The Dragon had drawn power from the Onyx Hall, but the fire Jack and Lune had transmuted gave new strength to the fae. And, it seemed to Jack, united them in a common purpose: they were more than ready to fight.
Yet dispatching them to the City wall could hardly accomplish much. “We haven’t enough people to cover the entire wall,” Jack said, “and even if you defend the gates—what can you do that the human defenders cannot? They’re bringing in sailors and dockhands, with gunpowder to blow up houses and make firebreaks.” Samuel Pepys might have suggested it with the protection of the Naval Office in mind, eastward in Seething Lane, but it would be useful elsewhere, too.
Lune smiled faintly. That strange fire still burned in her, too, though she was no longer the eldritch creature he had kissed. And I still cannot believe I did that.
“We will not be at the wall,” she said, either oblivious to or ignoring his flush. “Not outside. As above, so below: we can strengthen it from here.”
Several of their lieutenants looked puzzled, but Jack followed her meaning. The wall was one of the physical anchors of the Onyx Hall—though not, thank God and whatever powers the faeries honored, one that afforded access into the palace. Because this place reflected the land above in twisted fashion, its edges were not those of the City; Jack’s head hurt, trying to trace the path the wall followed through the chambers and galleries.
Judging by the orders Lune gave, she traced it without having to think. It would be a strange defense indeed, fae stringing themselves in a tortuous line through the palace, but she seemed to believe it would hold. Or was that merely the confidence one played when one’s subjects needed to hear it?
He didn’t think so. There was a serenity in her now, despite the paired dangers that threatened them; it had been there ever since the kiss. She seemed to float an inch above the ground, though he had looked and found her shoes firmly planted.
Jack himself did not feel so serene. Not with the words currently burning a hole in his throat, waiting for the right moment to be spoken.
There is no right moment. There were wrong moments, though, and included in their number any moment in which they were not private. The court’s advisers knew Nicneven wanted Vidar, but no more. Lune would not thank him for revealing the rest publicly. And while he didn’t need Lune’s thanks, he did need her to listen.
So he waited while Lune gave her orders, and when she turned to instruct the nightmare Angrisla about a final group on the surface, he spoke in an undertone to Amadea. “Please see to it that we are not disturbed. I have a matter I must address with the Queen.”
The Lady Chamberlain raised her eyebrows, but curtsied in acceptance. She left on Angrisla’s heels, and the instant the door swung closed, Jack began. “I’m still new to my title, so forgive me if I misunderstand. But I’m here to speak for the good of London’s mortals, am I not?”
“You are,” Lune agreed.
“As I thought. Then on their behalf, I say this: you must negotiate.”
Lune’s gloved hand curled into a claw, and she held it against her breast as if the shattered nerves pained her. Were she a mortal woman, he would be a monster for demanding anything of her; she deserved quiet rest, and relief from the burdens she bore. But she was a faerie woman, and moreover a Queen. She would find no rest while her realm was in danger.
Jack spoke with deliberate bluntness. “Half the City is burnt already. With the strength the Dragon stole from this place, it bids fair to burn the other half by day’s end. The men above slow it in any way they can, but the wind is driving the flames onward like a fleet of fire-ships, and carrying them over every break we create. If there’s to be anything left standing next week, then the Cailleach must be stopped. And that means you must reach some terms with Nicneven.”
Her lips thinned into a pale line. Lune had been here, trapped in the freezing chambers of the Onyx Hall, while he fought the Fire above; he suspected she didn’t understand the extent of the destruction there. Oh, she could trace it, through her bond with the palace—b
ut she had not seen it. It was easy to forget what one had not seen.
Lune clenched her jaw, then said, “You would have me give in to her?”
“Did I say that? Negotiation is not agreement. Send for the ambassador,” Jack said. “Tell him—oh, whatever you have to, even if it’s a lie. Pretend you’re willing to consider the Gyre-Carling’s demands. Even if it buys us nothing more than a temporary reprieve, that may be enough to save the City.”
“I have asked for a reprieve, and been spurned.”
“That was a reprieve for London,” Jack reminded her. “I’m talking about a truce. Promise them something, but on the condition that the Cailleach ceases her assault while they send word to Nicneven in Fife. That will give us—how fast can fae travel? Surely at least a week. Enough time to—”
He broke off, because Lune’s eyes had gone very wide. “What?”
She stood silent for a moment, then said, “Not a week.”
“What?”
“To send to Nicneven. Because she is not in Fife.”
Jack blinked. “Why not?”
“The Cailleach.” Lune spoke with more vitality now, no longer sheltering her hand. “She would not answer to anyone less than a Queen. If the Hag is not attacking us from Scotland—and I do not believe she is—then Nicneven must be near, to bid her begin and end her assault.”
“Then she would be with the Scots outside the City, I presume,” Jack said. “What do you intend—a knife between her ribs?”
Lune shuddered, recoiling from him. “No! Sun and Moon—that would prove Vidar right indeed, that I have become Invidiana’s echo. No, but if I sent word, demanded to speak to her face to face...”
Invidiana. He’d heard that name before, regarding the days before Lune’s rule. If Jack was to be of any use in the negotiations—if he was to have any chance of persuading Lune to end this conflict for good—he would have to learn more about that, and fast. “Will Nicneven come?”
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