Chasing the Bard

by Ballantine, Philippa

  Sive dropped back to herself, feeling her face wet with her mother’s tears, and her heart just as broken. So now she knew what had happened and seen the face of her long dead father. How could Anu have done it; to let the man she loved remain in his world, knowing he would perish before his child was even born?

  Finding out her father was human should have mortified her. She should have at least denied it, but she had seen the world through Anu’s eyes, and experienced the love between them. Her memories were now Sive’s memories

  Sive cleared her throat and wiped away the tears. “Thank you, Puck,” she finally managed.

  His hand was gentle on her shoulder. “It was best you see it—better to understand that way.”

  Mordant meant to undo what her mother and her father had done. By destroying the two realms Sive could see, he would be able to free the Unmaker. And some remnant of Anu told her that the only way to stop it was to break the Nexus, and move the worlds apart. It was not something she could do by herself.

  Brigit and she knew who could do it—but the question was how could either of them convince him that it was so?

  “I will go to him,” Sive whispered, seeing the path. “If I am clever, he will come to see the need.”

  Puck made a face that was extremely doubtful. “Not now he won’t, Sive. He was so angry I doubt you’d even get near enough to press the issue.”

  Her foot tapped for a moment as she looked out across the river, seeing her mother’s sacrifice and understanding for the first time that virtue she had never possessed—patience.

  So if time was what Will needed—then time he would have. Puck reached her conclusion a moment too late to stop his cousin. Sive had already reached out for the Veil, but not to cross into the Fey. She called out with all her Art into that void, willing it to move and part for her. Puck’s call was distant and long ago.

  Across time Sive the Shining stepped, through mortal worlds and years; she left Stratford-upon-Avon and went to into the future of London and Will.

  It took almost all of her remaining power, but it was also her last hope; those years would be telling to Will, and perhaps that was all he needed.

  As she left her stunned cousin years behind, Sive could only hope she was right.

  12

  Love by another’s Eyes

  The coach was not conjured from thin air, nor from any sort of root vegetable. It was a normal vehicle, pulled by two grumpy, shaggy horses. Their discomfort and unhappiness were apparent to the occupant of the coach, not only by the little care they had for taking corners or avoiding massive potholes, but also in the whisperings of their equine minds.

  Dark eyes, once violet, blinked in the dimness of the carriage. Her foray into the future had left her marked, no doubting that. Gone were the piercing, startling eyes of a Fey, replaced instead with the warm brown eyes of a mortal woman. Sive concentrated hard; trying to imagine it was another disguise, and not something thrust upon her. For whatever Mordant was doing in the Fey, it was changing her too.

  She had almost exhausted her power. Brigit would have enjoyed Sive’s current discomfort, and the trappings of mortal womanhood would have amused her. The way the stiff flat corset pushed her breasts to ridiculous heights, or the incredible bell-like underskirts which made Sive’s lower half into a heavy piece of architecture. Sive had yet to work out how to manage narrow doorways. She felt neither attractive, nor particularly elegant. It seemed she had escaped the constrictions of marriage only to fall into those of a human woman.

  Still this was how humans dressed for their queen. And despite Elizabeth being a mortal, Sive had a profound respect for any woman that could hold her own in this world. With her powers diminished, the Fey knew very well that she would have to tread warily.

  Sive winced as the coach found another ditch in the middle of the road, her spine mortally abused as it was. After being jolted and bounced around like this, getting to Court was going to be a relief.

  Her stomach fluttered at the thought. Nearly six mortal years had passed since she took that step through the Between, and during that time Will had not been idle. As a player and writer, the young man from Stratford had made a name for himself in the largest city of Europe. Sive had heard his plays drew thousands. So if his plays and poetry had bought success and fortune, she could only hope that they had bought a larger measure of compassion.

  Sive frowned and buried her clenched fingers in the thick material of her dress. She’d approach him differently this time. She’d open her soul to him, let him love her, and then through her, learn to love the Fey. Only then, he might see it not as some unwholesome realm of demons, but as a bright and beautiful place deserving of salvation. It was not easy for Sive to put aside old ways, but it was all that she could do.

  A scream sounded outside, and Sive started upright to the sound of desperate fingernails catching in the wood of the door. A flicker of half-mad thoughts invaded, warped by hunger and pain. Then the driver snarled, and the whip cracked out—he was used to such attempts on his passengers. Those who had nothing to lose sometimes tried their luck against the speed of the horses. The carriage raced on with another resounding jolt.

  Sive sighed and, huddling back as best she could in the seat, tried to find a better position for her maligned muscles.

  Concentrate, Sive turned her thoughts to her predicament once again. Her Art traced the coach’s passage between the gates and guards, up to Greenwich castle itself. Now the noise and bustle of London disappeared, and she was in the domain of a mortal queen.

  The coach lurched to a halt, and Sive waited with impatience for the door to open. When it was, she stepped down into a world that could almost have been Fey. The wide courtyard was full of life, the air thick with sprightly music, and even the candlelight dancing in each window was familiar. Torches spluttered, lighting up brightly dressed men and women, clustering together like fragile coloured moths, each seeking to outdo the other in beauty and wit. Sive now realised the dowdiness of her attire, but held her head high under the curious glances.

  Powdered faces of both men and woman turned to follow this dark-haired, sombrely dressed newcomer, and the whispers began before she had even passed out of earshot. She ploughed through the wave of scents, sweet and powerful, but masking more pungent body doors. Wrinkling her nose, Sive crested the stairs and found the way blocked by a trio of men. Used to people stepping aside for her, Sive confronted an unusual situation. This skirt would not allow her to move past them, but neither was it possible to thrust them out of the way as she might want.

  A pretty face always attracts attention. Two of the men smiled somewhat archly and bowed even more sparingly before moving off, the remaining man turned. It was as much for her benefit as it was for his. The dark eyes that confronted Sive were full of mischief, dancing over this newcomer, obviously finding something to impress.

  She in turn raised an eyebrow and appraised him as he did to her. He was a bejewelled, dark Adonis, and obviously well aware of it. The cut of his garment showed to best advantage his fine leg, and the manicured moustache surrounded a set of lips used to getting their own way.

  A small frown touched his forehead, perplexed no doubt by her lack of companions; after all a single woman presenting herself at court wasn't common.

  “My lady,” he traced an elaborate bow, managing to display both his excellent manners and calves at the same time, “I do not believe I know your name...”

  Sive returned his bow, and she smiled her most beguiling smile. “Lady Margaret Shelton. Her Majesty sent for me.”

  He had captured her hand and raised it to parted lips before she even realized. “Then I owe yet another debt to my sovereign. For wherever you were hiding, my lady, must have been very distant for me to miss such radiance. I can only be thankful of the chance to take advantage of it now.”

  Sive restrained her smile before it had time to show, certain he wanted to take advantage of more than her pretty face. Still this man had
more than enough charisma to make the lechery seem charming. Sive looked down the length of her arm at him, thinking how his mortality enhanced rather than diminished her attraction to him. Pleasures of the flesh with a mortal could not seem so distasteful, now that Sive knew the truth of her own past.

  A little blush crept into her pale cheek. The human realm may have altered her, but now was not the time to weaken. Nor was this popinjay about to break habits of hundreds of years. She had his measure and had heard the stories. Her earlier reconnaissance told her that she had the hand of the Robert Devereux, the queen’s current favorited.

  “My lord Essex,” she murmured. “I would stay and tell you where I have been hiding, but I am summoned.”

  Yet still he waited another interminable moment before drawing her into the palace. Obviously Essex thought his title of favorited gave him more leave than anyone else. Sive could only hope that he wouldn’t try anything else. She knew very well that people could find dark corners and empty rooms, and couldn’t afford to waste her waning Art on cooling mortal ardour. Something in Sive’s eye must have warned him; perhaps he’d seen similar in his own ruler. In Essex’s confusion, he sketched another superfluous bow. “Then allow me to bring you to her Majesty.”

  Sive took the offered hand and matched him stride for stride into the heart of the palace. Curious eyes followed her at every turn, made worse as she could hear their thoughts. Who was this dark beauty walking next to Essex?

  The lit halls were bustling with nobles of all creeds, and she observed the little tightknit groups, talking in hushed whispers, believing that no one could hear them, plotting and dreaming. Each person was yet another insight into the treachery and deceit of this realm.

  Her companion leaned toward her ear. “You have chosen a fine night to arrive, my lady. The Queen’s Men are performing, and all the best and brightest of England are here to see it. Her Majesty herself is very fond of the revels.”

  Sive’s heart leapt. “These are some of the players who perform the young Shakespeare’s plays?”

  “Of course,” Essex chuckled. “Even in the farthest reaches of England people know William. Every troupe in London has his plays.”

  Sive noted his familiar use of her protégé’s name, but said nothing, for they had arrived at the impressive doors; beyond were the sounds of music and laughter.

  Essex took her silence as nervousness at meeting the Queen of England. “All is well, milady,” he crooned, managing to ease a little closer even against her constructed kirtle.

  Sive was not afraid of Elizabeth, just concerned how she would appear to other eyes. Her guide nodded, and the doorman did their duty. Sive and Essex entered the room.

  Sive might have slipped back to the court of her mother, so much so that for a moment she stood fighting longing on the threshold of the scene. Prettily dressed courtiers lounged and laughed at the fringes of the Court, while the centre gave over to a surging group of dancers, both beautiful and joyful. Bejewelled and bedecked men lifted and guided elegant women in complex steps that echoed all that Sive loved about the Fey. The room was thick with the scent of rosewater and sandalwood, mixed with the heady ring of laughter, run through with the unmistakable pungency of hedonism.

  “Quite something the first time, isn’t it, milady?” Essex’s breath lay against her neck, but he jumped back when he looked to the crowd. Oh yes, he might make plays at power, but someone else still held his leash.

  Sive turned and saw the queen bee of this hive.

  Time had not been any kinder to Elizabeth Tudor than to any other mortal. The long face once was beautiful, but the missing teeth, the raddled skin raddled, and the hair on her head not her own told the dreadful passage of mortal life. Her dress and wig were the most elaborate, her face paint the thickest, and beneath it all, was a body that was giving way to mortality. She gleamed and glittered as she must have in her youth, but it was all veneer. Yet age had not touched the core of the woman, those shrewd eyes missed nothing in the room, least of all Essex’s abrupt retreat from Sive. This queen waged a battle to hold off death; she was dancing with the youngest and most beautiful men in the room, with the energy to match them. A youth who looked into her face as he lifted her still had the bedazzled look of one in love.

  This queen had something Sive had not seen before. The Fey’s eyes narrowed, feeling with her Art for the kernel of truth beneath the mask. She thrust past dark haunted memories of father and danger, feeling the fear and anger that still lingered there after all those years, and deep into the soul of the Queen of England. The steel of her nature still held strong, an incredible strength of will that nothing in life could break. Sive wasn't used to being impressed—but she was in this case.

  Then the eyes of Elizabeth turned to hers. For a moment tension sung between the two women, almost as if the queen had sensed the Fey probe.

  Sive sketched a curtsey as befitted one royal to another. Elizabeth brushed away her partner, and the crowd feeling her unspoken command parted, so that nothing lay between the two of them.

  “Lady Shelton.” Elizabeth’s voice was surprisingly sweet and untouched by age. “It was a dream of mine last week to bring you to court. A fancy to see a distant relative, and when you have lived as long and as hard as I have, you learn to obey your fancies.”

  Sive had a little regret at the deception, but was glad her Art had worked.

  This child of the Boylen line had inherited that sad family’s entire Fey heritage, though luckily not her mother’s tenth finger. It made this queen more powerful and more determined than any other before. What a shame that, like all mortal things, it would all pass to dust. But this was also, Sive reminded herself, William’s fate—indeed the fate of all mortals.

  “Your majesty.” Sive bowed her head and yet let her now brown eyes lock with Elizabeth’s. “Your court and presence are as fine as I heard tell, even in my distant home.”

  The queen raised one eyebrow and fixed her with a puzzled stare, used to picking out the subtle meaning in everything around her. “I cannot tell what old maid’s fancy made me send for you, Lady Shelton, but you are nothing that I imagined.” With a swirl of fabric and the faint jingle of crystal, the queen raised her hands and clapped. “The dancing is over—time for our play.” The musicians were silent, and the Court filed out of the hall, and into a side room. Here a carved throne set amongst a sea of chairs, and a small stage was before the most important spot. This clear space was lit by shielded candles and backed by a magnificent tapestry.

  Elizabeth sailed over, settled into the throne, and rattled her fingers on the arms, “My Lady, you will sit next to me while the players perform. I would have your opinion on the quality of this Shakespeare’s art.”

  Sive smiled, taking a position to the right of the old queen. They sat so close that Sive could not help inhaling the scent of sweet marjoram and aging mortal.

  “This should be intriguing,” Elizabeth’s tone betrayed excitement. “And there are few things in a ruler’s life that are both intriguing and safe.”

  Sive grinned; in her brother’ court this was as true. “Have you seen many of Shakespeare’s work, your majesty?”

  “They performed last year at the Christmas revels. I thoroughly enjoyed Two Gentlemen of Verona, and it has been quite the rage with my people as well.”

  The two queens, mortal and Fey, sat in a companionable silence, as the rest of the Court took their places around them. Like a flock of roosting birds, they twittered and preened, obedient to the unwritten rules of this community, squawking for the best spots where their plumage might get noticed. They exchanged glances, formed unspoken alliances, and hardened hatreds. Though they passed in invisible eddies around her, Elizabeth was more than aware. She had to be—rebellion could spring up very easily, and even in old age such things concerned her. Still when the play began, Will's Art completely absorbed the monarch. Nor was she alone.

  Sive at first thought the display a little pathetic. Despite t
he fine fabrics and elegant costumes, they were still a bunch of men and boys trying to make real the unreal. Willowy young men portrayed women and sounds of battle were just the rattling of pots and pans offstage. But then the Fey in her began to appreciate the illusion. Despite her scepticism, it all carried her away. The slim boys clad in dresses became ill-fortuned women, and the men were both brave and foul. Sive the Shining had never seen such a thing.

  When it finished, she had tears in her eyes. It conveyed so perfectly the bittersweet taste of mortality that she had for quite a time forgotten it was not her fate. Will’s Art had found its own way to flourish, and its own time.

  Sive risked a glance across at Elizabeth. No tears marred the thick make up, but her eyes were surprisingly bright, and her hands clapped admiration with all the rest. What power Will had, to be able to carry away the steely thoughts of this queen, and to bear her beyond the palace and into other realms?

  The Court stirred around them, awakening from the spell, and found themselves back in the set pattern of betrayal and treachery. Elizabeth remained still for a moment, disinclined to move.

  Then the actors emerged, and a fresh wave of clapping broke out. Their queen called bravo and tossed heavy gold coins at their feet.

  Sive was on edge once more. She averted her eyes; terrified and hopeful that Will would arrive. Only steely resolve kept her in her chair.

  Lord Essex and another powdered youth sauntered behind the curtain and emerged with the playwright. His kept his eyes downcast, ill at ease in the bright court. Lord Essex’s friend was joking with him, making much of his familiarity with Will, that much Sive could see.

  Had Will changed? She could not tell, not without catching his eye, and for some odd reason she wasn’t ready to do that.

  The three men made their way towards their queen. Sive arose as quickly as she could and slipped back a little; now might be the only time she’d get to observe him.