by Dave Duncan
"And from me also, Constable. Is he always so elliptical?"
The condottiere grinned. "He's usually more egg-shaped. It's getting chilly, but let's stay out here a little longer, because it's one place we can't be overheard."
"Whatever you wish," Lisa said. Her hand was entwined with Hamish's, although she did not recall that happening. He had never mentioned anyone called Gonzaga to her.
Longdirk took a hard look at the bizarre old man, who had never taken his mad eyes off her. Longdirk was well aware of that. "Maestro, would you care to comment?"
"Blanche!"
Hamish must have felt her start, and Longdirk certainly noticed it.
"That name means something to you, my lady?"
"No. Nothing at all. I don't know anyone called Blanche. Why should I? Nobody called Blanche."
The hexer's mouth writhed as if chewing something unpleasant. "You have never heard your mother addressed as Blanche?"
"My mother's name is Maud! My father was the third Earl of Ely and was put to death by the Fiend. Mother fled from England with me many years ago and has traveled extensively."
"I'm sure she has," Longdirk said, his rumbling bass voice sounding surprisingly soft. It was hard to reconcile his gentle manner with the ferocious warrior of the stories, but he was obviously clever, dangerously clever.
Hamish's grip on her hand grew almost painful. "Toby, stop badgering her! She's had a terrible experience and been extremely brave. She must be exhausted after the ride, and she needs some decent quarters and a servant and some proper clothes and—"
"In good time, my friend. Let's talk about Blanche." He turned those cavernous eyes on Lisa again.
She pulled her hand loose from Hamish's grip. Obviously he wanted her out of the way before he discussed whatever it was that needed to be discussed—something everyone but she seemed to have ideas about. Somehow Longdirk had become her ally.
"Perhaps..." she said. "I mean, I may have heard Mother addressed as Blanche once or twice. She has used several names in our travels. I don't recall her ever calling herself Blanche, though."
"You are extraordinarily like her," the old baron croaked.
Longdirk folded his big arms, pleased and satisfied. "Tell us a story, Maestro!"
"Can't it wait?" Hamish begged. "She's had a long, tiring journey on top of—"
"It's too serious to wait. Let's get it out."
The old man laid his hands on the table and bowed his head. "My lady... I will call you that. I was a scholar at Wittenburg and later Oxford, a man of some repute. One of my pupils was the third and youngest son of the King of England. He was a quiet, studious boy, with no expectations of succeeding to the throne. His ambitions lay more in the field of—"
"Why don't you go straight to the famous Night of the Masked Ball?" Longdirk said.
The old man did not look up. "She does not know as much as you do. Although Nevil wanted to be a scholar, he was still a prince, and princes have dynastic responsibilities. King Edwin made a treaty and backed it up by marrying his youngest son to Princess Blanche of Jutland. She was sixteen, he was eighteen. They had no say in the matter and nothing in common, absolutely nothing. She was a foolish child, caring only for glittering balls and fine clothes, scorning his studies in the spiritual arts as unbecoming to royalty. Nevil sired a child on her, which was his duty, but he had lost his heart to a woman named Valda, a hexer of considerable ability. Valda persuaded him to return to court, and Princess Blanche was packed off to a remote country house to bear his child. Very soon Nevil's two brothers died, and then the king himself."
"Murdered by Valda?" Longdirk asked softly.
"Undoubtedly. Nevil was king, and now Blanche was queen, but she remained at Highcross with her daughter, Princess Elizabeth."
"Who was born when?"
"In 1509—May or thereabouts."
This was unbelievable! Lisa bit her lip and did not look up, although she could feel them all staring at her. Hamish had hold of her hand again and was squeezing it.
"And you?" Longdirk asked.
"I was called to court," the baron said hoarsely, "a summons I dared not refuse. Nevil installed me in the palace and gave me every facility to continue my studies. I saw that Valda was leading him into very dangerous realms of conjuration. I warned him repeatedly, but he was so besotted by her that he would not listen, and undoubtedly she was using gramarye on him. My efforts to break her enchantments failed because she was invoking demons more powerful than any I dared employ. I was certain that she planned to murder Queen Blanche in time. The baby would have died, too—Valda was utterly without scruple. The entire court was terrified of her." He sighed. "Including me. But I did manage to foil a few of her plans, and thus she saw me as her enemy. My influence with Nevil sank even lower."
"The Night of the Masked Ball?" Longdirk persisted.
"Valda had obtained an ancient and famous—infamous—demon by the name of Rhym, immured in a yellow diamond. It was hideously strong, and the conjuration was faulty. Several hexers had perished trying to use it. I begged both of them not to tamper with it, but Valda saw it as the key to her ambitions. With Rhym's power she could rip away the web that I and some others were trying to weave between her and the king. On the Night of the Masked Ball, Valda and Nevil attempted to conjure Rhym and the demon broke free. It took possession of him. How Valda managed to escape, I never dared ask him."
Lisa glanced at Hamish, then looked away quickly. That the Fiend was a demonic husk was a common belief, but this old man was claiming firsthand knowledge. Lisa—Elizabeth? Blanche—Maude? Scurrilous rubbish, surely, and yet it would explain some terrible mysteries.
The old man's voice creaked on. "I was not present, but I was close enough to detect what had happened. I fled from the court at once, not even changing my clothes. I rode alone through the night to Highcross and broke the news to the queen. By dawn she was on a ship bound for France." He raised his head for the first time and met Lisa's horrified stare. "You are very, very like her, child. When you stepped out through that doorway, my heart almost stopped."
"But—"
"Wait!" Longdirk raised a hand. "Finish your own tale, Maestro."
The hexer shrugged, although in the gathering dark his black-robed shoulders were almost invisible. White hair and beard and eyes like caves—"I went back to court to see if there was anything I could do. I had some slight hope that it might have been Valda who had been possessed, you see, although I should have guessed that Rhym was clever enough to make the better choice. Whichever of the two had survived must still know the conjuration, so I had hopes that, with my help, the demon might be immured again."
"You were courageous."
"I was a fool. Rhym enslaved me at once. I served that monster diligently for many, many years, until you released me, and for that I curse you, because I can never be free of the guilt my crimes have—"
"You bear no guilt, old man, as I tell you every day and as Montserrat told you. Your Highness?"
Longdirk was addressing her with that terrible title! She shook her head violently.
"It fits, Princess," he said. "It fits! No one ever knew what happened to the missing Queen of England. Obviously Nevil would want to destroy her, for that is how demons think, and destroy you also, because you represent some small danger to him. He has wiped out all the royal houses of Europe for much less cause. You are the right age, are you not?"
"It is a sad tale, sir," she muttered, "but nothing to do with me."
Yet her heart was telling her that it must be true, that Mother was not crazy at all with her endless flitting from place to place, staying away from the frontier as the Fiend steadily pushed it south and eastward, depending on friends originally, perhaps, but soon on strangers, loyalists who would shelter her and her child for a few months and then pass her on to others. Until in Siena the pursuers had closed in, two nights ago. Hamish had worked it out and not told her.
"Lisa..." he said. "I mean, 'Your
Highness.' No, it isn't 'Your Highness' either, is it? We know that the King of England is a demonic creature, not human. He's legally dead, so you—"
"No, no!" This was worse!
"I'm afraid so—Your Majesty. Your true father died years ago, so you mustn't feel that the Fiend's atrocities have anything to do with you. We know a few of his agents in Italy, men bound to obedience as the baron here once was. We watch them carefully, and when one of them suddenly traveled to Siena, I followed to try and find out what he was up to. I enlisted some men to keep an eye on him. Now I know what he was up to, don't I?"
"Mother? Looking for Mother?"
"Yes, but looking for you even more." His voice sank to a whisper. "You are rightful Queen of England."
It was Longdirk who broke the terrible silence, his voice deep and smooth as a river. "That's not something to worry about today. You're safe here, my lady, but your mother is still in very grave danger. You don't know exactly where the house is? Maestro, what can you do? Can you locate her?"
For what seemed like a very long time the old man stared down at the table and the sparkling jewels adorning his ugly, clawlike fingers. At last he muttered, "No. I don't see any way at all. How close to the girl was Gonzaga?"
"He had his filthy hands on her," Hamish said grimly. "And for that he ought to die several times."
"If he had achieved that much two nights ago, he will surely have found Blanche by now."
"You risked your life to warn her once, old man! So you told us. Are you too old to do it again?"
The hexer looked up sharply, glared at him, then seemed to shrink into his black robe like a frightened turtle. "She knows I was bespelled. Just the sight of me will frighten her to death."
"That would be a merciful end compared to what Nevil would do to her. We must try to rescue her." Hamish slapped the table.
"Oh, must we?" Fischart sprayed spit in his indignation. "Well, it isn't possible. Unless the girl can direct us to the house, we'd need a whole legion of demons to search the city. The tutelary would never allow it."
"Flames! Lisa, I would go if I could do any good. And so would Maestro Fischart, if there was any way. Wouldn't you, Maestro?"
The old man shrugged. "Yes. But there isn't."
Hamish turned to Lisa, and she was shocked to see that he was smirking. "You have that kerchief?"
So now he would deign to tell her what the importance of the scarf was! She fumbled at her neck for it. He took it and spread it out for the others to see—a square of cheap cotton, not silk, ruined by two holes.
"She made a mask for Carnival. Lisa, I am presuming that you did this in your mother's house? Where are the pieces you cut out?"
Apparently he was serious. "On the floor of my room, I suppose. Frieda may have picked them up and burned them by now, or thrown them out with the trash."
Hamish cocked his head at the adept. "Two days ago? There should be enough residual propinquity for gramarye to locate the part from the whole, shouldn't there?"
"Oh, so now we have another hexer in the Company do we?" The adept was not amused.
Longdirk was, and suppressed a grin.
"Just trying to be helpful." Hamish thought he had been clever, but gramarye was a dangerous business to meddle with.
"If the scraps have been burned, it won't work," Maestro Fischart growled.
"Of course not. But if they're under the bed or out in the gutter?"
"Yes," he admitted, baring his teeth. "But have you any idea what you're asking? Suppose I just provide the demons and let you go alone?" Was that merely anger he was showing, or fear as well?
Hamish shrugged. "Teach me, and I'll try. We must be quick."
"How risky?" Longdirk demanded.
"Very!" Fischart wrung his hands a few times. "Suicide for him if he goes alone. Together we'll have a chance."
This was what Hamish had foreseen all along. This was why he had wanted Lisa out of the way when he spoke to his friends. Demons did terrible things to people—tortured them, maimed them, ate their souls.
"You must not!" she said. "Not if it's dangerous."
"I'm afraid they must," Longdirk told her. "Any risk is worth taking to save your mother from falling into Nevil's hands."
She had not heard him volunteering! "I'll come with you."
"No you won't," Hamish said, with none of the respect due a queen. "I had to work too hard to get you out the first time." He added a smile, but it died young. "Tonight, Baron?"
"Don't call me that. If it's possible. Late... preparations..." Mumbling, the hexer heaved himself upright as if to leave, but his shoulders stayed bowed. He wrung his hands. "Come to the adytum now, and we'll do a divination. No use trying it if it's hopeless." He was older than she had realized.
"Wait." Longdirk rose also, which was a different matter—he dominated the courtyard. "Hamish, who else knows about Her Majesty?"
"Carlo and Rinaldo know that she's an English lady in distress. But a thousand people saw us ride in together."
The big man nodded. "My lady, we must keep your identity a secret—which is just about impossible in this country. Hamish?"
"You're Mistress Lisa Campbell, my little sister," Hamish retorted, speaking as if reciting something he'd memorized. "In 1519, just before I left Scotland, you were fostered out to our aunt Meg. That's not uncommon for Highland families with too many children. Meg moved to the Continent under circumstances you may decline to discuss. Two years ago she placed you with the Countess of Ely as lady's maid. The countess was visiting relatives in Nice, and when she heard you had a brother in Florence, she decided to visit Italy." He smiled, and she wondered what he was reading on her face. "You don't have to run round the camp telling this tale to everyone. You may never need to use it, but now it's there if you do. We'll work out the rest of the details later." When he was pleased with himself, it showed.
"Yes, sir."
Longdirk said, "Ma'am, you are quite safe here at the moment, but if word gets out that you are the Queen of England, then I don't know what will happen."
"I doubt if anyone would believe it, because I don't." She did not like this oversize warrior. In spite of his gentle manner, he was too much a bull in a pasture, lording over everyone—bulls were slow and quiet until they began pawing the turf. He frightened her, and she was quite convinced that he would use her politically if he ever got the chance, no matter what Hamish had said.
She jumped as the condottiere's sword flashed out from its scabbard. He stepped around the end of the table and dropped to one knee. Even then, his eyes were little lower than hers.
"Your Majesty, I cannot admit that you are Queen of Scotland. And my first loyalty is to the Republic of Florence. Excepting those two caveats, I pledge my life and honor in your service as rightful Queen of England." He kissed the blade.
Well! Maybe she had misjudged him. No knight had ever pledged his sword to her before. It must be time for her to wake up and the dream to end, but until it did she could only play her part. She responded with what she hoped was a regal nod. "I am honored to accept your allegiance, Constable Longdirk." She did not rise as the giant strode out, with the hexer shuffling alongside him. When they had gone, she risked a sideways glance at Hamish, not sure whether to grin or stay solemn.
He was watching her with an oddly wistful expression. "I'm sorry."
"It was a bit of a shock." Was that the understatement of the millennium or just of the sixteenth century?
"I wasn't sure, truly I wasn't—not until I saw how the baron stared at you. I didn't know he knew your mother." But he had probably guessed that it was likely. Master Campbell was creepily well informed about almost everything.
"Next time warn me, will you?"
He laughed and clasped her hand in both of his. "Tomorrow I hail you as Sultana of the Turks. Tuesday afternoon you become Empress of Cathay. Believe me, you're safer here with Longdirk than with anyone, truly!"
It was odd to be sitting so close when they
were the only people in the courtyard. "Safer with you!" she said, and suddenly she had her arms around him and his arms were around her, crushing her. A bristly cheek brushed hers; her lips turned to his. He was a friend, the only one she had or had ever had, a true, trustworthy friend, and now he was going to leave her and return to Siena, go into danger—
"Oh, demons!" Hamish let go and leapt to his feet, tripping against his stool and almost overbalancing. "Lisa, we mustn't!"
"Mustn't what?"
"Fall in love! I've been there, Lisa, I know the feeling. We must stop! You're a queen, and I'm a nothing."
"Oh!" she said. Oh, demons!
He should have warned her about that sooner.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"This is as close as I want to come," Toby said. "Good luck. Take care."
He was a massive, indeterminate shape in the starlight, but on those words he would have held out a hand to shake. Hoping his own was not too shamefully sweaty on this chilly evening, Hamish reached for it, found it, and endured the familiar forceful squeeze. An owl hooted derisively, sweeping overhead on silent wings.
"I always take care."
"Not so I ever noticed." Longdirk's tone deepened, grew more serious. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? You think Fischart is crazy. Do you want to trust him on a demon ride?"
Sure? The only thing Hamish was sure of was that if he could think of a way out of tonight's escapade, he would cheerfully give up his wisdom teeth to take it—they obviously weren't doing him any good. He'd done his share of roughhousing in the past and even slain some worthy opponents, but he preferred the pen to the sword. Derring-do was not his style.
"I've done demon rides before."
"You've also experienced a broken jaw and being run through with a sword, and you told me those were more fun."
True, but alas, he had promised the lovely Lisa he would tread this measure for her, and the music was about to start. "I didn't say the maestro's crazy. I just said I can't think how anyone else could have taken that gold."
Toby grunted. "You're a stubborn idiot, you know that? A pretty girl smiles at you, and you roll over like a puppy every time."
