Magick by Moonrise

by Laura Navarre

  “Oh Goddess,” he breathed.

  With unsteady fingers, Rhiannon replaced the pendant. The cool weight settled against her breasts and the magickal glow subsided, leaving her soaring spirit shackled and earthbound once more.

  “Majesty,” she whispered, beneath a tide of superstitious mutters, “I am Rhiannon le Fay, daughter of the Faerie Queene.”

  An odd recognition flickered in the Queen’s sunken eyes. “So the test of my faith is come upon me. Jesu grant me strength for the trial.”

  The Queen’s invocation, echoed by her Catholic followers, demanded its painful toll. Darkness nibbled around the edge of her vision, but Rhiannon blinked it back. When she swayed on her feet, faithful Linnet bore her up.

  But Mary Tudor’s wondering gaze had narrowed on her courtiers’ curious faces. She stood stiffly under their scrutiny, with none of her sister Elizabeth’s natural ease. In the crush and din of the crowded hall, most could not have witnessed the vision she’d beheld, and surely this embattled Queen knew it. Already her Protestant subjects whispered in secret that the King’s abandonment had left her mad with grief. She would not wish to add fuel to those fires.

  Watching the older woman compose herself and draw a mask of chilly hauteur over her careworn features, an unexpected stab of compassion pierced Rhiannon’s heart.

  Mary Tudor played out her life on a public stage—her brief unhappy marriage to a husband who despised her, her barrenness, her faltering health, the bitter discord over faith and disputed succession that divided her kingdom, and the doubt that tore her heart.

  Rhiannon’s tidings from the Summer Lands could only worsen her lot.

  Even as she watched, the Queen pressed a ringed hand to her stomach. With her healer’s instinct, Rhiannon sensed the deep-rooted ache in the other woman’s womb, where the stiffened bodice dug into tender flesh. The Queen was bloated and cramping with one of her infrequent moon flows, and a vicious headache stabbed cruelly behind her eyes.

  In a heartbeat, both treaty and Convergence were forgotten as concern for a suffering patient surged to the fore. Heedless of any insult of lèse majesté, Rhiannon sprang forward to slip a supporting arm around the faltering Queen. Mary sagged against her, fingers kneading ineffectually at the dull throbbing in her belly.

  “Leave her alone, sorceress!” a voice hissed. One of the Queen’s companions—an older woman, plain-faced, garbed in somber finery—scrabbled at Rhiannon’s arm. Spite and envy radiated from her like heat from an open hearth. Greedy eyes darted over her, counting every jewel to calculate her worth.

  What can I get from this one, the woman was thinking, if I grant her access to the Queen?

  Rhiannon shrank from the creature in distaste, but never lessened her grip on Mary, whose discreet clutch on her arm was all that held the Queen upright.

  “Be thou at ease, lady, I am doing thy Queen no harm,” Rhiannon murmured.

  “Who are you to handle her so familiar?” the woman spat. And without seeking my favor first.

  “I’m a healer,” Rhiannon said quietly, not to aggravate the sharp pain flaring behind her patient’s eyes. “Thy Queen requires a private refuge, a stool to elevate her feet, wine with herbs to quicken her blood. I shall mix her a potion—”

  “No doubt you’ll mix a potion that sends her straight to her grave! Always her enemies seek to poison her.”

  Mary Tudor lifted a ringed hand to stay the flood of venomous spite, but the Queen was beyond speaking. Whatever ailed her was beyond the megrims of a woman’s moon-time. In a moment she’d be fainting, and Goddess knew what they’d say if the Queen of England fell insensate at Rhiannon’s feet!

  Dreading the cost her healing would demand, she met Mary Tudor’s tortured gaze.

  “Be at peace, Mary,” she whispered, spreading her fingers over the dagger-sharp point of the Queen’s stomacher. Deliberately she blocked out her surroundings—the hostile faces, the hissing malice, the dreadful clamor of music and the stink of soiled rushes.

  Dimly she sensed Linnet’s capable hands coaxing the spiteful woman from her side.

  “Come away, Susan Clarencius. I know ye love yer Queen, so come away now and let my lady Rhiannon assist her...”

  Rhiannon opened the floodgates of her heart, and a lifetime of dammed-up love burst forth. The life-energy poured through her fingers into the ailing Queen.

  Deep in her own womb, she felt the ripples of the Queen’s anguish gradually subside, soothed by the warm torrent of healing energy that bathed her.

  At last, Rhiannon drew an unsteady breath and opened her eyes. The colorful walls with their jewel-bright tapestries blurred around her. Through sheer will, she stayed upright.

  Mary Tudor stared at her raptly, the deep grooves of pain easing between her eyes.

  “You’re an angel descended from Heaven,” the Queen breathed. “God be praised who sent you to me.”

  “I’m no angel, I assure thee.” Swaying, Rhiannon raised a hand to stop this flood of ardent prayer, the words a rain of blows she could no longer withstand. Unexpectedly, an image of Beltran Nemesto intruded upon her—that great Presence of stern and terrible beauty, opal and cobalt and ruby flashing as his wings unfolded.

  “Your coming was shown to me in a holy vision.” Mary Tudor clasped her hands in prayer and lifted rapturous eyes toward Heaven. “While I kept vigil and prayed for my husband’s safe return. Oh divine Spirit, what message from Heaven do you bear?”

  Rhiannon’s head was swirling, senses dulled by the outpouring of healing energy that had drained her to exhaustion. Now she must sit quietly and sip a cup of wine, like her patient, before she could broach the delicate subject of the Convergence to this Queen’s devout ears.

  But the opportunity before her was Goddess-sent. Who knew when she might be offered another such opening?

  Gathering her wits, she detached the belt-pouch from her girdle. “If thou art prepared to hear my message, I pray we may withdraw to some quiet place. Forsooth, I bear a treaty from Queene Maeve of the Faeries, that I would implore thee sign—”

  Across the Great Hall, words rang out like the blast of trumpets, making the earth tremble beneath her slippers.

  “If you love your soul, madame, do not sign.”

  Rhiannon felt a sinking sense of inevitability. She needed no oracle’s Sight to know who spoke. She’d sensed his nearness all evening, trembled at the thought of his demon or angel ravening down on her. Fear of him had driven her to expose herself too rashly.

  Belly quivering, heartbeat fluttering like a frantic sparrow, she raised a hand to her dry throat. Before her the Spaniards were falling back, opening a passage in the bright sea of bodies.

  Through their midst he bore down on her—an austere and terrifying figure clad in mud-spattered sable, the blade of judgment jutting over his shoulder, cape sweeping behind him like oncoming night. Torchlight burned like a holy aura in his dark gold hair and flashed on the flaming cross that swung over his heart. His chiseled face was thunderous, jaw knotted with contained anger.

  She trembled with a forest creature’s blind urge for flight. But his blazing eyes transfixed her where she stood. Divine wrath rooted her in place. That and the desperate knowledge that if she fled now, she would never have another chance to sway this pious Queen.

  Already Mary Tudor was wavering between them, gaping at this force
of nature. In a moment, her opportunity would be lost. Thoughts jostled through Rhiannon’s brain in a tumbled rush. The Queen had spoken of a holy vision—an angel who somehow resembled Rhiannon—and that could be no coincidence. The Faerie Queene wove mortal dreams and visions easy as wool upon her loom.

  Rhiannon’s skin tingled as she sensed her mother’s hand in this business.

  Tearing her eyes away from Beltran Nemesto’s imposing frame, Rhiannon captured the Queen’s distracted gaze.

  “In the name of the Deity thou serve, and thy sainted mother before thee, in the name of Him who is called Prince of Peace, I implore thee receive this treaty of perpetual harmony, and grant me audience this night.”

  Then she seized Mary Tudor’s slack hand and pressed the enchanted scroll into it.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time he’d withdrawn with Rhiannon to the Queen’s Privy Chamber at Mary’s command, alone and away from the prying eyes of court and commoner, Beltran’s rage had dwindled to a cold fire that simmered in his gut. His blood no longer burned with the dangerous prelude to holy madness he’d been fighting all day, jaw clenched, as he thundered down the long road from Hatfield.

  God’s Blood, he hadn’t even stopped to shave or shift his linen, just leaped straight from Serafin’s saddle in the courtyard to invade the Great Hall. If not for the badges of his office, the ring and medallion that won a Blade of God instant entrée to any Christian court, he would have come too late.

  “Thou might as well cease pacing about like a caged lion,” Rhiannon said from the high chair where she perched, her slender form nearly lost in its gilded depths. Cool as a spring morn, damn the woman, as she sipped the sweet hippocras and nibbled steadily at the plate of sugar wafers a servant had brought.

  How she’d paled when she saw him bearing down on her—as she bloody well should!—but the refreshment had brought the wild-rose color back to her cheeks. As she watched him over the rim of her goblet, her leaf-green eyes were huge. But the scornful tilt of her chin proclaimed defiance like a trumpet-blast.

  “’Tis likely we’ll be waiting some while for this audience with thy Queen.” Her brows winged up—all wide-eyed innocence, with an imp of mischief winking in her gaze. “To pass the time, thou may wish to scrape the road-mud from thy boots.”

  Despite his simmering wrath, he was seized with an inappropriate urge to grin. Frightened though the girl clearly was, still her irrepressible spirit blazed forth to challenge him. Instead he slung the cape from his shoulders, tugged straight his black grosgrain doublet, and threw her a dark look.

  Of course she was flawless in that stately court gown, slim and fair as a lily gleaming against ebony damask. The high ruff framed her delicate features, crowned by a torrent of moon-pale hair. The way her gown clung to the sweet curve of her breasts was indecent. Enough to make any man burn to unlace the stiff cage of her bodice—

  Neatly Beltran cut off that dangerous thought. Perhaps some chilled wine would be wise after all.

  “I should offer my compliments,” he said roughly. “That was quick work at Hatfield. In the course of a single day you lied to me, pilfered my possessions while I prayed, beguiled a royal princess to abet your deception, and delayed—though not escaped—the Church’s judgment.”

  Her incandescent eyes darkened to emerald. “I took nothing from thee save mine own property which thou had stolen. And thou had no right to detain me, nor thy Deity to judge me. I am not under thy Church’s jurisdiction.”

  “And what of your duplicity? Haven’t you some ready excuse to justify that? You swore an oath on your honor, else I’d never have granted your parole.”

  For the first time he saw her hesitate, white teeth nibbling the pink curve of her lip. A blush warmed her creamy skin. Caught her on the raw, did I?

  “Well am I rebuked for that,” she said softly. A fringe of silken lashes dropped over her mutinous gaze. “I could argue niceties with thee, that I swore precisely thus-and-such. But the truth is that I wronged thee and sullied my own honor. Yet our need is so dire—my mother’s need, my people’s need. Even thine own folk need this peace, though they know it not. Don’t you see? I had to reach Mary.”

  “Well, so you’ve done. Your blasphemous treaty’s in her hands now. Still, a lie is a lie, Rhiannon, and you are forsworn. Pray God is merciful in his judgment.”

  So Beltran had always believed—that black was black and white was white, like the stark pattern of her gown. Why then did he find the sharp blade of his anger blunted by this show of remorse? Repentance was well and good for a sinner, but judging her soul was God’s business. His own grim duty was to render Rome’s judgment, and nothing she said now could prevent it.

  No doubt she sensed his choler. In her high-backed chair she seemed lost, a wide-eyed waif in a world too large for her.

  “As thou have said, the matter lies in the Queen’s hands.” Her pointed chin rose. “Now that I’m recaptured—if captured I am—what is thine intent?”

  Unexpectedly, he hesitated. Before the level courage in her gaze, he pivoted and strode to the hearth. A servant had stirred the fire and it crackled briskly, but he caught up the poker and thrust it vigorously into the kindling.

  He’d settled on his course during his day-long gallop. Her fate lay in his hands; she must be tried and condemned like any other witch. Indeed, she’d added thievery to her list of offenses. Why was he so reluctant to denounce her?

  Was he growing soft in his dotage, neglecting the sacred calling he’d devoted his life to uphold? For the good of his own soul as well as hers, the girl must be made to recant.

  A torrent of gruesome images flashed through his mind—the manacles, the rack, the Catherine wheel. They loomed before him like his own destiny, the tools of his trade he’d been ordered to use. Instruments of salvation, the Blades called them. Still, every particle of his being reared up against the monstrous thought of using them to break the stubborn spirit of the girl before him.

  How the Cardinal would mock him for these weak-minded fancies.

  “You’re in London now, or as good as,” he said curtly, scowling into the flames. “You’ve shown yourself before the Queen and her Spanish dons. I’d have left you with a gentler gaoler in Yardley, but your own willful deeds have removed that option from the table. Now I’ve no choice but to deliver you to St. Paul’s. Given the Queen’s involvement in this business, I’ve no doubt Bishop Bonner will wish to deal with you personally.”

  Beneath the mournful dirge of a pavane in the Great Hall, he heard her breath hitch. Viciously he thrust the poker in its stand and pivoted to confront her.

  Are you a man or a mouse? If you’re going to condemn her, at least look her in the eye.

  He found her pale as milk, trembling but composed, more composed than any woman facing the Bloody Bishop’s attentions had a right to be.

  “If only she signs the treaty, thy bishop may do as he likes,” she said quietly. “I am but one woman. If spending my life buys peace for this isle, then the coin is well spent.”

  “Christ, Rhiannon! Don’t be a damn fool—”

  The rattle of the door brought him spinning around, battle-ready, dropping by instinct into a crouch. He barely restrained himself from drawing his sword.

  Easy, man. Draw steel before the Queen, and it’ll be you in the dunge
on with the questioner.

  He hadn’t expected Mary Tudor to return. He’d been certain she’d pass the matter to some minor councilor, one of Sir William Paget’s lackeys or even the Lord Chancellor himself—given the girl’s unfortunate mention of the disgraced Elizabeth.

  Yet the Queen herself rejoined them, quietly and without fanfare, attended by two of her ladies.

  Swallowing his astonishment, Beltran swept her a leg. Rhiannon had sprung to her feet like a deer startling into flight, but she sank into a pretty curtsey.

  Mary Tudor nodded gravely. Her voice was deep and guttural as a man’s, her gaze as direct. “We regret the necessity to keep you waiting—Mother Church’s own enforcer and a foreign emissary. Under such extraordinary circumstances as you present, we felt it meet to pray for guidance.”

  Beltran reached for the courtly manners he’d learned in San Miguel and wore like a second skin in Rome. “Your Majesty, all men know you as God’s faithful handmaiden. You’re wise to seek His guidance. Rome is ever grateful for your devotion.”

  “I am rather grateful myself,” Mary murmured, “for the opportunity to behold with my own eyes one of the Pope’s holy knights, a Blade of God. My blessed husband the King has spoken of your order, but this court has not been honored by a visit since my father’s time.”

  Rhiannon stepped forward, hands clasped, all decorum and humility—rare for her, Beltran thought dryly—her elfin face alight with expectation. The hope he saw shining in her eyes, despite any conceivable chance for a good outcome, made his gut twist.

  “Most Gracious Majesty,” she began, “for the gift of thy welcome, I bear the gratitude of thy sister sovereign, Queene Maeve of the Summer Lands. When last the Fair Folk petitioned mortals for peace, I was a babe in swaddling. At that time, the King with whom the Faerie Queene treated was Arthur Pendragon.”