Her voice wavered over the name, as though it held some deep meaning for her. Gaping like an idiot, Beltran swung toward her. Before he could speak, the dark-gowned woman near the Queen pushed forward, her hatchet face blazing with spite.
“Majesty, here’s filthy witchery and accursed blasphemy! I told you this one’s from the Devil.”
“Peace, Susan.” Mary Tudor raised a regal hand. “This matter cannot be so easy dismissed. You, Jane Dormer, stand at the door and ensure we are undisturbed from the Presence.”
The younger attendant, a slender dark-eyed beauty who moved with willowy grace, bowed and glided to her station.
The elder Susan was forced to subside. Still her eyes darted over them, lingering covetously over jewels and fabrics. He’d seen her type often enough at the papal court—a grasper who sought her own profit by controlling access to the monarch. If Rhiannon wished to triumph over this one, she must buy her off. Then would the woman’s greed take precedence over any religious sentiment she proclaimed.
At the head of the oaken table, Mary settled into her thronelike chair. Beltran mastered his towering impatience and forced himself to sit. Begrudgingly, the one called Susan poured the chilled hippocras. He waved the cup past without tasting.
Rhiannon pressed the goblet into his hand. “My lord, thou must take sustenance. Thou art exhausted from thy pursuit.”
From habit, he started to refuse, then realized he was indeed parched and famished from hard riding, fueled only by a few bites of bread and cheese wolfed in the saddle. Thirstily, he downed a few swallows of the chilled wine. An encouraging smile lit the girl’s face as she pressed a plate of wafers into his resisting hand.
“God’s body, woman!” he muttered irritably and saw her flinch. “I’m no invalid or doddering grandsire to be cosseted. Look to your own welfare.”
Mary Tudor was watching their byplay, her deep-set eyes shadowed with weariness. Thoughtfully she fingered the glittering rubies of a rosary she’d drawn from her girdle.
Beltran itched with unease. He hadn’t expected this audience. Already she ought to have dispatched Rhiannon to the Tower for sedition—for aiding the Queen’s disgraced sister. Foreboding balled his fists on the table.
Her fate is in God’s hands now. If the Queen turns against her, I can do naught in a civil court to aid her.
“So, it is Rhiannon of the Faeries, is it?” the Queen murmured. “Yesterday I would have sent you straight to the bishop, and thence to the fires at Smithfield. We’re about grave business here, ridding this land of heresy—as you, Lord Beltran, can doubtless attest.”
“No charge could be more serious.” He leaned forward. “England’s restoration to the Church is of prime importance. His Holiness ordered me here to support the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop Bonner in their work, to bring the Inquisition to England and serve as God’s enforcer against the heretics. King Henry, God assoil him, imperiled the souls of all good Englishmen by his willful rebellion against Rome’s authority.”
“And all for the sake of that harlot—she who was Elizabeth’s mother.” A note of steel entered the Queen’s mannish voice. “I do not call her my sister even now, for I’m all but certain my father is not her sire. She has the look of her mother’s lowborn lutanist, Mark Smeaton.”
Beltran recalled the musician who’d been convicted of adultery with the unfortunate Anne Boleyn. But, hearing the rosary beads rattle as Mary Tudor trembled with wrath, he judged this no time to indulge her jaunt over this lurid history. Truth be told, he’d admired Elizabeth Tudor’s wit and spirit, but the lady was an undoubted heretic. If the Pope had his way, he’d be using the instruments of salvation against her own unruly soul.
But Rhiannon had fired up in defense of the woman who’d sheltered her.
“Majesty, I know thy quarrel with Her Grace is an old one, but she regrets so heartily how her conduct has displeased thee! Why, she charged me with this very message, to recall her tender love and devotion to thee, her sweet sister, and her submission to thee as her sovereign. Majesty, she is utterly ignorant and innocent of the Dudley plot—”
“Silence, you fool!” Susan uncoiled like a serpent from the shadows behind the throne. “Her Majesty has decreed no man or woman speak to her of the whore’s daughter. Any message you bear must pass through the proper channels.”
Meaning through you, or some accomplice on the Lord Steward’s staff. Beltran eyed the vile creature with contempt. He thought less of Mary Tudor for tolerating such a woman among her ladies, despite whatever years of faithful service she claimed.
“Susan Clarencius speaks the truth.” The Queen nodded grimly.
“But if Thy Majesty would only listen. She is thine heir—”
“Nay!” Mary’s pain-rimmed eyes flashed with the dangerous Tudor temper. “We shall bear many strong sons to succeed us. One more word on that harlot’s behalf, and you’ll spend this night in the Tower for treason!”
If the Queen thought Rhiannon a foreign emissary—for surely she was no common Englishwoman, fashioned of moonbeams and starlight—she could not be accused of treason. Still, Beltran touched the girl’s wrist and squeezed lightly in warning. Her bones were fragile as a sparrow’s under his sword-hardened grip.
God save her, the breaking wheel would snap her limbs like kindling.
He sensed Rhiannon struggling to contain her own royal temper. Her color had risen, but she dropped her lashes over her angry eyes and said nothing. Beneath the Clarencius woman’s gimlet gaze, he released her.
“The two of you make a rather unlikely pair,” the Queen mused. “But the Lord works in mysterious ways. Perhaps, God’s Vengeance, you will extend us your spiritual counsel.”
“I’m no priest. Surely Reginald Pole or your own chaplain—”
“They dismiss this business as the sick fancy of a woman desperate to fill her womb. And so I am.” The Queen’s worn fingers trembled around her rosary. “But the truth has been shown to me. Like the Holy Virgin when the angel Gabriel descended unto her with his precious message, I too have been blessed with a vision.”
“A holy vision?” Christ, the woman was demented. Beltran no more believed in holy visions than in goblins and Faeries.
And yet they existed.
The realization that he was entertaining Rhiannon’s bizarre claims annoyed him. But the Queen’s burning eyes—the passionate flush of the fanatic in her sunken cheeks—made him bite off the cynical dismissal he wanted to utter.
“While I kept vigil last night,” the Queen said raptly, words tumbling forth in a gush, “I prayed for the strength to stay the course, to root out the heresy that has sprouted like a vile weed in our good English earth. For it was given me to know I must destroy it, and bring all heretics to repentance, before God will bless me with the son I must have.
“Until now, we have allowed Lutherans and Lollards and Anabaptists to recant before the fires are lit, and thus they are spared the flames. But so many return there, tumbling again into the Devil’s snare, that Bishop Bonner has advised us to deny any soul convicted of heresy this chance for mercy...”
There was more in this vein. Beltran listened with the grave respect of a man indulging a child’s fantasy. Inwardly, he was appalled. The Church needed a monarch on the English throne with a clear head on her shoulders—unclouded by delusions and holy
visions—far more than the damn Lutherans needed more bloody martyrs.
But Rhiannon looked upon the raving old woman without shrinking, her face soft and glowing with compassion.
When Mary Tudor paused to draw a shaking breath, the girl said gently, “My dear lady, thou must not excite thyself in this way. Surely thy Maker knows thy devotion. Thou may be devout as any saint and yet parlay for peace with my kin.”
This sympathy seemed to restore the Queen to some semblance of calm. Irritably she brushed off the Clarencius woman’s anxious hovering. “God sent me a vision while I prayed. And in my vision, Rhiannon le Fay, I saw you.”
Beltran frowned. What was this new madness? He distrusted the pious conviction that rang through the Queen’s gruff voice.
“Nay, it is true! I saw you in a blue mantle with your silver hair unbound, bearing a scroll, and God’s holy light streaming down around you. And behind you in the shadows...a guardian angel, wings spread and glittering with every hue under Heaven—oh, it was a glorious sight! I knew then you would come before me, bearing a missive from our Savior.”
Under her breath, Rhiannon whispered, “Mother, this is too cruel. To play so upon her desperation...”
The Queen’s lined features were foolish with hope and religious fervor. “Forsooth, I never expected your missive to take this form. My councilors are calling it witchcraft. But so it says in Scripture, that blessed are those who believe—”
Beltran could no longer keep silent. “If I heard this claim anywhere else, I’d call it outright blasphemy. This girl is no Virgin Mary incarnate, nor yet some holy messenger. At first I thought her a pure charlatan or a fool, or possibly mad. Now I confess I’m not certain what the Devil she is. But to claim—”
“I am astonished, Lord Beltran,” the Queen said coldly, “to hear you say so—you who are sworn to defend the faith. Yet I know you too are sent to me from Him.”
Shifting uncomfortably, he clamped down on an urge to pace. “I’m no saint or holy man.”
“Why, to the contrary.” Mary smiled beatifically. “You were part of my vision. For the angel who guarded the Virgin wore your face.”
* * *
Rhiannon was watching Beltran when the Queen uttered her surprising statement. She saw it hit him, low and hard, like a blow to the belly. A muscle flexed in his temple as he ground his jaw.
Even now, he seemed unaware of the shadowy Presence brooding over him, hands folded over the cruciform sword standing blade-down before him. The Being was watching her, clear eyes pulsing with banked fire.
Just as clearly, Mary Tudor was stone-blind to that looming Presence. Rhiannon doubted the Queen’s vision came from her God. Nay, this was the work of Queene Maeve, weaving her magick over a weak-minded mortal to smooth the way for Rhiannon’s arrival.
Yet her mother too had the Sight. If she’d seen Beltran Nemesto as an angel of the Christian God, Rhiannon could not discount it. But could he truly be so heedless of his own nature?
Now, the man himself struck silent by the lightning bolt the Queen had hurled with this pronouncement, Rhiannon seized her moment and stepped into the breach.
“Majesty, hast thou read the treaty?”
“I read it as an allegory, or a parable from Scripture.” The Queen crossed herself, and behind her Susan Clarencius mirrored the motion. Rhiannon averted her gaze. “This Convergence is the Judgment Day, the end of time, when our Savior shall return, and all lands drown in blood and fire.”
Rhiannon hesitated, reluctant to take advantage of the sick woman’s delusions. But her words held a kind of truth, as a simple Christian soul might comprehend it.
Clearly, the Blade of God felt differently. His sun-bronzed hand crashed against the table, making the goblets jump. The gold ring with its scales of justice flashed.
“Damnation, I’ll tolerate no more of this blasphemous talk! God does not speak through vagabond spitfires who appear in the wilderness spouting wild tales of Faeries and angels and some damned Convergence. If her claims have swayed even you, a God-fearing monarch, it merely proves how dangerous this young woman is. In the name of all that’s holy, I demand she be remanded to my custody.”
So unyielding, he condemned her, his face chiseled granite, steely eyes flashing as he pronounced her doom.
“I can have her in London before dawn,” he said flatly. “There she may be questioned at length and leisure. Turn her over to me, and I swear I’ll see her judged fairly.”
“I’m afraid we’ve gone beyond that,” the Queen said, faith shining from her sunken eyes. “I must follow my conscience in all things.”
Beltran had gone silent and grim. His words, uttered low, echoed like a growl against the oak-paneled walls. “Madam, I forbid this. The Church forbids it. Your own councilors and bishops will forbid it. Don’t let your hunger for a child lead you astray, and plunge your precious soul into jeopardy.”
Despite her conviction, Mary Tudor paled. Scarcely able to breathe, Rhiannon watched the Queen wrestle with her misgivings.
“As the Pope’s own emissary and his voice in this court, I cannot disregard your council.” Mary sighed. “Nor yet can I dismiss this holy vision or the dictates of my conscience. It comes to this. The two of you must parlay, one with the other, and together advise me which course to take.”
“Parlay—with him?” Rhiannon exclaimed. “Already I’ve talked myself hoarse in a vain effort to persuade this man to reason. If we parlayed a year and a day, still would he be blind and stubborn and pedantic as he is this very moment! There’s nothing more I can say to him.”
Nostrils flared, he eyed her coldly. “One does not parlay with God. Your own bishops will affirm that much, Your Majesty.”
“Nonetheless, we have chosen this course.” As if by magick, the frail woman with her shattered dreams and personal tragedies had vanished. Suddenly the Great Harry’s daughter looked upon them, narrow-eyed and resolute, the famous Tudor temper burning in her cheeks.
“We shall instruct our Lord Chamberlain to assign you chambers at court through May Day festival, four days hence. You have so long to negotiate the terms of any treaty, so long to recommend some common course. Based upon your counsel and God’s wisdom, which I seek daily through prayer, we shall determine England’s best interests at that time.”
The Queen’s gaze faltered, grandeur dissolving as her thin shoulders slumped. “In that time, also, we shall consult with Spain and send word to our husband King Philip abroad. No doubt he will advise me of his wishes.”
Tensely Rhiannon perched in her chair, warring impulses jostling in her heart. Philip of Spain would view a treaty with the Fair Folk as the Devil’s bargain. He was Rome’s creature, and peace ran counter to the goal of subjugating this unhappy isle.
Nor could it be coincidence that the Queen fixed her deadline upon the spring equinox, on a night when the Beltane fires would flare the length of Britain, when the door between the worlds opened and high magick could be wrought. Tingling from head to foot, she sensed enchantment at play. She could almost see it swirling in the air, like flecks of gold glittering in the candlelight.
Somewhere, the haunting sweetness of apple blossoms perfumed the air. She heard the husky chime of her sister’s laughter. Suddenly Rhiannon was shivering, her slight frame trembling like a wind-kissed leaf.
“So be it, Majesty,” she whispered. “I shall inform my companion, Lady Linnet Norwood. I pray she may be accommodated as well.”
Abruptly Beltr
an thrust to his feet. Catching up his sable cloak, he swirled the heavy garment across her shoulders. She started to refuse it, the smooth fur and velvet lining warm with his body heat. The rich dark spice of frankincense filled her head.
“Take the damn cloak,” he said curtly. “This room’s drafty as a tomb. I’ll find the Archbishop, and explain why our business must again be delayed. The Inquisition will simply have to wait.”
Rhiannon knew she’d won a minor victory. At least the Queen hadn’t dismissed her claim outright! She should be gracious in her triumph. Still, irritation prickled through her at his grudging tone.
“Lady grant me patience, sir, I hardly obliged thee to forsake thine affairs and harry me across the length of Britain, scolding and lecturing all the while.”
“This island’s spiritual welfare and the salvation of souls is God’s business—and therefore mine,” he muttered.
Regally Mary Tudor rose, signaling the royal audience ended. “I shall summon you both to account on May Day. My lady Jane Dormer will conduct you to the Chamberlain.”
Recalling her court manners, Rhiannon swooped into her curtsey. She was grateful to follow the soft-voiced Lady Jane rather than Susan Clarencius, who threw her a baleful look as the Queen swept out. No doubt she’d have problems with that one before this business was through.
But her greatest problem was looming over her, hard and unsmiling, his unyielding grip steering her through the Privy Chamber. Sternly she rebuked herself for trembling beneath his touch. For all his dire threats and bullying, his overwhelming physical presence, he’d done nothing yet to harm her, even when his stubborn insistence on duty and virtue drove her nearly mad.
Warm beneath the seductive softness of his heavy warm cape against her bare shoulders, she glanced at him sidelong as he strode beside her. Firelight gleamed on his short-cropped hair and glittered gold along his unshaven jaw. From somewhere, the impulse seized her to run her fingers along that stern chin, feel his whiskers bristling against sun-browned skin, soften the mouth that had kissed her—was it only yesterday?
Magick by Moonrise Page 15
