“Please, Beltran,” she whispered. Begging him to keep his distance. Did she lack the will to pull away of her own accord?
Frustration knotted his gut. With a low oath, he released her and strode off, leaving her alone at the window.
“Why did you come here, Rhiannon?”
She remained near the window, facing away from him. “My lord, we must talk, and time is short. I am summoned to ride with the court this morn. Wilt thou accompany me?”
That was the last damn thing he needed after last night’s scandal—to trail after Rhiannon le Fay like a besotted schoolboy.
But he’d told the Archbishop he would spend time in her presence to collect evidence against her. Good Catholic that she was, Mary Tudor would never sign that infernal treaty if the Church stood against it—no matter what her fool’s vision told her.
Reginald Pole the Archbishop had been unequivocal during their session in the confessional last night. If Beltran intended to continue rising despite his recent slip—as he surely did—convicting and condemning Rhiannon le Fay for witchcraft was the swiftest way to do it.
* * *
“How do you find Lord Beltran Nemesto, my lady?”
The unexpected question brought Rhiannon alert, her heart speeding suddenly, shredding the dreamlike daze where she’d floated all morning. Awareness returned of the gray mare’s supple stride beneath her, the soft murmur and creak of the royal hunting party threaded through the forest all around, a spring breeze stirring the boughs and blowing a silver ringlet loose from her chignon to tickle her cheek.
Ever since she’d unwisely taunted him—Art thou afraid of me, Vengeance?—ever since he’d retaliated by dragging her into his arms. Despite her certain knowledge of the consequences if she weakened and tumbled into his bed, the smoldering blue heat of his gaze had nearly melted her knees.
Even now, a good hour later, the memory of that swift rising passion left her almost swooning. Heat flooded her tingling body and pooled where her thighs gripped the saddle.
“As bad as that, my lady?” the speaker asked wryly.
Rhiannon dragged her scattered wits together before the Queen of England’s probing gaze. “I’m honored by thy concern for mine affairs.”
“Ah, but they’re also England’s affairs...or so you tell me.”
Overhead, dappled green-gold light spilled through the tapestry of budding branches above the Honour—the wild, wooded deer park that bordered Hampton Court. Beneath it, Mary’s skin appeared sallow, the auburn hair under her Spanish hood thin and lifeless. With a healer’s instinct, Rhiannon knew the aging Queen had slept poorly. The throbbing ache and bloating of her moon flow had returned.
In truth, this morning ride was the last thing she needed.
But Mary was a hardy soul; she’d endured far worse in her solitary life. Physical suffering was nothing to her, set against the bitter knowledge that her womb remained barren, her women’s courses drying up within her, the moon tides of life and passion no longer flowing. Now the winter of life crept upon her, freezing her soul and body.
While Mary despaired, the royal husband she adored frolicked through Europe with the beautiful Christina of Denmark, his acknowledged mistress.
Soft with compassion, Rhiannon replied to Mary’s words.
“The welfare of thy realm and mine are inextricably linked, Majesty—though thy Church enforcer seems determined not to see it.” With a flash of spirit, she tossed her head. “Still, I’ve not yet finished with him.”
Behind her, she knew Beltran rode, corded thighs gripping his white stallion, his hooded gaze vigilant as he followed the Queen’s retinue. He appeared utterly unaware of her, Rhiannon saw irritably, absorbed in conversation with Spain’s representative at this most Catholic court—the Spanish ambassador, the Duke of Feria, whose dark flashing eyes strayed so often to the winsome Jane Dormer.
A fine group we make. The ambassador makes sheep’s eyes at the Queen’s most chaste and seemly lady, while the Faerie emissary sits dreaming of the Church enforcer...
Without turning her head, she kept Beltran at the edge of vision. Yet she remained keenly aware of his precise location among the party. Just as he was attuned to hers.
Catholic chastity or not, wherever his duty might lie, he wanted her. She wondered if he lay wakeful at night as she did, her body aching for his touch. Would he slide both hands under the bedclothes to grip the hard length of his manhood and think of her?
The image left her breathless and flustered. A scalding tide of warmth swept her cheeks.
Beside her, Mary Tudor chafed her swollen belly.
“The Blades of God are Heaven’s most vigilant servants, Lady Rhiannon. If you can persuade Lord Beltran your cause is right and holy, the Pope himself will surely bless it.”
Unlikely, she thought dryly. The Catholic pope would rather see her burning in the Christian hell. The Church had ever been the Fair Folk’s most implacable foe.
“Be assured I shall do my level best to persuade him,” she said neutrally.
Still the Queen seemed preoccupied, her old bones aching until Rhiannon’s throbbed in sympathy. Ceaselessly, the older woman rubbed her belly beneath its blood crimson stomacher. The color filled Rhiannon with foreboding.
Red is for heartbreak.
Abruptly Mary gestured her courtiers to fall back. Rhiannon drew rein, but Mary signaled her to keep pace. Together, they rode on.
Dainty Astolat picked her way along a wooded bank carpeted with ivy and leaped a little streamlet. Mary’s blood bay courser vaulted the barrier as easily, but a grimace of pain twisted the Queen’s features under the jarring impact of landing.
Impulsively Rhiannon reached toward her. “Dear madam, let me mix thee a posset to ease thy pain.”
“I was born to suffer pain,” the Queen said dispassionately. “It began when I was a little maid of twelve, when That Woman appeared at court with her French fashions and her harlot’s ways to tempt my father from my mother’s side—she, Katherine of Aragon, daughter to Isabella of Castile, and never less than a very saint.”
“Majesty, pray do not distress thyself...”
“Not long afterward he banished my mother to the drafty castle where she met her death. I never saw her again. When he married That Woman, I was exiled from court, my household dissolved, and sent to serve her bastard Elizabeth.”
By now the Queen’s dispassion had vanished. The venom that dripped from Mary’s voice made Rhiannon prickle with foreboding. A hectic flush rose in the Queen’s sunken cheeks; her eyes glittered with a zealot’s fervor.
“Once my sister was a sweet child, despite her blood, and I was fond of her. After my father’s death, her heretical leanings developed and she became the scandal of this kingdom. I’ve always known she whored for her own stepfather. I speak of that devil Queen Katherine Parr wedded when she outlived my father—Lord Admiral Tom Seymour, an intemperate rogue with dangerous ambitions. Elizabeth spread her legs for him at the tender age of fourteen, if you can credit that. And him lusting for this girl whose breasts had barely budded, like a man possessed—or bewitched. If you’d seen the way she flaunted herself before anything with a codpiece, the way she swayed her hips and smiled, goading men to tumble her and do it roughly—”
Appalled, Rhiannon tried to staunch this sickening flood of poison.
But the poison must come out. Spittle glistened on the Queen’s pitiless lips. “I have it from a reliable source that she was seen...by the laundress or the gardener or something like, perhaps some tradesman visiting the house, I don’t recall...seen backed against a tree, with her bodice open and skirts pushed above her waist, moaning against her lover’s fingers. And this is the Jezebel you would champion, Rhiannon le Fay, the serpent you would have me welcome to my bosom!”
The urge to defend Elizabeth from this shameful slander burned in her heart and trembled on her lips. Yet, before the Queen’s virulent hatred and envy of her lovely young sister, Rhiannon dared to say nothing. Defending Elizabeth now would only poison her own cause in Mary’s eyes. Still, she couldn’t bear to listen to the ugly diatribe.
“If indeed that event took place, Majesty, she was so young...”
“Then I knew she was no king’s daughter.” Mary went on relentlessly. “She is That Woman’s bastard by her lute player, Mark Smeaton, just as I’ve always maintained. And rest assured he went to the gallows for it. My father came to his senses and lopped off That Woman’s head. If true justice had been served, she would have burned for the vile adulteress she was.”
The Queen swiveled toward her, nearsighted eyes squinting, as though sensing the white outrage that blazed through Rhiannon. Elizabeth was part-Fae and a king’s daughter, just as she was herself. She had to remind herself forcibly that Mary Tudor was ill and old and weary, that her vitriol wasn’t aimed at her.
“I relate you this sad history so you may understand, my lady, that I will tolerate no intervention or meddling on her behalf. Whatever may come, Elizabeth has earned her fate thrice over.” The Queen drew an unsteady breath. “I shall overlook your ignorance, as a foreigner to this land, so long as it goes no further. That blessed vision of mine was God’s command to give you fair hearing. Nonetheless, my councilor the Archbishop warns me not to presume I know God’s will.”
Mary paused. “I tell you frankly, Rhiannon le Fay, that unseemly business on the stairs last night did not advance your cause.”
Rhiannon would not abandon Elizabeth to her fate, but recognized she must turn now to her own defense. “Last night’s occurrence was—unfortunate, that I grant. My lord sought only to defend me from vile slander. Any knight or gentleman would have done the same.”
“He spilled blood within the Verge of the Court.” Mary frowned. “Some would call that a hanging offense. The usual penalty in my reign is imprisonment. My father would have had his hand off.”
Rhiannon recoiled in horror. Dear Lady, these mortals are savages, just as my sister always said.
The Queen sighed. “Unfortunately, the man my lord struck is a member of the Duke of Feria’s household, and he is bringing a formal complaint.”
“Perhaps I should bring my own complaint against the Duke’s man.” Rhiannon tossed her head, heat blazing in her cheeks. “He insulted me most foully.”
The older woman’s face darkened. “I would not wish to be compelled to delve too deeply into the conduct of those involved—not least your own behavior.”
“I tell thee I did nothing.”
“I’m granting you a favor, Rhiannon le Fay, by refusing to hear the matter.” The Queen’s voice hardened. “At least until your business here is finished. As for your so-called defender, he should count himself fortunate to get off with a reprimand and steep fine.”
A fine? Well, no doubt his Church can afford it. Rhiannon exhaled, a tide of relief sweeping through her. She couldn’t have borne seeing Beltran suffer, merely for defending her from a foul-tongued rogue.
“Majesty, thou art merciful,” she murmured. Queens liked their small favors to be received with fawning gratitude. The words were as close as Rhiannon could bring herself to it.
The dangerous color receded from Mary’s sallow cheeks as she accepted the accolade. “Have a care for him, my lady. Lord Beltran Nemesto is a protégé and favorite of Cardinal Calvino, one of the Inquisition’s most fervent champions, and known to the Pope himself. His Grace the Archbishop tells me Nemesto stands on the brink of a great promotion and a glorious future.”
“Why, is it so?” Rhiannon slanted a glance over her shoulder.
Beltran’s white stallion paced nearly within earshot, his rider no doubt burning to know what Mary was telling her. When their gazes locked, his keen eyes seared through her like blue flames. With difficulty, she broke the heated contact and turned away.
Mary toyed with her reins. “He’s a man of ambition, your protector. Risen from collier’s brat to nobleman in a single generation, and I’m told he intends to lead his order. Likely to succeed as well. These continental wars have thinned their ranks, and the Don’s post stands vacant.”
Rhiannon spoke carefully. “Certainly he’s a formidable man—pious and constant, and fearsome in battle. No doubt he has earned the honor.”
“I’m informed he lacks but one credential. He’s zealous in rooting out witches and heretics, thorough and ruthless in his interrogations. His preferred outcome is for the accused to recant, though he condemns those damned souls he cannot save.” The Queen’s mouth thinned. “But he’s never yet sent one to the stake. Some view that as a sign of squeamishness. Burn a witch or heretic, prove his devotion to the Inquisition, and his rise is assured.”
Rhiannon battled a surge of dizziness, the greenwood swirling around her. Swaying in the saddle, she breathed deeply to clear her head. Could this requirement explain his fervent pursuit of her, his dogged insistence on her interrogation? Was he seeking a good candidate for burning?
Nay, surely he could not intend that fate for her. Despite his orthodox views and rigid thinking, she’d believed him a decent man, an honorable man. Even a knight in shining armor from a troubadour’s lay, like her foster-father had been.
But the Catholic Queen was watching her too closely, that narrowed gaze too suspicious for comfort. Rhiannon dared not betray fear, which the fanatical woman beside her would consider proof of guilt.
“Surely my lord would never condemn an—an innocent woman to such a gruesome end.” Carefully she steadied her voice. “I’m certain he will follow his conscience.”
Mary waved that away, the signet ring of England flashing on her bony finger. “To speak plainly, Lady Rhiannon, Mother Rome would suffer a great loss if God’s Vengeance ever faltered in his faith. Of course, he’s a red-blooded male, prone to temptation like any man living—including my own dear husband.”
The bitter rage of a woman spurned hardened the Queen’s voice. Her words sliced into Rhiannon like a sharp-edged blade. “Your uncommon beauty has stirred discord in this court, like mythical Paris with his golden apple. Like Aphrodite who won the prize, you beguile my lords—even those sworn to Christ. You spawn spite and envy among my ladies.”
Rhiannon shook her head in disbelief. She must be speaking of some other woman, some mortal not tainted by mixed blood. Either that, or it was Susan Clarencius’s malice. “Surely thou art mistaken. I am no great beauty.”
“Hear me well, Rhiannon le Fay,” the Queen of England warned, “and tax not my patience with false claims of modesty. Tempt the greatest Blade of God in a generation to stray from his holy duty, now when the Church needs his service the most, and I swear I’ll send you to the stake myself.”
Chapter Twelve
Rhiannon managed her escape by remaining behind when one of the Q
ueen’s courtiers spied a fox. The entire party went thundering after the poor creature in exuberant high spirits. Stomach churning with nausea, nerves humming with fear, heart skipping with the fox’s desperate terror, Rhiannon slipped into the trees and slid from her saddle.
She sank to her knees and pressed her hands against the loamy soil. Eyes closed, she poured a stream of faltering life-energy into the good earth, imploring the Goddess to lend speed to the fox’s limbs and strength to his panicked heart.
Run hard and fast, my friend. Find your earth and burrow deep...deep...where these cruel mortals cannot find you.
Dear Lady, if only she could do the same. The Queen’s blind zeal terrified her, that poisonous hatred of her own kin, her virulent jealousy of all women younger and fairer than she. Whatever advantage Queene Maeve’s magick had won for Rhiannon, that so-called vision that had prised open the dark closet of Mary Tudor’s narrow soul, the Catholic priests were working hard to undo it. Without Beltran’s support—and she knew how likely that was—the English Queen would turn on her like a rabid dog.
What was one more heretic screaming in the fires at Smithfield?
Gradually the peace of earth and growing things settled into her soul. Her panicked heartbeat slowed. Hearing the gentle gurgle of water, she led Astolat along a narrow tongue of land, between the river and an inlet’s still green glimmer. A thick stand of greensward hemmed the water, hiding from view the gentle stretch of the Thames beyond. Protected by water on three sides, she felt her clamoring panic fade to a whisper.
Gratefully, the mare dipped her nose to the inlet. Rhiannon kneeled alongside, rose-pink skirts billowing around her. Though the still water was carpeted with emerald moss, fear had parched her throat.
When the mare’s head lifted, ears swiveling forward, the breath hitched in Rhiannon’s lungs. When a horse whickered, her chest tightened.
Magick by Moonrise Page 17
