What if that, too, is mistaken?
What manner of creature am I?
Chapter Thirteen
Consciousness seeped through Rhiannon slowly—the faint sweetness of blooming celandines, blossoms crushed beneath her curled form, a warm blanket of sunlight across her legs, the tickle of grass against her cheek. In the distance, the strains of a gay melody floated across the hedgerows of the palace gardens.
Memory coalesced around her of last night’s arrival at the Tudor queen’s palace, the Queen’s threats that morning. That searing encounter with Beltran beside the river, the way her breasts had kindled and her body caught fire at his touch, his solid strength pressing her into the greensward.
The dragon rearing, acid dripping from its jaws. The calm certainty that thrummed in her blood like a well-tuned lute as she released the evil spell and banished the beast.
No doubt of it, every day the Convergence drew closer, and her sister was growing stronger. Only the combined power of Beltran’s invocations, his angel’s flaming sword and her own unpredictable magick had saved the day.
Again she heard Morrigan’s laughing voice, that taunting whisper in her ear, as her creature sank beneath the waves.
I’ve done you a favor, sister. I saved your maidenhead. Your lover’s mighty lance would have skewered you this day. Remember what I told you?
Shivering, Rhiannon pushed to a sitting position. She’d sought solace in this green bower because the looming walls, the endless racket, the noisome stench of the palace confined her even worse than these tortuous mortal garments.
Stunned by the attack, her sister’s mocking words still ringing in her ears, she’d said little to Beltran during their silent return. He’d been wrapped in his own dark musings, gaze turned inward, hard features hewn in a forbidding mask.
’Tis a wonder I didn’t awaken in the Tower. For surely he knows for certain that I’m a witch now.
With a mounting anxiety that bordered on panic, she wondered what he would do with the knowledge.
Unable to remain still, Rhiannon sprang up and hurried through the peaceful garden. Unwilling to return to the hostile scrutiny of the manor, she followed the galliard’s distant strains. The sounds of revelry led her to the Banqueting House—a free-standing bower between the gardens and the Thames.
Hesitating beside a hedgerow, she straightened her hood and brushed the pale gold silk of her skirts. She plucked a stray celandine from the hair tumbling loose down her back. Flowing hair was considered a banner of virginity among mortals, she’d learned.
Well, that was fitting enough. Evidently she’d be wearing her hair loose forever. Unless Morrigan had lied to her about the penalty of love.
She tasted bitterness in her throat. Since when had her virgin state troubled her? She’d never found it burdensome, nor been tempted to alter it. Until the day Lord Beltran Nemesto came striding into her life—and her heart.
“Lady Rhiannon?”
The words made her pivot, heart rising in her throat.
“I was told ye’d passed this way.” Linnet Norwood arched inquiring brows, framing her perceptive gaze. “I thought perhaps ye’d come to attend this gathering? ’Tis the Earl of Arundel’s natal day, a Catholic crowd...my father’s crowd while he lived.” Briefly, a shadow darkened her gold-flecked gaze. “A likely place to seek new allies, aye, which ye may need if ye’re having a wee stramash with Lord Beltran?”
Rhiannon glanced toward the bower—wicker roof woven with ivy, white-draped tables groaning beneath the gilded swans and full-plumed peacocks and sculpted subtleties these mortals favored. A double row of colorful forms romped along the floor, gentlemen leaping high, ladies retreating coyly before them. Involuntarily, she smiled at the sight.
“A fine notion, Linnet! We should show ourselves among the Queen’s faction, show sympathy with their interests...”
Her voice trailed away. For the Queen’s faction was the Church faction, and therefore Beltran’s. Her heart quickened as she searched the frolicking throng, seeking broad shoulders encased in black and a proud golden head that towered over lesser mortals. Several dark-frocked clergymen huddled in one corner like a murder of crows, but the Blade of God was not among them.
From henceforth, she’d steer clear of him. She’d resolved herself on that much. She couldn’t seem to refrain from swooning into his arms when they were private, and that course could only end in downfall. Their future discussions must occur in public, when she was fully in command of her senses.
Linnet shot her a sidelong glance. “Don’t fash yerself—he isn’t here. He’s planted on his knees in the chapel for Nones.”
“Again?” Relief and disappointment warred within her. “Well, we shall find another champion to advance our cause. Beltran Nemesto is hardly the only Catholic at this court, and another may well prove more tractable.”
Fresh hope unfurled within her breast. Rhiannon lifted her chin and pinned a bright smile to her lips. She could dissemble with a right good will after a lifetime on the fringes of the Faerie court, pretending not to mind her exclusion.
Linnet squeezed her hand and summoned her own shy smile. “There stands the man of the hour—Arundel himself. My father knew him...once. Would ye fancy an introduction?”
* * *
Beltran emerged from the chapel in an uneasy mood. Prayer seemed less and less the comfort it used to be; surely it had done nothing to settle him after the day’s ungodly events. His thoughts seethed like stew in a boiling cauldron—like the innocent English waters that had vomited a demon from the depths.
One lesson he’d learned. He’d hired a man to follow Rhiannon. She’d not slip away again without his knowledge.
Tonight she was keeping company he’d never expected—no less a man than Henry FitzAlan, the Earl of Arundel. And the Archbishop of Canterbury himself in attendance. A fist of foreboding knotted his gut.
The sun hovered low and burning, slanting through the Banqueting House. Music floated through the air, punctuated with chimes of laughter. The linkboys were lighting the first torches, the Sewers broaching a fresh cask of Burgundy as Beltran vaulted the stairs. Some instinct held him on the threshold, unseen in the gathering shadows, while he searched for his quarry.
Before him, the dancers swirled into pairs for the Italian dance called la volta. Laughing cries rose from the ladies as their partners flung them into the air.
It was an unseemly dance, almost lecherous, and Beltran was frowning when an ethereal figure in pale gold floated into view, light as thistledown in her partner’s hands.
There. Even in this colorful throng, he would have found her anywhere. There was nowhere on earth she could hide from him.
A blaze of sunset lit the cloud of gilded ringlets that swirled around her, like the aura that appeared when she summoned her strange magick. The incandescent joy lighting her winsome face snared him, green eyes flashing like a cat’s in the twilight.
Her partner lowered her from view. Beltran knotted his fists as a pang of loss tightened his chest. Ridiculous! Moping after her like a lovesick swain.
When she soared aloft again, a lithe form clad in shimmering gold, head flung back with innocent joy, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
What the Devil was that fellow doing holding her like that, hands lodged just under the sweet curve of her breasts? The man was too bloody forward. The sight of a sinewed thigh clad in burgundy hose, planted so snugly under her derriere to lift her, made Beltran grind his teeth.
When he wrenched his eyes from their intertwined bodies and glimpsed her partner’s face, Beltran suffered another unpleasant blow. The man whose embrace Rhiannon was so transparently enjoying was none other than the man of the hour—His Grace, the Earl of Arundel.
Beltran cursed under his breath. Rhiannon had set her sights on the Lord Steward himself, a premier peer of England, one of the highest Catholic nobles in the whole sodding court.
And there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
Pivoting away, he gestured impatiently for a cup. The crisp bite of ale washed the bitter taste of jealousy from his throat and restored him to something like sanity. Glimpsing a flash of red among the black-frocked clergy, he took himself firmly in hand and strode forward to greet the Archbishop.
Reginald Pole inclined his head coolly. Beltran hadn’t made a stellar first impression on the man during last night’s imbroglio. Likewise, the Archbishop’s companion eyed him without warmth—a square, blocky figure with a bulbous nose, fleshy lips arranged in a permanent sneer.
“Lord Beltran,” the Archbishop murmured. “Are you acquainted with His Lordship Bishop Bonner?”
So this brutish fellow was Bloody Bonner, the terror of English Protestants. Beltran concealed his distaste and swept a proper bow. “Lordship. I dispatched a missive to you this morning. I’m here under orders from Cardinal Calvino to enforce your efforts on the Inquisition’s behalf.”
Edmund Bonner pursed his lips. “Indeed, I petitioned the Pope for a Blade of God with zeal to act as my unflinching rod of punishment in this holy work. At the time, I was gratified to hear he’d dispatched so legendary a warrior as God’s Vengeance to persecute these unrepentant heretics. We expected your arrival weeks ago.”
“Foul weather postponed my Channel crossing.” Beltran itched to see what Rhiannon was doing, but dared not draw the bishop’s gaze toward her by looking. “You may be certain I chafed at the delay. No man could be more eager to advance the Lord’s work.”
“Indeed?” Bonner’s hooded eyes followed the dancers. “I heard of last night’s unfortunate business with that unusual young woman. This...Rhiannon le Fay. Mistress Susan Clarencius, a good Catholic of excellent standing, says much that I find disturbing.”
The cold precision with which he uttered Rhiannon’s name made Beltran’s blood run cold. He bit off a curse. “Aye, the Queen asked me to examine Lady Rhiannon’s petition. I’ll conclude the matter by May Day, never fear, then devote my full attention to your efforts.”
“You won’t be overhasty, I trust.” The bishop studied him. “It’s said that you know the woman?”
“Not in the Biblical sense.” Beltran bared his teeth in a cold smile. His mentor Calvino might praise Edmund Bonner, but something about the man set his teeth on edge. “Purely by chance, I encountered her on the road.”
“Then you had some opportunity to observe her?” Bonner’s black brows lifted.
“Somewhat.” Beltran wondered at his own reticence. Not long ago he’d planned to turn Rhiannon over to the bishop’s tender keeping and wash his hands of the troublesome minx. Now that the opportunity to condemn her was staring him in the face, he couldn’t force the words past his lips.
He couldn’t turn her over to this butcher and his instruments of salvation.
“What a pity.” The bishop was watching her again. His gaze drawn like a magnet, Beltran found her laughing up at Arundel—still with the old satyr, damn the man, though the dance had ended.
“Based on Mistress Susan’s rather unorthodox report,” Bonner pressed, “and the unwholesome effect she’s had upon the Queen, I’m convinced the girl warrants questioning.”
His nerves prickled with alarm. Hell would freeze before he saw Rhiannon turned over to this monster for questioning. The words that would protect her sprang to his lips as though divinely inspired.
“I’ll interrogate her myself, Lordship. If I detect the merest whiff of witchcraft or heresy, you can be certain I’ll deal with it.”
Now Reginald Pole too was watching Rhiannon, far too interested for Beltran’s peace of mind. “Her Majesty seems convinced she saw the woman in a vision, but I’ve warned her that is unlikely. The Queen may be admirably devout, but she’s only a woman and hence a flawed vessel. As you know, a woman’s husband is ordained by God to tend her spiritual welfare. It’s regrettable hers is occupied elsewhere.”
Beltran barely contained a snort. He’d seen the Spanish King’s royal mistress, the fair Christina of Denmark. If he were Philip of Spain, he too would prefer her alluring beauty to Mary Tudor’s faded charms.
“I trust you understand the importance of this case, Lord Beltran?” Bonner murmured. “I speak not only of the Queen’s spiritual welfare, but the affair’s personal importance to you. The Blades of God will shortly choose a new master, I am told?”
Beltran absorbed the significance of that connection. Delayed on the road these many weeks, he hadn’t realized his name was bruited about so openly for the Don’s post. Could he be so close to achieving this signal honor? The thought of his mentor’s approval made a flicker of satisfaction curl through him.
“Your reputation in battle is formidable,” Reginald Pole was saying. “Lutherans and Huguenots and Anabaptists all dread your name.”
Aye, I’m a hired blade—a butcher with a title. A surge of self-loathing rose in his gullet, sweeping away the warm glow of satisfaction.
“I do my duty, no more,” he said curtly.
The bishop leaned toward him. “Certain members of the ruling council have asked whether you are equally willing to exact God’s judgment against the frailer sex. The dons require only this final act of faith—some convincing demonstration of your commitment—to resolve the matter in your favor. I put to you that the case before you, the case of this Rhiannon le Fay, arises at a critical juncture in your career. Handle the matter properly and you’ll be proclaimed Don within a month.”
Beltran stared into the bishop’s burning gaze. A slow tide of disbelief churned through him. Aye, he’d considered the timing and the personal implications when this girl who styled herself a Faerie princess stumbled across his path. But he’d intended to see her treated fairly, given an even chance to prove her innocence, not condemned out of hand!
He would rush no hapless innocent to the stake, merely to win a title. Christ, he barely wanted the one they’d already forced on him.
But if he declined the honor, the man they called Bloody Bonner would find some other, less principled rogue to do the deed. If the bishop didn’t clamp the thumbscrews on her slender fingers himself.
A crimson tide of fury washed across his vision. Breathing hard through his nose, he fought down the whisper of holy madness before it rose to a roar that deafened him. Grimly he forced each word through gritted teeth.
“Never fear, my lord bishop. I’ll attend to the matter personally. You may be certain Lady Rhiannon will be treated as she deserves.”
The bishop smiled and sipped his wine.
* * *
Rhiannon felt pleasantly surprised by the success of her new stratagem. She’d been expecting a cool reception, akin to the way she was treated behind the Veil. But she’d forgotten�
�these mortals didn’t know of her mixed heritage, the taint that left her barely tolerated in the Summer Lands.
Here, she need only allow her natural interest and curiosity about these bluff, exuberant, extravagant males to surface, and they seemed flattered by it. They smiled, kissed her hand, uttered witticisms and murmured compliments in the most agreeable manner. And the music! The grand romps and leaps of these English dances brought her genuine delight.
How balmy was the twilight, how soft with dusk the purple sky, how friendly the evening star rising in the west. She could almost have forgotten the dire mission that brought her here, and the danger that loomed over them all.
Almost, until she glimpsed the gleam of torchlight on golden hair rich as butter, the lithe rippling prowl of a powerful black-clad figure stalking into the Banqueting House with lethal grace. There in the midst of the dance, a strange fever swept over her. A hectic flush rose in her cheeks.
This is Beltran’s magick, though he wields it unknowing. Far more fatal to me than any enchantment.
Distracted by his entrance, she stumbled over her partner’s feet and gasped an apology. Through the jewel-bright lines of courtiers, she caught flickering glimpses of Beltran, huddled in low-voiced discussion with the mighty Archbishop, every line of him etched and bristling with intent. When he wheeled and strode decisively toward her, she murmured a hasty excuse and slipped away, leaving her startled escort protesting in her wake.
Light-footed as a sprite, she slipped among the laughing mortals, the stench of sweat and heavy-sauced food rising up to choke her. Suddenly her corset was biting into her ribs, her lungs fighting for air, a faint dizzy panic rising in her brain.
Surrender your maidenhood to a mortal man, and you’ll become one of them forever...
Magick by Moonrise Page 19
