She made him want to believe his life could be something more than the bleak desert he’d made it. She made him long to breathe clean air, unsullied by the pyre’s bitter ash.
She would be utterly wasted on a man like Arundel.
Last night Beltran had deferred to cold duty and left Rhiannon to her solitude, though he burned with unholy fire to possess her.
Today he’d resolved on a different course. He’d spirit Rhiannon away from the hostile eyes and dangerous intrigue of the Tudor court, take her someplace safe and private. There he’d ask her again to explain this jumbled business of the Veil and the Convergence and her vengeful sister. And this time, he’d actually listen—
The rough thunder of a fist on wood brought him wheeling around, reaching for the sword he’d left nearby. He didn’t draw it, but checked to ensure Rhiannon’s door was securely bolted before he answered.
“Who goes?” he called roughly.
A page’s youthful voice piped faintly through the wood. “Make way for the Bishop of London!”
A warning whispered in his head.
“The hour is early, Your Lordship,” Beltran called softly. “What’s amiss?”
“Holy Mother Church needs your service, Vengeance,” the bishop said calmly. “Will you answer?”
Gripping his blade, Beltran rubbed a hand against his bristling jaw, then unlatched the door.
His first glimpse of Edmund Bonner redoubled his warning whisper to a roar. The Inquisitor’s fleshy face was arranged in somber lines, but his eyes glittered with suppressed excitement. Beltran noted the parchment gripped in his fist, its broken seals and ribbons dangling. His skin prickled as he recognized his mentor’s distinctive seal.
“Lord Beltran Nemesto, Blade of God,” the bishop said formally, “I have here the latest dispatch from your order’s ruling council in Rome. A new Don of San Miguel has been nominated.”
Automatically Beltran shifted the sword to his left hand and signed himself, murmuring the proper benediction. But his mind was racing. His fingers tingled with anticipation. There was but one reason the bishop would rouse Beltran from his bed, unwashed and unshaven, to deliver the news personally.
The bishop’s eyes never strayed from Beltran’s face. “His Eminence the Cardinal reports that the council—at his suggestion—is prepared to appoint you Don of the Blades.”
Beltran absorbed the words, turned them over in his mind and waited for the soaring elation to hit him. He’d been dreaming of this moment all his life, hadn’t he, this gesture of acknowledgement and recognition from the Church he’d devoted his life to serving?
Instead of the sweet tang of triumph, bursting like a ripe grape on his tongue, he tasted the bitter salt of regret.
When he said nothing, the bishop frowned. “As the Inquisition’s ruling voice in the nation where you’re currently posted, Lord Beltran, I am requested to second the appointment. I’m prepared to confirm you immediately—under one condition.”
Beltran gripped the sword, his gut knotting. “Best speak plainly, Lordship. I don’t wish to mistake your meaning.”
“As you will.” Edmund Bonner inclined his head. “I understand your chambers adjoin those assigned to the lady known as Rhiannon le Fay. Based on Mistress Susan’s testimony and the other evidence I’m certain you have amassed, I’m ordering you to arrest the lady on charges of witchcraft. The gesture will serve as adequate demonstration of your unfaltering commitment to the Inquisition. I expect to see Lady Rhiannon chained in a cell at St. Paul’s awaiting my interrogation tonight.”
The bishop eyed him. “Is that speech plain enough for you?”
* * *
Rhiannon was drifting uneasily on the river of dreams when a hand shook her awake. She startled upright in bed, heart leaping, frantic eyes combing the pearly dawn. For an unsettling moment she recognized none of her surroundings. Then her modest bedchamber at Hampton Court took shape. Above her floated the pale oval of Linnet Norwood’s features, mahogany hair streaming down in a sleep-tossed tangle.
Goddess save her, the poor girl looked terrified.
“My dear child.” Swiftly Rhiannon caught the cold hands and squeezed. “What is wrong?”
Never had she seen the girl look thus, even when she’d stumbled through the Veil into Faerie. Her face was chalk, eyes rimmed with white like a frightened mare’s. The muscles in her throat moved as she tried to swallow.
“Ye must wake, Rhiannon!”
“Wait, don’t try to speak.” Gently Rhiannon lifted from her lap the warm weight of the sleeping kitten—its mother not yet found—and reached for the pewter pitcher. “Have some of this ale to hearten you.”
Linnet shook her head, eyes frantic, but her hands curled around Rhiannon’s and held the cup to her lips. The girl managed to choke some of it down. Color crept back to her pallid cheeks.
“There now.” Despite her mounting concern, Rhiannon managed a reassuring smile and stroked the girl’s tumbled ringlets from a brow damp with sweat. “My dear, thou art fevered.”
“For pity’s sake, Rhiannon, let me speak!” Linnet brushed her hands aside. “I was coming back from the garderobe when I heard a wee skelloch near our door. Lord Beltran was there, thick as thieves with someone. I think it was Bishop Bonner.”
A cold shaft of foreboding pierced Rhiannon’s heart, but she kept her voice level. “Well, what of it? The two are cronies, both henchmen of the Christian God. I’m certain they have much to discuss.”
A frustrated sound escaped Linnet’s lips, and the girl caught her throat with both hands as though to hold the sound inside. “I heard him say our laddie Lord Beltran is appointed to lead the Blades of God! The bishop need only confirm it.”
Though she’d half expected the news, Rhiannon felt as though she were falling. Regret and disappointment clenched her heart and twisted. Once made master of his order, Beltran would never turn against it, never choose her over the Church’s interests.
Not that she’d dared hope for that, not truly.
Blinking back the stinging tears, she hurried to the little window. In the soft gray dawn, mist hung over the river and shrouded the quay. Only a few early craft, the little cockleboats that served as couriers and ferries for coin, bobbed amid the swells.
But the household was stirring, carts rumbling into the Fish Court, servants stoking the fires in the great kitchens. Soon the bells would toll—a sound to make any Faerie quail—and the household would come streaming forth to Mass.
Linnet twined loosened ringlets around her fingers, a nervous habit Rhiannon recognized from the girl’s time in Faerie. “I heard my lord say—”
“That he accepts the honor with all humility and rides at once for Rome?” Rhiannon swallowed against the aching lump that swelled in her throat.
Fool—fool—ten kinds of fool! You should have prepared for this, as the Queen herself prepared.
“Sweet Jesus, don’t interrupt! We’ve no time.” By this, she judged the depth of Linnet’s disturbance, when this sweet child who’d dwelled behind the Veil cried the Name that deafened Faerie ears like trumpets.
Linnet drew a shaking breath. “Rhiannon, that wee brute of a bishop vowed to confirm the appointment under one condition.”
Rhiannon gripped the sill, white-knuckled, her heart knowing what must come next.
“Lord Beltran is ordered to arrest ye. The bishop plans to question ye himself.”
The shock of it nearly set her swooning. Somehow she kept her feet, though her limbs were ice, though she floated in the gray mist of perfect despair. Dear Lady, she’d known this was coming! How not, when Beltran had threatened her with it the very night they met?
Surely she’d never been fool enough to fancy he’d spare her for the sake of whatever passion burned between them. That he could find in the stews, and likely not even need to pay for it.
Her tongue swept over her lips—bone-dry. Somehow she forced out the words. “What said my lord to that?”
“Oh, they plunged right into their plotting, the wicked devils! My lord said something to the pageboy about seizing yer horse, and then I took to my heels. I was that afraid they’d see me if I stood there gaping witless like a gomerel.”
“When will he come for me?” Rhiannon’s voice sounded pale and distant in her ears.
“I don’t know! He could be coming this instant. If only yer Ansgar were here. My lady, what should we do?”
Bleakly Rhiannon shook her head, shivering as the chill struck through her linen nightgown. “It matters not. Ansgar hasn’t come, and I can’t flee with the treaty unsigned, Linnet. If I leave here now, slipping out by night like some thief or vagabond, Mary Tudor will never trust me and never sign.”
“Gentle Mother, she’ll never sign now!” Linnet’s voice rose. “Yer mission here is finished. Ye must save yerself, for pity’s sake! Find some other way.”
“There is no other way. The Convergence will descend, and then Fae and mortals will be at one another’s throat. Queene Maeve will fall and Morrigan rise in her place. And yet...”
She paused, thoughts racing like mice through a mill. The habit of defeat sat poorly with her. “Morrigan has only been defeated once—by my father, King Arthur. ’Tis prophesied he’ll awaken when England’s need is greatest. How can the need be greater than now, at this time, with my sister ascendant, my mother dying, and England torn to bloody shreds by the Spaniards?”
“For mercy, Rhiannon, we’ve no time for this! Here, I’ll pack ye a wee bundle—this bread and cheese, a pouch of healing herbs, some small jewels ye can sell for coin. Wear yer warmest gown and cloak—”
The threads of a desperate scheme wove together in her mind. “Nay, Linnet, let me wear yours. For I must appear nothing beyond the ordinary to leave these chambers by the servants’ way.” Slowly she worked through it. “But how can I flee? He’s seized my poor Astolat.”
Even in extremis, Rhiannon suffered a pang of loss. She’d loved that mare from a foal. Surely when Ansgar arrived—for he would never fail her, unless his wound took fever and killed him—he could retrieve the mare.
Now she faced a more immediate crisis.
Blindly her gaze searched the riverbank—a flock of geese waddling toward the water, the goose-boy fisting his eyes and stumbling after, a gallant in rumpled finery clambering from a wherry to stumble up the quay.
She could never hope to flee on foot and outdistance any sort of pursuit. But the river...
* * *
Beltran stood at the threshold of her bedchamber—the sanctuary he’d used all his resolve not to violate—and catalogued the signs of a hasty departure. Morning sun streamed through the mullioned window over the four-poster bed, blankets tangled, Rhiannon’s sumptuous gowns flung willy-nilly in bright swaths of green and rose and azure. Nearby her trunk stood open, a froth of petticoats and ribboned stockings trailing over the rim. A hint of violet fragrance teased his nostrils. On the table a small casket of jewels lay open. Peridot and pearl and tourmaline threw dazzling sprays of color in the sunlight.
She was gone. Of course she was gone. And her Scottish lady-in-waiting was nowhere to be found. Even the damn kitten she’d rescued was missing.
Mingled with gnawing worry, Beltran was grimly aware of his sneaking sense of relief. Witch and heretic she might be, and he sworn to perform a duty for which he’d developed an active loathing, but he could dredge up no enthusiasm for the task.
Indeed, some might say his reluctance had aided her escape. For certain, he’d taken his time about the business, doing naught to conceal his intent...
Beside him, the Archbishop of Canterbury surveyed the scene. “So she is gone. I fear you were not prompt enough to seize her.”
“Arrangements had to be made,” Beltran said curtly, “and the Queen’s permission secured. We can’t simply lay hands on a foreign emissary, one with whom England has opened diplomatic negotiations, and drag her screaming from her chambers. She’s no halfwit milkmaid or mumbling granddam, accused by her neighbors of cursing a cow or chicken.”
He felt the Archbishop looking askance at him and bit off the words before he said worse. He’d sounded censorious, critical of the Church even to his own ears.
“You might have placed a guard upon her door, at least,” the Archbishop pointed out.
“I’ve had her under surveillance since yesterday. Evidently the lady donned a disguise and slipped out the servants’ way.” Admiration rose within him for her courage and resourcefulness. “Her lady-in-waiting, a devout Catholic, had already left for Mass and knew nothing.”
“The companion is nothing to us.” Reginald Pole stroked his russet beard. “You’ll pursue the girl and bring her back, I presume?”
Beltran grunted. Aye, he’d ride after her, or Bloody Bonner would dispatch a constable or some common thug in his place. Fiercely he quelled the misgivings that sprouted like mushrooms in his brain, the teeming doubts about his faith and calling that had never crossed his mind before an elfin beauty named Rhiannon le Fay danced into his life.
If I don’t bring her back, if I choose a woman over my sworn duty, I can no longer call myself a Blade of God. And if I’m not God’s Vengeance, then what am I?
In that case, he was nothing—a Yorkshire collier’s brat with a fancy sword. Without even the flickering candle of faith to hold the darkness in his soul at bay.
Secretly he was relieved when the Archbishop was summoned away, one fewer witness to his black musings. Grimly, with the sparse economy of experience, he made his own travel preparations. Riding out after Rhiannon had become a veritable habit. He was arranging storage of the jewels and finery Rhiannon had left—a handsome haul for the Church if she were found guilty—when the patter of running feet sent him spinning toward the door, hand hovering near the dagger at his belt.
The panting pageboy had to catch his breath before he could speak, hands planted on his knees as he panted.
“Nay, lad, throw back your chest and make room for the air.” Beltran set him erect with a brisk shake. “Now what is it?”
“Message,” the boy gasped, “from milord bishop. Your guard—is mounted and—awaits your command.”
“My command? But I gave no orders for such.”
“The hounds are—restless—so the huntsman said. And hungry.”
Swiftly his mind made the leap.
His so-called guard would be no better than a mob, thrown together to capture the fugitive and drag her back to judgment. This was Bonner’s doing, his way of ensuring Beltran did his duty.
And if he refused for any reason—even if he threw the Church another bone, some poor maid guilty of casting a love-spell for the butcher’s boy—he could bid farewell to his place and ambitions.
He’d seen the loathing in the bishop’s eyes when he watch
ed Rhiannon frolic, the premier Catholic peer of England dancing attendance upon her. Rhiannon’s mission, her claims, most of all her influence posed a direct threat to Rome’s authority over the Queen. If Beltran refused to hunt her down and haul her in for judgment, Bloody Bonner would probably go himself.
* * *
“Blessed Goddess grant me strength.”
Mired to her knees in an unknown bog thirty miles from London, Rhiannon bent and fought for breath. Her frozen legs and feet were numb, her sturdy shoes and skirts soaked through with marsh water. She’d been shivering since yesterday, when she crept from the wherry she’d hired to row her swiftly from court and the dungeon that waited.
Now the Thames was far behind her, the terrain so treacherous she doubted she’d ever be able to retrace her steps. And that was all to the good, because Edmund Bonner would have dispatched someone to bring her back.
What she didn’t know, what she’d give anything to know, was whether he’d sent Beltran. Or if he had, whether she stood any chance of dissuading the Blade of God from his duty. Was it a woman’s foolish fancy, or had her escape from beneath his vigilant nose seemed oddly convenient?
Behind her, the strange horse balked—exhausted and terrified, the poor creature, wading into a quagmire whose sucking sands threatened constantly to give way beneath them and pull them to a watery death. She thought longingly of Astolat, tears stinging her eyes. Leaving the faithful mare behind was one of the worst parts of this wretched business.
“Come along now, my good fellow,” she coaxed the brown gelding. “I know you’re cold and hungry and frightened. But I need you, my friend. We’ll come to open ground soon, I know we will, and then we’ll have a nice gallop. Just a little farther, I swear to you, then we’ll rest a little.”
The cob whickered a protest and trudged forward without enthusiasm. Rhiannon hauled the reluctant animal with one hand and clutched her muddy cloak with the other. She blessed Linnet for the warm garb she’d lent her—good serviceable wool, far better for desperate flight through this treacherous bog than her cream velvet riding habit, slashed with cloth-of-silver...
Magick by Moonrise Page 21
