"Thank God you have more sense," Denoriel said. "I will be here, at least until after dark."
Joseph pointedly did not ask where Denoriel might be after dark. He went out the door; Denoriel locked it and struggled wearily up the stairs. The room was cold and he remembered that he had not used it for nearly a week. Mumbling epithets he turned to the fireplace and gestured. The laid fire burst into dancing flames, but Denoriel sat down suddenly on the bed, dizzy and empty.
He sat for a moment, looking down at his boots, wondering if he had the energy to take them off or enough power left to magic them off when the knocker on the door was plied so violently that Denoriel jumped.
"Hold!" he shouted, the sound of his voice nearly drowned by the renewed thudding of the knocker.
Denoriel realized that whoever was at the door probably could not hear him—or might not want to hear him. He pushed himself off the bed and went to the window, which he flung open. He was about to order the person away, to the warehouse if he had urgent business, when he recognized the man. Not a London merchant wanting to do business but the guildmaster for Maidstone in Kent.
About to call him by name, Denoriel bit his tongue. Mortal eyes could not have seen his face in the predawn dark. And besides, Denoriel admonished himself, do not be more of an idiot than you need to be. What merchant would have urgent business to conduct before dawn with an honest man like Joseph?
"Just a moment," he shouted. "I am coming down."
When he opened the door, however, he was startled to see the guildmaster pale visibly. "It is true then," the man said. "The Spanish are about to take London!"
Denoriel shook his head. "What Spanish? There are no Spanish in London, except a few merchants."
"Then why are you dressed at this hour, if you are not making ready to leave?"
Laughing, Denoriel said, "Come in out of the cold, Guildmaster. I am dressed because I have not yet undressed. I was in my bedchamber about to go to bed when you knocked."
He drew the man in and shut the door behind him, pausing to throw the bolts and hook the chain. Watching him, the guildmaster asked nervously, "Where were you, that you came home near dawn?"
Denoriel laughed again. "That is not a question one should ask of an unmarried man, but I see you are sadly overset so I will tell you. I was visiting a lady. Wherever did you hear that the Spanish were about to take London?"
Now the guildmaster looked uncertain and in the light of the candelabra in the entryway, he could see that Denoriel's clothing was elegant visiting attire, not at all suitable for riding. He drew a deep breath and shook his head.
"It is all abroad in Maidstone that the Spanish have been coming in small groups, in harness, carrying harquebussea and morions. Lord Denno, you have friends at Court and connections abroad, will you not tell me the truth? There is a proclamation from Thomas Wyatt nailed up on the Maidstone Market Cross saying that the English must rise to ensure that the queen gets better counsel and counselors who will protect us from the Spanish."
Wyatt had been cleverer than Denoriel expected. Instead of trying to rouse those of the reformed religion against the queen's Catholicism—which would set Englishman against Englishman—he had appealed to the hatred both Catholic and Protestant alike felt for foreigners.
"My news from abroad is no later than two days old," Denoriel said, "and I can tell you that rumor and Wyatt are wrong. No Imperial army or Spanish army is moving. No ships are gathered in the ports of the Low Countries to carry invaders across the narrow sea, and the 'Spanish' you have heard about are Flemings come to negotiate the queen's marriage to Prince Philip."
"But that marriage is an abomination. What am I to do? Is Wyatt strong enough to drive off the Spaniards?"
"Guildmaster, there are no Spaniards. None. And while I could wish that the queen's Council was more unified, they have not done so ill in the marriage treaty. They have secured England against any interference in the government by Prince Philip. What are you to do? Go home. Tell the merchants of your guild to call in their apprentices and journeymen and lock their doors until this madness passes. That is where my own people are, at my warehouse lest this lunatic fear of nonexistent Spaniards sets off mobs that desire only loot."
"Are you sure?"
"I am sure there are no Spanish threatening to overrun England. Like you, I do not like this marriage, but if it is the queen's will and if it will get us an heir to the throne, I will say and do nothing against it. Now, if you have ridden from Maidstone, you must be cold and tired. Come sit in my parlor. As soon as my servants arrive, they will ready a room for you."
The guildmaster took a deep breath. "I thank you, but no. I have bespoke a room in the Fox and Geese."
"I hope you did not 'warn' them about any Spaniards," Denoriel said, his voice tense.
"No." The guildmaster looked a little shamefaced. "I saw that all was quiet. My fears of any immediate threat were almost put to rest, until you answered the door yourself all dressed instead of a servant opening the door to me." He uttered a slight laugh. "I have given over visiting ladies and am somewhat younger than you, my lord, so I never thought you would be out late for that."
"You have a good wife and have no need to be out and abroad in the night," Denoriel replied, smiling as he unlocked the door and let the guildmaster out.
He went back up to his bedchamber, but only to sit by the fire and think. What he had said to the guildmaster about the Spaniards had been the truth. There was no threat from the Empire, not when Charles no doubt had reports of Mary's infatuation with his son and the idea of marriage. England would be in the emperor's hands through Philip's influence; Charles did not need any army.
Wyatt was a different problem altogether. The rumors spread abroad by his orders and proclamations might indeed rouse the countryside. Denoriel frowned. If Wyatt won . . . Likely like many young enthusiasts he believed in the reformed rite. That meant, surely, that he would try to put Elizabeth on the throne to end the threat of reestablished Catholicism. If Mary were dead . . .
Denoriel shook his head sharply. Wyatt would not kill her and Elizabeth could not, not if she wished to rule England. The people would never support her if she had Mary murdered or executed. And it would not be possible to rule England in peace if Mary were alive. No, this revolt must be put down. Denoriel cast around in his mind for anything he could do to impede Wyatt's progress but realized that he truly did not know what was happening. Tomorrow, he thought, letting his eyes glaze over and his mind grow empty.
* * *
After early Mass on January twenty-eighth Denoriel went down to the warehouse. Joseph was wearily finishing his records of what he had the men sort and store. Most of the furor over the Spanish threat had died down and there had been no further rumors about the rebels. The men were all on notice to be back in the warehouse early on Monday.
Joseph had sent Cropper home and readily agreed to come back to Bucklersbury to sleep so Denoriel could ride out and learn what was actually happening in Kent. Joseph made it sound as if he expected Lord Denno to ask for news among his acquaintances at Court and possibly at the Hanse, but he knew there was something very strange about Lord Denno's horse? horses?
Although Denoriel felt slightly sick to his stomach and once or twice found difficulty focusing his eyes, Miralys made nothing of the distance to Maidstone. There Denoriel joined at church a merchant group with whom he had done business. He heard that Wyatt had taken Rochester and also that the Londoners sent out to put down the rebellion had instead joined it. There was much speculation but no real knowledge, and after he had made clear that there was no Spanish threat, he rode off to Rochester.
There Denoriel sought and found the Rochester guildmaster in an inn across from the church he attended. Lord Denno, well known as a rich and successful factor, was eagerly asked for news. He repeated what he had told the guildmaster from Maidstone—that there was no threat from Imperial or Spanish forces, that any threat of disruption was from Wyatt and his
followers.
"I told those young fools from our guild who were hot to join Wyatt," the guildmaster said, "that no merchant had seen or heard of any foreigners armed for war in small groups or large. They would not listen. They were all afire to save the queen from her counselors' bad advice and when the London white-coats who had come with the duke of Norfolk deserted to join Wyatt, it was quickly decided that London would not resist but welcome them."
"That is ill news indeed," Denoriel said. "Not that London will welcome them, for it will not. But the loss of Norfolk's force leaves the road to London completely open. And I do not look forward to fighting in the streets of London."
"Warn them in London to watch the river as well as the road," the guildmaster said.
"The river?" Denoriel repeated.
The guildmaster nodded, his lips bent sourly. "Wyatt stopped at Gravesend where Queen Mary had ordered a fleet be assembled to escort Prince Philip when he arrived. The sailors were not much enamored of their duty and half the seamen deserted to join Wyatt's army. It is said they even took guns from the ships."
Denoriel sighed heavily and stood up. "That too is bad news, and so I must say my fare wells quickly. If I change horses along the road, I will surely outdistance an army and carry this warning to London in good time."
"God watch over your going," the guildmaster said, and no one else in the group tried to delay him.
Not, of course, that Denoriel was worried about arriving in London before Wyatt's army. If he only could muster the energy to mount Miralys, he could be there in a quarter of an hour. But he really had no idea what to do with the information. Bringing it to the Court would be like carrying coals to Newcastle; he was sure there had been messengers in plenty. But the purpose of coming here had been to find a way to frustrate Wyatt—and he still could think of nothing.
Before he could cudgel his whirling brain into deciding on his next move, Miralys was coming to a halt at the portico of Llachar Lle. Denoriel found himself on his own feet, facing the Sidhe-sized portal.
"Wait—" Denoriel said, turning to face Miralys.
But Miralys was gone. Denoriel stood there for a moment wide-eyed with surprise. Damned elvensteed. Since when did it think it could tell him what to do. He could reach the Gate on foot . . .
And then he started to laugh. He could, when his knees stopped shaking and his body felt less like a hollowed-out, overcooked gourd that was going to collapse.
Slowly Denoriel entered the palace and walked toward his apartment. I am spending far too much time among mortals, he thought. How ridiculous to drive myself to exhaustion. I can't believe I simply forgot I could go Underhill, restore myself, and twist time so that I was back almost at the time I left.
Of course it was not quite as simple as that. Twisting time took power, a lot of power, so he would come back to the mortal world only a little stronger than when he left it, but he would have had time to consider what would be best to do. If he could think of a way to demoralize Wyatt's force, he might even find help to do it among those who had ridden in the Wild Hunt with him.
He walked through the door to his apartment, through the entryway and into the parlor. He was already feeling slightly better as Mwynwyn's spell for absorbing power began to fill him. In the parlor, he dropped onto the sofa and stretched out. What a shame that William Cecil was not part of the Court any longer. Before he decided what kind of trouble he could make for Wyatt's army, he had to know what the Council was planning. And his best informant was not even in the city.
Or was he? After Edward died and Northumberland's scheme had fallen apart, Cecil had withdrawn to the country, where he had been very busy building anew and extending existing buildings on his property. But now? In the depths of winter? There had been no persecutions of Northumberland's officers; in fact, many of them were now Mary's officials. And there had been no overt persecution of the followers of the reformed faith. How strong were Cecil's religious feelings? Could he put them aside to be engaged again in the work and world he loved?
What a shame, Denoriel thought, as he lay quiet, resting, watching the colored flames flicker over the crystal logs in his hearth, that he could not set Miralys to sniffing out Cecil as huntsmen set their dogs to sniffing out game. He was smiling as the unmarked time slipped by, but he was distantly aware that the sweet flow of power from laughter and story and song was thinner than in the past, that it was taking longer than usual to restore his strength.
Chapter 24
Although Denoriel had no definite plan for delaying and disorganizing Wyatt's army when he left Underhill, he had found two strongly mischievous friends from the Wild Hunt who could endure the ambiance of iron and steel for short periods and liked nothing better than making trouble in the mortal world. They agreed enthusiastically to join Wyatt's party and encourage in it mutiny, disorder, and pandemonium. Denoriel had worn his young aspect when he spoke to them, although he showed them his present appearance so they would recognize him if they encountered him in the mortal world.
Miralys had been waiting when Denoriel left Llachar Lle. "I am not a small child who needs to be told to be still and rest," he said severely to the elvensteed as he mounted.
There was no sound in his mind; there was no physical reaction to his reproof that Denoriel could detect. Nonetheless he knew Miralys was laughing at him.
Denoriel sighed. He had never yet won any point contested with the elvensteed. He should know better than to try. What he had to decide before they reached the Gate was whether he should twist time to the mortal night after he had been with Elizabeth or skip a night. To twist time an extra day would cost him power, and staying with Elizabeth, with the frequent need to use the Don't-see-me spell, would cost him more. And he had nothing, really, to tell her—only that Wyatt was coming. He did not even know what preparations, if any, the Council would take to protect the city.
The last thought decided him. The Gate brought him to London in the late afternoon of the day after he left. It would cost him no more than an hour or so to learn what Joseph knew and to pass by Cecil's house on Cannon Row. He could explain his reasoning to Elizabeth; she was not a child and not quite so unreasonable.
Denoriel did not forget that if Cecil had won a position with the new government, it would do him harm to be known as consorting with Lady Elizabeth's favorite Lord Denno. Therefore, while they were still Underhill and the illusion would not cost so much, Denoriel put on the aspect of Charles Paget, third son of Lord Paget, a respected member of Mary's Council.
When he dismounted from Miralys, he was delighted to see the knocker affixed to the door of Cecil's house; that meant that Cecil was in London, although he might not actually be in the house at the moment. That did not matter. As Charles Paget, Denoriel plied the knocker. When the door opened, the servant bowed and stepped back to allow entrance to Lord Denno.
"If your master is not within," Denoriel said, "may I leave a note for him?"
"He is within, m'lord," the footman said, "but I know he is busy and may not be able to—"
At which point the rest of the sentence became unnecessary because William Cecil had appeared in the open doorway of the parlor and said, "Lord Denno. A surprise and yet not a surprise. That's all, Perry, but bring some wine and some of those sweet cakes cook prepared." And he turned to Denoriel. "If you would join me in the parlor . . ."
There Cecil closed the door carefully and said in a very low voice. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you, but I hope no one took note of your coming here."
"No. I made very sure of that," Denoriel assured him in an equally low voice. "I thought if you had renewed your connections to the Court that it would do you no good, specially in these times, to be seen having private meetings with a favorite of Lady Elizabeth."
Cecil smiled broadly. "I should have known you would consider that." He sighed, then gestured to chairs well away from the table piled with papers. "I tried to think of some way to let you know I was back, and that Lord Pag
et finds me very useful, but . . .ah . . . you know Lord Paget. I am very much afraid that I am watched and any letters I dispatch might be carefully examined.
I am almost ready to believe in the mortal God, Denoriel thought, and that He, like Titania, wishes to see Elizabeth on the throne of England. It is Paget who is employing Cecil and quite by chance I picked Paget's son to be Cecil's visitor.
Denoriel shrugged. "I know you enjoy politics and there has been no persecution of Northumberland's followers nor any great pressure yet on individuals to worship with the Catholic rite. I thought you might have taken the chance to offer your services to those who knew you. As you can imagine, Lady Elizabeth is strung tighter than any fiddle."
Cecil shook his head. "I knew it must be so, and if I had any news that would help, I would have found some way or other to send it, but I have nothing . . . except that she still has friends. Rochester, who you know the queen loves and trusts as few other men, speaks well of Lady Elizabeth always, and assures Queen Mary that her sister does love her and is loyal. Paget does what he can, although never openly before the queen. I wish there was more, but Gardiner and the Imperial ambassador continue to use every device to turn the queen against her sister."
And Less Than Kind Page 39
