Cretchar laughed. "Try," he said. "You go nowhere without the redhead. We agreed you would take her and I wish her gone. Just try to leave here without me. A Gate from nothing in a place so full of coercive magics as a great market needs life force, but I can deal with a Gate in a half dead domain. This Gate will not open for you. I helped get you those mortals. Some are mine."
"No." Paschenka's hands began to glow.
Cretchar backed away, then suddenly was gone. He was not completely helpless without life force; there was so much Dark power available even in the dying domain that he could increase the distance a step would take him and pull over himself the Don't-see-me spell. Paschenka roared with rage as a net of light flew from his hands. It fell uselessly where Cretchar had been.
The very day after the party in the Inn of Kindly Laughter, Mary and Philip, with Elizabeth discreetly in the background, took a barge down the Thames to London. Mary was supposed to continue by water to Greenwich, but she could not bear to be separated from Philip for even the short time it took to traverse London. She was not well enough to ride, so Philip rode and Mary was carried in an open litter through the city.
She was greeted with considerable joy, largely owing to the rumors that she was dead and they would be ruled by the Spaniards. Elizabeth was not put on show; she went by barge all the way from Hampton Court to Greenwich Palace. She was not sure how she felt about that. She always loved the way the people cheered her and cried "God save the Lady Elizabeth," but she was not sure whether she wanted Philip to be made too aware of her popularity.
On the twenty-ninth of August, Philip set sail for Flanders. Elizabeth, to her consternation, learned that her sister planned to remain in Greenwich until his return . . . which Elizabeth suspected would be never. All she could do was lie with a sympathetic face, bite her tongue when Cardinal Pole lectured her on the great need to remake England as a Catholic nation, and meekly attend Mary as she sought the consolation of religion for her husband's absence.
September brought Elizabeth one great advantage. Renard, an inveterate enemy despite Philip's favor, was relieved of his duty as the Imperial ambassador. Mary was utterly dismayed; she had relied on his advice for so long. Elizabeth could not help but wonder whether Philip, having recognized Renard's fixed animosity toward her, had arranged the recall. Whatever the reason, Renard was gone and the new Imperial ambassador was scrupulously polite.
Elizabeth's good fortune was not mirrored in England. There was no improvement in the weather; there would be famine, Elizabeth thought when the twenty-ninth of the month brought what was written into the chronicles as the greatest rain and flood that ever was seen in England. Mary only said it was proper weather for the one-month anniversary of the day Philip left her.
Another joy came to Elizabeth in September: Roger Ascham returned to England from a diplomatic mission. He was Latin secretary to the queen and thus was able, without rousing any suspicion, to resume his sessions with his old pupil. Elizabeth joyously seized the opportunity to stretch her mind, to escape the company of her lachrymose sister. She and Ascham were reading together the orations on ruling by Aeschines and Demosthenes and discussing the ideas . . . but in Greek, which no one else at Court could understand.
In October Parliament was about to convene and Mary finally had to give up the pretense that if she waited at Greenwich Philip would return. Periodically bathed in tears, Mary sailed up river to settle into St. James' Palace. As an anodyne for her constant ache of longing, Mary threw herself into the business of state. She did not wish to forget Philip, not for a moment; she wished to serve him.
Elizabeth did not dare show any interest in any political matter nor hold any serious discussion with any member of the Court. She had nothing to do except attend on Mary, and the attendance was deadly dull. Mary spent every morning in prayer, which Elizabeth had to attend; in the afternoon the queen met with the Council, to which meetings Elizabeth was certainly not invited. By the end of a week Elizabeth was beginning to feel as if she would almost prefer to be sent to the Tower again as to be locked into Mary's company any longer. By the middle of the month she felt as if she were going mad.
A fortnight into October, Elizabeth took her courage in both hands and with suitable humility begged the queen to allow her leave the Court and retire to Hatfield. The city air did not agree with her, she said. Mary had started the letter to Philip that occupied her in the afternoon and often well into the evening. She hardly glanced at Elizabeth and waved her away without reply.
Fortunately for Elizabeth Mary finished her letter quite early and the Council had not been as difficult as usual. Susan Clarencieux suggested a game of cards and the other ladies urged the amusement; Jane Dormer asked whether she should send to Elizabeth and discover whether she wished to join them.
"I do not think we should trouble her," Rosamund Scot said. "She looks very pale and thin . . . well, she is always pale, but this last week she has a yellowish look to her skin, and her hands are like claws."
Mary said "Elizabeth?" rather absently.
Susan Clarencieux frowned. "She asked for leave to go into the country, to her manor at Hatfield. She said the air of the city does not agree with her."
"She does look ill," Jane Dormer agreed.
Mary looked down at the letter she had just finished. She remembered Philip's lectures on why it was necessary to win Elizabeth's trust and regard. He spoke of her only as a political pawn, of seeing her married to a good Catholic prince so she could be sent out of the country if necessary without creating chaos and so that she could have good Catholic children—to inherit the throne. He did not say that aloud, but Mary understood.
For a moment she considered denying Elizabeth's request to go to Hatfield where doubtless she would sow more seeds of rebellion. But if Elizabeth were truly ill, perhaps she would die. How convenient. Then Mary shuddered. How angry Philip would be. How wrong she would be to disobey her husband. She reached for her quill and added a postscript, saying that Elizabeth wished to retire to the country; should she agree?
Philip, released from the prison of a land he hated and a wife who did not appeal to him, was having the time of his all-too-sober life. He was masking, dancing, drinking, gambling, fawned over by favor seekers, and he had found the lovely, young, complaisant Mme. d'Aler. He remembered Elizabeth's witty conversation, the charm of her smile. "Let her go into the country," he wrote.
On the eighteenth of October, Elizabeth left London for Hatfield. Five days later Kat Ashley was established as the first lady of the household. Three days after that Dorothy Stafford and Eleanor Gage rode in to be greeted with tears and kisses. Alice Finch followed and last came Agnes Fitzalan. The ladies Mary had sent to replace Elizabeth's trusted friends now realized they would see and hear nothing Elizabeth did not intend them to see and hear. They wrote to Queen Mary, but she made no reply; indeed, what could she write? She knew they would report any sign of treason without instructions.
Of a truth, however, there did not seem to be anything of note to see or hear. Thomas Parry took up his accustomed duties. He and Elizabeth did their business quite openly, discussing this and that tenants' troubles well within the hearing of Mary's ladies. Indeed, it was not until the thirteenth of November that there was any break in the routine that was so dull to them. That day Dunstan stepped soft-footed to Elizabeth's side and murmured in her ear. Mary's spies all became alert. Elizabeth Marberry turned to look at the doorway; Susanna Norton looked fixedly at the book she held; Mary Dacre turned half away and spoke to Alice Finch.
They need not have bothered to pretend not to care what Dunstan said because Elizabeth clapped her hands and cried aloud, "Lady Alana? You say Lady Alana is here? Oh, bring her to me at once." She stood upright with impatience, dropping the book cover she was embroidering without even fixing the needle.
Everyone was looking at the doorway, Kat Ashley with a big smile on her face and all the ladies with some expression of pleasure. Thus it was permissibl
e for the ladies assigned by Mary to stare with curiosity. Each felt only more curiosity when Lady Alana came through the doorway. She was nothing to look at; indeed later when they discussed with each other why Lady Alana was so eagerly welcomed, they found that none of them could remember anything about her except her enchanting dress. And none of them could say just why what she wore was so perfect; it just was! Elegant and lavish and yet neither precious nor ostentatious.
Elizabeth had walked forward to meet Alana who was taken in an embrace before she could bow. "And are those family problems that have kept you from me so long at last settled?"
"In one way, not at all, and I fear Your Grace will need to have a hand in the solution, although you know I hoped I would not need to trouble you. However, the main cause of my absence, the great aunt who could not abide you, that problem is settled at last, and finally. My great-aunt died two days since, on November twelfth. She will never trouble you again."
"I did not wish her dead," Elizabeth said, frowning.
Lady Alana shrugged. "I do not believe her death was anything to do with you, my lady, no particular measure that she took or planned to take. Unless her general spitefulness and hatred burned her up from within. In any case, you need feel no guilt."
"No, not about her." Elizabeth grinned. "It seems that it is either unhealthy or unprofitable to work to my discredit," she said for the sake of Mary's spies. "I need do nothing but sit meek and quiet and my enemies confound themselves. But my dear—" she took Alana's hand "—you must be tired and travel worn. Go now to your chamber. When you are rested and wish to tell me of the trouble you think I can solve, I will be waiting."
So, Elizabeth thought, she was needed for some business Underhill, perhaps something only a mortal could do in the current weakened state of the Bright Court. She was eager to help. She knew her power was not diminished in any way, but she was afraid Denno would forbid her and be angry with Alana . . . and she could not ask.
Despite her words, Mary's spies were watching her brightened eyes with interest, but then Parry came in with a pack of letters. Most he laid aside for Elizabeth to glance over when she had time or simply to hand back to him, but one he laid on the table.
"From your surveyor," he said, knowing not to say William Cecil's name. "Usually he is perfectly clear, but this time I do not at all understand what he is saying. Here—" Parry pointed to a passage in the letter "—he says George Orwell's flax field—" Parry frowned and said with marked irritation that he did not remember the tenant's name "—is . . . gone."
"Gone?" Elizabeth repeated. "The field is gone? For good?"
George Orwell was the code name that meant what followed was important Court news. The field of flax was the code name for Bishop Gardiner, the chancellor. Usually Cecil's message was about stones (Elizabeth was a stone and the trouble was the attempt to dig out the stones) and briars (Gardiner's enemies, who might or might not be Elizabeth's friends). That the field was gone, was confirmation of Alana's news that her great-aunt was dead.
"Yesterday, he says, he had the news that the field would trouble him no more," Parry said, wrinkling his brow over the odd phrasing. "He said the field was to be taken in hand by a higher authority than yours."
"I cannot think what he means by that," Elizabeth said, most untruthfully; Cecil was remarking that God would judge Gardiner. "Just leave the letter. I will give it some thought later. Lady Alana has at last returned to us and I am setting aside business. She says there is a problem in her family that I may be able to settle. I am sure it is over the estate her great-aunt left her. The woman insisted she leave my service to inherit."
With the great-aunt's estate as an excuse, Elizabeth invited Alana to share her bedchamber. Mary's spies were not happy at being excluded, but they knew better by now than to try to get by one of the four old guards who stood by the door. No excuse would work.
Inside, Aleneil was saying, "The snatcher is back." She covered her face for a moment with her hands. "It has been so long since we nearly caught him that we thought we had frightened him away. But he took four children . . . four! Now Ilar and Idres Gawr are beside themselves. Ilar thinks that mortal-stealer has . . . has used up the mortals he took earlier. But children. Why children?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "You know I do not understand how and why power is used by you and yours. But that changes nothing. I told you when this first began that I would be glad to be bait for a trap. Only Denno will be so angry with me . . ."
"It's us he's angry with. Idres Gawr spoke to him and made it a matter of his duty, so he agreed to let you do it but—" Aleneil shivered. "Be careful, Elizabeth, I beg you to be very careful. Do not let the snatcher take you. I will lose my brother if anything happens to you. He will declare blood feud on all of us."
Indeed, it looked as if the blood feud had already been declared when, after midnight, Denoriel stepped through the Gate. His eyes were black with anger and his lips drawn into a thin line. Elizabeth, having given considerable thought to how her lifelong protector might feel about her being bait had decided how to deal with him; she bounced to her feet and ran to embrace him.
"I think the good Lord is supporting me," she said, with a light laugh. "Cecil wrote that Gardiner is dead."
"I told you the word in London was that he was very ill."
"You also told me his opening speech to Parliament was as strong as ever."
Elizabeth drew his head down so she could kiss his lips; meanwhile Alana slipped past them and through the Gate. Elizabeth felt Denno stiffen and knew her diversion had not fully succeeded, but she did not let him pull away from her kiss to which he was responding.
"That is two bitter enemies gone in two months." She said when she lifted her lips. "God's grace shines around me."
Denno would not be diverted to talk of Elizabeth's good fortune. He said, his voice hard, "That was Alana, I suppose."
"Don't be angry with her," Elizabeth pleaded.
Denoriel took a deep breath. "No. She is not happy about endangering you. But what if you are taken? Aside from what I feel for you, you are more important than a whole town full of mortals."
"I will not be taken," she said. "I think the whole of Elfhame Cymry will be watching me, and my shields will protect me. I do not know why, but my power is not diminished at all."
For a moment Denoriel was diverted from his fears. "Pasgen thinks that you may draw directly on the power that is so plentiful in the mortal world. He has been working on how Sidhe might use it, but without success. It is too strong even for him to handle."
Then he put his arm around Elizabeth and walked to the Gate. She drew in an anxious breath. The Gate looked . . . different. The edges were ragged and the image of the exit was pale, almost misty. Nonetheless Elizabeth stepped forward without hesitation . . . and wished she had not. The usual black of passage was lit by strange rents of pearly light, as if the Gate would dissolve, and it was not gone between one breath and another but clung for several long moments as if it were sucking at her.
Denoriel held her tight for another long moment when their feet were firmly on the beautiful image of the Gate platform at Logres. Elizabeth bit her lip. Denno's hair was white, plain flat white, and the lines of pain and anxiety carved into his face seemed deeper.
"I do not like Alana's plan," he said, stepping down from the platform but not moving away from it. "A gnome came to me just as I left Llachar Lle. He said he knew that I was interested in strange and wonderful jewels . . . How would a gnome know that?"
"Well, gnomes do cut gems." Elizabeth smiled and stood tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "And you have been known to buy gems for me." He shook his head, and Elizabeth stopped trying to soothe him. "More likely because that stupid Sidhe who tried to seize me is trying to set a trap in some jeweler's stall. Love, don't worry so much."
"I have just realized how I might save myself any worry at all," Denoriel said, smiling down at her. "I will take on an illusion to look like you." He uttered a bar
k of laughter. "Then let that mortal-stealer try to seize you."
Elizabeth pulled down his head and kissed him again. "Can you?" she asked sadly. "Look." She gestured out toward Llachar Lle. The area between, usually carpeted by the vivid, dark green moss starred with white flowers, lay dull and yellowish, dying. "And even if you can build the illusion and speak and carry yourself like me, if I appear without you in close attendance our prey will know we have divined his purpose and wait for another time. That means you would need to cover me with an illusion of you." Elizabeth giggled. "I could never carry that off. No, love, let us go and finish this. He last stole children . . . four children."
"Aleneil told me." Denoriel closed his eyes. "The Great Mother alone knows what he will do with them."
Elizabeth put an arm confidently around his waist. "Let us go to the Elves' Faire now, Denno. I think the folk of Cymry will have had time enough to spread throughout the market. I do not wish to be reminded of how thin the Bright Court grows. I will make it up to you all when I am queen, I swear it, but until then I can do nothing and it makes me so sad to see the fireplace empty and the window gone."
And Less Than Kind Page 64
