“Not that kind of danger.” He sighed, and reluctantly continued his explanation. “I agree that Vidal will make no direct attack on Elizabeth. But have you never thought, Aleneil, that there are more ways of making sure Elizabeth never comes to the throne than by ending her life? For example if she were to be in some way disgraced, she could be made unfit in the Council’s opinion to be in the succession—say, caught in a love affair or married. Henry’s will forbade marriage without the permission of the Council.”
Aleneil’s frown deepened. “Elizabeth knows the terms of her father’s will.”
“Yes, but she is not quite fifteen.” He shook his head. “Remember what happened to Catherine Howard, raised in that ill-organized household where she was fostered! I grant you that the queen is unlikely to leave Elizabeth so ruinously unsupervised, but young girls can find ways to do what they wish, and Elizabeth is headstrong. Catherine is no longer Henry’s wife and men will begin to gather around her full purse like flies around dead meat. There will be an—an atmosphere of courtship. Young girls are romantic, and Vidal has at least one servant at Court, mayhap more, who will spread rumors or raise questions about Elizabeth’s lascivious nature—saying she is like her mother.” He sighed. “And then it only takes one man to turn her head.”
Aleneil chewed meditatively and then sighed. “Yes, I see the danger. Not that Elizabeth would agree to marriage, but she might well agree to a kiss or two.”
Or more than a kiss or two … Though kisses alone could be dangerous. “And Catherine will not really be guarding Elizabeth as she should. Catherine will be too busy with her own love affair. Her mind is made up already.”
Aleneil’s eyes widened. “Already? Henry is not yet a month dead!”
“The man courted her before Henry asked her to be his wife, and was back at her feet … I would guess the day the announcement of the king’s death was made.” He tried not to show his distaste for what should have been a genuine display of fidelity. Or actually, it was a genuine display of fidelity—to Catherine’s wealth. “So faithful a lover—one she had all but accepted in the past. They are agreed by now, I am sure. Both times that I went to see her at the palace, he was already there. And he did not like …” Denoriel’s voice faded and he put down his fork, his expression grim, remembering his suspicion that it was by Thomas Seymour’s orders that he had been attacked.
“Who is it?” Aleneil demanded, then changed her question. “No, tell me first what is wrong.”
He began to eat again. “The two things are connected. The man is Thomas Seymour, Hertford’s younger brother. The first time I met him I had gone to the queen to tell her of Elizabeth’s misery and to ask if she would be willing to take Elizabeth into her keeping. Seymour just burst into her chamber, plowing past Catherine’s servant … and she did not remonstrate with him. He took offense at my being there.”
“Took offense at your being there?” Aleneil echoed.
“He is, I fear, a confirmed womanizer and suspects everyone else of similar propensities.” Truly, the more he thought about Thomas Seymour, the less he liked the man. “Certainly he wishes to diminish my credit with Queen Catherine. I am certain he suborned one of Catherine’s servants so that a note she sent to me before midday asking me to call upon her was not delivered until late afternoon.”
“Why? Since the note was delivered what was the point of the delay?” He could see Aleneil’s thoughts racing down a multiplicity of paths.
“I think …” He hesitated. “This is all guessing, understand. And understand, too, that I do not like the man and may think ill of him out of prejudice, but after our first meeting two men appeared in the house across the road watching this house. I think they were watching for me to go out alone. But as you know I almost never do go out alone because I Gate from here.”
“I do not like the sound of that at all,” Aleneil said, pushing away her plate. “But I do not see how it is connected with delaying the queen’s note to you.”
Denoriel also put aside his near empty plate. “I think there was a dual purpose to that delay. First to make it seem as if I were indifferent to Catherine’s summons. She has been hurt by the way that the Council and Hertford have thrust her aside, and she tends to see offense where there is none. Secondly, I believe, although I have no real evidence because the men are dead, that Seymour used that delay in my coming to call those two henchmen from watching this house and set them on the road from Chelsea to ambush me.”
“Oh, dear Mother,” Aleneil breathed. “Were you hurt?”
“No,” Denoriel said sourly. “I just told you that the men were dead. At the time I thought … no, I did not think at all. They shot at me—I was riding Miralys—and I flew into such a rage at the thought that an iron arrow might have touched my elvensteed that I set out to kill them … and I did. So then, of course, there was no way to discover with any certainty who had set the ambush.”
His twin shook her head in bewilderment. “But—but to seek to kill you because Queen Catherine spoke to you and used you as a messenger … that is mad. Quite mad.”
“Seymour is a man who thinks the world should turn only as he directs it,” Denoriel said sourly. Bad enough that he was entangled in a covert Underhill conflict, but to be caught up in mortal machinations was outside the pale. “He may have uttered some criticism of me to the queen—hinted she should not demean herself by associating with a common merchant. Then, likely, she tried to defend herself by telling him I was no common merchant, that I was an exiled prince, and that I was as rich as Croesus. It is possible that her praise made me seem in some way dangerous to his hold on her.”
“Still to set men to kill you—”
Aleneil stopped speaking as the sound of the knocker from the front door came faintly into the room. She glanced out and saw that though the sun had set, the narrow alley alongside the house was still quite light. The knocker sounded again. Denoriel got to his feet.
Denoriel frowned. “I thought Cropper was still here. He does not usually go home until dark, but I had better see who that is. Thomas would not like it if I turned away a customer desperate enough to come at this hour.”
But the knocker did not sound again. Denoriel shrugged, thinking whoever had been at the door had given up. He moved away from the table, about to join Aleneil who had gone back to the fire, when there was a scratch at his office door.
“Ah,” Denoriel said softly to Aleneil, “Cropper was still here, just a bit slow to answer the door.” And then raising his voice he said, “Come.”
Cropper opened the door. “M’lord,” he said “there is a lady askin’ for ye, but—”
A frantic voice on the other side of Cropper’s massive voice called out. “Aleneil! Aleneil, I can feel you. Tell Denoriel to let me in.”
“Rhoslyn!” Aleneil cried, jumping to her feet and running to the door.
Cropper flattened himself against the door to be out of the way, and as Aleneil passed him, slipped out into the corridor. Denoriel came to the door himself, watching the dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman as she reached a hand toward Aleneil. He put his hand on his sword hilt.
But Rhoslyn spared no more than a glance at the sword, and returned her pleading gaze to Aleneil. “Please! I mean no harm. I come to warn you of danger. Please listen to me.”
Aleneil flashed a repressive look at Denoriel, took Rhoslyn’s hand, and drew her forward into the room. She led her to the chair in which she had been sitting and gestured for her to seat herself.
“What are you doing here, Rhoslyn?” Aleneil asked. “I thought you were with Lady Mary.”
About to shut the door, instead Denoriel stepped aside so the servants could come in and clear the table.
“Pasgen was afraid Denoriel would not get his warning or that he would dismiss it and not tell you about it.” Rhoslyn fairly radiated alarm and sincerity. This—was certainly new.
“Denoriel had no warning from Pasgen.” Aleneil turned her head to look at her broth
er. The servants went out and closed the door. “Did you get a warning that you dismissed?”
“After what I told you happened on the road from Chelsea? No, I certainly would not have dismissed it. I got no … Oh. Grace of God! That must have been the letter from my ‘countryman’ that Joseph told me about.” Denoriel laughed and shook his head. “I thought he meant someone pretending to be an exiled Hungarian. I will go—no, we will all go together into Joseph’s office, and I will get the note.”
“You cannot fetch a letter from your man of business’ desk alone?” Aleneil asked in some surprise.
“No, I cannot leave you alone here with Rhoslyn.”
“Rhoslyn will do me no harm!” Aleneil said sharply, seeing the sudden glisten of tears in the dark Sidhe’s eyes. “And if she wished to, I am a woman full grown and can defend myself.”
Denoriel’s mouth opened, then when Aleneil’s brows rose in affronted inquiry, he closed it and went out. The light, even though Joseph’s room had windows on both the wall in the front of the house and on the side alley, was definitely dimmer. Had Denoriel been human, he would have had to light one of the candelabra on the desk to see, but it was bright enough for Sidhe eyes. He picked up the sealed note on the top of the pile and hurried back.
Aleneil had taken a seat in the corner of the sofa closest to Rhoslyn’s chair and was listening to Rhoslyn describe life in Mary’s household.
“I could not see that I was the least necessary. She has been reading prayers for the dead and lessons on the immortal soul since the day Henry’s death was announced.” Rhoslyn looked exasperated. As well she might. Even by the standards of a pious mortal, Mary’s state of mourning was excessive. “She was not invited to the funeral or Edward’s coronation—and I think that very wrong. She is the heir apparent. Should she not bear witness to her brother’s—” Rhoslyn stopped abruptly as Denoriel came in and closed the door behind him.
As Aleneil and Rhoslyn watched, Denoriel cracked the wax seal and opened the note. “Ah, definitely from Pasgen,” he said. “It is written in Elven.” His eyes traveled over the short note. “And it is definitely a warning.” Denoriel looked at Aleneil. “Apparently my guesses about Queen Catherine’s suitor were wrong. I assumed that Vidal would have no way to hire mortal assassins, but it seems that Aurilia’s pet mortal healer has the connections necessary.”
Aleneil frowned. “I do not know whether I am more relieved that you have no mortal enemy so close as Queen Catherine’s household or more distressed over Aurilia’s mixing herself into this business. She was the one who wished to be rid of Elizabeth’s maid. Perhaps that failure scared her away from attempts on Elizabeth’s servants, but if she is now threatening you …”
Denoriel shrugged. “I will be careful not to travel alone in the future and raise shields if I must.” He laid the letter on the small table beside the chair in which he had been sitting and turned to Rhoslyn, his lips curved in what was not a smile. “Please thank Pasgen for his warning, which was conveniently delivered nearly a week too late.”
“Too late?” Rhoslyn cried. “That is impossible. Pasgen only learned of this yesterday, and that was when he came here to tell you. A week too late? What can you mean?”
“I mean that an ambush was set for me on the road between Chelsea and London four days ago.”
“Four days ago? How can that be? Yesterday when Pasgen left that letter for you Albertus had not yet chosen the men he intended to employ. He said he was on his way to do so when Pasgen came here to warn you. Unless Albertus lied?” Rhoslyn wrung her hands and her shoulders drooped with defeat. “If it is so, I am sorry. Pasgen did not dare touch Albertus’ mind because then Aurilia would know and the plans would be changed. He thought it would be safer if we knew what Albertus intended.”
“So this Albertus was not discouraged by the loss of two of his men? I killed the two who attacked me near Chelsea.”
“Chelsea?” Rhoslyn repeated, frowning. “You mean the attack on you was near Chelsea? That cannot have been Albertus’ work. Did I not hear you say before that you suspected some mortal of instigating that attack?”
“Yes,” Aleneil said. “A suitor of Queen Catherine’s has taken a strong dislike to her association with a common merchant like Denoriel.”
She was going to explain further when there was a scratch on the door. When Denoriel called “Come,” Cropper entered, carrying a lamp. He looked around the dark room and shook his head gently as if the failure to light the candles was no more than he expected. Nonetheless he asked politely if he should do so. Aleneil hastily agreed, and when he had used a spill, ignited at the lamp he carried, to set aflame the candles in the candelabra on the mantelpiece and on the long table near the inner wall, he picked up the lamp and bowed.
“Is there anything further I can do, m’lord? Bring up some more wine? Make tea for the ladies?”
“No, thank you, Cropper, we will manage on our own.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Cropper said, but he looked doubtful and then added uncertainly, “The other servants, they’re gone, m’lord. Do you want me to stay?”
Denoriel shook his head gravely. “No. Go home and have your evening meal, Cropper. You are just across the garden. If I need you or Mistress Cropper I can just step out back and give you a call.”
The man looked troubled but said, “Very well, m’lord. The front door is only locked, m’lord, not barred, so that Master Clayborne can let himself in. I’ll go out that way so you won’t have to replace the bar on the back door, but if you want me wife, you’ll have to walk around the house, or take down the bar on the back door …”
“All right, Cropper,” Denoriel said. “You can go now.”
Still looking anxious, the man bowed himself out, closing the door behind him.
Meanwhile Rhoslyn had been thinking hard, putting aside the shock that had all but numbed her when Denoriel said Pasgen’s warning had come too late, that he had already been attacked. She sat up straighter.
“I do not wish to add to your troubles Denoriel”—the very faint curve of the corners of her mouth implied the words were not completely sincere—“but I think you will be safer if you accept the fact that you have two enemies, not one. Albertus’ plans did not include an ambush on the road between here and Chelsea. He told Pasgen that he had a way to get into this house to attack as soon as you and Aleneil—”
“Aleneil!” Denoriel repeated. “Who would threaten Aleneil? You are making this up for some crazy purpose—”
“I do not think so,” Aleneil interrupted. “Do you not remember that we talked about Vidal trying to strip Elizabeth of all support, all stability? How better to do that than to remove both of us. Aurilia’s servant must be trying to accomplish Vidal’s purpose. Think how vulnerable Elizabeth would be to a lover who offered support and comfort if you and I were both dead.”
“Yes,” Rhoslyn put in. “And how better to be rid of both of you than to attack you with iron and steel weapons when a mortal would think you were asleep in your beds? That is what he told Pasgen he planned. And Aurilia believes Oberon would not punish her or Vidal if you were destroyed, especially by mortal means.” Her sober expression gave him pause.
“How could this Albertus know when Aleneil and I were here and asleep in our beds? Those men who watched the house … But they have been gone for days. The servants cannot speak enough English to send a message …” Denoriel hesitated, then looked at Aleneil and said, his voice flat with pain, “Joseph? Was that why he went out?”
“If you think a message went to this Albertus from one of your servants,” Aleneil said quickly, “it is more likely Cropper than Joseph. But I doubt either one is involved. Far more likely, if he is conversant with the underbelly of London, Albertus has set beggars or children to watch the house. No one pays them any mind.”
Denoriel brightened immediately. “You are right. Children run by all day long, and I’ve seen beggars at the corner where Mercery meets Poultry. With a little care, the
beggar could look down Bucklersbury and see this house very well. So we may assume that Albertus knows we are both here. Will he act at once? Should we perhaps put out the lights and pretend we have gone up to bed? But what are we to do with Rhoslyn?”
“I would do what I could to help,” Rhoslyn said hesitantly, “but I am afraid I do not well endure Cold Iron. I fear I might fail at some critical moment.”
Denoriel’s lips parted to say he had been considering how to restrain her, not whether they should enlist her help, but Aleneil forestalled him.
“I do not want to put you into danger, Rhoslyn,” his sister said warmly. “Not only from the weapons these men will carry but from the chance that one of them will escape. If he should tell Albertus that another woman was here and describe you … Word might get back to Aurilia and from her to Vidal.”
Rhoslyn shuddered slightly and then said very softly, “I would not care. I am so tired of the Dark ways. I am ready to … But I do not know what Pasgen wants to do. And I could not—cannot be separated from Pasgen.”
Aleneil leaned forward and took her hand. “Then go and tell him you have warned us and we are on our guard.”
Chapter 13
Joseph Clayborne was uncomfortable. Of course he had never been completely at ease with the lady who had so incomprehensibly approached him and invited his attentions, but this pressing invitation for tonight had been entirely unexpected. She said her usual visitor could not come and she was suddenly free and without company. Would he not join her so she would not languish in loneliness.
By all rights, this lady should have been far above his touch. Not that Joseph underestimated himself. In fact, now that he felt himself to be firmly established with Adjoran, Mercer and Factor, not only as the man of business but as a small trader in his own right, Joseph had begun a negotiation for the hand of a lovely and very clever young woman from a well-established family of apothecaries. That had nothing whatever to do with this present arrangement.
By Slanderous Tongues Page 20
