Mary had cocked her head to the side quizzically and her brows were up. The other three ladies were staring at Rhoslyn in some surprise.
“For someone who does not know Lady Alana,” Mary said, “you seem to know a great deal about her.”
“Oh,” Rhoslyn said and looked down at her toes. “When I first arrived in London, I was so weak and so bored—”
“London? Why did you not go to your brother’s house where you would be carefully tended?” Eleanor Kempe’s voice was flat.
“Let my brother see me ill?” Rhoslyn rounded her eyes in pretended horror. “Never! It might kill him. Certainly it would bring on a most severe attack of his nervous condition. I am all he has. He must not know I also have my troubles. He must never fear he will be left alone.”
“But surely if you stay at your brother’s house in London the servants must gossip to those in his country seat.”
“I stay at the Golden Bull in London. My brother sold his house there when it became clear that he could not endure the city.”
“Ladies.” Mary held up a hand and her quiet voice quelled all other questions. “I know all about Rosamund, but not how she came to know so much about Lady Alana.”
Rhoslyn smiled. When she first came to serve Mary, she had inserted into Mary’s mind a whole history for Rosamund Scott and impressed upon her that all this must be kept secret because both Rosamund and her brother were very sensitive about his illness, which some could call madness. Mary thought she knew all about Rosamund and would protect her from too much curiosity from her other ladies.
“I could not do much when I first came to London,” Rhoslyn admitted, “but I wished to find something for you, my lady, a token of thanks for your kindness to me. Since I could not shop from merchant to merchant, the landlord of the Bull suggested I go to Adjoran, Mercer and Factor. It was not far. I could be carried there by litter. It was not a shop either, so noisy and exhausting, but Lord Denno’s home where his man of business showed me samples he had in the house. I found that black lace shawl—” Rhoslyn laughed softly. “It was so lovely I near to nothing kept it for myself.”
“It is lovely,” Mary said, smiling. “I felt quite guilty when I took it and saw your eyes linger on it.”
“Oh, no. It was always meant for you, my lady, but the pattern is quite enchanting. However, Lady Alana came in just as I was looking at it closely and startled me so that I had another pain in my chest and came over faint. Lady Alana saw me to my rooms. She did not wish to leave me to the mercy of the inn servants—although really they are very good and attentive—and she stayed until I was recovered. She came again, the next day, bringing the shawl and … and bless her, she does talk.”
“Does she?” Mary sounded quite interested. “Could you find some excuse—Chelsea is very close to London—to invite Lady Alana to dinner or for some other small entertainment, now that you are well and strong again, to give thanks for her kind care of you?”
Rhoslyn only allowed herself to look surprised although she was utterly delighted. She had been wondering how she could get leave again to warn Aleneil about Mary’s intention of asking Elizabeth to live with her.
“I suppose I could. It was very good of her.”
Mary nodded. “Yes, it was. And I am sure when you seek a subject of conversation, since she has already told you all about herself, it would be natural for you to ask about Queen Catherine’s household.”
“Ah!” Rhoslyn widened her eyes into an expression of enlightenment. “Yes, of course. Likely Lord Denno’s man of business will know how to reach Lady Alana.”
“Exactly,” Mary said. “And it would also seem natural that you would be very interested to hear all about Lady Elizabeth, how she is overseen, what she does, who serves as chaplain in the household, and … how much time she spends in Thomas Seymour’s company.”
Joseph Clayborne made no difficulty about sending a messenger with a note for Aleneil to Chelsea, and that very night Rhoslyn met Aleneil in the Inn of Kindly Laughter.
“Mary isn’t the only one worried about Elizabeth,” Aleneil said, after Rhoslyn had told her about Seymour’s letter and Mary’s reaction. In turn, she described Seymour’s clandestine courtship. Sighing, she added, “And it is very exciting for Elizabeth. She is just at that age when mortal girls begin to dream about men. She is just burning with curiosity. I fear she will be casting her eyes on any man she finds attractive.”
“She mustn’t,” Rhoslyn said. “There must be no scandal. Mary cannot decide what she feels about Elizabeth. She hates her still because she is Anne Boleyn’s daughter, but she remembers tenderly the little girl who ran to her with love and joy. She remembers the baby kisses with which her little gifts were received because then Elizabeth had nothing. Other times she thinks of the too-clever girl who welcomed all the questions about the Catholic rite posed by the reformers and for whom little King Edward has a stronger affection and more respect than he has for her. If she could do that girl an injury she would.”
Aleneil sighed. “And there was that stupid business about Elizabeth meeting a man in the garden at Hampton Court. Nothing was proved because the man was Harry FitzRoy and he had an amulet with the Don’t-see-me spell. But still Mary made a huge fuss, and then no one would believe her and nothing came of it. Doubtless that rankles.”
“Gentle Mother, if any scandal should remind Mary of that! She still speaks of it and is convinced that Elizabeth is as promiscuous as her mother—”
“Who was not promiscuous at all!” Aleneil said sharply. “Only Henry, because he needed to be rid of Anne, and Mary because she wanted to believe it, ever thought Anne was promiscuous.”
“That may be true, but the memory that remains of Anne is that she was a whore. Any whisper of Elizabeth and a man and Mary will believe it fact, and Mary has a direct line to Somerset through his wife to whom she writes as Dearest Nan and my Good Gossip. Almost, it would be better for Elizabeth to accept the invitation to live with Mary—”
“No. That would be a catastrophe, and not only because of the religious problems. Although ordinarily Elizabeth is very cautious about Mary, and I think she would really return Mary’s love if it were proffered, she already knows she has Catherine’s love. She is very happy living with Catherine. It is a merry, lively household. To force Elizabeth into Mary’s dismal care would only make Elizabeth so resentful that she might lose all her caution in her attempts to free herself. And Elizabeth can have a tongue like a honed dagger.”
Rhoslyn bit her lip, then said, “Yes. I can see that Elizabeth living with Mary is impossible. When I report to Mary, I will do my best to make Catherine’s household sound unexceptional; however, because of Seymour, whatever I say, Mary will invite Elizabeth to come to her. Make sure Elizabeth’s refusal is very gentle.”
“That presents no problem. Elizabeth will be grateful for Mary’s care, and will say so. She will doubtless also say her obligations to Catherine are too great for her to leave.”
“But you still have the other problem, that of Seymour’s behavior with Catherine awakening Elizabeth’s body. Someone must satisfy that need in sufficient secret that there is no chance of discovery—” Rhoslyn’s voice checked abruptly and she frowned. “Sidhe,” she said. “A Sidhe could never be caught with her because he could vanish in an instant.” Then she uttered a low laugh. “And we have a Sidhe ready to hand who can endure the iron of the mortal world and who is already intimate with the household … Denoriel.”
Aleneil drew in a sharp breath. “But Denoriel thinks of Elizabeth as a little girl. And likely Elizabeth thinks of him as a rich old uncle. Both would be horrified by the thought of sex between them.”
“Are you so sure?” Rhoslyn asked. “What Pasgen told me about Elizabeth’s confrontation with Oberon over Denoriel seemed to me more … ah … intense than feelings for an old uncle. ‘My Denno’ Pasgen said she called him, and threatened to close the mortal world to Sidhe if she were deprived of him. And as for Denoriel’
s feelings, once his conscience is soothed, he will be happy enough to have a fresh, young lover.”
Aleneil sat silent thinking back over Elizabeth’s behavior to Denoriel. She did flirt with him. The way she looked up at him under her lashes, all the bickering that only led up to her sweetest smiles even when he did not yield to her will. And Denoriel … hmmm. Recently Denoriel seemed to feel some constraint about being in Elizabeth’s company, especially since her figure had begun to form.
“I will see what I can do,” Aleneil said.
However, it turned out that at first there was very little Aleneil could do about inducing Denoriel to make love to Elizabeth. Denoriel was not to be found. He, Harry, and half the residents of Elfhame Elder-Elf had disappeared into the terrifying precincts of Alhambra.
On the other hand, Lady Alana had made decisive strides in calming Elizabeth. The expeditions to watch avidly while Seymour caressed Catherine were at an end. Closeted alone with Elizabeth, Lady Alana had made clear the impropriety of what Elizabeth had done. Crude and vulgar were not words ordinarily applied to Elizabeth, but Lady Alana applied them now and said how shocked she was to find Elizabeth spying on a woman who had done so much for her and was herself doing no wrong.
Lady Alana rehearsed the same arguments Lord Denno had provided. The tale of Catherine’s long dutiful behavior as wife to aged and unlovable men; her right to seize, while she still could, some joy and the chance of motherhood. Elizabeth readily agreed; she had overcome her jealousy on her father’s behalf.
To make more certain that Elizabeth would see Seymour as Catherine’s “reward” for duty nobly done, Lady Alana pointed out that King Henry was dead; he could not feel betrayed. Had he not set restrictions on Elizabeth’s marriage and Mary’s and set none on Catherine’s? Was that not almost permission for her to take a younger, more appealing husband?
Finally, Lady Alana pointed out, if Elizabeth were caught, what would Queen Catherine feel? Would she not believe she had been betrayed by a person to whom she had always offered kindness? Might she not send Elizabeth away?
Curbed so sharply by one who had always been supportive, Elizabeth agreed she would watch no longer. And just in time it seemed, for Dunstan, fearing an adverse reaction from Elizabeth to news of Catherine being courted, reported to Lady Alana that rumors were rife among the servants about the dowager queen’s late night excursions and her meetings with a man. Doubtless Catherine’s maids had noticed her absences and murmured to others. This one and that one had bumped into each other lurking in the kitchen garden. The gossip was that Seymour had won his point. There would be no two-year wait for marriage.
The delay did not even last two months. Sometime late in April, Thomas Seymour and Catherine were secretly married. The truth was not kept secret from Elizabeth; it came from Catherine herself, stiff with anxiety. But Elizabeth only kissed her and wished her well. Elizabeth was sworn to silence, Catherine confessing that she feared the Lord Protector would not be pleased and that she wished to gain the king’s consent before the marriage was made public.
Elizabeth kept her word to Catherine, not mentioning the wedding even to Lady Alana. However in quiet times, as she embroidered or practiced on her virginal, the scenes in the garden came back to her and her eyes glistened as she thought about Seymour’s caresses now free to wander all over Catherine’s body. At those times Elizabeth would look up from her work or her music and ask Lady Alana where Lord Denno was and why he had not been near her in almost a month.
On a voyage, Lady Alana said, but Elizabeth caught the concern in the cat-pupilled bright green eyes she saw under the thin-lashed, mud-colored illusion. Her Denno was doing something dangerous, she guessed. There was no way that she could ask what it was, and when she said sharply that Lady Alana should send him a message, she was answered not in Lady Alana’s coo but in Aleneil’s sharper tone that she had already done so.
Elizabeth was frightened. She knew she did not need Denno. She was busy and happy, pleased with her new tutor, Master Grindal, enchanted by Catherine’s glowing joy, free to ride out even into London with her guards and grooms, not even pressed for money because Catherine covered many of her expenses.
Still, there was a large hole inside of her. If she did not need Denno, Elizabeth acknowledged that she wanted him, wanted his firm, warm hand holding hers, the sound of his voice—even opposing her will—the brush of his warm lips against her hand and once or twice against her cheek. Why had she never turned her face so that their lips met? Would she know then what made Catherine sigh and glow as if lit from within?
Chapter 18
Pasgen had, as he said he would, gone back to Otstargi’s house after he left Rhoslyn. He was there, seemingly idle and relaxed by the parlor fire, to witness Albertus’ return after it was certain that all of his men had been killed without accomplishing their purpose.
Totally distraught, Albertus poured out the details of the disaster to Pasgen. Only the child who had opened the door for the men and fled had survived, crouching outside the house in the alley and watching. The child had seen Cropper carry out one corpse, had seen the arrival of the watch and the sheriff, had seen the removal of the other five bodies. Worse than the failure, the child had escaped before Albertus could seize him and might describe the fiasco to others, making it impossible for Albertus to hire more men.
“I do not think it matters. You cannot hope to play the same game again,” Pasgen said mildly, as if he had no interest in the subject. “It will be impossible to get anyone else into that house. They will watch closely for intruders and likely they will hire extra guards.”
“What can I do?” Albertus’ voice trembled. “You know my lady can … ah … be harsh to those who fail her.”
Pasgen shrugged indifferently. “I have no idea of what happened in the house and you say the men did get inside. The best I can do for you is to tell Lady Aurilia that your plan worked but that together Aleneil and Denoriel were too strong even though you sent six men against them. I will make as good a case for you as I can.”
Not that Pasgen had any intention of going anywhere near Aurilia. But since she did not know an attempt had been made and had failed, she might not yet be impatient for results. Pasgen could only hope that Albertus had made sufficient of that blue potion Aurilia was forever sipping so that she did not call the healer back Underhill.
Albertus had thanked Pasgen fulsomely for his help and took heart, saying that he realized he would have to pick off Aleneil and Denoriel separately. Pasgen listened with an approving expression. Why not? Both Aleneil and Denoriel were Underhill now where Albertus could not touch them and did not plan to return to the mortal world for some time.
Aleneil would be safe even when she did return. She would be in Elizabeth’s household where no one Albertus could hire could penetrate. As for Denoriel, Pasgen would give another warning but Denoriel could take care of himself. For now, whatever his plans, Albertus had been rendered impotent.
In due course, Pasgen Gated Underhill to seem to be going to report to Aurilia. As soon as he arrived, he felt the pull of that cursed Unformed land. At first he resisted, idling in his own domain, making sure that the force field around the red mist was sound and strong, that the container of iron filings was well shielded but ready to hand. Pasgen looked at it and sighed. He knew he should empty the iron into the red mist, but he still could not bring himself to do it. He spent time, too, with the wisp of partly responsive mist. Sometimes he thought it was learning, sometimes not.
His resistance did not last very long. In the back of his mind, even as he examined the doings of the mist that used to fascinate him, was the urge to return. His curiosity about the red-haired and gold-haired dolls was eating him alive. Had they dissipated? Had they become more real? Had the mist made more figures?
After a brief struggle with himself, which he pacified by vowing he would not, as he had promised Rhoslyn, leave the Gate, he yielded. When he stepped into his most private Gate, in a warded
chamber of his own house, the pattern of the sentient Unformed land leapt into his mind … and he was there before he could suppress it. He had barely had time to look around, had not had time to send out a testing tendril into the mist, when the Gate thrummed and a second Sidhe appeared, a levin bolt already burning in her hand.
“What do you here?” she cried, raising the hand in which the levin bolt glared.
Pasgen backed a step, calling up his shields, although he knew it was useless. If she loosed that bolt this close, it would burn through even his shields. “I am Pasgen,” he gasped. “I was the one who gave warning about this land.”
Slowly the levin bolt began to fade, not dispersed but drawn back into the Sidhe. Despite the lingering threat, Pasgen wondered how she had done that, wondered if it might possibly be through some forgotten magic. That she was very old was immediately apparent. Her hair was white spun mist, so thin, so short that it floated, barely held back from her face by a plain leather thong; her eyes were the palest green Pasgen had ever seen, the color of shallow seawater above white sand. But those eyes were sparkling bright, her expression was alert and interested, and that levin bolt had nothing of weakness or uncertainty about it.
“Ah,” the tenseness that told Pasgen she was still on guard decreased and she nodded. “You look like … who?”
Pasgen’s moue of distaste was more habit than expressive of real feeling now. “Denoriel,” he said. “We are half brothers.”
The old Sidhe nodded satisfaction. “He spoke of you when he warned the Elders about this domain. I am Gaenor. Once I was a great maker. I know mist. I have been set the task of watching here. When I felt the Gate in use, I was concerned.”
By Slanderous Tongues Page 28
