The curses were drawing far too much attention. They were hardly the only people in the yard; Parliament scarcely sat but there were mobs outside, thronging the streets of Westminster. These were the same apprentices and laborers, mariners and dockhands who had attacked Archbishop Laud’s palace earlier in the year. Riots had become a common feature of London life, no doubt encouraged by Pym and the others. Antony drew Hipley to one side and lowered his voice. “Temair wants him gone. Lune has told me to do it if I can. Why balk now?”
“Because Strafford was going to impeach Pym and the others,” his spymaster said through his teeth. “For treasonous dealings with the Covenanters. He might have broken their strength—so they are determined to break his first.”
It set Antony back on his heels. That Pym was deep in alliance with the Covenanters, he did not doubt. But he had not realized such a good opportunity existed to curb the opposition’s power.
He spun without a word and hurried back into the palace, Ben close behind, but even as he neared the Lords’ chamber the roar of the crowd there told him he was too late—even supposing he could have done anything to stop it. He could just glimpse Strafford exiting the chamber; gems glinted in the light as the earl removed his sword and surrendered it to Maxwell.
Illness had ravaged Wentworth; his complexion was sallow, his skin sagging in loose curves. He hardly looked the terrible figure popular opinion made him out to be. But the watching masses showed no respect; Antony heard many cutting remarks, and did not see a single man doff his cap to the bare-headed earl.
“What’s the matter?” a jeering voice cried out, as Strafford wearily faced the gauntlet he must run.
Strafford answered as confidently as he could, but his voice was weak and hoarse. “A small matter, I warrant you.”
“Yes, indeed,” someone else shouted. “High treason is a small matter!”
Under the cover of the ensuing laughter, Antony said to Ben, “The charges are weak. It may well be that he can defeat them.”
“I hope so,” his companion replied, watching the crowd dog Strafford’s heels as he crossed to the outer door. “For the sake of us all. Pym’s power worries me.”
And me, Antony admitted privately. He had hoped to do some good for Lune, but it appeared the good of England would have to come first.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: December 28, 1640
Of all the practices fae had adopted from mortals, the giving of Christmas gifts puzzled Lune the most. They were never called by such name, of course, but midwinter exchanges had become common, and served a particular purpose in courtly life.
As she was reminded of, cynically, when Sir Leslic appeared one day with a hound following at his heels.
The creature was a paragon of its kind, with a long, sleek, cream-furred body, and ears of russet. A faerie hound, not a faerie in the form of a hound, and a breed raised by the Tylwyth Teg of Wales, if she did not miss her guess. She wondered what he had given up to gain it.
Leslic bowed, sweeping his hat wide, drawing every eye in the chamber. Naturally he picked a moment of leisure, and one well attended by Lune’s idle courtiers. “Your radiant Grace—I cannot sleep at nights, fearful as I am for your safety. I beg you to allow me to make this poor gift to you, a faithful companion to watch over your rest.”
Lune did not miss the annoyance among some of her courtiers. Leslic’s one failing, in his pursuit of her favor, was an over-ready will to invoke the rescue that had catapulted him from relative obscurity to a place in the Onyx Guard, and therefore close by her side. But he redeemed the error quickly enough; peeking slyly up from his bow, he added, “Or at least to pursue the fox for you, when next you ride to the hunt.”
He had a charming smile, she granted him that. Lune made herself return one equally charming, or rather charmed. When she extended her hand, the dog came without prompting; there was no need for leashes and beatings, such as humans used to train their beasts. The animal sniffed her fingers delicately, then bent his head into her friendly scratch behind his ears.
Leslic sighed grandly and pressed one hand over his heart. “Fortunate hound, that comes home to his mistress’s touch. I shall sleep in envy instead of fear tonight, wishing I might have his place at the foot of your bed.”
They had gathered a small audience, the courtiers who flocked to his rising star. Not all of them, certainly; fae were capable of great oceans of jealous resentment. Lewan Erle pouted incessantly, feeling himself slighted. Lune was disappointed to see Valentin Aspell drifting near. She wished she could believe her faerie spymaster was simply keeping close watch on the knight, but the truth was that he found Leslic’s opinions congenial.
What to do with the hound? She was not at all certain she could trust the beast at the foot of her bed. Not out of fear for her safety; if Leslic wanted her dead, he could simply have let the lunatic kill her. Far as he had risen, there was much farther to go, and he needed her alive for that. But the hounds of the Tylwyth Teg were intelligent creatures, capable of much more than a normal dog. The gift was to curry favor; all these midwinter presents were simply another path to advantage at court. That did not, however, mean Leslic had no other purpose for it.
She had to draw him out. “Wouldst sleep at the foot of my bed, then?” she said teasingly, arching one eyebrow. “Is that your desired place?”
“I would account the cold stone there a finer bed than any that stood farther from your presence,” he answered, less in jest than before. A trace of longing threaded his answer, taut in the air between them.
Lune let him come closer; heeding that cue, the watchers faded back, returning to their diversions. They had the illusion of privacy, at least. “But you dream of a warmer bed.”
“What man would not?”
There was no possibility of deluding herself. The hunger in Leslic’s heart was not for her. In body, perhaps a little, but none for her spirit; it was power he sought, and a closer place in her counsel. All else was merely a pretext, a mask for the truth.
Every breath of their encounters was a sham. Amadea had made so bold as to ask Lune why she showed such favor to a knight who made no secret of his disdain for mortals; Lune excused his behavior as concern for the threat they posed, though she knew it went far deeper and fouler than that. The fae who scorned mortals as lesser creatures were calling themselves Ascendants now, and looked to Leslic as their captain. As the godly became more vocal above, the Ascendants became more common below.
Yet the true root of that threat lay, not here, but in Scotland. Lune could not tell her Lady Chamberlain the truth: that clasping this viper to her breast would teach her more of his aims. The closer she brought him, the more she learned of his connections to Nicneven.
Giving Leslic what he desired might gain her a great deal. Men said things over a pillow they might not let slip otherwise.
But bile rose in her throat at the thought. She had loved once, with her heart as well as her body, and once given, a faerie’s love did not fade. Now, though she took the occasional gentleman to her bed, they were rare, and never from her own court; the favor thus granted would upset the delicate balance she strove to maintain. And if she were to break that prohibition, it would not be for this golden-haired devil, this smiling traitor, who would betray her to her death if it suited his ambition.
Not even for the safety of her crown and her court would she take Leslic into her bed.
Her hesitation had gone on too long. Lune forced a smile onto her face, forced promise to hide behind that smile. “You are no man, but an elfin knight. Yet dreams come to our kind, even in our waking hours, and some dreams, they say, are prophecy.”