Antony paced the small room restlessly. He was speaking more freely than she might have wished, given Cerenel’s presence, but whatever idea had possessed him would not let him go, and to send the knight away would only offend him. “I had a thought,” her consort said. “These mobs, this controversy and bloodthirst that fuels the strife against the King—what if it is no accident?”
Alarmed, Lune said, “No one could possibly have created it all.”
“No,” he said, mouth twisting. “Our grievances are our own, born from a history of ill-usage and divided opinion. But what need is there to create them? All it takes is a spark. Someone to help them along. A bit of muttered sedition here; an accusation of papistry there. Rumors spread, or encouraged in their spread, to sow chaos and discord throughout the City. I thought it Pym’s doing, and perhaps it was—but not alone.”
Cerenel shifted his weight. Lune rounded on him, skirts flaring. “Did you know of this?”
“Madam,” he said, holding his hands out in placation, “I was coming to that. I—”
“Does this Lord of Shadows strike against London, as well as the Onyx Court?”
He flinched from her hard voice. “I think it likely, yes. But it was rumor only; I cannot be certain.”
She should have suspected. But Lune was accustomed to thinking of her own court as the only one that worked in two worlds at once. This was precisely the kind of interference Nicneven hated, when it cost the Queen of Scots her life. She had assumed that meant the Gyre-Carling would eschew it herself.
And perhaps she did. But the Lord of Shadows did not.
If Nicneven wanted to hurt Lune, then she could hurt London—and through it, all of England. Charles Stuart crippled by his own Parliament, in vengeance for Mary Stuart’s death. They were halfway there already.
“Who is the Lord of Shadows?” Antony asked. Confusion distracted him briefly from his own anger.
Lune was more grateful than ever for the oath, now. It would make this easier, if not more palatable. “I do not yet know. But Sir Cerenel will be returning north, to find out.”
The knight stepped back, violet eyes wide. “Madam—my exile is done.”
“But you went into Nicneven’s court on the pretense of disaffection here. They will not be surprised if you return.”
“They sent me back to spy on you! ”
Silence followed, ringing in the aftermath of his shout. Everyone in the room stood frozen, like statues, until Cerenel went to his knees, white as a ghost. “Your Grace—Lord Antony—the command came to me from Nicneven herself. She bade me return to your court and pass along what I learned here.”
Antony moved up to stand at Lune’s side. “By what means? How will you communicate?”
The knight shook his head. “She said a messenger would come. I know nothing more.”
To catch that messenger, they would have to keep Cerenel here. Exchanging a quick glance with Antony, Lune said, “No. I have no doubt that your orders began with this Lord of Shadows. To stop him, we must learn more of him, and that can only be done in Fife. Tell Nicneven I was suspicious of you, or that my favor has moved on; tell her whatever you wish. But you will go back.”
Tears jeweled Cerenel’s lashes, that he was too proud to shed. “Madam,” he whispered, from where he knelt before her, “this is my home.”
“Then help us preserve it,” Lune said. “Find us this Lord of Shadows.”
GUILDHALL, LONDON: January 3, 1642
“They’ve overstepped,” Antony said, angry satisfaction tinging his words. “It nearly came to blows in the Commons, when they first proposed to print the Grand Remonstrance. Bad enough to present to the King a list of grievances long enough to pass for the fifth gospel of the Bible, but publishing it for all to read…”
He did not exaggerate. The days when Parliament debated issues quietly and members dozed on their benches were long past; scarcely a man there had not drawn his sword in the end. It needed no faerie interference to spark their anger—assuming a fae could get within twenty feet of those godly zealots—their own bad blood was enough. They could pass motions to deal with the tumults outside their chamber, but what of those within?
Yet that victory, the public declaration of the Commons’ war against its own sovereign, had misfired exactly as Antony hoped. Printed just before Christmas, the Grand Remonstrance—God be thanked—had put loyalist mobs in the street, fighting the Puritans and Levellers and other fanatic malcontents who supported Parliament’s leaders. Pym and his friends had become drunk on their own power and ideals, and would reap the consequences.
Not before time, either. Ireland was in open rebellion, fighting to throw off the English yoke entirely. And Eochu Airt, furious at Antony’s reversal of position on Strafford, showed no willingness to halt the bloodshed. It was time for England to put its own house in order, and stop this internal fighting that threatened to gut all its strength.
But Ben Hipley did not seem to share his cheerful outlook. “I fear the King is about to lose what goodwill he has earned.”
“What? How?”
The ancient stones of the Guildhall echoed their every word to the would-be eavesdropper, and with City sentiment having swung fiercely to the Puritan, Antony had cause to fear it. He should have known Ben did not bear good news, though; the spymaster would not have come to him here unless the cause was urgent.
Hipley stepped in closer and lowered his voice. “Pym and the others have attacked the King’s advisers, and met with success. Now they aim their bolts at the Queen.”
Henrietta Maria. Hardly popular in England, for she was both French and Catholic, the latter a constant source of discord. “But to strike at her—that will only turn people even more against them. We may not love her, but who would see her dragged through the mud, as Strafford was?”
“The King would not,” Hipley said. “He’s sent Sir Edward Herbert to the Lords this morning, to impeach Lord Mandeville, and five from the Commons. Pym, Hampden, Holles, Hesilrige, and Strode.”
Antony’s heart stopped. “Will the Lords—”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. But you should get to Westminster.”
ST. STEPHEN’S CHAPEL, WESTMINSTER: January 4, 1642
He got to Westminster, for all the good it did. Pym already knew what was coming. The King’s creatures should have moved for the immediate imprisonment of the accused men, but they let the moment slip. Antony, who might have done it for them, was not prepared; he arrived only just in time to hear the impeachment read. And so nothing came of it, not yet, save a meaningless resolution that the Commons would consider the matter.
Whatever happens now, he thought on his way back to Westminster late the following morning, the damage has been done. If you threaten your enemies, you must follow through, and win. The King has done neither.
Only after the noon recess did he realize the disaster was not yet complete.
The sergeant-at-arms threw wide the doors of the chapel and bellowed in a loud voice, “The King!”
A hideous silence fell. Browne had been reporting on a delegation sent to the Inns of Court; he trailed off midsentence and stood staring. Lenthall gaped from the Speaker’s chair. Antony, in the midst of scribbling a note, sat paralyzed as ink dripped and blotted his page.
Into that silence came Charles. Sweeping his hat off with an elegant gesture, he advanced down the floor of the chapel, while around him the members of the Commons came to their feet in a ragged wave, snatching their own hats from their heads. Charles’s nephew trailed a pace behind him, their paired steps deliberate in the quiet.