Which meant he would have time for one other task. Antony had no direct way of stopping Mordaunt; Lady Dysart could write to the Sealed Knot, advising them against an armed revolt, but he had no illusions as to what that would accomplish. No, the only way to prevent a failed uprising would be to make certain Mordaunt knew it would fail.
Which meant ensuring that it would.
“Before I go,” Antony said to the Goodemeades, “there is one thing I must ask of you.”
Heavenly Father, forgive me for what I am about to do.
“There is a man named Sir Richard Willis,” he said slowly, “a member of the Sealed Knot—and a traitor. He is in communication with Thurloe on the Council of State. I will tell you what I know of Mordaunt’s plans; you, in turn, must make certain Willis knows it.”
The little hobs paled.
He clenched his jaw before going on, fighting down the sickness in his heart. “If the Council knows far enough in advance, they will prepare a response strong enough to forestall the rising. It is a lesser evil than letting it happen and fail.” Antony curled his fingers around the arms of the chair. Did he even believe his own next words? “We will restore the King to his throne. But not yet.”
Rosamund swallowed, then nodded, not quite hiding her own hesitation. “That’s yours to say. We will give the help you need.”
He was Prince of the Stone, even if the court of which he was Prince had lost its realm; it was his right to direct faerie involvement in mortal affairs. Lune trusted his judgment, and so the Goodemeades did, as well.
Antony just prayed they were not wrong to do so.
VALE OF THE WHITE HORSE, BERKSHIRE: July 31, 1659
The grassy embankments of Uffington Castle sheltered the massed ranks of the invasion force with room to spare. They were not many, even now, with exiled courtiers, Berkshire volunteers, and what mortals Antony and others had persuaded to the cause. But Vidar did not have so many either; at their largest, faerie armies did not number a tenth the size of those mortals fielded.
Lune hoped it would be enough. Raising her voice, so the wind would not carry it away before it reached Antony, she said, “You have trained them well.” The Prince was climbing the slope to her position on the embankment, with Wayland a step behind. “And you, cousin—you have worked day and night to equip our people. Name your boon, and it will be yours.”
His shoulders blotted out stars when he stood next to her. “You have influence with mortals,” the King of the Vale said.
Her stomach tightened in apprehension of what he might ask. “Yes.” “When you are in your realm again, use it on our behalf. Revive the duties the folk of this area once owed to us, before the Puritans grew in strength.”
Her gaze flicked downslope, to the barely visible figure in the grass. “We will,” Lune said, with a glad heart. He asks no more than I would do, regardless.
Antony did not comment. He was still trying to catch his breath after the steep climb. She swallowed the desire to dissuade him from coming; she would only fail, and anger him by trying. He had as much right to fight for their home as she did, and more need. Besides, he was their general.
There was a distinct irony in that, given his hatred for the officers of the New Model Army. But he knew more of fighting than Lune did—which was to say, he knew anything at all—and while he lacked tactical experience, he was good at coordinating the advice from their two squad commanders. A barguest named Bonecruncher, one of the exiles, would lead one group with Antony, and Irrith would lead the other with Lune.
Those two were down with their soldiers. I think of them as soldiers, now—not warriors. It was an odd thought for Lune, and a sign of the changes she and Antony had wrought. She only hoped they would be enough to surprise Vidar, and gain the upper hand.
Antony had his wind back now, and so she asked him, “What of the other uprisings?”
His voice was pitched to carry no farther than the three of them. “Called off, for now. The Council of State has fortified the relevant areas; there are seven regiments around London alone, not counting the militia. Most loyalists—I hope all—have gotten word not to rise.” His jaw hardened, muscle ridging his skin. “The Council has put out warrants against a dozen Royalist leaders, though.”
She would have put her hand on his arm, if he would not shrug it off. Antony had explained his reasoning, and it was sound. But the betrayal came no more easily to him for all that.
Their army would stand alone—and hope they did not meet with those regiments.
“The sun has set,” Wayland said in his quiet rumble.
How he could tell its last sliver was gone, Lune had no idea; heavy clouds veiled the sky, and there were no bell towers out here to ring the hour. The gray light was a bit dimmer, perhaps, and the wind carried a cooler dampness. This foul weather masked their march, but it made for a grim setting.
She nodded to Antony. “You should speak to them.”
He shook his head, a faint smile lightening his countenance, though only briefly. “I am no great orator. What they need to hear from me, they have heard.”
“Your modesty neatly shifts the task onto me,” she said wryly. “You, at least, once had schooling in rhetoric. But very well.”
It was easy enough to charm her voice to carry; finding appropriate words was harder. “Good people,” she said, looking out over the motley assemblage of their army. “When first you came here, you were strangers to one another. Some have lived in this Vale since before the dawn of memory; others call London their home. Some are faerie, some mortal—and that is as it should be, for the Onyx Court embraces both in brotherhood.
“Ifarren Vidar would see mortals dance to a faerie tune. Failing that, he would destroy one of the greatest works of both our kinds: the Onyx Hall, shadow of England’s mightiest jewel. He would prostitute himself to foreign powers, solely for his own gain.”
She walked a dangerous line there; many of the Berkshire folk were so provincial as to barely recognize themselves as English, and to such minds, the London fae were nearly as foreign as the Irish. Lune swept on, before they could consider it too closely. “But more than that, we tell you this: in nine years of trying, Vidar has not made himself King. He may claim the title all he likes, but the Onyx Hall does not recognize him as its master. We name him now for what he is: a pretender, a usurper to a throne that is not and never will be his. I once struck to remove a Queen who claimed power that was not hers; now I go again, to right a second wrong. I am the rightful Queen of the Onyx Court, and Lord Antony is its Prince. All who fight at our side shall find a welcome reward, when the realm is ours again.”
It was not a speech deserving of epic memory, but it did its job well enough. The gathered soldiers cheered, from the elf-knights in their gem-bright armor down to the twisted goblins and capricious pucks, and the sky answered with a rumble of thunder.
Turning to face Wayland, she found herself looking past him, and an idea sparked in her mind. Grand gestures had their place, on a night such as this. “One more favor, cousin, if I might beg it of you.”
He nodded.
“I should like to borrow your Horse.”
LONDON AND ENVIRONS: August 1, 1659
The faerie steeds carried them faster than any mortal could go, the ground whipping below at a pace that threatened to leave Antony’s stomach behind. Fortunately, he saw little of it; the thick clouds served as cover, hiding the faerie host that shot through the sky like a flight of arrows.