Nianna backed down, but not graciously. Lune might have to find a new informant to keep her abreast of matters. She would not have antagonized Nianna so, but the conference with Vidar had put her back up, and left her with no patience for the lady’s passing mortal infatuation.
They parted on coldly courteous terms, and Lune wandered through the garden alone. Two faerie lights drifted loose from the constellation above and floated about her shoulders. Lune brushed them away. Since losing her position in the privy chamber, she had not the rank or favor to merit such decoration, and did not want anyone carrying tales of her presumption. By the time they reached the ears of those in power, the casual wanderings of two faerie lights would be a halo of glory she had shaped and placed on her own head.
The conversation with Nianna left her weary. She had intended to spend more time in the Onyx Hall, to see for herself how the patterns of alliance and power had shifted, but all that talk of Awdeley had turned her thoughts back to the mortal court. Nianna’s infatuation was simple to understand. Lune herself spent a great deal of time feigning just such an attachment.
Her feet sought out the chamber of the alder roots. She had a brief leave from the duties of her masquerade; she would go to Islington and rest herself at the Angel, under the friendly care of the Goodemeades, before returning to the life and duties of Anne Montrose.
RICHMOND PALACE, RICHMOND: February 12, 1590
The Christmas season had gone, and with it went a great deal of gaiety and celebration. While some privileged courtiers continued to dwell at Hampton Court nearby — the Countess of Warwick among them — the core of Elizabeth’s court removed to Richmond, a much smaller palace, and more used for business than pleasure.
Deven would not have minded, were it not that he no longer saw Anne even in passing. The entire corps of Gentlemen Pensioners was obliged to attend the Queen at Christmas, and the increased numbers did not lighten anyone’s load; indeed, the extra effort required to organize the full band during the elaborate ceremonies of the season was draining. Life at Richmond was simpler, if more austere, and free time easier to come by.
Easier to come by, and easier to spend: Deven found himself often closeted with Robert Beale, Walsingham’s secretary. As much as the common folk might like to believe that the defeat of the Armada ended the threat from Spain, they were not so lucky, as the reports pouring in from agents abroad showed. Philip of Spain still had his eye fixed on heretic England and its heretic Queen.
“Did you hear,” Beale said, laying down a paper and rubbing his eyes, “that Essex wants command of the forces being sent to Brittany?”
The room was small enough that the fire made it stuffy; Deven took advantage of Beale’s pause to set down his own reading and unbutton the front of his doublet so he could shrug out of it. The green damask was pulling apart at the shoulder, but the garment was comfortable, and Fitzgerald had not assigned him to duty today. He had not even bothered with a collar or cuffs that morning; he had slipped from his quarters to here in a state of half-dress, intending to spend the entire day cloistered away from court ritual.
He laid the doublet over an unused chair and dragged his thoughts back to what Beale had said. “You’re ahead of me, as usual,” Deven admitted, returning to his seat. “I did not even know the Brittany expedition had been agreed to.”
“It hasn’t, but it will be.”
Deven shook his head. “The Queen will never let him go. She’s overfond of that one.”
“Which means he will be insufferable with frustration. The man should be allowed to go abroad and kill things; it might cool his hot head.”
“If these reports are accurate, he will have his chance soon enough.” Deven scowled at the note in his hands. Someone had got hold of a message in cipher, and Walsingham had passed it to his steganographer Thomas Phelippes. The report Phelippes had returned to them was written in a clear hand, and Deven’s fledgling Spanish was sufficient to interpret it; the problem must be in the message itself. “I doubt the accuracy of this one, though, unless Philip plans to arm every man, woman, child, and cow in Spain.”
“Forget Spain.” The voice came from behind Deven; he twisted in his chair in time to see Walsingham closing the door behind himself.
The Principal Secretary’s face looked pinched, and his words were startling. Forget Spain? They were the Great Enemy; Deven would no more expect Walsingham to forget Spain than for Philip to forget Elizabeth.
“Not you, Robin,” Walsingham said, as the Secretary moved to set down the papers in his hand. Beale sighed and kept them. “I have a task for you, Deven.”
“Sir.” Deven rose and bowed, wishing he had at least kept his doublet on. His breeches, only loosely laced on in the absence of a doublet to be tied to, threatened to flap at the waist.
Walsingham ignored his state of undress. “Ireland.”
“Ireland?” He sounded foolish, repeating the Principal Secretary’s statement, but it was entirely unexpected. “What of it, sir?”
“Fitzwilliam has accused Perrot of treason — of conspiring with Philip to overthrow her Majesty.”
Sir John Perrot was a name Deven had only recently become familiar with; one of Walsingham’s men, he had returned a year and a half before from a stint as Lord Deputy in Ireland. Fitzwilliam, then, must be Sir William Fitzwilliam, his successor.
Beale had been listening, not reading; now he said, “Impossible.”
Walsingham nodded. “Indeed. And this is why, Deven, you will turn your thoughts from Spain to Ireland. Fitzwilliam has a grievance with Perrot; he resents that Perrot sits on the privy council and advises her Majesty on Irish affairs, and resents more that the lords in Ireland have taken to writing him directly, bypassing Fitzwilliam’s own authority. I am not surprised by his antagonism. What surprises me is the form it has taken. Why this accusation, and why now?”
Deven didn’t want to voice the thought that had come into his head, but no doubt Walsingham had already thought the same. “The answers to that, sir, most likely lie in Ireland.”
He did not want to go. Aside from the general unpleasantness of traveling to Ireland, it would take him away from court and Anne, neither of which he wanted to leave for long. But he could not pledge his service to Walsingham, and then balk when asked to serve him elsewhere. It would be a mark of the Secretary’s trust; Beale himself had been sent on diplomatic missions before.
But Walsingham was shaking his head. “It may come to that, but not yet. I suspect some cause here at court. Fitzwilliam is Burghley’s man; I doubt Burghley has goaded him to this, but there may be factional forces I am not seeing. Before I send you anywhere, I will have you look about court. Who shows an interest in Ireland? Who is formulating petitions regarding affairs there, that have not yet reached the privy council?”
“It might have nothing to do with Ireland. Perhaps this strike has entirely to do with Perrot, and Fitzwilliam is simply a convenient route to it.”
Beale nodded at this, but Walsingham again shook his head. “I do not think so. Keep your eyes open, certainly, for anything regarding Perrot — but Ireland is your focus. Search out anything I may have missed.”
“Yes, sir.” Deven bowed again and reached for his doublet.
“Anything,” Walsingham repeated, as Deven quickly looped his points through the waist of the doublet and started on the buttons. “Even things in the past — years past. Whatever you may find.”