William Tighe stood before him, ceremonial polearm in hand. On the other side of the doorway, John Darrington was changing places with Arthur Capell. Deven relaxed his stance and nodded thanks to Tighe.
As he stepped aside, he saw something that distracted him from the endless riddle in his mind. Across the chamber, the Countess of Warwick laid aside her embroidery hoop and rose from her cushion. She made a deep curtsy to Elizabeth, then backed away. Transferring the poleax to his left hand, Deven moved quickly to the outer door, where he bowed and opened it for the countess.
He followed her out into the watching chamber, past the Yeomen of the Guard and usher at that door, and as soon as they passed out of earshot he said, “Lady Warwick. If I could beg a moment of your time?”
She looked mildly surprised, but nodded and gestured for him to walk at her side. Together they passed out of the watching chamber, filled with those courtiers hoping for an opportunity to gain entrance to the more restricted and privileged domain beyond. Deven waited until they had escaped those rapacious ears before he said, “I humbly beg your pardon for troubling you with this matter; I am certain there are many other, more pressing cares that demand your ladyship’s time. But I am sure you can understand how affection drives a man’s heart to impatience. Have you any sense yet how her Majesty’s disposition lies, with respect to my desire?”
It was far from the most elaborate speech he had ever delivered at court, yet he seemed to have puzzled the countess. “Your desire?”
“Mistress Montrose, your waiting-gentlewoman,” Deven said. “She tells me she has asked your ladyship to discern which way the wind blows with the Queen — whether her Grace would be angered by the notion of our marriage.”
Her step slowed marginally. Working in Walsingham’s service, Deven had questioned a variety of dubious men; he had learned to read body language very well. What he read in her hesitation chilled him. “Master Deven… she has made no such request of me.”
They walked on a few more strides, Deven’s legs carrying him obediently onward, because he had not yet told them to do otherwise.
“No such request,” he repeated, dumbly.
The look she gave him was guarded, but compassionate. “If you wish it, I can discover her Majesty’s inclination on the matter. I am sure she would not object.”
Deven shook his head, slowly. “No… no. That is… I thank you, my lady.” The words came out by rote. “I may ask for your good office in this matter later. But I… I should speak to Anne.”
“Yes,” the countess said softly. “I imagine you should. God give you good day, Master Deven.”
OATLANDS PALACE, SURREY: March 15, 1590
He did not seek out Anne until the next day. He spent the evening alone in his chamber, sending Ranwell off on a spurious errand. Colsey waited on him alone that night, and was permitted to stay because he would keep his mouth shut.
The place his thoughts led him was not pleasant, but he could not avoid it. And delay would not improve matters. When he had leisure the following afternoon, he went in search of Anne.
She was not with the countess; she had been assigned other tasks that day. Oatlands was a small palace compared with Hampton Court or Whitehall, yet it seemed the proverbial haystack that day, and Anne the needle that kept eluding his search. Not until nearly dusk did he find her, when he went again to check the countess’s own chambers, and found her making note of a delivery of books.
He stopped on the threshold, his movement suddenly arrested, and she looked up from her paper. The smile that lit her face made him hope it was all a simple misunderstanding — but he did not believe it.
“We must speak,” he said without preamble.
Anne put down the pen and bit her lip. “The countess may return soon; I should—”
“She will forgive you this absence.”
A thin line formed between her pale brows, but she rose from her seat. “Very well.”
He would not have this conversation inside; there were always ears to overhear, whether they belonged to courtiers or servants of the household. Anne fetched a cloak. Deven had not thought to bring one for himself. Together they went out into the orchard, where the trees only intermittently protected against the spring wind.
Anne walked with him in silence, granting him the time he needed. The words were prepared in his mind, yet they did not come out easily. Not with her at his side.
“I spoke with the countess today.”
“Oh?” She seemed guardedly curious, no more.
“About the Queen. About — you, and me, and the matter of our marriage.” His cheeks and lips were going cold already. “That was the first she heard of it.”
Anne’s step slowed, as the countess’s had before her.
Deven made himself turn to face her. His gut felt tight, like he was holding himself together by muscle alone. “If you do not wish to marry me, all you need do is say so.”
The words were spoken, and she did not immediately dispute them. Instead she dropped her chin, so that her hood half-concealed her face. That gesture, too, spoke clearly to him. He waited, trying not to shiver, and almost missed it when she whispered, “’Tis not that I do not wish to. I cannot.”
“Cannot?” He had resigned himself to her cooled affections, or tried to; now he seized on this word with mingled hope and confusion. “Why?”
She shook her head, not meeting his gaze.
“Does your father not approve?”
Another shake of her head. “-I — I have no father.”
“Are you promised already to another? Wed to another, God forbid?” Again she denied it. Deven groped for other possible reasons. “Are you Catholic?”
A wild, inappropriate laugh escaped her, then cut off abruptly. “No.”
“Then in God’s name, why not?”
He said it louder than he meant to. Anne flinched and turned away, presenting her cloaked back to him. “-I—” Her voice was ragged, like his, but determined. He knew well how strong her will was, but it had never been turned against him before. “I am sorry, Michael. You deserve an explanation, and I have none. But I cannot marry you.”
The strained beats of his heart marked the time as he stared at her, waiting for further words, that were not forthcoming. “Now, or ever?”
Another painfully long pause. “Ever.”
That flat declaration drained the warmth out of him faster than the bitter air ever could. Deven swallowed down the first three responses that came to his tongue; even now, in his bafflement and pain, he did not want to hurt her, though the urge flared within him. Finally he said, hearing the roughness in his own voice, “Then why did you let me believe you would?”
She turned back at last, and the tears that should have been in her eyes were absent. She had a distant look about her, and though it might simply be how she showed pain, it angered him. Had this meant nothing to her?
“I feared you would leave me, when you knew,” she said. “You are your father’s heir, and must marry. I did not wish to lose you to another.”
The words were too manipulative. He was expected to protest, to tell her there was no other in his heart, and though it was true he would not say it. “If you wished me to stay, then you should not have kept me like a fish on a hook. I believed you trusted me more than that — as I trusted you.”
Now tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes. “Forgive me.”
He shook his head, slowly. There was some riddle here he could not solve, but he had not the will to untangle it. If he stayed any longer, he would say something he would regret.
Turning, he left her in the dead wilderness of the orchard, with her cloak rippling in the cold wind.