OATLANDS PALACE, SURREY: March 19, 1590
The countess was a kind woman, as ladies of the court went. She kept a weather eye not just on the Queen she served, but on the women who served her in turn. It did not escape her that a problem had arisen between her waiting-gentlewoman Anne Montrose and Michael Deven of the Gentlemen Pensioners, and following the revelation of that problem, the two of them had fallen out.
Lune would have preferred Lady Warwick to be less concerned for her well-being. As it was, she almost resorted to faerie magic to convince her human mistress to leave her be. Anne Montrose needed to be upset, but not too upset, lest the countess pry too closely; hidden behind that mask, Lune had to shake off the practiced habits of her masquerade, and figure out what to do next.
She cursed herself for the misstep. Originally she had fostered his worry about Elizabeth’s possible jealousy because it provided a convenient delaying tactic; their romance was useful, but she could not possibly afford to go through with an actual marriage. And he was not, unfortunately, the sort of courtier to indulge in an illicit affair for years on end without worrying about scandal. It would have been easier if he were. But he soon made it clear he wished to wed her, and so she had to find ways of putting him off.
She should have expected he would speak to the countess directly. She should have known, the first time she lied and said she had asked her mistress to look into the matter, that a time would come when she must produce an answer.
It was a problem she could not solve as Anne Montrose, because Anne loved Deven; the mortal woman she pretended to be would marry him and be done with it. As Lune, her one bitter consolation was that Deven was unlikely to spot fae manipulation at court, now that the nearest fae manipulator had become estranged from him.
But what now? She had no answer to that all-important question. Walsingham had other confidants — Robert Beale, Nicholas Faunt — but if she approached them in her current guise, all she would do was rouse suspicion. The more effective course of action, in the long term, would be to retreat and return under a different glamour and persona, but with the Principal Secretary searching for evidence of Invidiana’s hand, Lune could not afford the months it would take to reintegrate herself to any useful extent.
She might have no choice but to resort to more direct methods: concealment, eavesdropping, theft of papers, and other covert activities. To do so would require extensive use of charms, and so as far as she was concerned they were a last resort — but she might be at that point. Vidar expected her to provide information, and soon.
Deven’s absence left a palpable hole in her life. Their duties often kept them apart, but it had become habit to seek out occasions to meet, even if they saw each other only in passing, exchanging a smile while going opposite ways down a gallery or through a chamber. Now she avoided him, and he her. Being near each other was too uncomfortable.
What would she do without him? Not until he was gone did she realize how much she had depended on him. She saw Walsingham twice, at a distance, and fretted over what the Principal Secretary might be doing.
What Deven might be doing. He was, as he had said, Walsingham’s hound.
She lay awake late into the night the following Thursday, staring into the darkness as if it would provide an answer. And so she was awake when the countess rose from her bed and reached for a dressing gown.
Anne Montrose whispered, “My lady?”
“I cannot sleep,” the countess murmured back, pulling on the padded, fur-trimmed gown. “I need air. Will you walk with me?”
Anne shed her blankets and helped her mistress, fetching a coif to keep her head and ears warm outside. They both slipped on overshoes, then exited the chamber, leaving the other gentlewomen undisturbed.
Deep in the recesses of her mind, where Anne Montrose gave way to Lune, the faerie thought: Something is wrong.
The countess did not walk quickly, but she moved with purpose, through the palace and toward the nearest exterior door. Anne followed her, squinting to see in the near-total darkness, and then they were outside, where the air rested unnaturally still.
In the silence, she thought she heard a sound.
Music.
Music intended only for the countess’s ears.
Anne Montrose’s face took on a wary, alert expression her mistress would have been surprised to see — had she eyes for anything other than the miniature stone tower of the herber up ahead.
Who would summon her? Who would play a faerie song, to lure the Countess of Warwick from her bed and into the shadows of night?
They rounded the herber, and found someone waiting for them.
Orpheus’s rangy body was wrapped tenderly around the lyre, his fingers coaxing forth a melody that was still all but inaudible, to all but its intended target. The countess sank to the ground before him, heedless of the damp that immediately soaked into and through her dressing gown; her mouth hung slack as she gazed adoringly up at the mortal musician and listened to his immortal song.
Heavy footsteps squelched in the wet soil behind Lune, and again, as with Vidar, she realized the truth too late.
The countess was not the target. She was merely the lure, to draw Lune outside, away from mortal eyes.
Lune flung herself to the left, hoping to evade the one behind her, but hands the size of serving platters were waiting for her. She dropped to the ground — the fingers clamped shut above her shoulders, just missing their grip — but then a boot swung forward and struck her squarely in the back, sending her face-first into the dirt.
Two paces away, the countess sat serenely, oblivious to the violence, held by the power of Orpheus’s gift.
A knee planted itself in Lune’s back, threatening to snap her spine with its sheer weight. She cried out despite herself, and heard a nasty chuckle in response. Her arms were twisted up and back, bound together with brutal efficiency; then her captor hauled her up by her hair and flung her bodily against the stone wall of the herber.
Coughing, stumbling, eyes watering with pain, Lune could still make out the immense and hated bulk of Dame Halgresta Nellt.
“You fucked up, slut,” the low, rocky voice growled. Even through the venom, the pleasure was unmistakable. “The Queen forgave you once — Mab knows why. But she won’t forgive you this time.”
Lune forced her lungs to draw in air. “I haven’t,” she managed, then tried again. “Vidar knows. Everything I know. What goes on here. I report to him.”
Halgresta hadn’t come alone. Six goblins materialized out of the shadows, armed and armored and ready to catch Lune if she tried to run — as if she could outrun a giant. She had to talk her way out of this.
Talk her way out, with Halgresta. It would be like using a pin to dismantle an iron-bound door.
The giantess grinned, showing teeth like sharpened boulders. “Vidar knows everything, eh? Well, he does now. But not from you.”
What? What had Vidar learned? How had he gotten someone closer to Walsingham than she had?
“You lost your toy, bitch.” Halgresta’s voice struck her like another blow, knocking all the wind out. “You lost that mortal of yours.”
Deven.
The stabbing pain in her ribs was subsiding; Lune didn’t think anything was broken. She made herself stand straighter, despite her awkwardly bound arms. “I am not finished,” she said, with as much confidence as she could muster. “Deven is only one route to Walsingham. There are other ways to deal with the problem—”
Halgresta spat. The wad of spittle hit the countess’s shoulder and slid down, unnoticed; Orpheus’s melody was still ghosting through the air, plaintive and soft. “Right. Other ways. And other people to take care of them. You? You’re coming back to the Onyx Hall.”