“They are a secretive people; they do not welcome commerce with outsiders, and reckon themselves to have little care what goes on above the surface of the water. Indeed, in some cases they bear hostility toward those who live on land.” Such as, for example, the Cour du Lys, the strongest faerie court in the north of France. Lune did not know what offense had been committed there, but she knew there had been one. She would have to be careful not to offer the ambassador any information that might be useful in healing that breach.
But her explanations had to seem natural and unaffected. “They would not speak directly to anyone who lives on the surface,” Lune said, “but they will talk to our river nymphs, sometimes. We had occasional contact through the estuary at Gravesend. It was through this that Invidiana arranged for my embassy. They agreed to let me come among them; I do not know what she promised them for that concession.”
“Did you go alone?” the envoy asked.
“Two of the estuary nymphs accompanied me, their tolerance for saltwater being higher than their riverbound sisters. Beyond that, I was served by the folk of the sea.”
“And how did you go among them?”
She could still feel the air whistling past her cheeks, the gut clench of fear that this had all been some cruel jest of Invidiana’s. Lune closed her eyes, then made herself open them and meet Madame Malline’s gaze. “I leapt from the cliffs of Dover. And that, madame ambassadrice, is all I will say for now.” She rose, stepped clear of her stool, and spread her soiled skirts in a curtsy. “If you would know more, then show me what you can do on my behalf.”
Madame Malline studied her, then nodded thoughtfully. “Oui, Lady Lune. I will do so. And I look forward to hearing the continuation of your tale.”
A moment later she was gone, and the door closed again, blocking out all light. But a stool stayed behind, a promise of assistance to come.
ST. JAMES’ PALACE, WESTMINSTER: April 10, 1590
In the end, his urine came forth at his mouth and nose, with so odious a stench that none could endure to come near him.
The report crumpled abruptly in Deven’s hand; he made his fingers unclench. Laying the paper on the table, he smoothed it out, and suppressed the urge to fling it in the fire.
Walsingham was barely in his tomb, and already the Catholics were rejoicing, and spreading damnable rumors in their glee. They made of the Principal Secretary’s death something so utterly vile—
The paper was creasing again. Deven snarled and turned his back on it.
He did so in time to see Beale enter the room. The older man looked as if he had not slept well the previous night, but he was composed. Beale’s gaze flicked past Deven to the battered report.
“They saw him as their chief persecutor,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of graying hair out of his eyes. “So terrible a figure cannot die like an ordinary man, and so they invent stories, which confirm their belief that he was an atheist and font of rank corruption.”
Deven’s jaw ached as he moved it, from having been clenched so tight. “No doubt there will be a festival in Spain, when the news reaches Philip.”
“No doubt.” Beale came farther into the room, sought out a chair and sank into it. “While here we mourn him. The English Crown has lost a great supporter. A great man.”
At the moment when we need him the most.
The thought was casual, reflexive — and then the implications struck him.
His jerk of movement drew Beale’s eye. “Indeed,” Deven said, half to himself. “The Catholics are very glad of it. But he said he did not think the guilty party was Catholic.”
Beale frowned. “‘Guilty party’?”
Deven turned to face him, driven by a sudden energy. “He must have spoken of it to you- — he held you in great trust. A hidden player, he told me, scarcely a month gone. Someone with a hand in our court, who operates in secret.”
“Ah,” Beale said, and his frown deepened. “Yes.”
“Do you doubt him?”
“Not entirely.” Beale’s hands moved to straighten the papers scattered over the desk, as if they needed something to do while his brain and mouth were otherwise occupied. “He told you of the Queen of Scots, I presume? In that matter, I agree with him. I was closely involved with certain parts of that affair, and I do believe someone was influencing the Queen. Regarding the recent events with Perrot… I am not so sure.”
Disregarding this latter part, Deven said, “But you do believe there is such a player.”
“Or was. He may be gone now.”
“Walsingham set me to hunt this man. He hoped fresh eyes might see what his could not. And now he’s dead.”
The paper shuffling stopped, as Beale saw the mark he aimed at. “Deven,” he said, clearly choosing his words with care, “Sir Francis has — had been sick for a long time. Think of his absence last year. This is not a new-sprung development, risen out of nowhere in the last month.”
“But if the hidden player is still around, and is involved with the Irish matter—”
“If, if,” Beale said impatiently. “I am not convinced of either. And even were it so, why not eliminate you? After all, you are the one up to your eyebrows in the trouble surrounding Perrot. If anyone was about to uncover the secret, it would be you.”
Deven snorted. “I do not have so high an opinion of myself as to think I pose a greater threat than Walsingham. If I did not uncover it, someone else would, and pass it along to him.”
Beale rose and came around the corner of the table to take him by the shoulders. “Michael,” the older secretary said, soft but firm. “I know it would be easier to believe that someone poisoned or cursed Sir Francis, and brought about his untimely death. But he was a sick man, one who had shaken off illness often before in his determination to continue his work. He could not do so forever. God willed it that his time should end. That is all the explanation there is.”
The grip on his shoulders threatened his self-control. Just a short month before, Deven had seen before himself a bright and intriguing future, with both a patron and a wife to lend it purpose. Now he had no prospect of either.
All he had was the duty the Principal Secretary had laid upon him.
Deven stepped back, out of Beale’s hands. His voice came out steadier than he expected as he said, “No doubt you are right. But it does not answer the matter of this hidden player. You do not know if he is still around, but you also do not know that he is gone. I intend to find out. Will you help me?”
Beale grimaced. “As I may. Sir Francis’s death has put matters into disarray. If anything is to be preserved of the work he has done, the agents and informers he acquired, I’ll have to find someone else to take them on.”
This broke through the desolate fog that had gripped Deven’s mind. He had not thought of that, but of course Beale was right; only someone well placed on the privy council could make good use of Walsingham’s people. “Did you have someone in mind?”
“Burghley has made overtures, which I expected. But Essex also expressed an interest.”
“Essex?” Deven knew it was disrespectful, but he could not repress a snort. “He hasn’t the patience for intelligence work.” Or the mind.
“No, he hasn’t. But he married Sir Francis’s daughter.”
“What?”
Beale sighed heavily, sitting once more. “In secret. I don’t know when, and I don’t know if Sir Francis knew. But Essex told me, as a means of strengthening his position.” His tired eyes shifted back up to Deven. “Do not tell the Queen.”
“And risk her throwing a shoe at me? I think not.” Essex had been her favorite since his stepfather Leicester’s death, though God alone knew why. The Queen’s affection was easy enough to understand; she was in her late fifties, and Essex not yet twenty-five. But Deven did not believe the man held much affection for his sovereign. Elizabeth might still be admired for her wit and political acumen, but not for her beauty, and Essex did not seem the type to love her mind. His affection would last precisely as long as the tangible rewards of her favor.