“Just so,” Rosamund answered.
Now he was included in Lune’s disbelieving stare. “That is not possible. I remember—”
“Most people do,” Gertrude said. “Not specific memories, tied to specific mortal years — no, you’re quite right, we do not measure time so closely. Perhaps if we did, more fae would notice the change. The Onyx Court as such has only existed for thirty-one years, perhaps a bit longer, depending on how one considers it. Vidar has been there longer. But all your memories of Invidiana’s reign do not go further back than that. You just believe they do, and forget what came before.”
Rosamund nodded. “My sister and I are some of the only ones who remember what came before. Francis was another. She let him remember on purpose, I believe, and we were with him when it happened; he kept us from forgetting. Of the others who know, every last one now rides with the Wild Hunt.”
Lune’s silver eyes widened, and she set her mug down with careful hands. “They claim to be kings.”
“And they were,” Gertrude confirmed. “Kings of faerie England, one corner of it or another. Until Elizabeth became Queen, and Invidiana with her. In one day — one moment — she deposed them all.”
Deven had not forgotten where the conversation began. “But why? This cannot be usual for your kind.” It was not usual for his kind, to be sitting in a hidden cellar of a faerie house, speaking with two brownies and an elf. His mead sat untouched on the table before him; he knew better than to drink it. “Why the connection?”
“We are creatures of magic,” Rosamund said, as casually as if she were reminding him they were English. “And in its own way, a coronation ceremony is magic; it makes a king — or a queen — out of an ordinary mortal. Gertrude and I have always assumed Invidiana took advantage of that ritual to establish her own power.”
Lune’s voice came from his right, unsteady and faint. “But she did more than that, didn’t she? Because there was a pact.”
“‘Pact?’ ” The word chilled Deven. “What do you mean?”
For a moment, he thought he perceived both sorrow and horror in her expression. “Do you recall me asking after a mortal named Francis Merriman?” Deven nodded warily. “He was under my eyes, as I was under yours. He… died tonight. He told me of a pact formed by Invidiana, my Queen, that he said was harming mortals and fae alike. And he begged me to break it.”
Deven said, “But a pact…”
“Must be known to both parties,” Rosamund finished for him. “Any fae with an ounce of political sense knows that Invidiana regularly interferes with the mortal court, and uses that court to control her own people. And from time to time a mortal learns that he or she has dealings with fae — usually someone enough in thrall that they will not betray it. But if what Francis said is correct… then someone on the other side knows precisely what is going on.”
The words were trembling in Deven’s throat. He let them out one by one, fearing what they meant. “The Principal Secretary… he told me of a hidden player. And he believed that player did — not often, but at times — have direct access to her Majesty.”
He missed their reactions; he could not bring himself to look up from his clenched fists. The suggestion was incredible, even coming from his own mouth. That Elizabeth might know of faeries — not simply know of them, but traffic with them….
“I believe it,” Lune whispered. “Indeed, it makes more sense than I like.”
“But why?” Frustrated fear and confusion boiled out of Deven. “Why should such a pact be formed? What would Elizabeth stand to gain?”
An ironic smile touched Lune’s thin, sculpted lips. “The keeping of her throne. We have worked hard to ensure it, at Invidiana’s command. The Queen of Scots you have already named; Invidiana took great care to remove her as a threat. Likewise with other political complications. And the Armada…”
Her sentence trailed off, but Gertrude finished it, quite cheerfully. “You have Lady Lune to thank for those storms that kept the Spanish from our shores.”
The bottom dropped out of Deven’s stomach. Lune said, “I negotiated the treaty only. I have no power to summon storms myself.”
He desperately floundered his way back to politics, away from magic. “And your Queen gained her own throne in return.”
The black feathers he’d collected along the way had fallen from his hand at some point after he came downstairs. Lune had the broken tip of one in her fingers, and with it was tracing invisible patterns on the tabletop, her gaze unfocused. “More than that,” she said, distant with thought. “Elizabeth is a Protestant.”
Rosamund nodded. “Whereas Mary Tudor and Mary Stewart were both Catholics.”
“What means that to you? Surely you cannot be Christian.”
“Indeed, we are not,” Lune said. “But Christianity can be a weapon against us — as you yourself have seen.” Nor had Deven forgotten; he would use it again, if necessary. “Catholics have rites against us — prayers, exorcisms, and the like.”
“As does the Church of England. And many puritan-minded folk call your kind all devils; surely that cannot be to your advantage.”
“But the puritans are few in number, and the Church of England is a new-formed thing, which few follow with any ardor. ’Tis a compromise, designed to offend as few as possible as little as possible, and it has not existed long enough for its rites to acquire true power. The Book of Common Prayer is an empty litany to most people, form without the passionate substance of faith.” Lune laid the feather tip down on the table and turned her attention to him. “This might change, in years to come. But for now, the ascendancy of your Protestant Queen is a boon to us.”
He could taste his pulse, so hard was his heart beating. The chessboard in his mind rearranged itself, pieces of new colors adding themselves to the fray. Walsingham had surely never dreamed of this. And when Beale heard…
If Beale heard.
In personal beliefs, Walsingham had been a Protestant reformer, a “puritan” as their opponents called them; he would have loved to see the Church of England stripped of its many remaining papist trappings. But Walsingham was also a political realist, who knew well that any attempt at sweeping reformation would provoke rebellion Elizabeth could not survive. Beale, on the other hand, was outspoken about his beliefs, and often agitated for puritan causes at court.
Should Beale ever hear that Elizabeth, the great compromiser of religion, had formed a pact with a faerie queen—
England was already at war with Catholic powers. She could not fight another one within her own borders.
Deven looked from Rosamund, to Gertrude, to Lune. “You said this Francis Merriman of yours begged you to break the pact.”
Lune nodded. “He said it was a mistake, that both sides had suffered for it.” Her hesitation was difficult to read; the silver eyes were alien to him. “I do not know the effects of this pact, but I know Invidiana. I can imagine why he wanted me to break it.”
“Do you intend to do so?”
The question hung in the air. This deep underground, there was no sound except their breathing, and the soft crackling of the fire. The Goodemeade sisters had their lips pressed together in matching expressions; both of them were watching Lune, whose gaze lay on the broken feather tip before her.
Deven had known Anne Montrose — or thought he had. This silver-haired faerie woman, he did not know at all. He would have given a great deal to hear her thoughts just then.
“I do not know how to,” Lune said, very controlled.