They were far enough away; no one would overhear them. Elizabeth stopped and turned to face him, her back to the white trunks of the trees. Her aged face was set in unreadable lines. A cloud covered the sun, then blew away again, and Deven thought uneasily that perhaps he should have waited to find her in a fairer mood, after all.
“Say on,” she commanded him again.
Too late to back out. Deven said, “Her name is Invidiana.”
He should have knelt to deliver the information; it would have been respectful. But he had to stand, because he had to be looking her in the face as he said it. This was his one chance to see her reaction, the one time she might betray some hint that would tell him what he needed to know. And even then, he almost missed it. Elizabeth had played this game for decades; she was more talented an actor than most who made their living from it. Only the tiniest flicker of tension at the corners of her eyes showed when he spoke the name: there for an instant, and then gone.
But it was there, however briefly.
Now Deven dropped to his knees, his heart fluttering so wildly it made his hands shake. “Your Majesty,” he said, heedless of whether he might be cutting her off, desperate to get the words out before she could say anything, deny anything. “For days now I have thought myself a madman. I have met — people — spoken to them, heard stories that would be incredible were they played upon a stage. But I know them to be true. I have come to you today, risked speaking of this so openly, because events are in motion which could bring an upheaval as great as that threatened by Spain. Consider me a messenger, if you will.”
And with that he halted; he could think of nothing more to say. The light shifted around him, and the wind blew more strongly, as if a storm might be on its way.
From above him, Elizabeth’s measured, controlled voice. “She sent you to me?”
He swallowed. “No. I represent… others.”
Footsteps approached; a rustle of satin, as Elizabeth gestured whomever it was away. When they were alone again, she said, “Explain yourself.”
Those two words were very, very cold. Deven curled his gloved hands into fists. “I have come into contact with a group of… these people, who believe that a pact exists between their Queen and someone in your Majesty’s own court — perhaps you yourself. The man who told them of this pact was of our own kind, and had long dwelled among them, but he died in the course of confessing this information. He claimed the pact was detrimental to both sides. They wish it to be broken, and have asked me to discover its nature and terms.”
How he wished he could see her face! But Elizabeth had not told him to rise, nor did she interrupt his explanation. He had no choice but to continue. “Madam, I know not what to think. They say she is not their rightful Queen, that she deposed many others across England when she ascended to her throne. They say she is cold and cruel — that, at least, I most sincerely believe, for I do not think they could counterfeit such fear. They say their aid has helped maintain your Grace’s own safety and security, and perhaps this is true. But if so…” His heart was hammering so loudly, the entire camp must be able to hear it. “I do not know if this pact should be broken. Even if I knew its terms, that is not a decision for me to make. All I can do, in good conscience, is lay what I know at your feet, and beg your good wisdom and counsel.”
The long speech left his mouth bone dry. How many people were watching them discreetly, wondering what private suit drove him to his knees, with his face so pale? Did Elizabeth show anger, confusion, fear?
He might have just ended his career at court, in one disastrous afternoon.
Deven whispered, “If your Majesty is caught in some bargain from which you would escape, you have but to say so, and I will do everything I may to end it. But if these creatures are your enemies — if they threaten the security of your throne — then bid me stop them, and I will.”
The sunlight flickered, then shone down with renewed strength. His linen undershirt was soaked with sweat.
Elizabeth said in courteous, impassive tones, “We thank you, Master Deven, and will take this information under advisement. Speak of this to no other.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Luncheon is served, it seems. Go you and eat, and send Lord Essex to me.”
“I humbly take my leave.” Deven rose, not looking at her, backed away three steps, and bowed deeply. Then he fled, wishing it would not be an insult to quit the hunt early, before anyone asked him questions he could not answer.
MOOR FIELDS, LONDON: May 1, 1590
The celebrations began in the hours before dawn, and would fade away with the morning light. To dance out here — in the open, under the stars, yet just outside the city walls — was an act of mad defiance, a fleeting laugh at the masses of humanity from which they ordinarily hid, holding their revels underground, or in wilder places. It also required a tremendous outlay of effort.
The laundresses’ pegs and the archers’ marks that normally dotted the open places of Moor Fields had been cleared away. The grass, trodden into dusty brownness and hard-packed dirt, was briefly, verdantly green, growing in a thick carpet that cushioned the bare feet of the dancers. The dark, somber tones that predominated in the Onyx Hall had given way to riotous color: pink and red and spring green, yellow and blue and one doublet of violent purple. Flower petals, fresh leaves, feathers whose edges gleamed with iridescent light; the garb tonight was all of living things, growing things, in honor of the first of May.
And the fae of the Onyx Court danced. Musicians wove competing tapestries in the air, flutes and hautbois and tabors sending forth sound and light and illusions that ornamented the dance. Orpheus wandered the edges, serenading the many lovers. Blossoms sprang up where he walked. Great bonfires burned at the four corners of their field, serving more than one purpose; they provided heat, light, fire for the festival, and foundation points for the immense web of charms that concealed all this revelry from watching eyes.
When the sun rose, mortals would go forth for their own May Day celebrations. They would pick flowers in the woods, dance around maypoles, and enjoy the onset of benevolent weather. But a few had started early: here and there, a human strayed near enough to the fires to pierce the veils that concealed them, and become aware of the crowds that had overtaken Moor Fields. A young man lay with his head in Lady Carline’s lap, eating grapes from her fingers. Another scrambled on the ground in front of her, rump in the air, behaving for all the world like a dog in human form — but for once, those who laughed at him did so without the edge of cold malice their voices would ordinarily have borne. Maidens whirled about the dancing ground with faerie gentlemen who wove blossoms into their hair and whispered sweet nothings into their ears. Nor was everyone young: a stout peasant woman had wandered from her house on Bishopsgate Street to chase a dog not long after sundown on May Eve, and now stamped a merry measure with the best of them, her face red and shining with effort.
Amidst all this splendor, one figure was conspicuous by her absence: conspicuous, but not missed. The Wild Hunt could more easily strike at this open field than at the subterranean confines of the Onyx Hall, and so Invidiana stayed below.
They had more fun without her.
The Queen’s absence helped Lune breathe more easily. With wine flowing like water, everyone was merry, and many of them forgot to snub those who deserved snubbing. Nor did the snared mortals have any notion of politics. Shortly after midnight, a young man stumbled up to her, wine cup in hand, mouth languorous and searching for a kiss. He had brown hair and blue eyes, and Lune pushed him away, then regretted the violence of her action. But she did not need the reminder of Michael Deven, and the celebrations Elizabeth’s court would engage in today.