William Cecil, chief secretary to John Dudley, duke of Northumberland, cast one flashing glance at his master before lowering his eyes to the sheet on which he was making notes. Inside he was cold with horror. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. He had known that his master was growing more and more desperate as the young king's health worsened and he had guessed that Northumberland was making plans to protect himself, but it had not occurred to him that the duke would try to solve his problem by changing the succession.
All of England had accepted the succession as defined in the Will of Henry VIII and the Act of Succession voted by the Parliament. England had been satisfied with their paragon of a young king; some it is true had not been happy with his weak economic policy and strong leaning toward the reformed religion or his increasing intolerance for any hint of Catholic practice. Most of the commons, the merchants, and the minor nobility blamed those who governed for him. They hoped by the time he came of age he would better understand the political and religious realities so that when he took the management of the kingdom into his own hands the wrongs would be righted.
When rumors began to ooze through the country of Edward's illness, no one was happy. Still, no one was in a panic either. The country would not fall into anarchy. The succession was established. There were two recognized heirs—or, rather, heiresses—the royal line of England was singularly without males. That was most unfortunate; no one really looked forward to a queen regnant. But the entire country dearly loved Lady Mary, who was known for her kindness and her steady courage.
What William Cecil was hearing was treason. Yet how could it be treason when the device he was recording was said to come from the king himself? Cecil did not believe it. Edward was inclined to reverence his father and not to wish to change what Henry VIII had decreed—except in matters of religion.
Cecil's lips tightened and he took the lower between his teeth, concealing the mark of anxiety with his bent head. Religion. That was the crux of the matter. Edward was a violent bigot. He abhorred all things Catholic, and Mary, his heir, was devotedly Catholic. No pressure placed on her, not even Edward's own pleading and remonstrance had induced her to put aside her Masses. So it could be that Edward had worked out this "devise."
Only this arrangement excluded Elizabeth as well as Mary and Cecil knew Edward was fond of Elizabeth and knew her to prefer the reformed religion. Cecil himself had not been looking forward to Mary coming to the throne. He was convinced that the Catholic religion and, in particular, the Catholic papacy and priests were corrupt and greedy, and his wife was strongly of his opinion. Cecil was perfectly willing to keep his lips sealed over his religious preference, but he was quite sure that the Lady Mary would not be satisfied with quiet nonobservance. If he wished to serve and, more especially, rise in her government, open conformity would be required . . . Mass, confession, tithing to the Church . . .
"Let me see what you have written—and you yourself need to write this matter. No secretaries. No hint of the king's devise should go farther than your chamber."
"No, Your Grace, of course not. But . . . but I cannot understand why the king has . . . has disinherited Lady Elizabeth. I understand that to have a strong Catholic on the throne, who would be inclined to marry only another Catholic, would be a disaster for this realm. Lady Elizabeth, however, believes as the king does. I remember that he called her his Sweet Sister Temperance and always took great joy in her company."
Northumberland stared down, his face expressionless except for a twitch on the left side of his mouth. "Ah, yes. You are in high favor with Lady Elizabeth. You hold a position as surveyor of her estates, do you not?"
"Yes, Your Grace, I do."
"And you looked to rise higher still if she became queen."
Cecil shrugged. "That possibility was far in the future if it were ever to come about. I—"
"Well, it will not!" Northumberland's jaw clenched. "The king himself saw that it was impossible to disinherit one sister because she was declared illegitimate and not the other, when she, too, was declared illegitimate and is, moreover, a very headstrong young woman, disinclined to take advice." He paused, then said, "I want that document in my hands before dinner. Do not make any copy and destroy the notes you have made. And if there is any hint of a rumor about this disposition . . ."
Northumberland turned and walked out of the room. For a moment Cecil sat staring down at his notes. No, this time he dared not send even a distant hint to Elizabeth. And what good would a hint do? Unless he was totally explicit, no one would understand what he was hinting about. The idea was incredible! To change the succession to heirs male of Frances Brandon or of her daughters. Why the girls were just barely married. Who knew if there would be heirs male . . . or any heirs at all . . . The poor little king was fading fast.
To exclude Mary and Elizabeth . . . Could Northumberland carry enough of the Council? Cecil sighed. They were all so much afraid of him. The shock to Elizabeth would be dreadful, but . . . Wait! What did Northumberland intend to do with Mary and Elizabeth? To ignore them was an open invitation to rebellion. That Mary should rule and Elizabeth follow if Mary had no heir was a settled fact in the public mind. Whatever the Council was forced to agree to, the gentry and the people would be shocked and angry. The first event anyone disapproved would bring an army of supporters to one princess or the other.
Cold coursed down Cecil's spine. Northumberland was far too good a soldier to leave an armed and unbeaten enemy free in his rear. He fumbled in the drawer of his writing table for a sheet of parchment. Northumberland would try to seize both ladies. And God alone knew what would happen to them once they were in his hand.
Then Cecil breathed a soft sigh of relief. He had only the day before sent an order under the king's seal telling Elizabeth that she should not come to London, that Edward would not be able to receive her. Cecil bit his lip again. Would she obey it? Elizabeth was just the kind to confine the messenger until after she had reached London and claim she had not received the message in time to turn back. Despite his anxiety Cecil could not restrain a chuckle. Biddable? No, Lady Elizabeth was not biddable. Northumberland would be much happier with an infant heir from one of Frances Brandon's daughters.
Cecil flattened the sheet of parchment on the table and dipped his quill into the ink. Without glancing at the notes he had made, he began to write out the king's "devise." If the king survived until a boy child was born to one of the girls named in the "devise," Cecil knew he would have time enough to provide some warning to Elizabeth against falling into Northumberland's hands.
By then, too, news of the altered succession might well be abroad from other sources so Northumberland would not blame his secretary for tattling. And surely Lord Denno would warn Elizabeth that she was in danger from Northumberland if even a hint of the change of succession came to his ears. Also, Cecil's long silence would ring an alarm bell for Elizabeth. She would know he had been forbidden to communicate with her by the duke. Neither of them ever mentioned the future, but . . .
Despite her original insistence on going to see her brother, Elizabeth was actually glad to be back in Hatfield. The messenger had been hurried away between Gerrit and Shaylor to be questioned, and Sir Edward had ordered the gates be closed and a watch be set to warn of any large party approaching.
Now that she was safe, Elizabeth found she was cold with shock. She had been attacked before, but that had been Underhill, where everything was somewhat unreal to her.
She remembered now that Denno had told her an attempt to abduct her had been made when she was only three, but apparently she had slept peacefully through that desperate battle and knew nothing about it. Had this been another attempt to abduct her? Gerrit and Shaylor would wrench that out of the messenger—if he knew. The man who had reached for her and been unable to seize her because of her shield had not threatened her with any weapon. But he had a weapon in his other hand. Who knew what he might have done if he could have dragged her away from her defenders.
The entrance doors had shut behind them and Elizabeth started down the corridor toward her apartment, Kat and the maids of honor trailing behind.
"Lady Elizabeth?"
She turned quickly. "Lord Denno?"
He stood a little apart from the women and Elizabeth could see the lines of pain around his mouth were graven deeper than usual. "I think, perhaps, I should leave you now—"
"No!"
Regardless of the fact that her maids of honor were following and that she and Denno were careful never to show any sign of intimacy, Elizabeth took a long step toward him and seized his arm.
"No," she said somewhat more softly, but still clutching his arm. Tears stood in her eyes. "At least . . . at least . . . You said you were not hurt. Do you really need to go?"
Because of the geas put upon her by Queen Titania when she was allowed to come Underhill and return to the mortal world with her memories of the kingdom of the Sidhe intact, Elizabeth could not speak of that place. She could not ask Denoriel if he needed healing or to go Underhill to restore his power.
Denoriel covered Elizabeth's hand with his own and looked over her shoulder at Mistress Ashley, who was nearly the color of her name. There was no censure in her expression. Of course, Mistress Ashley was not the finest and most severe judge of propriety. Her affection for Elizabeth often outweighed her good sense—as it had when she encouraged the idea that Thomas Seymour would be allowed to marry Elizabeth. Still, in the aftermath of an armed attack, allowances might be made.
"For myself, no. I do not need to go," he said. "I thought that you would wish to change your clothes and rest . . ."
Elizabeth tightened her grip on his arm. "I can change in my dressing room. Please, Denno, do not leave me. You saved me twice when my men could not win near. Stay, at least until we are sure there will be no further attack. I am all shaking inside."
The last was only a murmur that her women could not hear, but Denoriel felt her hand strike cold through the silk of his sleeve. He did not need the added pain that her iron cross was sending from her grip to his arm, but she really was shaken. Without saying anything, he led her toward her own apartment, where two young guards bowed respectfully, stepped aside, and opened the door to her reception room. Elizabeth's hand closed harder on his arm.
"Where are my men?" she whispered.
"Gerrit and Shaylor have taken the messenger off to question him, my lady," Denoriel said. "And you sent Dickson off with Nyle who had been slightly wounded. I am sure the men Sir Edward has chosen to guard you are both skilled and devoted."
"Oh, of course," she said, trying to lighten and steady her voice. "I am just so accustomed to seeing my four . . ." Her voice faded and she looked around the large, empty reception room. "I . . . I do not want to receive anyone," she said, sounding strained and defensive. "Let us all go into my bedchamber. There are seats enough and we can be closer together."
"Oh, my lady," Kat Ashley began, but her eyes fixed on Elizabeth's hand, gripping Lord Denno's sleeve so tightly that the cloth was ridged. And she added weakly, "So long as we all go together, I suppose it will be safe enough."
Denoriel opened the inner door and hesitated on the sill, looking around as if he had never seen the chamber before—which was far from true. He often spent the night with Elizabeth when for some reason she did not want to go Underhill. It was safe enough with the maid of honor who slept in her chamber spelled not to wake. However, he did not want to slip and speak as if he knew the room. A good long look now would cover his familiarity.
Elizabeth had finally released his arm, because the door to her dressing room had opened and Blanche Parry was coming toward her, arms outstretched. Elizabeth rushed toward those sheltering and protective arms, but Blanche stopped as soon as she saw Kat and the other ladies come in. Elizabeth continued toward her maid, but more slowly.
There was some jealousy between Kat and Blanche since Kat had foolishly tried to urge Elizabeth to encourage Thomas Seymour's suit. Kat had never noticed Blanche much before, as the maid was only a maid and by her lowly status could not, to Kat's mind, engage Elizabeth's affections. But Blanche had been Elizabeth's only support and confidant when Kat had been in prison and all Elizabeth's maids of honor sent away and replaced with Lady Tyrwhitt's dependents. Elizabeth had noticed Kat's slight anxiety and was careful not to increase it.
"Are you well, Blanche? You were not hurt, were you?"
"Not at all, m'lady," Blanche said calmly. "The fighting never came anywhere near us. You will want to change out of your riding dress."
Elizabeth was whisked away into the dressing room and Kat, reminded of her duties by Blanche's concentration on her own, set about making the chamber comfortable. Like all bedchambers, it was used for many purposes. At the foot of the great bed was a sofa, deep-cushioned in red velvet; facing the sofa were chairs cushioned in a silvery gray fabric picked out in red to match the sofa. A tall candelabra stood behind the sofa to shed light if the studious Elizabeth wished to read. Between the sofa and one of the chairs was a table for drinks or comfits.
One of the maids who assisted Blanche came timidly to the dressing-room door and Kat sent her to summon the maids of the girls who had accompanied Elizabeth and then to fetch wine and sweet cakes. Denoriel stood back, half hidden by the bedcurtains. Technically he could not go until Elizabeth dismissed him, since she had bade him stay, but Kat could dismiss him too, and he did not want to go. He needed to make sure that Elizabeth understood what the attack meant.
She spent much longer in the dressing room than it usually took her to change clothing, unless she was preparing for some formal occasion. By the time she emerged, there were cakes and wine on the table near the sofa as well as on a table drawn forward from the wall about which several seats were clustered, two small benches, two stools, and a single chair. And the ladies maids had come, bringing their mistresses' current needlework projects.
At first while the women settled themselves on the benches and stools with Kat in the chair, all talking about the attack, Denoriel had just stood with closed eyes, trying to bring calm to himself. He was worried about Elizabeth, fearing she was weeping and terrified. In a way he would have done better to go to the lodge he rented about a mile from Hatfield; Blanche could have sent an air spirit for him and he could have Gated into Blanche's bedchamber, behind the dressing room, and calmed Elizabeth.
Now Denoriel was afraid when Elizabeth came out she would send him away immediately because she was ashamed of showing her weakness. Instead, she hurried from the dressing room and rushed to him where he stood by the bed. She looked as if she were about to throw herself into his arms, but he could not embrace her; all the women had turned to look. Denoriel could only bow low and offer his arm. She took the warning but seized his arm and drew him toward the sofa and chairs, shaking her head at Kat who had started to rise to come to her.
"Can you—" she began, and there was a scratch on the door to the reception room.
Denoriel's hand went to his sword hilt and he heard several of the maids of honor draw gasping breaths. How had anyone passed the two guards at the reception room door to scratch at the door to Elizabeth's bedchamber? Kat Ashley, however, looked relieved, and called, "Who is it?"
"Gerrit, Mistress Ashley."
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Gerrit's heavy baritone was well known to all, and of course the guards at the door would have let Gerrit pass without asking permission.
"Come," Elizabeth said.
The man-at-arms entered, looked around, hesitated when he saw Kat but then spotted Elizabeth, and came to where she stood by the sofa at once. He bowed, then shook his head. "There's nothin' to be learned from that messenger, m'lady. He really is a messenger . . . knows all the roads, knows all the royal post houses. But he don't come from the king."
"From whom then?"
"I don't know and he don't know. I swear he don't. There's dozens a'clerks in Whitehall and one on 'em—good family or good money he guessed; well dressed the clerk was—handed him the message and bade him deliver it to you wherever he found you. To follow if you had left Hatfield but on all accounts to deliver the message." Gerrit shrugged. "I'd say he was picked to carry the message 'cause he can stick on a horse come fire or flood. He sure wasn't picked for brains."
"Or maybe he was picked because he had none," Denoriel said. Gerrit's mouth opened slightly and then he nodded.
"Whitehall," Elizabeth said softly. "I thought Edward had removed to Greenwich."
"And so he has, m'lady," Gerrit said. "Asked for the king. Messenger said he was at Greenwich. Asked why if king were at Greenwich he was getting royal messages at Whitehall. Just stared at me, like how was he to know and then started cryin' again." Gerrit sighed. "Weren't picked for courage neither."
"What did he say? Everything, Gerrit."
Denoriel handed Elizabeth to the sofa and she sat down while Gerrit reported how he and Shaylor had interrogated the man. No pressure, and the messenger was indeed a weak reed unable to withstand pressure, was able to force from him any admission concerning the attackers. Neither trick nor threat had produced a slip in his story that he knew nothing about them and had been so utterly terrified when they rushed from the wood that he had not even presence of mind enough to run away.
"It is true that he could easily have run away," Elizabeth said softly in response to Denoriel's remark that a paralysis of terror was the only reason he could see for the messenger remaining with them.
She gestured him to the chair at right angles to the sofa, and he poured wine from the bottle standing on the small square table into a cup for her. Kat Ashley started to rise again as Denoriel seated himself, but then she sighed and resumed her place with Lady Alana, Agnes Fitzalan, and Dorothy Stafford All the ladies had their needlework in their hands, which were idle. All were listening intently to Gerrit's tale.
Elizabeth glanced at the group and then back at Denoriel. The younger ladies were rather pale and Dorothy Stafford's hands trembled. Now and again Dorothy cast a glance at Lord Denno and seemed to take comfort from his thoughtful but calm expression.
"The road back to Hatfield was clear," Elizabeth pointed out. "He could even have escaped any blame for not delivering the message. He could have said that we were not on the road and he assumed we had not left Hatfield so he went there."
Denoriel cocked his head. "But how was it the attack came just as the messenger distracted us all? Was that not planned?"
"It may have been, but not by him," Elizabeth said. "Would you rest the planning and timing of an attack on that man?"
"No." Denoriel shook his head and chuckled, glancing at Gerrit, who also shook his head firmly. After a moment Denoriel added, "Let the man go, Lady Elizabeth."
She frowned. "He will run back to his master and tell him what happened."
"Yes, but I am not at all sure he understands what happened. He will certainly tell his master we were attacked, drove off the attackers, and returned to Hatfield. Do not give him time to consider just who and what the attackers were."
That drew a chuckle from Elizabeth. "Perhaps he does not even know who it is who wanted answers from him." She nodded and looked up at Gerrit. "Send him back to Whitehall. Send one of the men-at-arms with him to make sure that is where he goes and tell your man to try to stay with him and see to whom he delivers his report and, if possible, hear what he says."
"Mayhap I should—"
"No." Elizabeth smiled at her man-at-arms. "Not you or Dickson or Shaylor. You are all too well known as my trusted men."
Gerrit's brow creased for a moment and then he looked relieved. "I know just who to send, m'lady. Sir Edward will agree with me, I'm sure."
He bowed and strode out. Elizabeth lifted her cup and took a sip of wine then said, "Pour some for yourself, Denno." And when he had and also sipped, she asked, "Then who were they? Could they have been outlaws?"
"No, Lady Elizabeth," Lady Alana said, "they were not brigands."
"Because you think brigands would not attack so large and well armed a group?" Kat asked uncertainly.
"No, not that," Lady Alana said, her cooing voice carried a smile. "You will all think I am quite mad for thinking about such a thing when we were like to be robbed or slain or worse, but those who attacked us were all too well dressed to be brigands."
"Well dressed?" Dorothy uttered a slightly hysterical giggle. "Really, Lady Alana, do you think of nothing but clothes?"
"However Lady Alana thinks," Elizabeth said thoughtfully, "what she thinks has told us something of great importance. If those were not common brigands, who or what were they?"
To Elizabeth's surprise, Lady Alana shook her head in a slightly exaggerated way. Clearly it was a signal. And then Lady Alana said, "There was nothing . . . ah . . . strange about them. If they had not fought so hard, I would have said they were a naughty bunch of too idle young gentlemen out to make mischief."
Denoriel nodded emphatically, confirming Lady Alana's hint that the attack was not by Underhill creatures disguised as human.
"Not . . ." Agnes Fitzalan's voice trembled and hardly could be heard by Elizabeth. "Not sent by . . . by Lady Mary?"
"Oh, no!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Why should you say such a thing, Agnes?"
"Because you are of the . . . the right belief and there are so many who love you and hope you will keep them on the straight path to heaven . . ."
"Agnes," Elizabeth said reprovingly, "Lady Mary is a good, kind person. She is my sister. I am sure she wishes me no harm."
Agnes and Dorothy both looked down at their needlework and began to ply their needles. After a moment Lady Alana commented on the design Dorothy was creating. Kat also leaned forward to look at the pattern. No one said any more about the attack, but the same thought was in all minds. Mary or her supporters, who were desperate to bring back Catholicism, might well wish to remove Elizabeth, who might offer the nation a choice.
"Whitehall," Elizabeth said softly to Denoriel, repeating what she had said earlier. "Northumberland most often works out of Whitehall. That is where the messenger came from. I cannot believe that she—" Elizabeth did not wish to say Mary's name in any context that could be warped into treason "—had any part in this."
"Likely not, from what Rhoslyn says of her. But that Northumberland would use such a man as that messenger . . . No. He is too good a soldier to be unable to judge a servant's courage."
"But the messenger may well not have known that there was a troop following him. He was only a point dog, to show who I was."
For a moment Denoriel was silent and then he slowly wrinkled his nose. "Well, Northumberland will understand that you ordered the questioning of the messenger. I can only hope he does not realize how deeply I was involved. It would be a nuisance if Northumberland forbade you to see me."
"Unfortunately he will hear about how you fought to protect me. The captain of the group will report that."
Denoriel shook his head again. "No, that is meaningless. I was of the party and would naturally fight to save myself."
There was silence for a moment and then Elizabeth asked, "But why? Why was it so important that I not try to see Edward?" She hesitated and tears came to her eyes. "Can he be dead already and Northumberland keeping it secret? But why send men to attack me?"
Denoriel did not reply at first. He hated to frighten Elizabeth but the attack proved to him that Northumberland was desperate enough to hold his power to want her dead as well as Mary. Elizabeth had to understand that she was in active danger from the duke, that she must be very careful to keep free of him no matter what blandishment he offered to bring her to his hand.
"Because you are not a child nor are you the kind to content yourself with toys and gewgaws and let him continue to govern the country—"
"And rape it also!" Her voice was louder.
Agnes Fitzalan looked around at her. Elizabeth smiled and shook her head, indicating she had not meant to ask for service. Denoriel shrugged.
"Because you are clever and charming and would soon have the Council listening to you, obeying you," Denoriel continued, his voice lower, soothing. The tone had its effect; the ladies looked back at their needlework. "Northumberland cannot afford to have you come to the throne," Denoriel said even more softly, "even though you also favor the reformed religion."
Elizabeth's eyes widened. She leaned forward to take her wine in hand, which brought her closer to Denoriel and permitted her to speak even more softly. "Are you saying he wants me . . . dead?"
"Or in his power where no one can use you as the figurehead for a rebellion. Perhaps he will try to force you into marriage with some obscure German princeling."
She took that in, sipping at the wine, knowing that "try" was the significant word. Her Denno would have her safe away before she could be shipped abroad. And any man who had a contract with the British government to marry her would certainly not survive. Then she leaned forward to set the cup on the table again. Denoriel noted that she was no paler than usual and did not seem shocked only sadder.
"Does that mean Edward is dead? And what of Mary?"
"I do not think Edward is dead yet." This time Denoriel leaned forward to fill Elizabeth's wine cup. "And Mary . . . has her own protector."
Elizabeth nodded, glanced again at the women, but Alana, bless her, had begun an animated conversation about clothing. Without ever saying anything about the king's failing health she had begun to speak about how mourning colors might be made more attractive. It was a subject that held the ladies' attention. Elizabeth kept her voice low but no longer needed to worry about ears straining to catch a word from her conversation.
"I am very glad she is protected." Elizabeth deliberately did not say Mary's name. "I do not look forward to her rule. But she must come to the throne before me or—" her eyebrows lifted "—as you pointed out I will be accused of ordering or taking part in whatever evil befalls her, which will make it almost impossible for me to rule." She sighed. "The whole country believes me to be Northumberland's favorite. Many would say he committed a crime against her to benefit me."
"Another device to keep you powerless?" Denoriel frowned. "That is not impossible. I will pass the word about the attack on you and make sure that Rhoslyn is extra alert to protect Mary. Meanwhile you had better take to your bed, the shock of the attack having disturbed your health. That way, Mistress Ashley can forbid all visitors and we will wait to see what happens next."