And Less Than Kind Read online

  Albertus did not say that the rumor was mostly spread by those of hidden reformist tendencies in a vain attempt to arouse fear and weaken Pole's influence on Mary. Albertus knew it was useless. Mary was utterly tenacious in her conviction that only Cardinal Pole and the Imperial ambassador were to be trusted.

  Vidal stared unnervingly at Albertus who dropped his head and began to pray that the rumors of the Inquisition were true. His earnest sincerity came across to Vidal, who barely touched the surface of the man's mind. Vidal felt his fear, fed off it for a pleasant moment. Then it occurred to him that if what Albertus said did come to pass and the power shift to the Bright Court did not last long, there would be no need for him to exert himself in this disgusting mortal world that made his bones ache.

  "Very well," Vidal said. "If there is any change, come to Caer Mordwyn and tell me. Now, I want to know when this unnatural spate of mortal happiness will end."

  "Very soon, I think," Albertus said eagerly, holding back a sigh of relief. "Only a few mortal months. By the bill passed in Parliament, heresy will be punished by death. Pole has been advising Mary to make a strong example of some outspoken Protestants. I was near the queen and heard this myself. Pole spoke of it with sorrow and regret but said he believes a single burning or perhaps two will curb and frighten the heretics and that will save many souls."

  Vidal frowned. "Will it be necessary to turn the queen's mind away from this device? I do not desire quiet acquiescence."

  "No, no." Albertus shook his head vehemently. "It is far more likely that burning an outspoken Protestant will turn the popular feeling against the Catholic reunion. It will cause more resistance and will generate more burnings . . ."

  Albertus spoke more out of hope than out of knowledge, but the events turned out just as he foretold. On the ninth of February, 1555, he went himself to watch the first burning so he could report to Vidal and Aurilia. John Hooper, bishop of Worcester, had been condemned to the stake. A large crowd had come to witness the spectacle although it was a bitter cold day and threatening rain.

  The burning was terrible. The faggots used were green and would barely burn. Twice the fire went out completely and had to be renewed. The third time more faggots and kindling were brought there were murmurs through the crowd that God did not want His people burned, no matter how they worshiped Him. And the victim did not scream for forgiveness or recant his heresy. He died, as those near enough saw and could spread abroad, impervious to the torment of being burnt a slow inch at a time for near an hour, still firm in his conviction that his rite was the true one and that Lord Jesus would receive his spirit.

  Only a few days before Vidal spoke to Albertus and decided not to trouble himself for the present about matters in the mortal world, Elizabeth was informed officially that her sister was with child. There had been a ceremony of thanksgiving for her conception in St. Paul's on November twenty-eighth and Bedingfield assumed correctly, if two months late, that despite the prohibition against giving the prisoner any news she would be told.

  Those two months, however, had been crucial. Over that time Elizabeth had—if not reconciled herself to Mary bearing an heir to the throne—at least decided how to receive the news when she was told. Moreover in the two months, she had recovered some hope of succeeding her sister. It was very dangerous for a woman near forty to deliver a first child. Mary might die and the child with her; even if the child survived delivery, it might die. Elizabeth knew that the primary reason her father had set aside his first wife was that all her children except Mary were stillborn or died within weeks of birth. But to inherit, Elizabeth knew she must be alive. She must give no shred of an excuse to be accused of treason and executed.

  Bedingfield was not looking forward to delivering the news of Queen Mary's pregnancy. He was braced for fury, for disbelief, for tears and tantrums. What he got was almost the broadest smile he had ever seen on Elizabeth's face, and warm thanks for the wonderful news he had brought her. For once there was no cutting edge to Elizabeth's voice.

  She convinced Bedingfield of her joy in her sister's success. Bedingfield was not acute, but even the most suspicious of Mary's spies was ready to swear that Elizabeth was truly overjoyed. And when they came to prayer, Susanna Norton heard Elizabeth pray loud and strong for the queen's safe delivery and the child's health.

  Elizabeth's performance was seemingly heartfelt, but it had taken two full months of rehearsals—and a very small self-ensorcellment spell—to produce the effect. Back in September when she first came Underhill after hearing of Mary's pregnancy she had not been so calm and accepting of her fate. She wept in Mechain's arms and hiccupped out her fury and disappointment to Elidir.

  "Silly child," Elidir had said with a small, knowing smile. "It must be a lie or a mistake. Had your image disappeared from the great lens or a new image appeared, someone would have sent word to Denoriel. So?" He looked around at Denoriel, who was standing near, his face twisted with misery. "Have the FarSeers bespoke you?"

  "No. No they have not," Denoriel admitted, blinking at the revelation but glad it had come from Elidir so Elizabeth could not think he was saying it just to make her feel better.

  That was the beginning of Elizabeth's ability to pretend joy over Mary's pregnancy. She still wavered into doubt and fear, particularly each time some bit of rumor about how Mary was in blooming health and needing to have her gowns let out was whispered in her ear by Blanche or passed into her hand by Dunstan in a note from Parry. But as often as she doubted, she reminded herself that the FarSeers had been correct about Edward's short reign, about poor Jane Grey, and about Mary's unlikely but successful bid for the throne. Through all that, the image of the red-haired queen and the joy of her reign had been constant.

  It was still hard perpetually to wear a mask of calm and delight. The expectation, the determination, to mount the throne of England had been a central core of Elizabeth's life since her brother's death. Now one moment her succession was in doubt altogether and the next moment it seemed the throne would be hers in a few short months . . . if Mary and the child died.

  What kind of monster am I to pray for the death of my sister and my sister's unborn child?

  Elizabeth could not forget for a moment in the mortal world. The very fact of her imprisonment kept her position as unwelcome heir presumptive constantly in her mind's eye. Underhill, where she could express her alternate unease and elation, she went wild. There was little Denoriel could do to steady her. He could only enlist what extra protection he could find and give her her head.

  Most often Harry and Rhoslyn joined in Elizabeth's adventures because Denoriel thought the land of the self-willed mist might be safer than exposing her to the mortal-stealer in the markets. When they had first spoken of that Unformed land the previous July, they had done very little, only looked out from the Gate platform.

  There had been nothing to see, only the coiling and roiling of the mist. Elizabeth had wanted to go down and speak to the mist, but Denoriel held her back when he saw that Rhoslyn was pallid and breathing hard with shock. Gaenor, who had come with them at their request, had looked puzzled and a little distressed too.

  Later, when Elizabeth asked Rhoslyn what was wrong, she had shaken her head and said, "It is waiting."

  And Gaenor had nodded agreement. "It has wiped itself clean. Before there were . . . I don't know . . . faint echoes. Now there is nothing. And yes, I, too, caught the feeling of waiting." She looked at Elizabeth. "What did you feel?"

  "Nothing," Elizabeth replied, a little puzzled, a little hurt and resentful. "The mist never 'spoke,' if that is the right word, to me. I spoke to it. I asked it to do things . . . politely. And it did. And I thanked it, but I never felt anything, except perhaps welcome."

  "Politely . . ." Rhoslyn murmured. "Yes. That will be a problem. I have always forced my will in making."

  But Rhoslyn had been in no position to work on that problem for the next mortal month. The preparations for Mary's wedding to Philip consumed
July, and the after-wedding celebrations filled the beginning of August; Rhoslyn hardly came Underhill at all. And after she finally obtained leave from the queen at the end of August, she disappeared for nearly a mortal month. Harry seemed concerned when the others asked for her, but not anguished.

  Then in October, just when Elizabeth was over the worst throes of adjusting to the idea of Mary's pregnancy, Rhoslyn appeared with Harry at the Tuesday meeting in the Inn of Kindly Laughter. Rhoslyn was as shocked as Elizabeth could have desired to learn of Mary's condition and just as displeased. Later Elizabeth learned it was because Rhoslyn was afraid Mary would recall her to duty, but at the time she was soothed by Rhoslyn's sympathy and seeking to say something that would interest Rhoslyn, asked whether she had again visited the seemingly sentient mist.

  "No, and I have come here to ask you to come with me for just that purpose," Rhoslyn said. "I have been putting my servants in stasis." Her eyes shone with tears for a moment. "Poor things. They are all greatly weakened and I simply cannot bear to destroy them or take in the horrible power the Dark Sidhe use to renew them. I thought if you would . . . would ask the mist . . ."

  "Rhoslyn," Elizabeth said eagerly as Rhoslyn's voice faded doubtfully, "you don't need me. I'll go with you of course, but you should ask the mist first to make you a house . . . and tell it how."

  "What? But that is a much greater use of its substance than to renew my poor servants."

  "Yes, but Gaenor said it was trying to make a house. Mist doesn't need a house. If it was making a house it was for someone to live in. Now, perhaps it was for the dolls, but I don't think so. The dolls seem to have disappeared. I think it wanted me to live in the house and tell it to make things. But Pasgen told it I cannot live Underhill and now it has made nothing and we all felt it was waiting. I think it is waiting for . . . for you."

  "No. It was you it wanted."

  "But it cannot have me. I will be—" Her voice cut off abruptly as she remembered the baby in her sister's belly.

  "You will be queen some day," Rhoslyn said. "When Vidal was away from Caer Mordwyn, I went to the Tower and I looked in the pool. The image of the red-haired queen is still there, and there are flickering images of two or three other women, one stronger and steadier than the others, but there is no image of a small child. Yet your image was there before you were born."

  Elizabeth's face lit in response to Rhoslyn's reassurance and she smiled. "So, as I said, the mist cannot have me, but I think the only reason that it 'wanted' me was because I was the only one who told it to do anything. It needs someone with an ability to make vivid images and a strong will—a maker."

  Rhoslyn looked hopeful but uncertain. "But Gaenor was a maker, a great one. Why did the mist not respond to her?"

  "That's easy to answer," Harry said, grinning. "Gaenor went to that Unformed land with the single purpose of keeping the mist from doing anything. When she exerted her will, she told the mist to rest, to be quiet."

  Elizabeth looked enlightened, but before she could respond Aleneil and Ilar came in, closely followed by Pasgen with Hafwen. Aleneil was looking very pleased with herself. A moment later, when the table had rounded and provided enough chairs, she sobered.

  "Sometimes a FarSeer doesn't need a lens," she said. "I knew Rhoslyn was ready to try the mist and I sent an air spirit to Hafwen. I didn't foresee any trouble, but I wanted Hafwen to smell around in case something has slipped into the mist. It has changed since she was last there."

  "And that Evil is still missing," Pasgen said somewhat grimly.

  Hafwen touched his hand.

  "You are all in a hurry," the server said disapprovingly. "The Inn of Kindly Laughter is not a place to eat and run. But I will excuse you this time."

  Today it was huge and hairy, its features and body a mingling of human and ape. And it had absolutely enormous feet, the toes long and agile for grasping.

  Looking at the feet, Elizabeth said, "Where did you see it?"

  "Not in your time." The server laughed. "But your ships will sow what later generations will harvest. So. Food?"

  They ordered and the meals came quickly, but the server did not speak again. Denoriel looked after him—very obviously a him because he was naked and the hair on his hide did not completely conceal his genitals.

  "What is it?" he asked softly.

  Pasgen shook his head. He knew Denoriel was not asking about the creature the server now wore. Rhoslyn said, "Beyond me. His shields are impenetrable. Looking brings you only to a solid wall that isn't even a wall. Just . . . you can't go any farther."

  There was little more conversation. All of them applied themselves to their food and when they were finished with the main course all agreed to forgo dessert.

  At the Gate, Harry paused and said, "I told Gaenor to meet us there. I asked her to come to the Inn, but she said she wanted some quiet time to feel the mist. It has been so quiet recently that she fears some core of resentment that could burst when it perceived a large number of possible victims."

  But Gaenor, unharmed, was waiting on the Gate. The platform, which had been a small one, obligingly enlarged so the whole party was not crowded together. Again, there was nothing to be seen in the mist beyond what was normal for an Unformed land.

  Suddenly, with the recklessness that filled her every time she remembered her sister might bear a living heir to the throne, Elizabeth seized Rhoslyn's hand and jumped down from the platform. Denoriel cried "No" and reached for her, but he was too late, and the mist had withdrawn slightly.

  "Stop," Rhoslyn said, holding up her free hand in a "halt" gesture to the others. Then looking out into the mist again, "I will have to go deeper in," she said. "The empty house is in view of the Gates because it invited visitors, even enemies. My old domain was hidden by many Gate transfers so it was visible from the final transfer. I do not wish to hide this domain. I hope friends will Gate here, yet I desire some protection from the curious and mispatterned arrivals. And there are those in the Dark Court who might wish me harm . . ."

  The words trailed away as a stone wall formed and stretched away into the distance. At Elizabeth's and Rhoslyn's feet a wide gravel path had appeared, leading to a pair of beautifully wrought gates. They looked like black iron, but Rhoslyn felt no pain and guessed they were of the elven metal alloy that made the Sidhe's silver swords as strong as steel. The gates stood open.

  "Oh my," Elizabeth said, walking toward the gates. "Mist, you have outdone yourself. How perfect. How beautiful. The walls are finer than those that protect a palace. Thank you. Thank you. Those walls will be my gift to this lady—" She pushed Rhoslyn forward and murmured to her. "Think that you need a house. You need a place to live. Quick."

  Rhoslyn started. She had worked in many Unformed lands but never seen such a response. She swallowed hard and her voice quavered when she said, "Mist, my name is Rhoslyn and I . . . I need you. I need a house. I have no place to live. I wish my house to be out of view of the gates—"

  Her voice caught on a gasp as a wide meadow of grass extended out on both sides of the path, which curved into a seeming endless distance. But just beyond the open gate were five elvensteeds and with them, black and gleaming with glowing red eyes and long, white teeth . . . the not-horses.

  "Torgen!" Pasgen bellowed, and leapt off the Gate platform. "Don't you dare—"

  He was through the gates and among the elvensteeds while Rhoslyn stared at Talog as if frozen. Within a single step of Torgen, Pasgen raised a hand, whether to strike at Torgen or grasp him by the nose was impossible to say because he did neither.

  Pasgen knew magic, knew its feel, its smell, the texture of things created by magic. This was Torgen; he knew Rhoslyn's making, and yet . . . A glowing red eye winked at him. He stood for a moment, staring at the not not-horse; his throat worked and he leaned forward, put his arms around the creature's strong neck, and buried his face in its gleaming hide. Down the neck, now curved so that Torgen's soft muzzle could touch Pasgen, ran a single shining
drop.

  Horses do not laugh, Elizabeth thought. It is a generally accepted truth that only humans laugh and it is one of the things that sets humans apart from animals. Yet as Elizabeth approached the elvensteeds in Denoriel's wake, she was quite certain they were all laughing. Even the second black not-horse, which had stepped a little aside from the rest of the elvensteeds and was watching Rhoslyn approach.

  "Talog?" Rhoslyn whispered, a hand stretched toward the waiting creature. "You are Talog but now—" her eyes were huge and shining "—now you are real. What I hoped for. What I dreamed of. What I could not make while I was full of hate and envy and using the power of pain."

  She sighed in a totally satisfied way and leaned against what was no longer her making. "Talog and Torgen are gone now?" she asked, looking up into the one red eye she could see. "Oh, thank you. Thank you. I could not bear to destroy them and I could not bear to abandon them. Thank you. I will do anything you want—"

  She then reared back with a stunned look on her face and said, half laughing half doubtful, "Of course. You and Torgen will have the finest stables in the entire worlds both mortal and Sidhe. Show me a picture and I will make it."