By Slanderous Tongues Read online

  “Cannaid, stop,” Rhoslyn said, to protect her construct.

  Although the creature was resistant to most magic, Vidal was surely strong enough to blast it or draw out its power so that it crumpled to nothing. She turned a shoulder angrily toward Aurilia.

  To Vidal she said resentfully, “I will go now. I have no control over Pasgen and do not see why I should be threatened because of it. I will continue to watch and guide Lady Mary because her well-doing will be of benefit to me and I desire no quarrel with you, Prince Vidal.” Every word was true and would so be marked by Aurilia’s truth spell. Then Roslyn added, “But do not try me too far.”

  Chapter 5

  Having delivered Elizabeth’s letter to Queen Catherine, Denoriel was at a standstill. The queen had been deeply moved by Elizabeth’s plea and had promptly sent a message to Sir Anthony Denny. Graciously, she allowed Denoriel to wait in the hall, and at mid-morning let him know that she had received a reply in which Sir Anthony had promised to visit her soon.

  There was nothing more Denoriel could do. To try to see Denny and urge him to attend to Elizabeth’s problems would be counterproductive. Sir Anthony liked him, but his suspicions would surely be aroused if both Queen Catherine and Lord Denno suddenly began to press him on Elizabeth’s behalf.

  Denoriel could have gone Underhill, but there was nothing there to hold his interest. He did remind himself that he should attend some festivities and seek out a willing lady, but the thought caused a decided discomfort in his stomach and a coldness where he should be feeling heat.

  Exasperated with himself and the situation, Denoriel made his way to his London house where he was greeted with cautious enthusiasm by Joseph Clayborne, his man of business. Joseph actually ran Denoriel’s business, keeping him in touch with the market and what other merchants were doing and saying. Denoriel then often arranged to get cargoes of what was most strongly desired through Seleighe contacts in domains all over Europe and even the Middle East.

  Joseph was well aware that there was something very strange, uncanny even, about his master, but he had come to like Lord Denno. He was, moreover, no religious fanatic who felt that one should not suffer a witch to live. Joseph had never seen Lord Denno do any man any harm; contrariwise he had known Lord Denno to be generous and loyal even at some risk to himself.

  “M’lord, do you have a moment?” Joseph asked, standing in the doorway of his handsomely appointed office.

  “All the moments you want today, Joseph,” Denoriel replied, smiling. “The Court is in such disarray with everyone scrambling for a new or better place that no one is willing to speak to me.”

  “Do you have any news?” Joseph asked. “It would help if I seemed to know what was going on.”

  “I think, since he holds the king, that Hertford, although I doubt he will be Hertford much longer, will come out atop in the Council. Right after the king died, Sir Anthony told me it was mostly Hertford’s plan, although Paget agreed to it, to delay the announcement of the king’s death until Hertford had secured Edward.”

  Joseph frowned. “To what purpose?”

  Denoriel shrugged. “Henry was so strong a king that there never was another—at least not since Wolsey—to whom the nation could look. The new king is a child of ten. Someone had to seize the wheel and steer the ship of state.”

  “It is true,” Joseph said. “I cannot think of anyone I would look to. I suppose Hertford is as good or better than another. At least he is the king’s close kin without any claim at all to the throne.”

  Denoriel had not thought of that aspect of the kinship between Edward and Hertford. It was, now that Joseph had called it to his attention, another reason that the Council might be willing for Hertford to be first among them.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, “Hertford is Edward’s maternal uncle with no blood tie, no matter how distant to the king, and Queen Catherine does not come from a powerful family … nor one with overweening ambition.”

  Joseph stepped aside invitingly, and Denoriel walked into his chamber, dropping into a comfortable chair placed to the side of the table on which Joseph worked, where only those specially invited were likely to sit. Joseph went around the end of the table and sat in his own chair.

  “So you assume Hertford will rule? Do you know him? How will this affect us?”

  “Well, Hertford will not favor us with news or show my wares,” Denno said with a rueful smile, “but I doubt he will trouble us either. I met him twice or thrice in Norfolk’s company, and from what I learned from listening to him and from hearing Norfolk speak about him, it seems he is a strong man, certain of will, and with an unblemished honor. He was said to be fond of Edward too.”

  “You never pursued the acquaintance with Hertford?”

  Denoriel laughed. “No. There was nothing to pursue. Hertford did not take to me at all. When I kissed his hand, he withdrew it as if my lips were coals. And it did not seem, at the time, worth the effort to win his trust, which shows how badly mistaken I can be. Truthfully Norfolk had survived so much—I mean two nieces executed for adultery, and one of them actually guilty of betraying the king. I thought the old man would last forever.”

  Joseph smiled in reply. “I think everyone expected the king to pardon Norfolk, but Henry was dying. And Norfolk is still in the Tower waiting execution. I fear there will be no quick release for him now … either way.”

  Denoriel sighed. It was hard to actually like Norfolk, who was the sort of man to use anyone or anything that came to hand, but one could certainly admire the shrewd old man. “Yes. I went again to the Tower and offered Norfolk what help I could give. He thanked me but said it did not matter that King Henry had died. King Edward was as welcome to his life as King Henry.” Denoriel shook his head. “He is rich enough to be comfortable, for whatever thing he needs for his comfort, he can arrange to have, so there is really nothing more I can do.”

  Joseph frowned. “If you will pardon my saying so, you have done enough for the few favors the duke has shown you.”

  “We were not really friends … I doubt Norfolk could consider a foreign merchant a friend, but I rather—appreciated him. Now I suppose I must find another link to the top.” Denoriel pondered his few options. “Sir Anthony is friendly enough and well trusted by the Council, but the king’s death has sorely shaken him. I think if he had leave of his fellow Councilors that he would ask to retire.”

  “A link to the top,” Joseph said thoughtfully. “Sir Anthony Cooke is tutor to Edward and well beloved of him, from what I have heard.”

  Denoriel shook his head before Joseph could go further. “No, I do not want my name or anything about me known to the king or his close companions. That would only draw close scrutiny, and expose my long association with Elizabeth.”

  Joseph looked disappointed. “Even at a safe remove? I thought news might flow both ways through one of Cooke’s daughters. All three were in the group that Queen Catherine gathered as company for the royal children when they were at Hampton Court and all seem to have been fond of Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Likely,” Denoriel nodded, thinking it next to impossible for anyone who knew her to be less than fond of Elizabeth. “She spoke of them to me, saying that aside from Lady Jane Grey, the eldest Cooke daughter was the best scholar. That would be—” He pressed his memory. “Mildred. Of course, Mildred was some years older than the others, it is reasonable she should have been the best.”

  “Yes, Mistress Mildred,” Clayborne said, nodding. “We have twice received messages from her, requesting a few bottles of a particular wine, which she had had at Lady Elizabeth’s table. Apparently Lady Elizabeth told her that you had provided the wine.”

  “You mean I should scrape an acquaintance on the basis of the wine?” Denoriel said doubtfully, then shook his head. “It is too close, and anyway she will not be at Court any longer even if her father is with the king.”

  “She is not in the country. Mistress Mildred lives here in London. She married
a man called William Cecil—”

  “Cecil,” Denoriel interrupted, eyes wide with surprise. “You are telling me that Mildred Cooke is William Cecil’s wife?”

  “Yes, but I assume she will still see her father—”

  Now here was the sort of acquaintance he needed at Court! William Cecil, as clever as Cromwell but with honor and heart that Cromwell never had. He was going to go far and climb high, or Denoriel would be very much surprised. “Never mind her father, if she is Cecil’s wife … How did you plan that I scrape an acquaintance with Mildred?”

  “Who is William Cecil?” Joseph asked with great interest.

  “Right now he is custos brevium in the court of common pleas, but he already had some notice from the king—I mean the late King Henry.” Henry had been a good judge of men too. Never of women, but his ability to weigh the worth of a man was uncanny. “Cecil is a man with keen ears and sharp eyes, a man who knows when and how to hold his tongue. He will go very far, and more to the point, he already wishes to please Elizabeth. He has several times sent Mistress Ashley snippets of Court information that pertained to Elizabeth, and he is the one who wrote to inform her of the Dirge for her father. No one else thought to warn her—alas, not even I. Yes, indeed, Joseph, I would like to be called ‘friend’ by William Cecil.”

  “Very possible.” Now Joseph was looking pleased. “I honored Mistress Mildred’s requests for the wine that I mentioned, but I had a new request just yesterday, and we do not have any more of that wine. I was about to write to her and explain, but if you want an entree into the house, you could take her a substitute in person, and give her the explanation yourself. Since you seem to be interested in William Cecil, perhaps the lady would introduce you to her husband?”

  “Yes, of course she would,” Denoriel said; it would be the work of a moment to put the idea into her head. “Thank you, Joseph. As usual you have outdone my expectation in solving problems for me.”

  Clayborne laughed. “Only by accident this time, my lord.” Then he added, “There is nothing else in a business way … and of course, the only thing you have received in the way of social invitations has been cancellations of events. I sent civil notes.” Suddenly his brow furrowed. “But there was an oddity the other day. A gentleman … well, no, probably he was not a gentleman. Let me say it this way. A person clean and in good clothing—but I would say not accustomed to being well dressed, combed, and shaven—came to the door and asked Cropper for Lady Alana.”

  Odd. Very odd. “Asked for Lady Alana? But I did not think anyone except Lady Elizabeth’s household knew that she often stayed with me when she was in London. And Alana is with Lady Elizabeth now, so no one from there would be looking for her here.”

  “Yes, m’lord. That was why I said it was an oddity. And even odder, when Cropper said she was not at home, he did not ask for you, but asked to speak to me … by name.”

  But there might be an explanation that Joseph shouldn’t know. Joseph thought the person was not accustomed to good clothing or to being clean and shaven, but what if the person was not accustomed to mortal clothing and disguise as a human. What if the person was Sidhe? Denoriel had thought when he spoke to his sister in his apartment in Llachar Lle that Aleneil might have private affairs to see to Underhill. Perhaps affairs of romance. What if she had not been able to settle the matter?

  If Aleneil had given a Sidhe the direction of the house on Bucklersbury, it was someone she wanted to see. Had they quarreled? Had she not made clear the time she wished to see him? Denoriel wondered if he should go Underhill … and do what? Start seeking Aleneil’s lover? She would murder him. The safest action here was none at all.

  “Why should that be so odd?” Denoriel said, seeking to cover his thoughts. “If he was not a gentleman, he might think he would get short shrift from me. As for your name, I would not be surprised if your name was better known than mine in this neighborhood.” He smiled. “After all, I am in and out so often that I am almost a stranger in my own house.”

  “That might be true,” Joseph said, but still frowning, as if the encounter had left him feeling distinctly uneasy.

  Denoriel shrugged, only now he was suddenly doubtful of his previous reasoning. Aleneil was not likely to have chosen a fool. On the other hand, a Sidhe who disliked the mortal world and had never visited it, might well be awkward … if the man was Sidhe. Dark Sidhe? No, the Dark would surely not ask openly for Aleneil. Who among the Unseleighe would be foolish enough to venture here to look for her?

  “I suppose Alana might have told someone that she could be reached through me,” Denoriel temporized. “Did he leave a message? I could take it to her.”

  “That was the other oddity. No.” Joseph shook his head. “He did not leave a message, said his matter was in his head and private and asked when Lady Alana was expected. I told him, of course, that I did not know, that it was her habit to send us a message on the day or a day before she was due to arrive. He then said he would come by again and left. Perhaps he did not think he had enough money to bribe me to tell him when Lady Alana was expected, but he offered to make it worth Cropper’s while if Cropper would leave a message for him at the Broached Barrel when Lady Alana was due.”

  Denoriel grinned. “Cropper told you?”

  “Indeed. He is not taking any chances on losing his place. He is very happy here.” Joseph smirked—or at least, came as close to a smirk as he ever did.

  “Happy enough not to ask questions about the other servants?” That was a pertinent question.

  Joseph smiled at him. “He knows the other servants are … a little odd but has ‘decided’ that they are really foreign foreigners, not like Frenchies, who are almost human—anyhow that was how he described them to me. And he doesn’t talk about what he sees, nor does his wife, so the children accept them as … ah … foreign foreigners.”

  “Joseph, if you ever threaten to leave me I will have to kill myself because I am afraid I really would not be able to live without you.” Denoriel cast up his hands with a smile. “How did you manage to get someone who is not stupid as a stone to accept this household as ordinary?”

  Clayborne met his eyes steadily. “The same way you bound me, my lord, by obligation. George Boleyn knew of my trouble, but it was you who offered me a way out.”

  “Nonsense, you have no obligation to me. You paid back my ‘rescue’ of your enterprise long ago.” Nevertheless, Denoriel was touched. Loyalty—something no coin could buy, and was rarer than perfect pearls.

  “True enough,” Clayborne said, suddenly grinning, “but now I am yours through self-interest. I told you some time ago that I was growing rich in your employ. Your generosity in allowing me shares of your cargoes is hastening the filling of my purse.” He shook his head. “I will not leave you, my lord, I promise, until and unless I train a substitute so well that you will not know a new man is in my place.”

  “I doubt that is possible,” Denoriel said. “I have grown very fond of you, Joseph. George found you for me. How did you find Cropper?”

  “Very easily. I went to the debtors’ prisons. I looked for a family, but not too large. I spoke to the wife and then to the husband, and then I enquired of the officials about the details that caused the incarceration. I was lucky. There were three families that did not deserve their fate, but only Cropper was of a size and intelligence to make an adequate footman. I paid off his debt, found lodgings for him and the family in the back of a house in the Poultry, gave the family a few pence to get started … and now you have a most devoted servant.”

  “I think you have a most devoted servant,” Denoriel said smiling, “but I am not complaining. I am sure the devotion runs over onto me.” He stood up. “Since you have twice told me there was no business, I had better go away and leave you to deal with that pile of documents.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Clayborne also stood. “So do you want me to write to Mistress Mildred Cecil about the wine—”

  “No, of course not.” He shook
his head. “I will soon begin to forget my head on the days it is not screwed on tightly enough. I will go to see her myself. What kind of wine did she want?”

  Without the slightest hesitation, Joseph picked a rather small sheet of heavy paper from the middle of a pile and handed it to him. “There is her letter. What I sent both times was rumney, but I think if you took her some claret, and perhaps some alicant, it will do. She will like the claret, what with the honey and spices in it; most women do, but in case her husband has more austere taste, the red should also suffice.”

  Denoriel nodded. Although he did not know what was kept in his warehouses, he actually did know the contents of the wine cellar in the house. There was a Gate there, behind a large tun, and Denoriel felt that examining and commenting upon the contents of the cellar was a good excuse for being in it so frequently.

  “We have both in bottles,” he said after a moment of thought. “And her direction?”

  “In Cannon Row. Cropper will know the house. He took the rumney.”

  Joseph had risen while he spoke; he walked to the door of his office, opened it, and shouted for Cropper, who appeared in moments. Joseph told him what he should fetch from the cellar and that he would be carrying the wine to the house in the Strand.

  Meanwhile, Denoriel had gone up to his bedchamber where he stood in front of the ruinously costly cheval glass to examine the illusion that made the pupils of his eyes round and gave him the appearance of small round ears. Then his eyes went to his clothing and he sighed heavily. How humans could torture themselves with such unwieldy and uncomfortable garments, he could not understand.

  Over a spotlessly white shirt with full sleeves, the neck gathered into a low ruff, Denoriel was wearing a padded petticoat in lavender velvet; that was sensible in providing warmth in a world where the weather did not conform to the being’s comfort. Over that was the doublet, in a rich silk brocade of silver and lavender, tight to the waist, with sleeves slashed at elbows and forearms so the white shirt could be pulled through. Long hose of dark gray tied up with points to the petticoat were covered with slops—heavy silk, striped in gray and lavender—which were in turn covered by the skirt attached to the doublet. And over all the gown, gray with lavender piping on all the seams.