In Ashes Lie (10 page)

Pym had tried it years ago, with the Duke of Buckingham; Charles had dissolved Parliament rather than let his chief councillor of the time suffer attack. Now the leader of Parliament took aim again, when Charles could not evade it. This time, he might strike home.

But first, a committee; hardly anything was done anymore without a committee to chew it over first. The composition of that body was no surprise, either. Pym had planned for this, as he planned for everything, and the committee returned in remarkably quick time, opening the general debate. Antony seized his own opportunity to speak.

“Of a certainty, Lord Strafford has taken many actions both here and in Ireland that bear closer scrutiny,” he said, meeting the eyes of his fellow members. “Whether those actions constitute treason is a matter for the law to decide. But we must not let them pass unremarked, for fear that others might then try to press that liberty beyond the bounds of what is just and right. By all means, gentlemen—let us send to the Lords a message of impeachment.”

He took perverse pleasure in seeing the astonishment on Pym’s face as he sat once more.
You think I support you and your junto. But I do not do this for you; I do it for Lune.

They had no word yet from Cerenel, though they knew he had arrived in Fife. And while no madmen with iron knives had shown up again, the disturbances at court had not ended. They needed the information Eochu Airt had—and that meant getting rid of Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford.

For once, Antony was glad of Pym’s attack. He still despised the man’s junto, and many of the things it fought for, but in this one matter, they stood as temporary allies.

 

The message summoned Antony out into the Old Palace Yard, where he found Ben Hipley waiting for him on the cobblestones.

“Have they impeached the earl?” the other man asked, hardly even pausing to make his greeting.

“Yes,” Antony said. “They have taken the message in to the Lords—Pym and the others.”

Hipley swore sulfurously. “And Strafford just came back. He left this morning for Whitehall, to talk to the King, but I saw him return not five minutes ago. Damnation!”

The curses were drawing far too much attention. They were hardly the only people in the yard; Parliament scarcely sat but there were mobs outside, thronging the streets of Westminster. These were the same apprentices and laborers, mariners and dockhands who had attacked Archbishop Laud’s palace earlier in the year. Riots had become a common feature of London life, no doubt encouraged by Pym and the others. Antony drew Hipley to one side and lowered his voice. “Temair wants him gone. Lune has told me to do it if I can. Why balk now?”

“Because Strafford was going to impeach Pym and the others,” his spymaster said through his teeth. “For treasonous dealings with the Covenanters. He might have broken their strength—so they are determined to break his first.”

It set Antony back on his heels. That Pym was deep in alliance with the Covenanters, he did not doubt. But he had not realized such a good opportunity existed to curb the opposition’s power.

He spun without a word and hurried back into the palace, Ben close behind, but even as he neared the Lords’ chamber the roar of the crowd there told him he was too late—even supposing he could have done anything to stop it. He could just glimpse Strafford exiting the chamber; gems glinted in the light as the earl removed his sword and surrendered it to Maxwell.

Illness had ravaged Wentworth; his complexion was sallow, his skin sagging in loose curves. He hardly looked the terrible figure popular opinion made him out to be. But the watching masses showed no respect; Antony heard many cutting remarks, and did not see a single man doff his cap to the bare-headed earl.

“What’s the matter?” a jeering voice cried out, as Strafford wearily faced the gauntlet he must run.

Strafford answered as confidently as he could, but his voice was weak and hoarse. “A small matter, I warrant you.”

“Yes, indeed,” someone else shouted. “High treason is a small matter!”

Under the cover of the ensuing laughter, Antony said to Ben, “The charges are weak. It may well be that he can defeat them.”

“I hope so,” his companion replied, watching the crowd dog Strafford’s heels as he crossed to the outer door. “For the sake of us all. Pym’s power worries me.”

And me,
Antony admitted privately. He had hoped to do some good for Lune, but it appeared the good of England would have to come first.

Of all the practices fae had adopted from mortals, the giving of Christmas gifts puzzled Lune the most. They were never called by such name, of course, but midwinter exchanges had become common, and served a particular purpose in courtly life.

As she was reminded of, cynically, when Sir Leslic appeared one day with a hound following at his heels.

The creature was a paragon of its kind, with a long, sleek, cream-furred body, and ears of russet. A faerie hound, not a faerie in the form of a hound, and a breed raised by the Tylwyth Teg of Wales, if she did not miss her guess. She wondered what he had given up to gain it.

Leslic bowed, sweeping his hat wide, drawing every eye in the chamber. Naturally he picked a moment of leisure, and one well attended by Lune’s idle courtiers. “Your radiant Grace—I cannot sleep at nights, fearful as I am for your safety. I beg you to allow me to make this poor gift to you, a faithful companion to watch over your rest.”

Lune did not miss the annoyance among some of her courtiers. Leslic’s one failing, in his pursuit of her favor, was an over-ready will to invoke the rescue that had catapulted him from relative obscurity to a place in the Onyx Guard, and therefore close by her side. But he redeemed the error quickly enough; peeking slyly up from his bow, he added, “Or at least to pursue the fox for you, when next you ride to the hunt.”

He had a charming smile, she granted him that. Lune made herself return one equally charming, or rather charmed. When she extended her hand, the dog came without prompting; there was no need for leashes and beatings, such as humans used to train their beasts. The animal sniffed her fingers delicately, then bent his head into her friendly scratch behind his ears.

Leslic sighed grandly and pressed one hand over his heart. “Fortunate hound, that comes home to his mistress’s touch. I shall sleep in envy instead of fear tonight, wishing I might have his place at the foot of your bed.”

They had gathered a small audience, the courtiers who flocked to his rising star. Not all of them, certainly; fae were capable of great oceans of jealous resentment. Lewan Erle pouted incessantly, feeling himself slighted. Lune was disappointed to see Valentin Aspell drifting near. She wished she could believe her faerie spymaster was simply keeping close watch on the knight, but the truth was that he found Leslic’s opinions congenial.

What to do with the hound? She was not at all certain she could trust the beast at the foot of her bed. Not out of fear for her safety; if Leslic wanted her dead, he could simply have let the lunatic kill her. Far as he had risen, there was much farther to go, and he needed her alive for that. But the hounds of the Tylwyth Teg were intelligent creatures, capable of much more than a normal dog. The gift was to curry favor; all these midwinter presents were simply another path to advantage at court. That did not, however, mean Leslic had no other purpose for it.

She had to draw him out. “Wouldst sleep at the foot of my bed, then?” she said teasingly, arching one eyebrow. “Is that your desired place?”

“I would account the cold stone there a finer bed than any that stood farther from your presence,” he answered, less in jest than before. A trace of longing threaded his answer, taut in the air between them.

Lune let him come closer; heeding that cue, the watchers faded back, returning to their diversions. They had the illusion of privacy, at least. “But you dream of a warmer bed.”

“What man would not?”

There was no possibility of deluding herself. The hunger in Leslic’s heart was not for her. In body, perhaps a little, but none for her spirit; it was power he sought, and a closer place in her counsel. All else was merely a pretext, a mask for the truth.

Every breath of their encounters was a sham. Amadea had made so bold as to ask Lune why she showed such favor to a knight who made no secret of his disdain for mortals; Lune excused his behavior as concern for the threat they posed, though she knew it went far deeper and fouler than that. The fae who scorned mortals as lesser creatures were calling themselves Ascendants now, and looked to Leslic as their captain. As the godly became more vocal above, the Ascendants became more common below.

Yet the true root of that threat lay, not here, but in Scotland. Lune could not tell her Lady Chamberlain the truth: that clasping this viper to her breast would teach her more of his aims. The closer she brought him, the more she learned of his connections to Nicneven.

Giving Leslic what he desired might gain her a great deal. Men said things over a pillow they might not let slip otherwise.

But bile rose in her throat at the thought. She had loved once, with her heart as well as her body, and once given, a faerie’s love did not fade. Now, though she took the occasional gentleman to her bed, they were rare, and never from her own court; the favor thus granted would upset the delicate balance she strove to maintain. And if she were to break that prohibition, it would not be for this golden-haired devil, this smiling traitor, who would betray her to her death if it suited his ambition.

Not even for the safety of her crown and her court would she take Leslic into her bed.

Her hesitation had gone on too long. Lune forced a smile onto her face, forced promise to hide behind that smile. “You are no man, but an elfin knight. Yet dreams come to our kind, even in our waking hours, and some dreams, they say, are prophecy.”

He took her hand and kissed it, feather-light; she fought not to shudder at his touch. “I shall petition the Fates to make me a seer, then, and until that day, live in hope.”

“Consider the law,” Antony said, endeavoring to sound stronger and more confident than he felt. “For weeks, we have seen the Earl of Strafford defend himself upon the charges laid against him. He has established beyond doubt that, however much we may dispute the choices he has made, the actions he has taken, they have
not
crossed the line into treason.

“What are the strongest pieces of evidence against him?” A rhetorical question, but he had come to learn some of the theatrics of oration. Though he could not match the eloquence of Strode or Holles, he had to try. Antony raised a sheet of paper. “A copy of a copy of a note, made against Secretary Vane’s knowledge.” On a bench across the way, Vane’s son glared, not in the least embarrassed by his theft. “And Secretary Vane’s statement regarding the privy council meeting at which that note was made. The same piece of evidence, rendered twice, does not become twice as strong.

“Lord Strafford suggested the Irish army be used to reduce ‘this kingdom.’ Had he meant England, that would be treason indeed—but he did not say England. Others present at that meeting have no doubt he meant Scotland, which was, after all, the rebellious land then under debate. There is no treason here.”

He tossed down the paper, contemptuously, and locked his hands behind his back to conceal their trembling. “The charge of impeachment has failed. This bill of attainder seeks to circumvent that failure—to declare that Strafford
intended
to subvert the laws of this land, and that such intent, unproved and not acted upon, yet constitutes treason. In effect, the bill declares that Strafford must die for the good of England,
because we say it is so.
”

A pause, to let that sink in. But the benches around him were far too empty; where were the men who should have packed into the aisles for such an important vote? Scarcely half of the Commons had come today, despite the penalties for absence. They were afraid to commit themselves.

Afraid to put themselves in the path of Pym’s relentless assault, which struck not only at this one man, but the roots of sovereignty itself. Laud was in the Tower with Strafford; other servants of the Crown had fled abroad. Parliament—which was to say, the Commons—asserted the right to question and oversee the King’s councillors, to alter the Church as it saw fit, to control the revenues of the state; they wanted authority over the militia given into their hands. The only thing yet passed into law was a bill to call Parliament not less often than every three years—but if Antony lost this chance to thwart the opposition, who knew where the avalanche would end?

“Let us not make ourselves into a tyrannous mob,” he said, quietly, into the watchful silence. “The law has rendered Strafford innocent of treason. We must heed its voice.”

Then he sat down, before his knees could give out.

“The question,” said Speaker Lenthall, “is the bill of attainder for Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. The House will divide.”

The lobby to the chapel was cleared of all its usual rabble. Sir Gilbert Gerard and Sir Thomas Barrington stood by the door, ready to mark down the names of those voting against the bill.

Antony was the first to rise and pass outside the bar. In that moment, he hated this arrangement, which encouraged the lazy and the fearful to remain in their seats, while those who stood against were forced to walk out, under the eyes of their enemies.

Even before he turned around in the lobby, he knew it would not be enough.

A score. Two score. Watching, praying, he ended his count at fifty-nine. The dissenters recalled into the chamber, Lenthall read out the division: the yeas had gathered two hundred and four.

There was still a chance. The Lords had not yet passed the bill, and the King had not assented. And Charles had promised Strafford repeatedly that he would suffer no such ungrateful reward for his service.