In Ashes Lie (31 page)

Feidelm’s chair scraped across the soil, and all eyes went to her.
“Claíomh Solais,”
the poetess whispered.

From farther down the table came a wry voice. “And what is that, when it’s in English?” Irrith asked. She sat in for Wayland, who had little patience for these intrigues, though Lune doubted Irrith’s patience was any greater.

“The Sword of Light,” Feidelm said, her eyes shining with reverence. “The sword of Nuada, who was Ard-Rí before, and will be again. One of the Four Treasures of Ériu.”

Lune swallowed an unexpected desire to laugh as the English around the table all exchanged baffled glances. Anything that merited renown as a treasure of Ireland could be real trouble. “What makes you name it?”

The poetess’s eyes focused again, and she straightened, edging her chair back toward the table. “It has been lost for ages, but rumor has come of it again, and recently. This might be why. If it was in Nicneven’s clutches...”

“With all the raids between Ireland and Scotland,” Antony said, “mortal and fae alike, it’s possible. Suppose Conchobar has the sword. What danger means that for us?”

Feidelm hesitated, fingers brushing the torc about her throat. “I cannot be certain. I may even be wrong about the sword. Properly, it is Nuada’s, and Conchobar could curry great favor by returning it to the Ard-Rí. Perhaps he may do so, when Nuada reigns again.”

“Nuada was on the throne two years ago,” Lune said. “Conchobar had his chance then—for we must assume that if the sword was his payment, he has received it by now.”

“Indeed.” The sidhe nodded thoughtfully, and a line of worry creased her fine brow. “Which makes me think he has some use for it, before he gives it over. But in my honest opinion, that use will not concern you; more likely he will turn it against his enemies in Connacht. With no insult intended, madam, Lord Antony—to Conchobar, you are not that important.”

If Ireland’s internal strife distracted him from England, so much the better. “You said Nicneven was disaffected,” Lune reminded Amadea. “Has she learned the truth of Vidar’s promise to Conchobar?”

“He has not been subtle about it,” Antony muttered blackly. Once they finished with the reports from abroad, he would tell her of Vidar’s latest attempts to manipulate the Puritans and Lord Protector Cromwell’s government. “I know Nicneven is in Fife, not London, but surely she has creatures who carry tales of his deeds.”

“She does,” Amadea confirmed. “But she had patience, because she believed Vidar when he told her he but delayed the Irish, while he worked to carry out her
other
purpose.”

Other purpose? There had to be one; it was the only explanation for the Scottish fae still in London, long after Charles’s death. But something in how Amadea said it made Lune’s heartbeat slow in dread. “Which is?”

Into the silence of the council chamber, Amadea said, “To destroy the Onyx Hall.”

The blood drained from Antony’s already pale face. Lune covered his hand with her own, and found his fingers cold as death.
It would kill him.
This long separation already came far too close. She feared what would happen if he died before they could retake the palace; he grew frailer with every passing month. And without him, Lune might find herself crippled.

“Why?” Peregrin whispered, horrified enough to speak out of turn. “That—but—it is as if we threatened to destroy Fife itself. She makes war, not just against her Majesty, but against—”

“The foundation of my sovereignty,” Lune said, through numb lips. The bond with London hummed in her bones. Nicneven’s venom against her and all her court suddenly became clear as fine glass. “Because she objects to the joining of mortal and fae, and my realm itself is the source of that problem. The roots of my sovereignty lie in the land—but she considers it twisted, does she not?” At the edge of her vision, she saw Amadea nod. “It is a mortal place, not a natural one. A place never meant for our kind. To be bound to such a land corrupts me, and through me, my subjects. If she wishes to end what we do, she must destroy its source.”

Now she understood the reports of destruction within the palace, chambers torn apart. Vidar was not merely searching for the London Stone; he was trying to break the enchantments of the Hall itself. Or at least creating the appearance of it. Lune had no doubt he would prefer to be the Onyx Hall’s master, rather than its destroyer—but if it ever became more beneficial to his own survival that he bring the palace down, he would do it.

And if he found the London Stone, that choice would be his.

Urgency flared beneath Lune’s breast. Living forever, it was easy for faerie-kind to take a patient view, and see nothing in the delay of years. This robbed her of such complacency. Delay, and she might not have a realm to retake.

The Onyx Court would die as surely as the Kingdom of England had.

Antony had removed his hand from beneath hers; now he said in an unemotional voice, “Then we must encourage Nicneven’s disaffection. It will risk her sending someone else to finish Vidar’s task, but if she withdraws her support, he will be vulnerable.”

Lune opened her mouth to ask Irrith a question, but swallowed it when she realized Wayland was there himself, standing just inside the doorway. He had entered with his usual, unnatural silence, and now he heard what she had been about to say. Wayland shook his head. “I understand your fears. And if the Scots withdraw from the Onyx Hall, you may have the war you desire. But until then, my answer is unchanged. My people are too few, and this is not their battle. I will not ask them to throw themselves into defeat.”

“I understand,” Lune said, and she did. But the desperation clawing its way up her throat made her add silently,
Then help me find a way to prevent that defeat. Before it is too late.

Dressed in the rags he wore about the City, Antony might have encountered trouble as he rode along the south bank of the Thames, and so he had changed out his clothing for the sober respectability of a minor tradesman. With his hair and beard trimmed, and the fortification of a recent visit to the Onyx Hall burning in him, he looked and felt more like himself.

He was alert enough to ride warily, and to depart from the river path well in advance of his destination. Picking his way along smaller lanes, he came at the palatial manor of Ham House from the back, through the gardens that lay on the far side of the house from the water. After tying his horse in a thicket, he slipped down the broad avenues of the wilderness to the well-manicured lawn below the south terrace, and a gnarled old sweet chestnut that stood to one side.

Antony laid his hand on the bark and murmured, “I am here.”

The trunk had a protruding burl like a drunkard’s nose, and a gap below like a mustached mouth; when Antony took his hand away, the wood moved, and eyes blinked open in the bark. “Good evening,” the chestnut tree said with grave dignity.

Though not one of Lune’s subjects, the spirit of the tree had proven more than willing to help Antony. Ever since Kate struck up a friendship with the Lady of Ham House, in fact; he rather thought the spirit liked his wife. “Is all quiet?”

“Yes,” the tree said. “The harsh one has not been here in a long time.”

“Nor ever again.” Antony felt a surge of relief. “The harsh one, my friend, is dead. As of this afternoon.”

After pondering this, the tree said, “Good.”

“Are they expecting me?” At the chestnut’s affirmation, he touched a branch and said, “Thank you. I will see to it that my Queen rewards you for your aid.”

The old tree retired into sleep, nodding, and Antony climbed the stairs onto the south terrace. Silent approach was impossible; the gravel crunched beneath his feet, and so he was not surprised when the doors swung open, revealing a small, familiar figure.

He crossed the last distance at a half-run and caught her up in his arms. The house on Lombard Street had been a house, nothing more, and the Onyx Hall was simply the place he must go to survive.
This
was home, as much as he had one anymore: within the circle of Kate’s embrace.

She buried one hand in his cropped hair, the other holding him hard about the waist. Neither of them said anything; their kiss communicated all that was needed. She feared for him, hiding in London under a series of false identities, all the more so because she did not fully understand why he did it. Even now, he could not tell her the reason they had fled nine years ago, nor who it was that hunted him, nor why he continually went back. His political sympathies made him suspect, but no more than others who had kept their names and their homes.

Those were issues they had fought through before; she did not raise them again. Instead Kate smiled up at him and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. She was about to say something when the door on the opposite wall creaked open, and a young man stepped through.

Antony’s heart ached without warning. He might have been looking at his own elder brother, stepped straight from decades past, so closely did his son resemble the man for whom he had been named.
Has it been so long since I have seen him?

It had. Any of his children, in truth; the last he had seen of his daughter Alice was at her wedding, and Robin had gone to sea with the East India Company, helping to maintain the trade that was the family’s sole remaining source of support. And Henry...

Kate had tensed under Antony’s fingers. He gave her a reassuring touch before crossing to take his eldest son’s hand. “You are looking well,” he said.

“As are you, Father,” Henry said stiffly, and falsely. He was clean-shaven, and his hair neatly trimmed; his clothing was sober, as befit one of his ideals. Not Puritan, but a Commonwealthsman to the bone—never mind that the Commonwealth of England, like the Kingdom before it, had fallen victim to these years of instability.

Kate broke the silence before it could stretch long enough to be uncomfortable. “We had word you were coming, and so dinner awaits. I’ll have a servant bring water for you to wash up.”

Clean and surprisingly hungry, Antony presented himself to Elizabeth Murray, Countess of Dysart and lady of the house, who reigned in solitary splendor with her husband gone. The first words out of her mouth were, “Is it true?”

He studied the woman with some curiosity. Though in her thirties, and with unattractive strawberry-blond hair, she was still remarkably pretty—a detail that had not gone unnoticed by those who marked her friendship with Oliver Cromwell. Despite his best efforts, Antony had never been able to puzzle out just how true that friendship was, at least on her part. How true
could
it be, when Elizabeth Murray worked in secret with her Royalist father to end the Lord Protector’s rule and restore the Stuarts to the throne?

Now was hardly the time to ask. “Yes, my lady,” he said, with as much kindness as he could muster. “Lord Protector Cromwell is dead.”

Henry made a satisfied noise. “Perhaps now we will have the freedom we once enjoyed, and no single person to rule England as King in all but name.”

His son was right about Cromwell, at least; in the streets of London, they called him King Noll, and celebrated his death. And the House of Lords might have been abolished, but earlier in the year the Lord Protector had created a new upper house to control his unruly Parliament. Only the bishops had not been replaced, after the dismantling of the episcopacy. Many of the Commonwealth’s ideals lay in tatters, thanks to Cromwell’s establishment of the Protectorate; naturally Henry would see his death as a chance to lift them up once more.

Antony knew better, but he also knew better than to broach the subject of politics with his son. And Kate and Lady Dysart helped, diverting the dinner conversation to less dangerous topics, so that for a little while they could pretend it was nothing more than a meal in convivial company. Despite her precarious position, the lady maintained a good home, and good food with it.

When they were finished, however, Kate lured Henry downstairs on a pretext, and Elizabeth guided Antony through the long gallery to the library, a cramped room that already held an occupant. John Ellin rose as they entered and greeted him with all the honesty Henry had eschewed. “You look like hell.”

Gripping the young man’s hand, Antony said, “No doubt I do. And no doubt you will prescribe a course of bleeding or some such, to improve my health.”

“Bleeding? Not a chance. An excess of the sanguine humor is hardly your problem.” Ellin’s long, wry face turned thoughtful. “Black bile, I imagine. In which case—”

“In which case, Mr. Ellin, you shall do nothing.” Kate entered the library and closed the door behind her. The space was cramped with four in it, but at least they were private. “You have not finished your training as a physician
or
a surgeon.”

He acknowledged her point with a bow. “A shortcoming I strive to mend as soon as possible.”

It would not take him long; though four years younger than Henry, Ellin was already well advanced in his study of both the intellectual and practical aspects of medicine. Antony suspected his involvement in the Royalist cause was of a piece with that training: John Ellin saw the body politic as grievously diseased, weakened by the upheavals it had wrought upon itself from the civil war onwards.

Another such upheaval faced them now, but it might offer the chance for healing. “Cromwell is dead,” Lady Dysart told Ellin, who merely nodded. The man’s health had been bad for months, so it came as no surprise. Though there was a good deal of irony, it being the anniversary of his great victories at Dunbar and Worcester. “Sir Antony—what word of his successor?”

In reply, Antony drew a crumpled letter from inside his doublet. “It would have been Fleetwood,” he said. “But this was the only proof of it, and on his deathbed Cromwell named his son Richard.”

Kate took it from his fingers, with a look that said she was carefully not asking him how he got it. Ellin grimaced and said, “We might have done better with Fleetwood. He’s a milksop.”