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Chapter 29

Thus it came about that Elizabeth's departure from the Tower became an exasperation—the first of myriad and growing exasperations—to her new gaoler, Sir Henry Bedingfield. Instead of a surreptitious and guilty prisonerlike removal from one gaol to another, Elizabeth's release became sort of a triumphal progress.

Queen Mary was not pleased, but she did not, as her father might well have done, take out her irritation on Sir Henry. It was Elizabeth she blamed, even though no one could guess how Elizabeth could have sent news of her release out of the Tower.

Poor Mary was all too aware of the growing dislike of her subjects. There were things that could not be totally hidden from her: scurrilous ballads and broadsheets, tales of a mysterious voice from a wall that said "Amen" to "God save Lady Elizabeth" but was silent for Mary's name, even disgusting representations of the pope thrown into the palace grounds. All the signs of public anger and distrust had multiplied since the rebellion.

Elizabeth knew. Her anxiety had increased steadily since Bedingfield had taken over from Brydges as her gaoler. Seeing her goods packed brought her near panic, and all the strangers coming and going to carry parcels were a danger. She did not dare wear her shields. If someone tried to touch her and could not, the secret of her shield might have been exposed. How could she explain? All she could think of to protect  herself was to make everyone aware that she thought she might be furtively killed.

As long as they were still in the Tower she feared a swift and secret execution and demanded to know whether the scaffold on which Lady Jane had been executed was still erected. Elizabeth stopped in the great hall, looked around at clerks and visitors, men and women who had business in the tower and begged to be told whether she was to be dragged to that block.

Assured the scaffold and block were gone and she was only to be taken to a more comfortable dwelling, she cried aloud that the hundred men Bedingfield had assembled were to prevent any from saving her from assassination. Poor Bedingfield was appalled and pleaded with her not to accuse him of such a horrible crime. She only wept aloud and begged everyone to see that her guards, her faithful protectors, had been reft from her.

Bedingfield was a simple man. He was bewildered by the tears and tantrums. He had been ordered to keep Elizabeth securely but that she be treated "as may be agreeable to her [the queen's] honor and her [Elizabeth's] estate and degree." Bedingfield had intended only to provide his charge with guards he felt were younger and more capable. Unaware that these particular guards had been with her since childhood and were unlikely to obey his order that she not be allowed to speak to or send letters to those she desired to see, Bedingfield recalled Gerrit, Nyle, Shaylor, and Dickson. Elizabeth thanked him and went docilely down into the waiting barge.

She did ask to go on deck, but Bedingfield had been warned that Elizabeth was very popular in London and that he must not allow her to show herself lest she provoke a demonstration. Her request was refused, and she accepted that rebuff quietly. But a small, secret smile curved Elizabeth's lips as the demonstrations took place anyhow. Somehow news of her progress upriver was spread; people came to the bankside to cheer the unmarked barge and the great guns of the Steelyard crashed and crashed and crashed in salute as the barge moved slowly ahead.

The roaring of the guns of the Hanse brought out more people, who cheered and waved from the bank as the old and undecorated barge moved upriver from the Tower. There was their hope. Sweet Lady Elizabeth, who proudly said she was "mere" English, unlike Mary's flaunted pride in her half Spanish ancestry.

Their English favorite, they muttered to one another, would not bring Spaniards to rule over them. Although Elizabeth was not allowed to show herself, the crowds increased as word of the release spread. All Bedingfield could do was not allow the barge to stop until they came to Richmond.

However, at Richmond Elizabeth at first refused to set foot on the dock. Shrinking behind her four armed guards, she claimed that she had been warned that Imperial envoys were waiting to marry her by proxy to an unwelcome bridegroom. All the servants waiting on the wharf to welcome her heard her swear, in a high, clear voice, that she would not marry anyone and that she feared her refusal would mean that this night, "I think to die."

If envoys had been waiting in Richmond, they certainly were not presented to Elizabeth. Nor did she die.

The next day, her party crossed the river. Her own servants, first Thomas Parry then Dunstan, Ladbroke, and Tolliver, were waiting on the north bank to greet her. To them she sent Dickson, who was to say, loud and clear, "Tamquam ovis." Even Bedingfield's schoolboy Latin knew the phrase meant "as a sheep" and he protested aloud, before Elizabeth could say another word, that she was not being led like a sheep to the slaughter.

Elizabeth said nothing at all, and allowed him to lead her away from her people. She had seen Master Parry's smile and slight nod. Bedingfield might interpret the phrase as it touched him most nearly, but Elizabeth knew that Parry had understood the two words quite differently.

Thomas Parry might make mistakes in his accounts, but he made no mistake about his lady. He recognized her reference was to a favorite text she had had reason to quote in the past. "Behold," Saint Matthew's words went, "I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves; be ye therefore wise as serpents, harmless as doves."

Latin words and brief communication with her servants were the very least of Bedingfield's worries. Just what Mary had tried to prevent was taking place. The whole country seemed to turn out to greet Elizabeth. The Dormer family were intensely Catholic and it was in the Catholic Dean's house that Elizabeth was lodged that first night on the road to Woodstock. The people, however, were mostly of Protestant persuasion and they gathered by the road and on every rise of ground to catch a glimpse of and to cheer Elizabeth. Men rang the church bells as Elizabeth passed; four were put in prison for it, but not for long.

And no matter what Bedingfield did or threatened, the progress grew more and more triumphant. Every road they traveled was lined with cheering people who proffered flowers, cakes, and other little gifts in such profusion that Elizabeth had to beg them to stop when her litter was swamped. Loyal good wishes rang out and every hillside was dense with folk who came to catch a glimpse of their English princess.

On the last night of the journey they were guests at Lord William Howard's mansion. There Elizabeth was greeted and served with such great ceremony that Bedingfield warned her host that he was overdoing his hospitality to "one who was, after all, the queen's prisoner and no otherwise." To which Lord William remarked sharply that he was well advised of what he did and that in his house Her Grace should be merry.

In Oxfordshire, dominated by the very conservative university, which was strongly Catholic, Bedingfield hoped that Elizabeth would be ignored or even taunted. He was disappointed. At Wheatly, Stanton St. John, Islip, and Gosford, the whole population turned out to cry "God save Your Grace." Short of sending his men to disperse the people by force, which, although he was not clever, he knew would be a disaster, there was nothing Bedingfield could do. He was enormously relieved when they arrived at Woodstock.

The relief was short lived. The old manor was in serious disrepair. Windows were broken, slates missing from the roof, and the lead work was defective. Far worse from Bedingfield's point of view was that the manor was very large, and nearly impossible to secure. The outer court was some two hundred feet square, the inner court only a third less, and doors in plenty opened onto the inner court of which Bedingfield could find only three with locks and bars.

That was nerve-wracking enough, almost an open invitation to violate Bedingfield's prime directive, which was to prevent Elizabeth from speaking to any suspected person or to receive or send out any message. Bedingfield knew he could establish guards to watch the courts, but he doubted how effective they could be when there were so many ways to come and go and no way to light the areas sufficiently at night.

Far worse was that Bedingfield could see—and he was not the most perceptive of men—that Elizabeth was clearly as anxious or more anxious than he. Her face was white, her eyes burning bright, her mouth set so hard that her lips had disappeared into a thin line. She quivered with tension and barely touched the meal her servants had struggled to make ready for her. Poor Bedingfield felt certain that she was involved in some desperate plan to escape.

If Elizabeth had been enough aware of any external tensions, she could have—and would have—set his mind at ease. However she was completely absorbed in her own inner hopes and expectations. For the first time since she had been immured in the Tower, where she was closely watched at all hours of the day and night, she could hope to be unobserved. She had no desire at all to escape, at least not in any way for which Bedingfield could be held accountable.

Having examined Woodstock manor carefully while Elizabeth was held securely in the principal reception room, Bedingfield came to the unhappy conclusion that there was no apartment in the manor he could assign to her. Some were too decrepit, with leaking ceilings and ill-fitting windows; some, free of water stains because they were on lower floors, had so many doors and windows that they were open invitations for assault or escape.

Bedingfield raised his eyes to heaven in silent prayer. He felt he needed all the support the saints could give him. He had already been well stung by Lady Elizabeth's displeasure, and was not looking forward to her reaction when he announced that no rooms in the manor itself were livable on such short notice, and that he had no choice but to settle her in the gatehouse until repairs and renovations could be undertaken.

Elizabeth stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue and finally repeated, "The gatehouse? You will lodge me in the gatehouse?"

"It is a temporary measure, Your Grace," Bedingfield said hastily, hoping to ward off Elizabeth's furious complaints. "The manor is old and has been long uninhabited. I fear that the surveyors were not completely honest in their reports to the queen of the condition of the building. Since the gatehouse has been in use, it is in far better repair and can be made comfortable for you in a few hours."

"The gatehouse," Elizabeth muttered.

She looked furious, but her frown was of concentration; she was trying to remember what she had seen of the building as they passed. Two stories, of that she was sure, and surely she had seen a goodly window in that second story. That meant there were decent chambers on the second floor, not only low-roofed cubbies for servants.

"I am sorry if you do not like it, madam," Bedingfield said, speaking firmly, "but I have no choice and it must be so. It will do no good for you to remonstrate with me. I have my orders from the queen and I must obey them."

Elizabeth drew a deep breath. Her eyes fixed on him for one moment, almost yellow as gold in the early afternoon light. Then she bit her lips hard and looked down.

It was very fortunate indeed that none of Elizabeth's long-time maids of honor were with her or some murmur or expression of warning might have been surprised out of one of them. They knew when their lady was bent on mischief. However, the unholy joy that brightened Elizabeth's eyes and made her swallow and swallow to choke down laughter were expressions that were not familiar even to Elizabeth Marberry, who had been considered loyal enough to the queen to remain as Elizabeth's attendant. The ladies that had been assigned to serve her in the Tower and to follow her into house arrest were more acquainted with rage than joy.

There was really no way for Bedingfield to realize that locking Elizabeth firmly into the gatehouse was exactly what she wanted. On first sight of the large, sprawling manor, Elizabeth's heart had sunk. She had never been in Woodstock and had no idea how the lodgings were arranged. She hoped that Bedingfield would be able to close off her apartment in such a way as to preclude his overanxious orders that someone check on her at all hours.

Elizabeth had been afraid that there would be multiple ways to enter any apartment he chose for her, and that would make it much, much harder for her to be sure no one would discover her absence. It was possible in a neglected building for one door to stick; for two or three to do so must cause suspicion. Elizabeth's lips thinned to nothing. No matter what the danger, she would escape to Underhill and sleep in Denoriel's arms that night. For her to lodge in the gatehouse might be her salvation.

Her joy increased upon entering the building. There was a substantial stair rising to the second story, which confirmed her hope that there were decent rooms above. She looked at the stair deliberately before passing through the door to the principal chamber which Bedingfield was holding open for her.

Elizabeth sniffed loudly and looked around the room. It was in some disarray since it had been home for some years only to the servants of the official in charge of the empty manor. Although she frowned and wrinkled her nose, actually Elizabeth thought it would be a pleasant place to sit of a morning or afternoon.

Warned by her expression, Bedingfield quickly passed through to another well-proportioned room without speaking. A fire was burning in the fireplace, but the chamber had a definite odor of unwashed inhabitants.

"I cannot sleep here," Elizabeth protested, her voice shrill. "It stinks. And even with the fire it is damp."

There were windows through which a guard might peer and another door in the back wall. Elizabeth suspected the back door would open either to the back garden or to a corridor leading to the kitchen. To lock that as well as the door to the front chamber by magic would not be safe. Elizabeth remembered vividly the consternation she had caused by sealing one door to her bedchamber so that she and Denno could rest in her bed in Chelsea.

"The chambers will be cleaned, Your Grace, and aired. They will be made fit for you," Bedingfield pleaded.

"No!" Elizabeth shouted. "I will not stay here in the servants' filth. I will sooner lie in an open field."

She ran past Bedingfield, who gasped with shock and followed as quickly as he could. She was so quick and light footed that she went past her maids of honor, who had been looking around their probable quarters, through the front room, and out into the entry before any of them could move. Bedingfield could not catch her and was terrified of ordering the guards to stop her physically, but by the time he had come to the door to shout an order, Elizabeth had already stopped and was looking at the stair.

"There are chambers above?" she asked, and, pretending not to see the sudden light of hope in Bedingfield's expression, added thoughtfully, "They would not be damp."

"No, madam," Bedingfield assured her, heartily. "If you would but ignore the disorder in the rooms now and consider that they can be cleaned, thoroughly cleaned, and have scented woods and pastiles burned to remove any odor . . ."

He followed again as Elizabeth climbed the stair, which rose into the front chamber. This had obviously been used as a bedroom by those who had been in charge of the manor. Elizabeth shook her head. It would be impossible to find any privacy in a room into which the stair opened. But there was a door in the farther wall. She walked to it swiftly and flung it open.

Beyond was a somewhat smaller room that was obviously being used for storage. Just visible through the clutter was a fireplace. Beyond the fireplace was a small door, almost invisible in the paneling. Elizabeth threaded her way through the broken furniture and the old chests.

"Lady Elizabeth!" Bedingfield cried, attempting to follow her. "Do not—"

But she paid no attention and opened the door. Since she did not step through it, Bedingfield was able to hurry to her side. Elizabeth bit her lip to conceal a smile. Her gaoler seemed to think she had been seeking a way out. Fool. Where could she go on foot in an area with which she was not personally familiar, although she did own some lands in Oxfordshire.

The little door opened only into a still smaller chamber, just large enough for a servant. Perfect for Blanche, Elizabeth thought, turning away from the little room and staring out over the odds and ends that littered the floor. Seeing no way out from the small chamber, Bedingfield had moved to one window and then to the other.

"This can all be cleared, Your Grace," Beedingfield said, coming back from his hasty glances out of each of the chamber's windows. "Your bed would fit on the back wall. With a carpet or two and a good fire, you will not recognize the place."

He spoke cheerfully, brightly, trying to urge an image of intimate comfort on her. In the way his eyes roved the room what he was seeing was two windows too high to invite jumping or climbing, a single door before which a guard could be stationed, and no other way for his prisoner to find freedom or conspirators.

Elizabeth had to go to the windows herself and look out to find time to control her expression. When she turned back, she had bent her brows into an angry scowl.

"How long will it take to ready an apartment for me in the manor?" she asked. "It is not fitting nor will it conform to my sister's command that I be treated as is fit for my estate and degree to lodge me in the house of servants."

"Your Grace," Bedingfield pleaded. "To lodge you here is not of my will, but it would suit you worse to have a bedchamber and sitting room into which the spring rains poured and where the windows rattled like iron wheels on a stone road. Everything that can be done to make this house suitable for Your Grace will be done at once. But for the manor, funds must be found to make repairs . . ." he mumbled unhappily.

Oh good. That will take forever. I can just see the Council agreeing to spend money to make Woodstock manor sound while they have no funds to pay those who fought Wyatt or for any other important purpose.

Elizabeth sighed like one martyred and began to make her way toward the stair. She moved slowly now, seeming discouraged. "The back chamber is not damp or musty," she allowed grudgingly, "for all it has been used only for storage. Well, I hope you will press the Council smartly to have the manor refurbished for me, and since it cannot be helped, I will take that back chamber for my bed. My ladies can use the forward chamber for their beds. The rooms down below—if they can be made fit—will do as parlor and private reception room."

"I will set the servants to work at once," Bedingfield agreed, escorting Elizabeth out the front door.

He gave no particular sign of satisfaction, but he was warm and contented inside. Those last words repaid him for the sharp-tongued complaints and criticisms. Lady Elizabeth could talk all she wanted about private reception rooms, but she would be receiving no one he did not approve, and no one at all in private. He had been directed not to allow any visitors he did not trust completely and even with those he did trust to allow no conversation he did not overhear.

The thought gave him so much pleasure that he agreed to Elizabeth walking in the inner courtyard with her maids of honor while the gatehouse was readied for her. Out of Bedingfield's sight and hearing, Elizabeth forgot to maintain the attitude of despondency. Bit by bit her stride lengthened and her eyes began to dance with glee. She could already see the brilliant twilight of Underhill, the soft moss starred with white flowers, the great brass doors of Lachar Lle.

She wondered about the illusion on Denno's door and beyond the great window in his parlor. In the long months she had been held at Court and imprisoned in the Tower, had he tried to divert himself by making the illusion, which he knew she loved, more elaborate, more beautiful? Were there new flowers? Was the manor house repainted? Had a hedge grown? Elizabeth bit her lips to hide her delighted smile of anticipation.

The queen's ladies, now Elizabeth's minders, glanced from one to another. All were uneasy about Elizabeth's lifted spirits. She had been planning some outrage—they all agreed there could be no other explanation for her excitement when they first reached Woodstock. Something about the place had spoiled her expectation. She had been really shocked when Bedingfield told her she would have to lodge in the gatehouse.

Now, suddenly, her mood had changed from disappointment to satisfaction. She seemed so self-absorbed that the two ladies walking behind were not afraid to consult each other in low voices. They had no idea how keen Elizabeth's hearing was nor how well terror had trained her to understand half-heard words.

"She has some new plan," Mary Dacre whispered.

"Yes," Susanna Norton agreed, biting her lower lip. "From near tears to near dancing. Whatever her disappointment was, she has found some way to amend it."

"But what can we do? The queen will be furious with us if she manages to escape or to make herself the reason for another rebellion." Mary Dacre began to wring her hands and then forced them behind her back lest Elizabeth look around.

"Elizabeth knows her best," Susanna said. "We must talk it over with her."

Elizabeth waited the result of that discussion with some anxiety, wondering how difficult the ladies would make it for her to ensure none would intrude on her during the night. It was possible, of course, for Denno to twist time so that she seemed to be absent for only a few minutes, but she suspected that power was low and thin in the Bright domains because of the unhappiness and unrest caused by the rebellion and the general dissatisfaction with the Spanish marriage. If he only needed to give her some hours for sleep, the twist would be more like a soft curve and take less power.

Since Elizabeth had hardly touched the dinner prepared soon after they arrived at Woodstock, she ate very well at the evening meal, which was served in a still-habitable dining parlor in the manor. When the final sweets and savouries were pushed away, Bedingfield rose and bowed.

"If Your Grace will come with me, I will show you how the quarters in the gatehouse have been prepared and try to amend tomorrow any insufficiencies you find therein."

"I do hope those insufficiencies are not such as will prevent me from soon going to bed," Elizabeth said. "I am sad and tired and I fear I will find little rest in this strange ruinous place."

They set out for the gatehouse without delay, Elizabeth waving away the worn and warped litter in which she had traveled. The walk was chilly, and Elizabeth pulled her cloak tightly around her. She was cold now and her excitement and high hopes dimmed as she worried about what her ladies planned. But arrival at the gatehouse provided a pleasant surprise.

The outer room, which had been littered and dirty, was now warmed by a bright fire; to one side was a cushioned chair, opposite was an old but sturdy bench and several stools. Velvet drapes shrouded the windows and on the floor was a Turkey carpet, also old, showing worn spots, but clean and of a handsome design.

Elizabeth sniffed. The air had a smoky odor of apples; seemingly the wood burning in the fireplace was apple wood. "Very fit, Sir Henry," she said. "I can still feel some damp from the floor, but not impossible to endure until you can arrange to have the manor restored. Let me see my withdrawing room."

Bedingfield looked surprised. His relationship with Elizabeth had been one of complaints on her part and attempted explanations or sometimes exasperated commands on his. He had not expected her to show the smallest thanks for his effort. But before he could respond she had set off for the inner chamber. Here she had to walk into the room before she could see the fireplace, which shared wall and chimney with the fireplace in the front chamber.

Bedingfield braced himself for an outburst, as there was almost no furniture at all, except for a large, carved settle near the fireplace. "There seemed little sense to furnishing this chamber, as you will have few visitors and no occasion to be private with anyone."

Elizabeth blinked. "Do you mean to bury me here in this wilderness?"

"Your Grace, I pray you not to insult me again by accusing me of allowing any harm to come to you. You will only live quietly—"

"Quietly, yes, but surely there will be messages from the queen, and members of the Council will wish to speak with me."

"I do not know, madam," Bedingfield replied stolidly.

But Elizabeth could see in his face that no message would come from the queen and that the Council would be glad, indeed, if it never heard of her again. She could not let that happen, she resolved; she would not let it happen. But first she must secure the private bedchamber that would save her sanity, which would surely be endangered by being locked into a prison with only Sir Henry Bedingfield as companion.

"But I do," she said spitefully. "Even a common prisoner in the Fleet or Newgate is allowed communication with the authorities that have imprisoned him. I shall not be less than a common felon when I am innocent of any crime at all."

Bedingfield opened his mouth to say that all but certain proof was held against her and that if she would only confess and throw herself on the queen's mercy, she would hear better news than being held in an old, unused manor. He never got the chance. Elizabeth had whirled about so quickly that the hem of her skirt flicked at his ankles.

"You may take me above to the bedchambers," she said.

In the outer room into which the stairs rose were now three small beds, well garnished with sheets, pillows, and bedcoverings. On the inner wall a fire burned; this one smelled of cedar or pine. There was no carpet, but small fleeces lay beside each bed. Without comment, Elizabeth passed through. If Mary's spies were not satisfied they could complain on their own.

The inner chamber brought from her a sigh of relief. This room too smelled pleasantly of cedar. The fire, again sharing a wall and a chimney with that of the outer room, gave enough light for her to see her bed—not the great, wide bed that she carried from Hatfield to Ashridge or to any of her other manors but the smaller bed, not really wide enough for two, that she had been allowed while a near-prisoner in Whitehall and an acknowledged prisoner in the Tower.

Still it was her bed and was not large enough to share. Perhaps that was meant as a kind of punishment, to deprive her of the comfort of a lady sleeping with her. But since Denno had become her lover more than five years past, she had rarely availed herself of that comfort. In this case it was all to the good; a suspicious lady beside her in her bed might wake if she heard Elizabeth whispering or felt her moving. Half awake, that lady might become suspicious of her sudden, sound sleep.

There was a low cot on the far wall. No doubt one of Mary's spies would sleep there, which was no problem as Elizabeth could bespell her to sleep without moving and so seem asleep herself.

Elizabeth nodded to Bedingfield, who had come behind her into the room. "It is not what I am used to," she said petulantly, "but I suppose you can do no better. There needs a decent carpet and a chair for me to sit by the fire, and a lamp to read by."

Again before Bedingfield could find an answer, she had swept by him, through the adjoining room, and started down the stair. He hurried behind her in case she should try to leave, but she turned right into the parlor where "her" ladies were waiting uneasily.

"That will do, Sir Henry," Elizabeth said, waving him away. "You may go. God give you a good night. I will do no more than speak a few words to my ladies and then find my bed."

What she said was true, she thought, smiling a little. She had not said she would go to sleep. She would certainly find her bed, even lie down in it, so she had not told a lie.

The small, secret smile sparked even greater anxiety in the ladies, who had been infecting each other with all sorts of wild fantasies of Elizabeth somehow convincing the guard to let her by. Elizabeth guessed that fear and it increased her impulse to laugh. It was not so fantastic, since it was Shaylor holding the front door and Nyle the rear; all she would have had to do was say she wished to leave. Neither Shaylor nor Nyle would say her nay, no matter what orders had been given them by others.

Susanna Norton, tired by Elizabeth's swift and athletic pace in walking even suggested she might climb out of the window into the arms of a noble supporter with an army at his heels. All three agreed that Elizabeth was sly enough to conceal herself from them so that they would run about seeking her while she drew a shawl over her red hair and walked out of the gates.

Elizabeth Marberry curtsied and said, "This is an eerie place, Your Grace. That huge, empty manor . . . I feel it looming over us even though the curtains are drawn. Would it be possible for us to be all together?"

"You mean you all wish to sleep in the same chamber? Well . . ." Elizabeth looked doubtfully from one face to another and could not understand the mixed emotions she saw there. "I suppose Blanche could sleep in my room—"

"Oh no, Your Grace!" Mary Dacre exclaimed. "No. We would never leave you all alone with no one but a common maidservant to support you. We would all three like to sleep in your chamber together."

"All three of you?" Elizabeth's eyes opened wide.

She looked terribly shocked. She was terribly shocked, but with pleasure. She gazed at them, speechless with delight, furthering their impression that she was appalled. All of them together, she thought. One single sleep spell and they would all be helpless. She would not even need to bespell the door not to open. Blanche could sit by it and answer anyone who came.

"But . . ." she sputtered, "but there is only one bed."

"We will make do," Elizabeth Marberry said, trying not to sound like a martyr. "Unless there is some reason why you do not want us in your bedchamber."

"No," Elizabeth murmured, biting her lip hard to keep from laughing. "No, of course you are welcome to sleep in my chamber. Let me just tell my maid to provide drink and suitable tidbits for all of us."

Looks flashed from one pair of eyes to another. Elizabeth had to turn away from their anxious faces. She went and stared into the fire, as one sorely disappointed might do. She was consumed by a desire to kiss them all and giggle.

The innocents! They cannot decide whether to let me speak to Blanche alone or not. They think I want to tell Blanche to warn away any who planned to free me or conspire with me. If Blanche warned them, those dangerous rebels would not come and the silly hens are afraid to try to trap me with dangerous, perhaps desperate, men. On the other hand they know it wrong to let rebels be warned and escape and lose a chance to prove me guilty.

"Oh, Your Grace," Susanna Norton said, clearly screwing her courage to the sticking point. "Please do not disturb yourself. I will go and speak with your maid."

"As you wish," Elizabeth said, turning from the fire and seating herself in her chair with an ill-natured thump.

She was still struggling with laughter. She did not care a bit what Susanna said to Blanche, since she would have plenty of time to discuss what Blanche should do after the women were all bespelled asleep. She turned her eyes to the fire again. Now she only had to find the strength to act in a manner they would consider natural until they went to bed. And then she would have to be strong enough not to claw with impatience at the wall in Blanche's room where her token would call Denno's Gate.

 

The Gate opened so slowly that Elizabeth clapped her hands to her mouth to keep from crying out. Mary was destroying the joy of her people and was destroying the Bright Court with it. More than ever Elizabeth regretted Wyatt's failure. She knew that his success would have made her coming to the throne far more difficult, perhaps would have caused a civil war . . . which would have been just as harmful to the power the Bright Court used.

When Denno forced his way through the narrow Gate, Elizabeth clutched him to her, sobbing softly with mingled joy and fear. He still wore the somewhat ravaged face of Lord Denno Adjoran instead of that of the young Denoriel he usually wore for her visits Underhill. That told her how great an effort he had expended to open a new Gate to the mortal world.

"Beloved, beloved," he murmured, resting his cheek against her bright hair. "It has seemed like a thousand years to me. I feared for you. I think I would have gone mad, except for Rhoslyn, who kept assuring me that Mary would not let harm come to you."

Elizabeth raised her head to kiss his lips, and urged him back toward the Gate. With the women who watched her so fearful about what she would do, she was not certain the spell would hold them if they heard the sound of her voice and a man's.

She and Denno went through the Gate still linked, and it was not an easy passage. Usually Elizabeth found herself securely at the arrival Gate just as she became aware of the sensation of darkness and falling. This time she had a long moment to be terrified. Her lips had parted to scream, although no sound ever penetrated the Otherness of Gating. However, they did arrive safely at the Gate to Llachar Lle and Miralys was waiting.

Elizabeth examined the elvensteed carefully, fearing the creature would be less solid or show signs of ageing, and Miralys turned his head to look at her. "I feel I should do something," Elizabeth said anxiously to the steed, "although I have not the smallest notion of what I could do. She will not listen to me."

Miralys snorted loudly, then touched Elizabeth gently with his muzzle. Denoriel hugged her tighter.

"It is nothing to do with you, beloved," he said, as he lifted her to the second saddle. "Your one duty for now is to stay alive without being sent out of the country or married off to someone who will be repugnant to your people. If you can manage that, we have hope to cling to."

Llachar Lle, to Elizabeth's relief seemed no less solid or magnificent. Perhaps the white flowers in the moss were not as bright and the palace did not shine with so silvery a light . . . but perhaps that was only her fear darkening her eyes. The slight chill of the spell that acknowledged her as she passed through the small entry portal to the side of Llachar Lle's giant brass doors seemed no more or less than she remembered, and the huge hallway and silver doors were unchanged. But the illusion that masked Denno's doorway seemed dull and flat.

What was Oberon's, Elizabeth realized as she and Denno went into his apartment, had not been affected by the loss of the power of joy. Where Oberon's power came from . . . Elizabeth's lips parted to ask and then closed without a sound. Likely Denno would not tell her; likely he did not know. But if he did, Elizabeth decided, she did not want to hear. She had enough trouble with religion without adding a pagan god to her belief.

"Do you want to eat? Something to drink?" Denno asked.

The odd wavering in the air that signified Denno's servants were present was slow to form. Elizabeth shook her head and turned to face Denno, to put her arms around his neck and press her body against his.

"I want nothing except to touch you, to be with you. To make myself sure that I have really found a breath of freedom."

He nodded, smiling, and walked toward the stair that led to the second story (which could not possibly exist) drawing Elizabeth with him. She could not help being a little frightened that he had not, as was usual for him, swept her off her feet and carried her up the stair. As they came through the door of his bedchamber, Elizabeth pulled off her night rail and cast it away, then ran to him and began to undo the fastenings of his doublet. He raised a hand to gesture, but she shook her head vehemently.

"I need to peel you, stitch by stitch," she said, kissing him again.

Her Denno's eyes brightened so that he looked less worn. He had taken what she said as a ploy to heighten sexual anticipation. Elizabeth was glad of it, but the truth was that she was trying to save him even the minuscule outlay of power that it would have cost to remove their clothing by magic.

However as this and that garment was cast away, Denoriel's skin was bared and Elizabeth's mouth found his neck, his shoulder, his broad breast, his small man's nipple. He groaned and caught her to him, his own mouth hot against her neck. She thrust him away a little, enough to open his points and the tie of his slops. And as she nudged the garments off his hips, her hands slid along his flesh.

Denoriel raised one foot and pushed slops and stockings down on his other leg. Elizabeth's hands wandered from his hips to his groin. Denoriel groaned again, and they were lying on the bed. He was not aware of the power he used to raise them both. It did not seem to cost him any effort. A warmth seemed to flow from Elizabeth into him that filled his empty channels for magic.

With that warmth came a rush of passion so rich, so raw that he lost awareness of any refinement he had intended to use to please her. He rid himself of the remains of his clothing with two frantic shoves with his feet, rolled over so that he was above her, and thrust.

Perhaps he used magic again without thinking of it or willing it. Without positioning, his shaft slid home. Elizabeth shrieked and surged up against him. He seized her hips so he could draw, but he did not get far; her legs came up and locked around him, and she ground herself against him, crying out again.

It was enough. It was too much. His climax drained him and drained him again. He could feel her body pulsing around him. Bliss mingled with pain when he had no more to give. But by then Elizabeth was still also, only her lips touching his chin gently and then falling away.

Sidhe do not sleep, but a vast lassitude enwrapped Denoriel so that it was an enormous effort to lift himself off Elizabeth and slide to the side. It was true, he thought slowly—even his thoughts moving languidly—that mortals were not healthy for elven-kind. He had had Sidhe lovers and enjoyed them, but he had never been so wrenched, so burnt, so consumed by pleasure. Nothing would ever match his Elizabeth and when he lost her he would go through his long, long life aching for what he would never find again.

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Framed