Elizabeth stiffened slightly as someone brushed her arm. She had been so deep into her memories of her first weeks at Court last summer that she had almost felt warm. Drawn from those memories into the present chill December, she began to shiver again. Lady Alana, herself looking pinched and pale said, "Mass is over," and helped Elizabeth to her feet.
They were the first out of the chapel, but they paused no great distance from it and drew back against the corridor wall. Elizabeth stepped forward to greet several of the worshipers who left after she did with a smile and a small bow. As Mary passed, she curtsied deeply, gritting her teeth as her stubborn knees had to be forced to bend. Mary did not deign to look at her.
The duke of Norfolk, however, paused and said, "Did you attend the Mass, Lady Elizabeth? I did not see you."
"It is very beautiful," Elizabeth said. "Very uplifting. Unfortunately I came late and was at the back. I woke with a chill this morning." She smiled. "You can see I am shivering still."
The duke frowned. "You should put yourself more forward. I know the queen would be glad to have you closer during Mass."
"The queen is very gracious." Elizabeth forced a smile.
Norfolk did not bother to pursue the subject. He asked, "Have you spoken to Lord Denno again? I arranged for him to have permission to visit you, but I have not seen him recently."
Elizabeth shivered again. Her brief meeting with Denno had been acutely painful, exposing her passionate need for him and the impossibility of satisfying it while she was at Court.
"He was very grateful for your kindness, Your Grace," Elizabeth said. "And so am I. As for Lord Denno, I believe he is on a trading voyage. He told me he would need to set out at the beginning of October. He expected to return before now, but the weather has been frightful. It is possible that he has been delayed by the heavy rain and contrary winds."
"Hmmm. He had a wine I liked—a sweet rumney."
"Your Grace, I will gladly write Lord Denno's man of business. Master Clayborne will see that you receive—"
"Come along, Norfolk," Bishop Gardiner interrupted without apology, grabbing Norfolk's arm and drawing him away. "Rumney wine will get you in trouble. Now we will be buying only Spanish wines."
Elizabeth stepped back against the corridor wall, ostensibly to get out of the men's way. Her face was mostly hidden, her head bent, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped lightly at her waist. Gardiner's voice was hard and sarcastic. He was her enemy, but in his opposition to Mary's choice of husband, Elizabeth was in total agreement . . . and she had to be very sure her expression did not display that agreement. Spanish wines indeed. Spanish everything. How could Mary be such a fool as to have chosen Prince Philip of Spain, the Emperor Charles's son, to be her spouse?
Shocked anew at the thought, although the choice was a fait accompli and the Council was already working with envoys from Emperor Charles on the marriage contract, Elizabeth turned her back on those following the queen. She could not join the Court . . . she could not! She was cold with fear and her throat was tight with tears, aching for the comfort of Denno's arms, for the wise counsel of her Da.
But Mary would not release her from attendance at Court and she dared not call Denno to come and take her Underhill. She dared not be missing from her bed or lock her doors. The new ladies in her household were spies. They found excuses to peep into her chamber at all hours and her guards could not keep them out, not ladies assigned by the queen. Elizabeth could bespell her own attendant lady to sleep, but not more than one. That all the ladies should sleep like the dead would be suspicious in itself. Mary had already called her "witch" in the past. If the queen called her witch . . . she would burn.
Calling her witch was not impossible, Elizabeth thought, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering more convulsively. She had worked magic in the past few months . . . and Mary might have seen her do it. But she could not help it. It was use spells or die. She might die anyway. Why would Mary not let her go?
In September, shortly after Elizabeth had attended Mass for the first time, she had been warned of danger by Alana's silent shout of "'Ware!" Ahead of her, Elizabeth saw a man roughly pushing his way into the front rank of those who were waiting to see the queen. As his hand lifted, Elizabeth caught the glint of steel and cried "No!" She knew the protest was useless, but to don a shield and let the whole court see a knife bounce off her was disaster; in desperation she had gestured and whispered, "Cilgwthio."
The queen barely flinched at Elizabeth's shout but looked around at the sound. She was the only one, Elizabeth believed, who might have noticed her pushing gesture. Everyone else was staring at the disturbance as the attacker staggered back and then at the knife which thudded into the wall.
Aim ruined, the knife had flown beyond Elizabeth, passing between her and Mary who was a few steps ahead. When it hit the wall by the queen's head, her attendants and the crowd erupted into chaos, shouting and grabbing at each other, seeking the attacker. Naturally enough in the confusion he escaped.
Elizabeth was so terrified by Mary's seeing her cast a spell she almost fainted. Alana and Eleanor Gage supported her while she gasped and trembled. Some courtiers murmured contemptuously about Elizabeth's cowardice. They believed the attack had been directed at the queen, but Elizabeth knew she had been the target.
Did Mary know? She was so shortsighted she might have missed Elizabeth's gesture. But Mary had looked at her so oddly when the knife hit the wall. Still she said nothing and remained completely calm as she made her way to the chapel where she had been headed.
Elizabeth's blood ran cold, expecting that after Mary thanked God for her deliverance from danger she would accuse Elizabeth of spellcasting. But she did not, merely looking puzzled and troubled every time her eye fell on Elizabeth. Elizabeth began to hope that the queen was not sure of what she had seen and then, later, began to wonder whether it could be Mary who had hired the assassin. What other reason could there be for Mary's calm, except that she knew the knife had not been aimed at her?
No. Such an act was completely out of Mary's nature. And a second attack, soon after the coronation in the beginning of October, convinced Elizabeth that Mary was not directly involved. The second attack failed because Elizabeth now wore a shield when she was taking part in any large assembly. She thought that safer than needing to use a spell like Stickfoot or Cilgwthio, which required a word and a gesture that someone might notice. The shield was invisible and could be assumed or dismissed by a mental command, and she had practiced how to throw up her arms to seem to deflect any missile cast at her.
Of course, if she were dancing or any gentleman tried to take her hand to kiss it, she had to dismiss the shield. But when the second attack came, Elizabeth had just come up to Mary and bowed. As she rose, a finely dressed man passed behind her. Suddenly he struck her so hard that her slight body fell forward . . . and Mary saw the knife slide across her back without penetrating.
Elizabeth did not see Mary's reaction. Alana caught Elizabeth's arm (shocked as she was, Elizabeth had dismissed the shield) and cried out about the cut across the back of her lady's dress, thanking God the knife had been deflected by Elizabeth's stays. Lady Alana's explanation was reasonable, but Mary's long glance at Elizabeth was again both puzzled and doubtful.
This assassin was captured, but without result. Mary told Elizabeth the next day—still looking at her strangely—that the assassin could not betray who had hired him; his tongue had been cut out in the past. Nor was the clothing, suitable for Court, suitable for the person who wore it. His body was marked by scars of whipping, his hands callused by hard labor. Moreover he had died a few hours later for no apparent reason, although the physicians sent to examine him suspected a delayed poison.
That Mary should be involved in her own servant's death and in such a manner was ridiculous. But someone is trying to kill me, Elizabeth thought.
Two attempts on her life were enough. Elizabeth asked for permission to leave Court . . . and discovered Mary still believed the attacks had been aimed at her. Convinced she was the target and Elizabeth the intended beneficiary of her death, Mary refused Elizabeth permission to retire from Court. Mary said, with mingled doubt and suspicion, that she wished to keep her sister close by.
Later Rhoslyn reported to Alana that Mary was greatly disturbed by what had happened. Deep in the back of her mind she feared Elizabeth had used witchcraft to save her life—once by bespelling the knife thrower and again by getting in the way of the knife wielder. But Mary knew she could not prove witchcraft, and besides, if Elizabeth had used spells to save her, was not she also guilty? She could not destroy Elizabeth for saving her, no matter God's law, which said you must not suffer a witch to live.
Rhoslyn had not meddled with the thought, not being able to reinforce the belief that Elizabeth had saved Mary without adding to Mary's conviction that Elizabeth was a witch. And on mortal Tuesday night in the Inn of Kindly Laughter, Rhoslyn warned Alana that Renard had changed Mary's near gratitude to Elizabeth into more doubt by saying that it was likely Elizabeth had hired the assassins herself. Mary did not, for once, completely believe the ambassador but her gratitude to Elizabeth was now tainted.
The chancellor, to whom Mary mentioned the matter, did not believe Elizabeth had any connection with the assassins—Rhoslyn made sure he remembered a thorough investigation that did not uncover the smallest hint of evidence of Elizabeth being involved. But Elizabeth's desire to leave Court was very suspicious to him. The only reason he could see for that was to free her to plot rebellion. And there was nothing Rhoslyn could insert into his mind that would shake that conviction.
Elizabeth walked almost blindly along the corridor in the direction of her own apartments. She knew should be following Mary, meek and bowing no matter what insult the queen visited on her, but she also knew it was useless. All of her skill in dealing with people, all her cleverness about what she said, seemed to desert her as soon as Mary was involved.
As far back as August, before the worst of the pressure to convert to Catholicism was applied to her and misled by Mary's delight in music and dancing, which was so akin to her own, Elizabeth had misread her sister badly. She had taken far too much pleasure in one evening's entertainment. Stupidly, forgetting she was nearly twenty years younger than her sister and far more attractive, she gaily welcomed the young bloods who flocked around her, replying to their playful challenges with swift repartee.
Robin Dudley was not among the young men, of course; he was in the Tower and might well be executed for his part in his father's scheme to deny Mary the throne. Elizabeth felt a mild prickle of regret. He was lusty and amusing, full of outrageous jests and warm glances, but although still wanting to believe she and Mary could be comfortable together, Elizabeth was not stupid enough to speak in his favor.
Thought of Robin Dudley passed easily from her mind as she made lively conversation with the young courtiers and somewhat later danced until the queen ended the evening by retiring to bed. A few times Elizabeth was aware that Mary was watching her; it never occurred to her that Mary watched with envy. Elizabeth always tried to smile at her sister as she danced by. She had meant the smiles to show her gratitude and appreciation; later she learned Mary had taken them as smiles of contemptuous triumph.
Tonight came a whisper in her mind. Elizabeth did not stop dancing, did not associate her pleasure with trouble even though she felt her heart sink. Lady Alana never used magic unless she had an urgent reason. Thus, when Elizabeth was undressed and her maid of honor deep in a spelled sleep, she was not surprised to see Lady Alana come softly into the room through the dressing room in which Blanche Parry slept. To make Elizabeth even more apprehensive, Alana got into the bed with her so their voices could be kept to a murmur.
"You need to be less popular," Lady Alana said without any introduction; Elizabeth drew a shocked breath and Lady Alana went on, "She watches you. Perhaps she tells herself that she is not asked to dance because she is the queen, but she sees the way the young men look at you, the eagerness with which they contest with each other to be your partner, and the way few of them look for any other partner when you rest from the dancing."
Elizabeth had been silent for a long moment and then said bitterly, "That too? I thought at least dancing and light talk of art and music were safe."
Lady Alana shook her head and said, "Nothing is safe. Everything you do and are grates on the queen. She is envious of your appearance too. I have word from Rhoslyn that Mary asks her ladies if you do not use paint on your complexion and use potions to make your hair so light and bright a red. Perhaps you should ask permission to leave the Court."
"No!" Elizabeth exclaimed, her voice still too low to be heard a foot away but carrying passionate conviction. "I cannot do that. I must be here at least until the coronation. I must follow in the procession directly behind Mary to be seen by all as the heir presumptive. I must be fixed in that place in the minds of the Court and the people. So far Mary has not dared to displace me. Northumberland's devise to change the succession is too clear in everyone's memory."
"You cannot count on that for long."
"I know." Elizabeth shuddered. "Gardiner is already telling her I am a danger to her rule. But there is still time for me to make my mark. Mary is better at defense than attack. She will want to think and pray, ask Emperor Charles's advice, convince herself it is God's will, before she tries to put me aside. Perhaps she does not realize that every time I walk directly behind her or follow her in procession, the people and the Court are more fixed in the idea that I am her heir."
That much she had accomplished, Elizabeth thought. She was recognized by everyone except the most passionate Catholics as her sister's successor. Now she was ready to leave, ready to flee to safety and freedom . . . and Mary would not let her go and would not believe she was in danger. As she reached her apartment and made her way toward her chair, Elizabeth set her teeth.
She would not display how tired and frightened she was to all the watching eyes. That she had fixed in the minds of the people and some of the Court her place as heir presumptive was all but useless now. Another chill ran icy fingers along her spine. She was heir presumptive until Mary married and bore a child.
Marriage was now certain and, Elizabeth knew, probably the worst marriage Mary could make, in a political sense. Elizabeth sank into her chair and watched as her ladies—her own loyal friends and those pressed on her by the queen—took their places around her. Which of them, she wondered, had hastened to carry to Mary's ears the most recent colossal blunder she had made?
Only last month when she first heard that Mary would choose Philip of Spain as spouse, her political shock opened her mouth before her brain fully accepted what she had been told. Half believing the news was a jest, Elizabeth had denied that Mary had decided on Philip of Spain; even as a jest such a rumor about the queen was a political disaster.
"No! No," Elizabeth remembered herself crying, half laughing. "The queen could not think of sharing the English throne with the future king of Spain."
Eleanor Gage's hand had caught at her arm and pressed hard. Eleanor was the queen's lady, sent to serve (and spy on) Elizabeth, but Elizabeth thought Eleanor had come to like her new mistress better than her old. She often did her best to save Elizabeth from doing anything that would offend or annoy Mary. Elizabeth glanced at Eleanor, carefully smoothing a piece of embroidery over her knee and felt a flick of gratitude.
Likely it was not Eleanor who had told the queen what she said. Elizabeth felt her lips twist wryly. Or if it had been she would certainly have also told Mary what Elizabeth said next, in an attempt to retrieve her blunder. "Oh, how silly I am. It is no business of mine so long as Queen Mary marries to please herself and get us an heir."
That, too, had been a mistake. In her eagerness to make clear that she would not oppose the queen's choice, no matter what it was, Elizabeth had forgotten Mary's sexual jealousy of her. Her last words, if they were repeated, would only make matters worse. Likely Mary would take them as a sly sexual taunt.
Yet if that child survives, the acute danger in which I now live will mostly be over. With a clear heir to the throne borne by the queen and raised in the Catholic faith, I will no longer be a threat. Elizabeth's lips quirked again. Far from lifting her spirits, the idea of safety through Mary's child inheriting the throne made her sick and hollow within.
Elizabeth reached down to the elaborate work basket beside her chair. Marriage, yes, that was certain now. But the growing public disapproval of the marriage was another danger to her. The chance of a child resulting from the marriage was not great. Mary was thirty-seven and frequently ill. If only, Elizabeth thought, she could herself stay alive until her sister's natural demise . . . but her constant presence continually irritated Mary. Between the attacks on her and her own awkward stupidities, to remain with the Court was increasingly dangerous.
Yet she had so far failed to discover a reason to leave that Mary would find compelling. Elizabeth sighed. It was very strange. There could be no doubt that Mary did not really want her at Court. Someone was influencing Mary to keep her at Court. Who?
Elizabeth wore away the rest of the morning in blameless occupation, embroidering a book cover for Mary. It was replete with Catholic symbols and Elizabeth did the needlework openly, often showing off her accomplishment to her maids of honor, specially Mary's spies. Embroidery, even for her sister, was calming. Then Elizabeth had to blink hard to clear a mist from her eyes. She had been reminded of how much she enjoyed embroidering for Edward and how much pleasure he had taken in her handiwork.
The calm brought Elizabeth by setting stitches did not last long. When those invited to dinner were assembled, Mary, as she had done repeatedly in the last weeks, gestured for Margaret Douglas, countess of Lennox, and Frances Brandon, duchess of Suffolk, to precede Elizabeth. And while Elizabeth was swallowing that bitter pill, Renard walked past her, without a bow, and with such a glance that her indignation was swallowed up by shock.
Elizabeth had not spoken to, in fact had seldom seen the Imperial ambassador recently. Now that he had come so close, she realized he must have been avoiding her. She could remember seeing him near Mary but then seeming to disappear if she approached her sister. Not that she had often approached Mary for the last few weeks; she was too likely to be waved away or insulted in some other manner.
As was her practice when she had been so slighted, Elizabeth made no protest, bowing meekly as Mary passed. But she never remained in the queen's presence to be further slighted. Erect as a sword, she withdrew to her own apartment, knowing all the young and lively courtiers would soon follow. Elizabeth chuckled bitterly as she sent Mary's spies to fetch refreshments and musicians. Let the queen know that she was not alone and trembling with fear. And let the queen hear that the ladies she had sent to watch Elizabeth had joined her in laughing and dancing and singing with the gallants of the Court.
But when the dancing and singing was done and the young men departed, Elizabeth made ready for bed silent and withdrawn. She could not rid herself of the memory of Renard's look of hatred, and she was very glad when the door to Blanche's chamber opened softly. Elizabeth saw but gave no sign, sliding under the covers Alice Finch, held up for her. Alice, not too clever and unaware of her lady's tension, smiled, wished her lady a good night and sweet sleep, and drew the heavy winter bedcurtains closed.
"Parachoro drimuz," Elizabeth whispered, and suddenly the sound of the brocade bedcurtains sliding out of their folds was as loud as a rushing river.
Elizabeth bit her lip. She had asked to learn a spell for keen hearing and Mechain had warned her it would be of little use unless she learned to direct and fix the spell. That was beyond Elizabeth's ability, but ever-indulgent Elidir had taught it to her anyway.
Elizabeth had soon learned that Mechain was right; the spell was useless. She had intended to use it to eavesdrop on conversations in the Court, but when she invoked it, the uproar had almost battered her brain numb. She did not only hear those conversations in which she was interested but every sound in the audience chamber—footsteps, the rustling of clothing, everyone's breathing, all mingled in a mind-rattling roar.
Since she and Alice were alone in the bedchamber, the results of the spell were not as catastrophic. Elizabeth had quickly recognized the sound of the curtains moving and now she identified a series of loud thuds as Alice walking to the truckle bed. The leather straps twanged and groaned; there were crackling sounds and a rustling as loud as a boar running through brush which Elizabeth reasoned must be Alice settling herself in bed. And at long last, the steady roaring that must be the maid of honor's breathing.
"Bod cyfgadur," Elizabeth whispered, pointing toward Alice.
The roaring of Alice's breathing became louder and deeper.
"Metakino parachoro drimuz," Elizabeth said hastily, quite aloud and beginning to breathe rather hard with nervousness.
The words were like cracks of thunder. How long could she endure such noise in her head? Tears of fear sprang to her eyes. Usually when she worked a spell the first few times she was Underhill where Mechain or Elidir could save her if she did something wrong. This time she had been too impatient to wait until she was sure Alice was asleep naturally before she added the sleep spell; she wanted to hear when the girl got into bed and started to doze and she had used a spell tried only once before.
However before Elizabeth's tears could gather the room fell silent. She breathed a long sigh of relief . . . which she barely heard. She had cast and removed the keen hearing spell successfully.
"Come," she called softly toward Blanche's door, holding back the bedcurtains.
Lady Alana slipped through the barely open door and hurried across to the bed. Elizabeth breathed another sigh of relief as Alana climbed into the bed. Once she was behind the curtains, none of Mary's spies could see her and if someone came to the bed, Alana could use the Don't-see-me spell.
"The 'messenger,' " Lady Alana said, looking up toward the ceiling to indicate she meant the air spirit, "told me you were very upset. I am sorry, my love. The queen is a silly woman. Not even her own courtiers take Lennox and Suffolk seriously. And all such spitefulness does is wake more sympathy for you and admiration for your dignity and restraint."
Elizabeth shook her head. "I wasn't upset by Mary's putting Lennox and Suffolk before me. It was Renard." Her breath came a little faster when she remembered the Imperial ambassador's eyes. "Mary does not like me, but I have never seen such hate as looked out of Renard's eyes." Elizabeth shivered. "It was terrible."
Aleneil sighed. "Yes, I saw. Elizabeth, I have no idea what to do about Renard. Perhaps—" now she shivered "—I should stop his heart, but—"
"Stop his heart," Elizabeth repeated in a horrified voice. "That would be murder. No. Why should you even think of such a thing? Killing Renard would not change Charles's mind about me."
"Emperor Charles has nothing to do with why Renard hates you."
"That is ridiculous. The feeling cannot be anything to do with him and me. I have done my very best never to offend Renard. Why should he hate me? His dislike can only be by order of his master, but Emperor Charles should have no objections to me—not compared with having Mary of Scots as heir."
Aleneil only looked even more worried. "This has nothing to do with Emperor Charles. I fear that Renard is not only the emperor's servant."
"I cannot believe that!" Elizabeth exclaimed.
Aleneil sighed. "Not of his own will or for gold or favor. Rhoslyn sees a great deal of him. He is forever with the queen. Rhoslyn believes Renard is bespelled and stinks of Vidal Dhu."
"God's Grace support me," Elizabeth breathed. "Could those attacks on me be Renard's doing?"
"It is possible." Aleneil said, nodding as if she had the same idea herself. "When I told Denoriel about the man who died, he said the lack of a tongue, the scarring on his back, and the calluses on his hands sound like what might have happened to a Spanish slave. If he had been promised his freedom, he might even have taken so desperate a chance as an attack on you in full Court. And the poisoning . . . that is not unknown in the Spanish Court too. What is more, if you twice thwarted Renard's attempts to kill you, he could be growing quite exasperated."
Elizabeth began to tremble. "Mary thinks of Renard as the Mouth for Emperor Charles. And Mary is absolutely and utterly convinced Charles's is the only advice worth taking." She rubbed her arms as if she were cold. "If Renard tells Mary Charles wants me dead . . ."
"I do not think Renard dares go so far as that," Aleneil said offering comfort. "He is still too aware that Charles does not want you dead."
Elizabeth drew a deep breath. If Vidal's influence could not make Renard tell Mary Charles wanted her dead, she was in less danger of being executed. Although she had been repeatedly warned against overconfidence, she had so often bested Vidal's attempts on her that knowing he was behind Renard made the ambassador's hatred less frightening.
"No, Charles would not want me dead. The next heir—setting aside Mary's silly notice of Lennox and Suffolk, which the country would not abide—is Mary of Scotland, who will soon be the wife of the French dauphin. Compared to Mary of Scotland and her French husband on the English throne, Charles would think of me as an angel of deliverance."
Aleneil nodded. "So far Vidal's influence has not gone beyond making Renard constantly tell Mary that you are a danger to her rule. Unfortunately I think Mary believes him, but he suggests things that would throw the Court into an even greater uproar when added to this Spanish marriage. If he should begin to hint that Charles wants you gone, Rhoslyn would let me know at once. Then between us—" Aleneil shivered again "—we will stop him." She sighed. "Is there not some way to make Mary less enamored of Renard's advice?"
"I do not think so," Elizabeth said slowly, considering; then shook her head. "I cannot blame Mary for being so dependent on the emperor. He has been the only support she has had since her mother was set aside. Charles has always counseled her, and even went so far as to threaten war if she were deprived of her Mass."
"Harry says Charles is no real problem for now," Aleneil said. "The emperor is very cautious and has been preaching the greatest moderation in everything since marriage to Philip has been proposed. Harry thinks Charles does not care how long it takes to make England Catholic or even if it ever becomes Catholic. His concern is to make England an ally against France."
"Likely Da is right. He usually is about Court politics. And I know that Charles often writes to Mary himself. That should be some protection for me. Renard would not dare go farther than the advice Charles himself gives to Mary."
Suddenly Elizabeth fell silent. She wanted to ask how Vidal had managed to bespell Renard, but no sound passed her lips. By Titania's geas she could not speak of spells or magic while in the mortal world. The frustration added to her fear, and misery overwhelmed her. Her eyes filled with tears.
"I miss Denno," she whispered. "Thank God that you can be with me, but I miss my Denno." She swallowed, sniffed.
"You have the amulets he gave you, have you not?" Aleneil asked. "So call him."
Elizabeth shook her head. "I dare not. We thought I would be able to put a token in a safe place." Two tears ran down her cheeks. "But there is no safe place, nor even in the dead of night a safe time. It is barely safe to whisper to you because you are my lady. Strong efforts will be made to discover what we said. Someone will have seen you coming to me and tell the queen. But if Denno appeared in my chamber or I was absent from it . . . Nothing can be kept secret in this palace. Nothing."
Aleneil sighed and nodded. Perhaps she should have used the Don't-see-me spell to come to Elizabeth, but she hated to use any magic in the mortal world. Even the tiny spell that made her look so plain drained her. And in the mortal world there was no way to restore her power. All she could do was to lean over and pat Elizabeth's shoulder.
"You need not worry over curiosity about what we were saying to each other. I have an excellent story about why I came secretly to see you. A surprise you are planning as a gift to the queen."
Elizabeth smiled faintly. That was a good excuse and Lady Alana would surely come up with some elegant trifle that she could present to her sister. But it did not solve her basic problem or suggest a way for her to spend an hour or two in Denno's arms.
The smile disappeared and two more tears ran over. "I must ask again for permission to leave the Court. I cannot think of why Mary will not let me go home. Can Rhoslyn help?"
"I don't know, but I will ask," Aleneil replied, then more grimly, "Renard tells her that the moment you are out from under her eye you will conspire with the rebels who are writing broadsheets and rousing fear of Spanish domination among the people. You will put yourself forward as a 'mere English,' Protestant queen to save them from the Spaniards and the pope."
"That is ridiculous. I would do nothing of the kind. I am not an idiot. Aside from that, which Mary may not believe, I will have to take home with me the new servants with whom Mary presented me. She will doubtless know how often I turn in my bed, not to mention whether I conspire with rebels."
Aleneil laughed. "She does not trust her spies. She fears you have lured their devotion away from her And Renard keeps talking about your enchantment of spirit. Would it not help if you simply converted to Mary's faith? Are you as set against being Catholic as she was against the reformed rite?"
"No, of course not," Elizabeth said, wiping away her tears and smiling slightly again. "I do believe in God and in Christ who died to redeem us all. But I cannot believe that our Merciful Redeemer cares a jot by which rite we worship Him, whether we have candles and incense or bare walls and a simple table as an altar. My faith is in Christ. All the rest is details."
"Then give Mary her candles and incense."
"I actually like the candles and incense," Elizabeth said rather sadly. "But they are an offense to those who took to heart the reformist rite. I need to hold out some hope for the reformists. Besides, it does not matter how sincere I am or am not in Catholicism. Mary will never believe I have changed. She could not and she does not want to believe I could."
Aleneil nodded and sighed. "She is a fanatic."
Elizabeth shrugged. "I show myself to have yielded. I attend Mass regularly. There was no other choice for me but the axe. I have no emperor uncle to threaten war to save me. But as long as I do not flaunt my attendance at Mass or other Catholic observances, the reformists will have hope. There are many in the realm who cheered Mary's accession because she was the heir assigned by my father but who do not want the Catholic rite. They look to me in hope that if I come to the throne I will bring back the practices of Edward's reign. I must sustain that hope."
"Elizabeth," Aleneil said warningly, looking troubled, "Mary is . . . is not quite sane on the subject of her faith. Rhoslyn cannot touch her mind on that subject at all. She has tried. That is something burned so deep into Mary's soul that only complete mindlessness or death can change it."
"I know that." Elizabeth shivered and rubbed her arms again although the room was warm enough. The cold came from inside her. "I will be walking the edge of a sword between martyrdom and rejection. I must be Catholic enough that Mary does not call me traitor or heretic and have an excuse to kill me, but I must do it in such a way that those who think of me as the upholder of Protestantism will not abandon me."
Aleneil wrinkled her nose. "Since most of the courtiers have shifted their faith several times already for the sake of their skins and their purses, they should understand."
"I hope so," Elizabeth sighed. "I hope I can balance on this bridge of swords."