The joy the people felt at having their country safe in the hands of Henry VIII's heir, was nothing compared with the joy Pasgen felt when he was able to restore Mary's guard to his life and position. Pasgen was careful to record into the man's mind all of the dangers and threats he had helped Mary survive. The guard was a much wiser, more alert, and more cautious man when Pasgen was done with him. In addition, he was filled with pride at his accomplishments and "knowing" what he had accomplished steadied his courage and gave him confidence that would stand him in good stead.
All but singing hosannas, Pasgen hugged Rhoslyn hard as he stood in front of the small Gate he had created, assured her he would be at the meeting on mortal Tuesday night, and fled Underhill. He had set the Gate for the empty house so that Rhoslyn could use it. Not that he would have minded having Rhoslyn Gate to his domain, but then she would have needed to thread the tortuous route that concealed his home from Vidal and his creatures to get anywhere.
As it turned out, Pasgen felt he had been rewarded for his consideration of his sister. At the empty house he found a message from Hafwen asking rather querulously where in the Empty Spaces he had been recently. Involuntarily, Pasgen smiled. Hafwen had more spice on her tongue than most Bright Court Sidhe.
He had been tired when he was finished with Mary's guardsman and had intended to Gate to his own domain from the empty house and do something calm and restful until the dull ache of the iron ubiquitous to the mortal world had leached from his bones. By the second time he read Hafwen's message and ascertained that the seal was truly hers and not some Dark Court trap, he found he wasn't tired and aching at all.
One of the least mindless servants of the empty house asked whether to transmit new messages to his domain or whether he was returning to the mortal world. For one moment Pasgen wondered at the question and then realized he was still dressed as Mary's guardsman. A gesture decked him out in soft black boots with a dagger down each, fitted black trews, a full-sleeved white silk shirt under a long, black, silver-brocaded vest cinched at the waist with a broad black leather belt which supported his silver rapier.
Pasgen looked at himself, assessed his inner strength, and then looked around at the house itself and the patiently waiting servant. Something was different. There was more power drifting around and the servant looked somehow more substantial, as if he were healthier and his clothing fit better and was brighter.
"Transmit, then," the servant said.
"No, hold them. I will stop here before I go home . . . if I go home, and Lady Rhoslyn will be stopping here too."
His reply reminded him that Rhoslyn still did not have a home. She had been staying at the empty house when she spent any extended time Underhill and he had been staying there with her so she should not be alone. As he walked from the empty house to one of the Gates nearby, he grinned and wondered whether he should stop doing that. He suspected if he assured Rhoslyn he had other business and could not give her his company that Harry FitzRoy would be only too glad to take his place.
A bit to his surprise, he found that a pleasant thought. He had always hated Rhoslyn's few associations with any of the Dark Court Sidhe and had wondered uncomfortably from time to time whether he had unnatural feelings about his sister. Now, having spent so much time in her company, he was convinced he had only feared for her. He could not imagine a Dark Sidhe who would not hurt her. Harry was something else altogether.
Pasgen hesitated before stepping into the Gate. What was happening to him? Not long ago he would have found the company of Harry FitzRoy, who was of an exceptionally good and noble nature, boring and sickening. Now he looked forward to their meetings on mortal Tuesday. If it wasn't one kind of devilment Harry had in mind it was another, and his devilments hurt no one and usually left sweetness behind. Pasgen actually hoped Rhoslyn would find Harry's open admiration something she wished to return.
Shaking his head, Pasgen ordered himself to mind his own affairs and leave Rhoslyn's to her. His problem at the moment was how to respond to Hafwen's message. No air spirit would come near him or obey him; Pasgen lowered his eyes and suppressed a sigh. How foolish and cruel he had been to destroy that little one only for his momentary convenience.
He had regretted the bright little dancer's death even as he dealt it and he regretted it more bitterly now. But it was done and he had no way to send a message to anyone in the Bright Court. He would not be welcome in Avalon or Logres himself and he could not send an imp; it would not survive a moment—and he would not send an imp to Hafwen in any case. He stared at the low Gate platform, then stepped up on it smiling. He could go to Gaenor in Elfhame Elder-Elf. That elfhame cared nothing for Dark or Bright and Gaenor would know how to find Hafwen or send her a message.
As he stepped off the Gate platform onto the soft, white-flower starred moss of Elfhame Elder-Elf, Pasgen sighed. It was no small walk to the homes of the elder Sidhe. The last times he had come he had been with Gaenor and her beautiful elvensteed Nuin had been waiting to carry them to Gaenor's house. Pasgen drew a quick breath over a sharp pang of mingled joy and pain. Nuin had permitted him to ride; experiences he would always treasure. Then he laughed at himself, shrugged, and set out hoping he would find Gaenor at home.
Despite the apparent distance between the Gate and the dwellings of Elfhame Elder-Elf, Pasgen made almost as quick progress afoot as he would have astride Nuin. He realized as the ground flowed away under his feet that some spell must have been set to carry those afoot swiftly to the dwellings. He frowned slightly, wondering if that was safe. There were evil creatures Underhill that could and did attack the Sidhe.
But when he reached Gaenor's house, the door opened before he could call a greeting and the thought came to him that the spell of swift travel might have been keyed to him. Surprised, he stood in the doorway. In that moment Gaenor's voice, tart with disapproval, came out to him, and she followed in person.
"Well, where in the Empty Spaces have you been? Hafwen and I have sent messages all over Underhill."
Pasgen blinked. It was strange but oddly pleasant to have anyone but Rhoslyn care about him. "I have not been Underhill, except for a few hours to restore myself, and then I was in my own domain which is sealed against messages. I have been in the mortal world, helping Rhoslyn guard Lady Mary."
Gaenor snorted. "I suppose that was important. It is a long time since I bothered with mortal folk—except Harry, of course."
"I am no expert in mortal affairs," Pasgen admitted, "but Rhoslyn—well, she is fond of Lady Mary and wished to protect her. Also, she and all the rest of them are convinced that Lady Mary must reign as queen of Logres before Lady Elizabeth can come to the throne. The FarSeers all agree that Elizabeth's reign will bring a golden age of mortal achievement that will flow over us with untold riches."
Gaenor's lips parted, most likely to make another sharp remark, but then she closed her mouth and her face stilled as she looked back through time. "Yes," she sighed, "I remember such times. Once there was Atlantis and then those who worshiped the Bull God." She was silent for a moment, sighing again, then shaking herself. "Be that as it may, right now something very, very strange is taking place in the self-aware mist."
"More creations?" Pasgen tilted his head inquisitively and his eyes brightened with interest.
Before answering Gaenor looked up at a particularly tiny air spirit that was dancing among the beams that supported her roof. "Find Hafwen," she murmured to the little thing when it descended to dance on a finger she held out. It disappeared promptly, and she looked at Pasgen. "Yes . . . No . . . More creations but no living beings . . . Unless you count grass and trees and such."
"Grass and trees?" Pasgen looked away at the large window that showed a carefully cultivated garden, but he was not seeing that. "Could the mist be trying to fashion a true domain for . . . for whom? For itself? Can it wish to take living form?"
Slowly Gaenor shook her head. "I do not think so. The dolls it made did not seem to have that kind of life. We instinctively called them dolls. They did not have even so much life as the constructs Rhoslyn makes."
"Some of those have too much life," Pasgen said, grimacing. "They think. And Rhoslyn becomes fond of them and weeps as if they were Sidhe when they are damaged or destroyed."
"She is a great maker," Gaenor said. "Far greater than I. It is a pity she is so bound up with mortal affairs. I think that Rhoslyn might discover what that mist is seeking and likely could control it."
Pasgen had been smiling rather smugly at the compliment Gaenor gave his sister, but lost his smile and shook his head nervously at the idea of exposing Rhoslyn to the self-willed mist. He uttered an uneasy laugh.
"Rhoslyn is too softhearted. If she felt the mist's need, it is more likely that she would aid and abet the accursed thing."
"The mist is not accursed . . . yet."
Both Pasgen and Gaenor turned to see Hafwen in the doorway.
"Yet?" Pasgen echoed, and then more sharply, "Do you sense a growing evil in it?"
"No, but . . . Do not laugh. I think the mist is lonely."
"Lonely?" Pasgen felt a fool, constantly echoing Hafwen's last word, but she smiled at him and he found himself smiling back and protesting, "But it gets plenty of company. You and Gaenor visit it often, and until I was so taken up with protecting Lady Mary, I came also."
"Yes," Hafwen agreed, but her voice was doubtful. "Mayhap I should have said the mist is bored. All we do when we come is tell it to be quiet and rest."
"Ah." Pasgen almost sympathized. He hated to be told to give over a project and rest. He pursed his lips. "I think I understand why you said it is not accursed yet. Idle minds are easily trapped into doing mischief."
"Not itself doing mischief, but possibly it might be directed to do mischief," Gaenor said. "When I first said that something strange was taking place and told you about the grass and trees, you asked whether the mist was trying to build a domain and then asked for whom. That, I think is a key question. Who will direct the character of the domain the mist wishes to build? Who will live in it?"
As Gaenor asked those questions, a host of ideas swirled about in Pasgen's mind. His first thought, following from Gaenor's comment about Rhoslyn controlling the mist, was that Rhoslyn needed a domain. And it was true that Rhoslyn in her making did control the mists from which she made her constructs. Caution woke in him. His second thought was whether the "offer" of a domain was really a subtle trap. When one entered the "promised land" would the mist absorb the Sidhe who took the offer?
"I think before we talk any more about this," Pasgen said. "I had better go with you and see what the mist is doing."
To that, Gaenor and Hafwen agreed. Outside of Gaenor's house two elvensteeds waited. Pasgen blinked and looked away. He desired an elvensteed with a kind of desperate hunger, as if something within him was empty and needed to be filled, and then he thought of Torgen and felt disloyal. Oh, Torgen was vicious, but not really to Pasgen although he snapped and snarled. Pasgen knew that if the not-horse had really desired to hurt him, it could likely have disemboweled him before he or Rhoslyn could have destroyed it. And Torgen was strong and beautiful . . .
"Will the seven-league boot spell take me back to the Gate?" Pasgen asked Gaenor.
"No, no. Nuin will carry you."
"Or Talfan," Hafwen said, smiling. "You are on Bright Court business, after all."
As she spoke, the double saddle formed on Talfan's back. Pasgen bowed and thanked the elvensteed as Hafwen mounted. Talfan's eyes, the same blue as Hafwen's were today, fixed on Pasgen and studied him intently. Nervously, Pasgen bowed again.
"Don't make such a ceremony of it," Hafwen said. "Since the saddle is there, she intends for you to ride."
She extended a hand, and he came up, swinging his right leg over Talfan's back. Joy suffused Pasgen. He swallowed. Torgen had no joy, no emotion. It was not the poor not-horse's fault. When Rhoslyn made the not-horses, joy was no part of her life, and in any case she would not have thought to instill emotion into her making. Not until she made a simulacrum to replace Harry and had needed something close enough to real life to fool the child's nurses and other attendants . . . Thank the Great Mother that that had gone wrong!
"Thinking hard, are you?" Hafwen asked.
Pasgen realized that they had been mounted far longer than an elvensteed usually took to reach the Gate. "No," he said, then laughed. "Yes, I was thinking hard, but not about the self-willed mist . . . or maybe in a way I was thinking of that too. I was thinking of my sister and her makings."
"I met Richey once," Hafwen said, a faint frown creasing the skin of her brow. "That . . . that was marvelous . . . but dangerous."
"Very dangerous," Pasgen agreed. "Although she now knows that Richey lived much longer than she expected and died happy, I do not believe she will ever recover from that making." He shrugged. "She might as well have borne a child and had it die. In a way she still mourns him, but she will make no more like that."
On that last word they arrived at the Gate. Talfan stepped up on the platform. A moment of blackness and falling and they were on the platform of the Gate in the self-willed mist's domain. Pasgen's eyes widened and he slid off Talfan's back, looking out and then around.
Just beyond the Gate platform was grass . . . mortal-world grass. Pasgen stared down at it. There was no grass Underhill, except in a few domains like the Shepherd's Paradise, which Harry and Denoriel spoke of, where grass had been created specially. Underhill was carpeted by the white-flowered moss. How had the mist heard of grass? From whose mind had it come?
Pasgen started to step off the Gate platform, and two hands grasped at him. Hafwen had him on one side; Gaenor on the other.
"Is that really grass?" he asked.
"How would I know?" Gaenor said. "It must be some five thousand years since I last visited the mortal world."
"And I have never gone," Hafwen said.
"I need to know," Pasgen said. "Keep watch and ready a strong shield to hold back the mist if necessary." He stood still a moment, looking out into the mist. "I do not think any defense will be necessary."
"Why do you need to know?" Gaenor asked suspiciously. She had been warned repeatedly by Rhoslyn about Pasgen's insatiable curiosity, which regularly drove him into dangerous situations.
"There is no grass Underhill," Pasgen said, "so from where did the mist learn of grass? And why is it here?"
Almost as if in answer to Pasgen's question, both elvensteeds stepped off the platform onto the grass and began to graze. Pasgen looked from Hafwen to Gaenor and back again. "Could it have learned from the elvensteeds?
Both women shook their heads in unison. "Who knows what the elvensteeds can do? In all the years Nuin and I have been together, I have found no reason, no pattern in what she can do . . . or, perhaps, will do, and what she will not."
"That is true for me also," Hafwen said. "I am sure that they are capable of speaking to us, yet I have never heard of any Sidhe who has had direct communication with an elvensteed."
"Pictures," Pasgen offered. "I think Denoriel said he had once received a picture from Miralys."
"I would be grateful for so much," Gaenor said rather dryly, but she was looking out toward the mist, which was, as it had been for some while, well withdrawn from the Gate platform.
Pasgen laughed. "Then I don't need to waste any more thought on that solution to the problem. Still, I want to go down and see for myself. I don't think there's any danger, but do ready a shield."
Again Pasgen looked from Gaenor to Hafwen. For a moment he got no response, then Gaenor sighed and Hafwen nodded. Pasgen smiled at them. Another moment and both women nodded; each had a shield ready.
The shields seemed a work of supererogation. As soon as Pasgen stepped off the Gate platform, the mist rolled farther back as if in invitation.
"Don't go, Pasgen," Hafwen called. "Come back. It is aware of you."
Pasgen started to turn back toward the Gate platform but stopped abruptly. The retreat of the mist had revealed a house . . . well, what was meant Pasgen was sure to be a dwelling of some sort. It was a weird mixture of cottage, manor-house, and palace. Oddly, the manor house and palace portions seemed to be better defined than the frontmost part, which had a thatched roof and small windows with diamond-shaped panes of glass. Behind that rose the two story height of a brick-wrought manor. Suddenly Pasgen knew where he had seen that manor before; it was Elizabeth's manor of Hatfield. And behind that were the fanciful turrets that Pasgen knew could exist only Underhill and which he had last seen on the palace in Rhoslyn's domain.
At the front of the cottage was an area of grass broken by a graveled path, to each side of which was what must be what the mist thought were beds of flowers. Those, however, were not individual plants but simply masses of color atop a mass of green. The colors were familiar as, now that he looked more carefully, was the cottage. Yes, Pasgen knew it. It was Gaenor's cottage in Elfhame Elder-Elf.
The whole making was pathetic, as the gold- and red-haired dolls had been pathetic. Pasgen took a step in the direction of the "garden."
"Pasgen!" Hafwen's voice was high and urgent.
He turned at once, fearing that while his attention had been on the "house" the mist was attempting to attack Hafwen and Gaenor. However, there was not even a small wisp near the Gate platform, and from the way Hafwen was stretching her hands toward him, it was he she feared for.
"No, it's all right," Pasgen called back. "It's just . . . I really must see what is inside that house thing."
"Pasgen, do not be a fool," Gaenor said. "It has set some kind of trap to attract you. Come back here."
"The other creations, the gold-haired and red-haired dolls, were no trap," Pasgen protested.
"No? What do you call what happened to Vidal Dhu?"
Pasgen laughed and shook his head. "I call it Vidal's fault. He attacked the red-haired doll. I was near both those dolls several times, once when a lion had disemboweled the gold-haired creature, and no ill befell me."
"Your sister will chop us both up into small pieces if you are trapped here," Hafwen said.
He smiled at Hafwen, but shook his head. "I . . . it is trying so hard," he said.
His voice was not quite steady as bitter memories washed over him, bitter memories of the cold indifference and frequent cruelty of his teachers of magic in the Dark Court. When he thought back, it was not the cruelty, the punishments for failure or for spells the teachers did not approve, that hurt him. It was the total lack of interest in his successes and experiments.
If it had not been for his mother and Rhoslyn, he would have turned to the Dark in truth, taking his only pleasure from the pain and misery of others. But Llanelli had marveled over his spell-casting, making him feel proud, and Rhoslyn had matched him spell for spell—or if she could not do that, excelled in her own way by making.
Hafwen started to come down off the platform and Pasgen shouted for her to stop. "I don't think we should offer it two of us," he said. "You and Gaenor try to get across to it that if it does not let me go no one will ever come here again."
"He's right," Gaenor said. "I don't feel anything from it except . . . maybe . . . hope? But I don't think we should offer too much temptation."
"I've got shields up too," Pasgen said. "Believe me, I'm very good at shields. Living in the Dark Court tends to teach you that. If it tries to wrap me, I think I'd be able to wriggle free under the shield. And I'll be very careful not to damage anything. I promise I won't trample the flower beds or take anything from the house."
"Very well," Hafwen agreed reluctantly, "but don't stay too long." Then she sighed. "I know what is long to us may seem like ten breaths to you, but if you don't come out when I call, I'm going straight to Oberon and tell him about this."
Pasgen lifted a hand in salute and turned eagerly toward the graveled path, which obligingly extended itself in his direction. He drew a deep breath as he stepped onto it, but nothing happened, except that the gravel was soft and sort of flattened when he stepped on it.
"Ah," he said, "the look is right—did you take that from Elizabeth's mind?" He made an image of Elizabeth in his head. "But gravel is hard and sharp-edged."
There was a moment of disorientation as the path dissolved under him. Plainly the mist had no idea what hard and sharp-edged meant.
"Pasgen!"
He heard Gaenor's voice, tight with anxiety and turned around toward the Gate. "No, it's all right," he called. "I told it the path wasn't right, and it is correcting it."
But it couldn't correct without knowing how. Pasgen took another deep breath and kenned a handful of gravel. He had a moment of panic as he put the gravel on the . . . whatever he was standing on, hoping he wouldn't be buried in gravel in the next moment.
That did not happen. Ahead of him and behind him, but not where his feet were planted, gravel spread on a remade path. Pasgen let out the breath he had been holding and walked forward. He passed the blurred areas of color and green, keeping his mind carefully neutral. He simply did not know enough about flowers to try to image a bed of them or ken even one and he was afraid to criticize what he could not suggest a way to mend.
Then he was at the house. He reached for the doorknob, but it, like the gravel, was soft and deformed in his hand. There was no way it could be used to open the door.
"In?" he said.
The door melted away.
"Pasgen!" That was Hafwen. He turned toward the Gate again. "Don't you dare!" she called. "Don't you dare go in that house where we can't see you."
He might have tried to argue, but from the open doorway he could see that there was not much sense in going into the house. There did not seem to be any walls or any furniture. On the floor near one of the small windows was a patch of brightness, as if sunlight were shining through it. That must be an image the mist took from Gaenor's mind.
He looked into the empty space. "I can't help you any more now," he said. "I am not a maker. I have a sister who is a maker. I cannot bring her here to you now. She is doing something very important to the Sidhe. Oh, I am Sidhe as are those others on the Gate. As soon as I can, I will ask my sister to come here."
And suddenly, before him hung the image of Elizabeth he had offered when he asked about the gravel. For a moment he was frightened, but as soon as he reacted, the image disappeared and he was not bound; his shields felt no assault. Then he understood. He had been talking about bringing Rhoslyn and he had identified himself and Hafwen and Gaenor as Sidhe. The mist was asking about Elizabeth.
"Pasgen!" Hafwen called again.
"Wait. I'm quite free and I'll come in just a moment. I think I am communicating with the mist."
"I will count one hundred. Then you start back," Gaenor said.
Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth who had asked the mist to make a lion. That lion was not soft and easily deformed. It was so real a lion that it had killed two men and disemboweled the blond-haired doll. The kitten she wanted had also been real, real enough to trade for something in one of the markets.
"Elizabeth. You want Elizabeth?" The image of Elizabeth flashed briefly. "Elizabeth is mortal. She does not live with us Underhill. However, if she is allowed to visit again, I will try to bring her. I do not promise . . . as if you know what a promise is . . . but I will try. I must go now or my escort will do something very bad."
He turned and then gasped. There was a sudden resistance to his movement, a pressure on his shield. Before he could call up a counterspell or cry "Let me go," the pressure was gone. Pasgen completed his turn and began to walk toward the Gate. Nothing touched him.
When he stepped up onto the Gate platform, Gaenor said, "What happened? You started to turn toward us and suddenly stopped."
Pasgen hesitated. "You will believe I am quite mad," he said slowly, "but I think . . . I think the mist embraced me."
There was an absolute silence. Gaenor and Hafwen looked at each other, then both looked at Pasgen. He shrugged. The elvensteeds stopped grazing. Both mounted the Gate platform, but Talfan watched Pasgen again as she made the second saddle. Gaenor activated the Gate.
Elizabeth was growing more and more uneasy as the weeks passed. Several times since her "conversion" in September she believed attempts had been made on her life and neither she nor Lady Alana had any idea of who was guilty. Nonetheless, it was not fear of assassination that made her shiver in the December chill of the chapel. She ignored the all-too-familiar sounds of still another Mass and reviewed the steady disintegration of her relationship with her sister.
At the beginning of August Elizabeth had some hope that Mary would not insist on her conversion to Catholicism. Mary herself had been so tormented over her faith that Elizabeth thought she might have sympathy for another's conviction. This delusion lasted a little while, largely because the Emperor Charles, through Renard, advised Mary to move slowly in religious matters.
Mary was willing to take that advice because she was still convinced that all of England had suffered as she had. She truly believed that the moment they were released from forced acceptance of Protestantism the people would flock back to the Catholic rite with tears of joy. Even two weeks later when priests who tried to say Mass were assaulted, Mary issued a proclamation stating her intention to practice openly the faith she had held all her life but offering not to compel or constrain the consciences of others. She believed the people only needed a little time to consider before they embraced Catholicism once more.
At that time, buoyed up by the relief generated by Mary's warm welcome, Elizabeth hoped that if she made no show of her reformist tendencies and was sufficiently inconspicuous, Mary would ignore their differences. She really knew better but did not want to face the fact that it was impossible for the queen and her heir to worship by different rites. For a few days her false hopes were supported because the Imperial ambassadors convinced Mary that to give King Edward a Catholic funeral would result in riots.
Grudgingly Mary agreed that Archbishop Cranmer should be permitted to bury Edward in Westminster Abbey using the English funeral service, but she would not attend. To satisfy her conscience, Mary and her household would listen to a High Requiem Mass in the chapel of the White Tower on the day Edward was buried. Then, openly, in full Court, in her deep, loud voice, Mary invited Elizabeth to the Requiem Mass.
Elizabeth remembered her surprise, remembered staring, eyes and mouth open. She knew that Mary must at some time invite her to worship at a Mass and had all kinds of clever evasions worked out, but she had not expected Mary to try to make her commit herself so soon or so publicly or to use Edward's funeral as a trap. At least the shock had not frozen her mind and she made the shock work to her advantage. Elizabeth closed her mouth, swallowed, and allowed tears to flood her widened eyes.
"I cannot," Elizabeth choked out.
"Why can you not?" Mary asked, her voice louder and deeper than ever.
One could almost see the ears of the courtiers perk up as they heard Mary's emphasis; she was implying Elizabeth would not rather than could not.
"Because I loved him so," Elizabeth said, allowing her tears to overflow and her voice to catch on a sob, but making sure it carried clearly. "And because Edward would have hated a Mass."
Still weeping freely Elizabeth went down on her knees to show her submission. She was surprised at how hard it was. She had bowed to Edward without the smallest reservation, with a warm satisfaction. Now she was trembling with angry resistance—but no one realized that. Everyone thought she was shaking with grief.
Around her the Court sighed and murmured sympathy. Elizabeth's deep affection for her brother was well known; many of the Court had seen them together when Elizabeth visited, had heard their young king utter a rare laugh when his sister was with him.
"Your Majesty," Elizabeth cried, "wrong or right, Edward believed in the reformist rite. I could not . . . I could not pay homage to his memory with prayers he would have hated."
"So you will go to Westminster to see him buried with unhallowed prayers in an heretical rite?" Mary challenged.
Elizabeth would no more take up that challenge than try to fly. She would have liked to say a last fare well to her dear little brother but he was dead and could not be hurt, whereas she could be called traitor or heretic for defending Protestant belief to her fanatically Catholic sister.
"No, madam," she murmured. "I have no need to make a show of my loss. I did not see my father buried. I will mourn King Edward as I mourned King Henry, quietly, in my own chamber."
"Very well." Mary's voice was somewhat softer and she stretched out a hand to sign for Elizabeth to rise. But she did not touch her sister in sympathy or consolation, just walked away.
"That was very clever, indeed."
A man's voice just behind Elizabeth's shoulder. She started and turned her head. Kat and Lady Alana closed on her to help her to her feet. Over her shoulder she saw Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, smiling at her. It was not a pleasant smile.
Elizabeth's teeth snapped together. She did not need Bishop Gardiner explaining aloud in the hearing of those courtiers who were near them how skillfully she had avoided attendance at Mass without implying she herself objected to it. For the moment she had the Court's sympathy and she intended to keep it. The bishop was already urging Mary to depress Elizabeth's consequence. She owed him neither truth nor more courtesy than he offered her.
"Clever?" Elizabeth repeated in a shaken, puzzled voice.
She took a half step fully to face the bishop and stopped dead in her tracks. Perforce Gardiner had to stop too unless he wanted to push her aside, and that he dared not do; she was the queen's sister and the next highest lady in the land. The distance between them and Mary widened. The space was quickly filled by courtiers more desirous of being close to the queen than hearing the exchange between Gardiner and Elizabeth.
The movement of the courtiers kept Gardiner from making any comment to the queen on the plausibility of Elizabeth's remarks. She knew it would give him considerable satisfaction to spoil the small sympathy she had created between herself and Mary. Mary had been fond of Edward too, and seeing Elizabeth weep for him had moved her. Finally, the widening space between them decreased any danger of Mary again pressing Elizabeth to attend the Mass or asking any further questions.
Before the bishop could step around her or speak again, Elizabeth found a tone of quiet outrage, stiffening and drawing herself even more erect to say, "You think I am using my brother's death to be clever, my lord bishop? That I do not mourn him? I loved my brother."
"More than you love your sister," Gardiner said, but he spoke softly enough that only those closest could hear.
"I—" Elizabeth began, but Lady Alana put a hand on her arm.
Two members of the Council, Lord William Howard and Lord William Paulet had been following on Gardiner's heels and been forced to stop when he did. They had heard Gardiner's remark.
Howard, in his loud seaman's voice, said, "King Edward loved you too, m'lady." He looked at Paulet. "Remember how he used to say he'd save this or that book or picture or tune 'until Elizabeth comes.' He looked forward to Lady Elizabeth's visits."
"And I came as often as I was allowed." Elizabeth flicked a glance at Gardiner. She decided to make a bold statement of her detachment from politics to the courtiers around them and raised her voice. "I do not know why Lord Somerset and Lord Northumberland very often rejected my appeals to come to Court. The king never spoke to me of governing or politics and I did not wish for it. It is not my place to be political. We talked of our studies."
"True enough," Paulet agreed and laughed heartily. "I was standing near one time. Didn't understand above one word or two. You were talking in Latin with now and again a sentence in Greek. All stuff you had both read in those texts your tutors set you."
"Yes, because we studied together for years when our father still lived." She blinked away bright tears. "Edward was not king then, only my little brother. I could take him in my arms and give him a kiss . . ."
Gardiner made an odd noise. Elizabeth did not acknowledge it but she knew she had won that round when he bowed and pushed past those in the group around her. Lord William Howard made an exaggerated wink in her direction just before he and Paulet took off after Gardiner.
Elizabeth barely restrained a shudder. Perhaps she had not won after all. She had gained a little more sympathy, but at the cost of annoying Gardiner further. He had Mary's ear and the more favor Elizabeth won with the courtiers, the less he liked her. She knew that he had already advised Mary that it was unwise to acknowledge her sister, to hold her by the hand and show her favor.