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Chapter 41

At first Elizabeth did not think waiting for Mary to die would be very difficult. The queen seemed to have given up on either suspecting her of rebellion or trying to get her married and out of the country. Although Sir Edward kept a tight guard and had messengers ready to ride and rouse Elizabeth's liegemen, nothing disturbed the quiet of Hatfield. Mary was totally concentrated on supplying men and money for Philip's war.

And in the beginning that went very well. The English fleet drove French ships back to their harbors and from time to time did even better and took a prize. Sometimes they even raided the French coast. Pembroke, at the head of his five thousand foot and five hundred horse, accompanied Philip to a share in a striking victory, besieging and taking St. Quentin.

Mary sent Elizabeth a smug letter to announce the victory and to report that Te Deum Masses were being sung throughout London and the country. Elizabeth promptly ordered that all her estates have Masses sung, light bonfires and serve a feast to all who could come. That was in August. By September there was more good news. The pope and King Philip came to terms and a peace was made. But then the tide that had rushed in began to draw back.

Through the autumn, October and November, there were strong signs that the king of France was not beaten and intended to revenge his losses by the greatest coup he could deal to England. He meant to take back Calais, which had been ruled by the English since Edward III captured it in 1347.

Elizabeth was as aware of the threat as Mary and her Council. No one doubted any longer that the queen was failing, and a trickle of courtiers—those who believed Mary would die soon—came to seek favor with Elizabeth and brought news. Elizabeth welcomed them all graciously, but was very careful never to ask a question or say a word of criticism against the queen. She heard enough without asking to chill her blood.

For once, despite the desperate situation, Elizabeth could not fault Mary's intentions. She was aware of the danger. She ordered the defenses of Calais to be renewed and sent three hundred more men. But Mary was nearly bankrupt. Her government had never been rich and she had poured out money to Philip. The work to protect Calais was never finished, the five hundred more men that Pembroke said were necessary never sent. Rumor was that the best general France had was advancing on Calais.

Mary did what she could with no money but she was distracted. Although this time she made no public announcements, she was aware of the change in her body. Her belly swelled and her fluxes, never very regular, stopped altogether. In December, Mary wrote to Philip, that this time she was certain that she was with child.

She begged her husband to come to her. Philip, pleading the duties and anxieties heaped on him by the war, sent Count Feria, who had three missions. The first was to determine whether it was actually possible that Mary was pregnant. Philip had done his marital duty regularly during the four months he had been in England, so it was barely possible. Feria's second commission was to convince Mary to make her will as childbirth was always dangerous. The last was to promise Elizabeth that Mary would publicly name her heir to the throne if she would accept Emmanuel Philibert as a husband.

The first mission was easy to discharge. Mary's women were sure she was not with child despite the swelling of her belly. It was clear from their looks, from tear-filled eyes, that the cause for the swelling belly was far darker than a coming child. None said in plain words that Mary was dying, but Feria's betrothed wife, Jane Dormer, wept every time the subject arose.

Jane was the closest of all the women to Mary now, although Rosamund Scot was well enough loved to give Jane some relief from attendance. For that Feria was grateful, although there was something he could not like about Mistress Rosamund; he suspected she was like too many English and hated him because he was Spanish.

As to the will, Mary agreed without any difficulty. When she had thought out the provisions and taken advice from Cardinal Pole and the few other councilors she trusted, she would make her will. About agreeing to name Elizabeth her heir, she was far less complaisant. A flush rose under her graying pallor and she did not lower her loud, harsh voice as she said that Elizabeth was not her sister. Ann Boleyn had been a whore, and Elizabeth had no right to the throne.

Feria wrote to Philip that he would broach the topic with Elizabeth first. If he could get her to agree to maintain the Catholic religion in England, possibly Mary would put aside her doubts about Elizabeth's parentage. Instead Feria came away from that meeting with a firm conviction that Elizabeth would never marry Philip's choice and would always do as she pleased. He left Hatfield with a permanent and violent dislike of her.

Elizabeth, who had totally lost patience with the efforts to have her marry the powerless and subservient Emmanuel Philibert, for once spoke her mind. "What kind of a fool do you think me after seeing how this nation responded to my sister's marriage to take a foreign husband? Why, I would sooner marry my dear old Denno." She gestured to the white-haired common merchant talking to Lady Alana near an open window.

Feria flushed with rage at the insult and descended to a threat. "Then perhaps King Philip will use his influence to prefer some other claimant to the throne."

Elizabeth smiled very faintly. "The king is a very clever man, I doubt he will act the fool. I am Great Harry's daughter and both his will and an act of Parliament place me next in the succession. Recall what happened when Northumberland tried to set Queen Mary aside. England will brook no other claimant." Now her eyes pinned Feria as a butterfly is pinned to a board. "And my sister is alive and well and queen. Surely there is no need to talk about such matters."

It was hopeless, Feria wrote to Philip. "She is a very vain and clever woman and has been thoroughly schooled in the way her father ruled. I am afraid she will not be well-disposed in matters of religion, for the men she has around her I suspect are at heart heretics and I know the women to be. Beside that, it is clear to me that she is highly indignant about how she has been treated during the queen's lifetime."

Although Feria did not know that when he spoke to her, any accommodation with Elizabeth was already hopeless. On January tenth news came to England of a disaster that Elizabeth credited entirely to Philip's war and Philip's pernicious influence on Mary.

In mid-December Calais had been lost.

Mary sent no letter to Elizabeth to announce the disaster, but there was no need. Regular reports of all rumor and most Court business now came from William Cecil, and all the news the courtiers who visited Hatfield brought was bad.

Even before the loss of Calais, events in England were driving Elizabeth to angry, if concealed, impatience for Mary's death. The burnings continued and the people were more and more enraged. It was often necessary to call out the men of the nearest armed post to protect the executioner and more particularly the priest who accompanied the victim. Twice the small troop had been rushed and a woman and child rescued. Soon, Elizabeth feared, riot would become a common habit in the people, making them impossible to govern.

Robert Dudley, returned from serving with the army at St. Quentin, gave his opinion between his teeth—Elizabeth's ladies were out of earshot. Money went to build churches; money went to Philip. The crown was so poor that armed troops had to be small.

"Sixty thousand pounds in revenue she has handed to Cardinal Pole to restore the Church." Robert Dudley's fine dark eyes blazed; Elizabeth thought him a very pretty man. "There will soon be no kingdom in which to raise churches."

Elizabeth said calmly, in a normal voice, "Mary is queen. She must do what she thinks best."

But inwardly she was furious with Mary's stupidity. To worship God was good and right. To beggar the kingdom to raise churches was wrong. If the people wanted churches, they could tithe and raise them on their own. It was no business of the crown.

From the beginning Mary had made one mistake after another in governing. She had not thought about who would be best to help her rule, but let gratitude and affection create the overlarge Council that only fought each other, sought advantage, and accomplished nothing. And to allow her fixed love of everything Spanish to select a husband her people hated was utter idiocy. The love of the people was a sovereign's best security. Finally, Mary's blind devotion to her husband's demands had cost England Calais.

When the news of Calais' fall came on the tenth of January, 1558, Elizabeth did not try for public restraint. Even her long-time attendants were shocked by her language. And then she wept bitterly, groaning "Lost. Lost." That was all she said aloud, but she was sure if she had been queen, Calais would still be English; England would never have been involved in the Spanish war.

She might as well have said the words aloud. Mary would not have cared. She seemed to be slipping into a world that was not quite real. At the end of February she invited Elizabeth to come to Court. Terrified anew that an effort might be made to abduct her, Elizabeth arrived with a huge attendance of noblemen and their wives and daughters.

Whether Mary had intended abduction or simply wanted her sister's company, remembering the red-haired child who had run to greet her with love, no one ever knew but Elizabeth. She did not say—not even to Denno, who on this visit to London attended her openly. Whatever Mary's reason, Elizabeth's visit did not serve the purpose. She returned to Hatfield within a week.

In March Mary completed the will Philip had asked her to write—a document based solidly on delusion. She wrote it as if she would certainly bear a living child. No mention at all was made of Elizabeth.

April brought a proposal of marriage to Elizabeth from the king of Sweden. He offered his son and heir. Mary wakened from her languid indifference to be furious; she thought Elizabeth would snatch at the proposal, which certainly did not favor Spain. And Mary could not bear the thought of Elizabeth married, able to hold her husband with her "spirit of enchantment," young enough to bear children.

Mary sent Thomas Pope to sound Elizabeth out. Elizabeth said what she always said, that she did not know what she would do in the future, but for the present she did not intend to marry. Pope did not believe her; neither did Mary but no more could be got from Elizabeth, not a wink, not a flicker of expression.

Over the summer, Mary grew weaker, losing interest even in the possibility that Elizabeth would become a happy wife. In August the queen was very ill with a raging fever. Courtiers now arrived at Hatfield with greater frequency. Some said the queen was already dead and had named Elizabeth as her heir. Elizabeth said that could not be true, Mary still ruled, and said no more.

Elizabeth waited a sure sign lest she commit treason. She knew such a sign would come. She had charged Sir Nicholas Throckmorton to bring to her the black enameled betrothal ring that Philip had sent to Mary. That, Elizabeth knew, would never leave her sister's hand while she was alive.

Mary recovered somewhat during September, but not completely. Through October she lay for hours in a melancholic stupor; she was alive but had ceased to rule. Her own Council gave her up for dead; if not today then very soon. On the sixth of November the Privy Council, warned by Mistress Rosamund Scot that the queen was awake and lucid, came to her bedside to persuade her to make a declaration in favor of Lady Elizabeth concerning the succession.

Mary no longer cared; wearily she agreed the girl she insisted was a bastard should rule. She knew Elizabeth would be queen no matter whom she named as heir. All her further refusal could accomplish was to start a civil war—and by now Mary sadly acknowledged she had done her country enough harm.

 

Elizabeth woke on the eighth of November, 1558, with no notion the day was special. She did ask immediately whether there had been any news; she could not help it, although she knew it was silly. If the news she waited for—that Mary was dead—had arrived in the night someone would have wakened her. No news, Kat said, and Elizabeth prepared to go about her ordinary business.

But it was no ordinary day. Just after Elizabeth finished dressing, Blanche, who was about to hand her a fan, froze. Elizabeth instinctively drew up her shields as she whirled around, spells trembling on her lips. She drew a breath to speak one. Everyone in her chamber was still as marble—everyone except one tall, exquisitely beautiful Sidhe.

"Lord Ffrancon," Elizabeth breathed, dropping a curtsey.

Oberon's chief factotum merited a curtsey, but the truth was the bow owed more to the sudden weakness of Elizabeth's knees than to respect. Elizabeth had not been Underhill for more than a year, not since she and the others had torn the Evil from Mary's womb. She did not go because she could not bear to see what she thought of as the unfading land of dreams slowly die. In the beginning she had not altogether approved of Underhill where she felt life was a too-easy lie. Now she loved it dearly and desperately desired to save it . . . but all she could do was wait for Mary to die.

The powerful Sidhe gestured for her to rise. "No need for that any more," he said with a smile. "You are summoned by High King Oberon and High Queen Titania to attend a Great Court Underhill. At mortal midnight a portal will open. Do not fail."

And he was gone.

The fan Blanche had been about to hand her dropped to the floor. Automatically Elizabeth turned back to take it as Blanche bent to pick it up. She heard one of her ladies finish a sentence she had started but could make no reply and just shook her head. Summoned? By Oberon? Summoned where? Had Oberon returned Underhill?

She spent most of the morning reliving Lord Ffrancon's brief visit, seeking in her mind for signs of age, of decay, of the ruin that was overtaking Underhill. Hope made her breath come quickly. There were no such signs. Lord Ffrancon's face was unlined, its perfect features sharp and clear; his long silver hair glowed with life, his green eyes were bright with vitality. Of course, Denno looked as strong and lively as ever too. Could Lord Ffrancon also be able to drink lightning?

After dinner Elizabeth received another shock. When she heard that two members of the Privy Council had come to speak with her, her heart stopped and then leapt. Mary was dead!

Elizabeth stood tall and still, her hands clasped at her waist, her breath held . . . but the bows the Privy Councilors made were not deep enough. Elizabeth allowed her breath to sigh out and drew it in evenly.

"My lords?" she asked quietly. "What can I do for you?"

They told her that her sister had at last acknowledged her as heir apparent. Few conditions were being placed on her elevation, only that Mary desired Elizabeth to promise to maintain the Catholic religion and pay Mary's debts.

Elizabeth had no more intention of continuing Mary's mad attempt to force England into Catholicism than she had of trying to fly. She made no response to that, instead hurrying to promise to do her best to pay Mary's debts—after all, she would need the goodwill of those creditors in the future. She knew she should make a graceful, ambiguous speech about religion, but could not.

Had Oberon known that Mary was dying and would name her heir? How could he have known? Where had he been? All Elizabeth could do was thank the councilors for coming to her, ask after her sister's welfare, and hope that the officials would believe she was so strongly moved she could not make sense.

To appear cooperative was the habit of many bitter years but Elizabeth's mind was in total turmoil and she fumbled for the equivocal phrases about her faith. She was shocked and confused that the promise of what she had dreamed of and hoped for from the moment of her brother's death could be so overshadowed by a message from King Oberon.

Finally Mary's comptroller and master of the rolls took their leave. Elizabeth's mind jumped from what Oberon's summons meant to the fact that she was now the undisputed heir to the throne; that jump prodded her to send a messenger to Brocket Hall where William Cecil was staying. Since the Hall was no more than two and a half miles from Hatfield, Cecil returned within half an hour, his face faintly flushed, his eyes bright with satisfaction.

Cecil had always been aware of Mary's determination to ruin Elizabeth and set God knew who on the throne. He thanked God, he said to Elizabeth, that the Council had that much common sense. Between Henry VIII's will, the Act of Succession, and Mary's final acknowledgment there was no longer any danger of civil war. Elizabeth was the accredited, recognized heir.

Cecil's disciplined, logical mind moved on to the next problem. The ugly subject of Cardinal Pole. Elizabeth did not like the cardinal; he returned the compliment in no uncertain terms. But Mary had made Pole archbishop of Canterbury.

"Do you think he will refuse to crown you or try to wring some oath of subservience to the pope from you?" William Cecil asked. "He is as obsessed as Mary with bringing England under the pope's rule again."

"He is very ill," Elizabeth said. One of the secretly Protestant courtiers had brought the news. "Some kind of fever. Surely it would be possible for me to excuse him from the coronation on the grounds of his health?"

"That would be best," Cecil agreed, "but then who will you get to crown you?"

Crown. Elizabeth could not remember Oberon ever wearing a crown. Not that it mattered. Everything about Oberon declared him High King. Cecil said her name, gently questioning her lack of immediate response.

"I have no idea," Elizabeth admitted, not willing to say to Cecil that she could not really think about it.

Her eyes followed the servants who were lighting candles throughout the room. She pulled herself together, knowing that the Catholic bishops Mary had appointed would all try to wrench some promise from her, or would be unwilling to crown her, claiming she was at heart a heretic, or insisting on some Catholic service she wished to avoid.

"You had better begin a canvass of the bishops who might be willing," she suggested finally, and then admitted. "I am all heels over head. Mary must have known since this pregnancy was also false that I would come to the throne, but I was afraid she would die before she conceded or name someone else just for spite. I need time to swallow this down and digest it."

"Yes." Cecil bowed, then took the hand she held out to him and kissed it. "And it is growing dark. I had better get back to Brocket Hall. There is much to do now, and it will be easier as I can do it more openly."

Elizabeth watched him go without really seeing it. Mention of the coronation had sent her mind back Underhill. Her father had been the greatest mortal ruler Elizabeth would acknowledge (Charles V was probably greater, but the rack could not have dragged that admission out of Elizabeth) but Oberon was in no competition with Great Harry; he was Other.

There was no air spirit to send for Denno. He was in London, his informants at Court listening for the first word of Mary's death. And Alana was away too, probably at Cymry, which was less affected by the loss of power because the Sidhe there used less magic. Elizabeth had no one to talk to. She said she was cold and would change to a warmer gown, which gave her an excuse to tell Blanche, but the maid was no help. She was frightened. She could not imagine why King Oberon should want to summon Elizabeth.

How could I have offended him? Elizabeth wondered. I have not been Underhill in so long. But what if he did know that Mary was dying and he wanted her to find him a place in the mortal world? Elizabeth shuddered. Perhaps Oberon had abandoned Underhill. The last she had seen of it, the mortal world was richer.

Elizabeth's mind leapt back and forth between the ultimately authoritarian Oberon as she had seen him last, massive and utterly magical, and the horrible possibility of an Oberon small and shrunken pleading with her to make him a duke or send the power of joy to his dying realm.

That could not be, she told herself. Lord Ffrancon had said Oberon would open a Gate for her. That meant Oberon had power. Elizabeth clung to that thought. At an hour before midnight she dismissed her ladies, saying she wished to be alone to pray and consider the great news the men of the Privy Council had brought her. The two who remained in her bedchamber she bespelled to sleep.

Now Blanche helped her into her very finest gown, a cloth-of-gold kirtle heavily embroidered with roses and thistles with an overgown of black velvet embroidered with gold thread. The very wide sleeves of the overgown were turned back so fitted sleeves of the cloth-of-gold kirtle showed. A high collar of pleated lawn was fastened around her neck and the long chains of jewel-set gold that Denno had given her hung over her breast. Around her waist she wore another gift from Denno, square links of gold, each holding a precious stone.

Promptly at midnight the wall where the Gate had always opened yawned widely. This time there was no luminous black spot that grew into a Gate; the Gate was simply there. But this time Elizabeth could not make out what was on the other side. Surely Oberon had not decided he would make her step into oblivion. Surely she was too valuable, heir apparent to the throne. Oberon always played games of power. He only wanted to frighten her.

Elizabeth took a deep breath, lifted her chin and stepped forward. She did not feel as if she were falling, nor did her vision go black. She simply was standing with her back to the huge double doors of an enormous chamber. The roof soared above her into unseeable dimness, twice or thrice the height of St. Paul's, yet silver light shone from it and the whole chamber was nearly bright.

A weird combination of relief and rage made Elizabeth's teeth snap together. She had no doubt that Oberon had created this hall, possibly a whole great building and a landscape to go with it, possibly for this occasion alone. There was no lack of power in Oberon—or in Titania either; she glowed light beside his radiant darkness. How dare they? How dare they abandon their kingdom to sorrow and decay?

She stood at the head of a long aisle, which ended at a dais on which was a huge, magnificent double throne. One throne that glowed with a pearly light and on it she saw Oberon and Titania, seated together.

Elizabeth started down the aisle and saw it was bordered on each side by seats, which looked to her countless. The seats were filled with Sidhe—to her left, which would be the right of the throne, a mass of golden hair and bright green eyes; to her right, the left of the throne, a more mixed group, dark and light but nearly all with glowing dark eyes. And all those glowing eyes were fixed on her with open hostility.

Elizabeth's shields rose, thick, impenetrable, and her lips tightened into a thin line. She grew angrier and angrier with each step she took down the aisle. One move, one insult, one hiss of "Silly weak mortal" and she would Push them all right through the walls of the building, and the throne and its occupants, too. Heat built in her belly and spread up over her chest and arms. She slowed, turning slightly toward the hostile Sidhe.

A huge laugh, surprisingly warm and companionable despite its volume, broke her intensifying rage. And Elizabeth found herself clear of the hostile Sidhe, standing right before the throne.

"Gently, gently, Lady Elizabeth," Oberon said. "This is a Great Court to make peace—"

"Whose peace?" Elizabeth snapped. "I will have no peace dictated to me. I have lost no battles. I have not yet begun to fight."

Titania's thrilling musical laugh cut off whatever Oberon had been about to say. "Peace, my sweet Elizabeth. You know I have ever been your friend. I promise no one, not even my dear dictatorial lord, will force any measure on you. That is not our purpose here."

The placatory tone soothed, at least enough for Elizabeth to come to her senses and realize that she could not win a contest with Oberon and Titania no matter how contemptuous she was over their abandonment of their subjects. She drew a breath and dropped a deep curtsey to Titania.

When she raised her head, Elizabeth was startled again by a beauty so great it could not be remembered. The golden hair, the green eyes, the translucent flesh that seemed lit from within . . . one could tell over what one saw, could bring up a memory of the High Queen, but the reality was always so far greater than the memory it was a shock.

"And will you not give some sign of respect to my lord also?" Titania asked, laughing again.

Her knowing eyes glanced sidelong at Oberon. Elizabeth saw Titania clearly remembered that every time Elizabeth and Oberon met there was a greater or lesser clash of wills. And Elizabeth suddenly realized she was alone—for the first time she was Underhill with no Denno beside her.

"Where is—" about to say my Denno, Elizabeth also recalled Oberon's violent objection in the past to her claim of possession of his subject and decided on a little diplomacy "—Lord Denoriel?" she asked.

A black eyebrow, as black and cleanly marked as if drawn in ink by a master hand, lifted. Elizabeth had a moment, her rage abated, to marvel again at Oberon's beauty, as great as that of Titania's if completely opposite. At the hair, so black it shone with blue and green and purple lights, waving back from the widow's peak on the high, white brow; at the eyes, so luminous one could swear they were light, although they were as black as the hair. A perfect nose, straight and strong, and a mouth so beautifully curved that for all her resentment, Elizabeth was much tempted to kiss it.

"Behind you," Oberon said, lips quirking with amusement.

Elizabeth turned, blinking, and saw that her friends were all seated in the first row of right-hand chairs. Angry because Oberon had brought her to the dais without giving her a chance to see even Da and Denno—and thus made her look foolish—she opened her mouth to snap.

In that moment she remembered Oberon's way of testing people. A queen should not allow herself to be annoyed into doing things that were stupid and dangerous—at least not where she had no power to enforce her will. In a little while, Elizabeth told herself, she would be a queen. She smiled sweetly at Oberon and sank into another deep curtsey.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she murmured dulcetly.

"Very good," Oberon exclaimed, laughing that warm, intimate laugh that made one sure one was laughed with, not laughed at. "Very well recovered," he praised. "Now, do be seated among your companions."

He gestured her up and toward the seats. Now she saw there was an empty place between Da and Denno and she went and sat down. Aleneil was on the other side of Denno, who frowned and shook his head slightly at her in remonstrance for her behavior, and Mwynwen, head down, shoulders slumped, beyond. Rhoslyn, looking very wide-eyed and anxious, sat next to Da with Pasgen at the end of the row.

"I have come to look into several problems I had no time to solve before I left Underhill," Oberon said.

His voice was mild, his face nearly expressionless, but he glanced over toward the left and a wave of movement, almost a shrinking away, passed through the Sidhe there. Two seats were separated from the rest, set at right angles into the space before the dais. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of very gold hair worn in a low fringe on the forehead; she had seen that Sidhe before, she thought, but could not remember where or when. Beside her was a male who, had Oberon not been there might have been impressive. He also had very black hair and eyes but he looked faded and tawdry compared to the High King. Elizabeth was sure that was Vidal Dhu, who had tried so long and hard to kill her.

"There was an Evil set loose Underhill and that Evil was trapped and then transferred to the mortal world. Such acts are forbidden." Oberon's head turned. "Harry FitzRoy, you began this enterprise."

Elizabeth gasped with fear and was about to leap to her feet to stand with her Da. Denno caught her arm and held her still. She knew how Denno loved her Da and knew if Denno expected Oberon to strike at her Da, Denno would be standing in front of him to take the blow. She sat quiet. A moment later she saw Denno was right and was soon fascinated by how Oberon extracted the truth of what had happened from each being who had had any part in the affair from the escape of the Evil from Alhambra to Its expulsion into the Void by Elizabeth's Push.

When the tale was told, each having given evidence of his or her part, Oberon nodded. Then he held out his hand.

"Come here, Mwynwen."

She was still weeping over her inability to separate the Evil from the unborn or to help Mary. Elizabeth, seeing her clearly when she rose to go to Oberon, was shocked at how ill she looked and how tired. The High King gestured for her to step up on the dais and took her hand.

"That Evil touched you," Oberon said. "It could not take hold on you but it has tainted your life."

Mwynwen shuddered and her hand tightened on his. Then a long sigh lifted Mwynwen's breast; slowly her slumped shoulders rose. In a moment more, she looked up into Oberon's face, smiling now.

He let go of her hand and patted her cheek. "It is gone now. Take up your work again, Healer."

"Thank you, my lord." Mwynwen lifted his hand and kissed it. "Yes, my lord."

And she came down from the dais with a light step, smiled at them all, and sat easily.

"Pasgen and Rhoslyn Silverhair." They both stood and clasped hands nervously. "I knew your father, Kefni. He was one of my knights. I grieved for his death. If you wish to join the Bright Court, you are welcome." He swept the right-hand seats with a hard glance that quelled a murmur of protest. Suddenly he grinned, looking young and full of mischief for a moment. "Your elvensteeds are . . . a refreshment."

Then he was serious again and said, "Harry FitzRoy . . ."

Harry jumped to his feet and bowed jerkily. "My lord? I am certainly at fault for not attending more closely to the Evil." He sighed. "If there is some way for me to atone for that, I will do it gladly. It was surely my responsibility to see that thing did no harm. And I failed. It did do harm. Lord Pasgen told me."

Oberon nodded soberly. "In the future, you must be more careful. But I think I have a fitting punishment in mind for you." Harry braced his shoulders and Elizabeth jumped to her feet, Denoriel's grab at her missing. Then quite suddenly with never a glance at her, the High King grinned again. "Yes, most fitting. You are to go and take the elder Sidhe you have so thoroughly wakened to new mischief and clean out El Dorado . . . and be quick about it. There will be tenants for the place soon."

Relieved of any fear for her Da, Elizabeth was about to sink quietly into her seat when her eye was caught by movement in the chairs to the left of the dais. The golden-haired woman shifted sharply and leaned over to hiss into Vidal Dhu's ear.

Meanwhile Oberon had continued speaking to Harry, "You will find that Alhambra is now occupied. Go and visit the domain with the elder Sidhe if you are so minded, but those who live there now are a strange people." His glance flashed toward Vidal Dhu and his companion, returned to Harry. "Be careful."

Suddenly he was staring at Elizabeth a mixture of amusement and exasperation on his face. "You will very soon have your own kingdom to rule. I would appreciate it if you left mine to me."

Elizabeth blushed. "Forgive me, my lord. I . . . I only wish to defend those dear to me, sometimes unwisely and when it is not necessary, but my heart bids me—"

"You must become more discriminating," Titania said, her clear voice holding a note of severity. "A queen must not think first who is dear to her but what is best for all."

"That is true my very dear," Oberon remarked, chuckling. "Now if only you would follow your own wise rule . . ."

Titania laughed again and put a hand on Oberon's shoulder. "You would not be where you are," she finished sharply.

Oberon sighed but made no attempt to wrest the last word from Titania. He looked at Elizabeth. "In ten days your sister will be dead and you will be queen of Logres."

Elizabeth caught her breath. Sick as she often was, Mary had already lingered over a year. Since the summer she had been given up for dead three times . . . and yet lived. Elizabeth had not been sure whether she would have to wait another year or even longer while her sister's misgovernment continued to damage England.

"Ten days," Elizabeth breathed.

"No!"

A chair crashed to the floor. A blue bolt, spreading as it moved, sparkling and crackling and leaving dead black motes in the air where it caught some happily dancing air spirits, roared away from where Vidal Dhu had been sitting. A shining white wall met it. Thunder crashed. Wind howled. Elizabeth would have been knocked from her feet had not Denoriel and Aleneil both leapt up, Denoriel in front of her, shields up, blue light limning his fingers, Aleneil to steady and support her.

A Gate had already started to form just behind Vidal. It winked out.

"That is enough!" Oberon roared. "I am king here, not you."

Vidal, shields useless against Oberon's power, was frozen where he stood, one hand still raised, his face twisted with hate and rage. Aurilia shrank away from him as far as her seat would permit, her hands over her face.

"Elizabeth will be queen of Logres and will reign long and successfully. Not you, Vidal Dhu, nor you Aurilia, nor any minion of yours will attack her. That is my will and I will enforce it."

The occupants of the whole of the right-hand set of chairs rose to their feet. "Elizabeth and a happy Logres," a clear voice called and a roar of cheers agreed. Swords began to be drawn, energy crackled. The Sidhe in the left-hand seats began to rise.

"Sit!" Oberon bellowed. "I will have no battle at a Great Court." He lowered his voice to its normal penetrating volume. "I am king of all—Bright Court and Dark. I have no desire to see the Dark Court diminished to nothing while the Bright Court thrives. I have arranged for a source of power to be fed to the Dark Court. You will not be quite as rich during Elizabeth's reign as you have been during Mary's, but there will be power enough to make your dark creatures, to build domains, and to—" his lips quirked "—to fight each other."

At that point he released Vidal Dhu, who sank into the chair that had righted itself. Vidal was still glaring across the chamber at Elizabeth, and he was trembling violently. Elizabeth wondered whether it was with fear or rage.

"We must be able to defend ourselves against the mortal world," Vidal cried.

"That is not unreasonable," Oberon said. "Elizabeth?"

"And the mortal world must be able to defend itself against you," Elizabeth snapped back, staring boldly at Vidal. "I will not exhort my people to make sacrifice to you, nor to let your creatures run amok, killing herds of cattle and sheep, nor fail to carry Cold Iron to fend off your Wild Hunt."

"To that I agree," Oberon said, "but what of your Church? It was the Church that corrupted Alhambra and El Dorado."

Elizabeth was silent, staring angrily at Vidal but then she glanced at her Denno, still on guard to protect her, and at Alana, less aggressive but always supportive. The Church—Catholic or Protestant—would burn Denno or Aleneil for being Other, not caring what good they had done. Slowly, her eyes which had been dark and troubled lightened. As a solution came to her that would satisfy Oberon and incidentally be of the greatest benefit to her—Elizabeth did not fancy a powerful Church with tentacles deep into her Council—her eyes glowed gold.

"I may not always be able to control the princes of the Church, but I will try—that I promise. However, what I will swear to you, by my God and by your Great Mother, is that I will never have any powerful churchman as one of my high government officials. I will have no bishops for chancellor or comptroller or on my Privy Council or my great Council." And thinking of Cardinal Pole, she added, "I will have no religious fanatics for advisors no matter how saintly."

"Done!" Oberon roared. "Done, my lady."

"Done, sweet Elizabeth," Titania echoed. "And be sure that Underhill will always be open for you and—" she cast a flashing glance at Oberon and laughed "—your Denno and your Lady Alana will still protect you."

Oberon uttered a kind of exasperated growl, but again allowed Titania to have the last word. He looked now at Vidal. "Vidal Dhu, I have promised that your Court will not be straightened for power. But you must pay for that flow of power. The Bright Court must flourish also."

Vidal made no reply. His face was flushed, his nostrils pinched with temper, but an uninterrupted flow of power was not something he would throw away. There would be ways of adding to what he received, he was sure.

Smiling broadly and showing, to Elizabeth's faint distress, teeth as sharp as Vidal's and a good deal longer and stronger, Oberon named his price. "Queen Elizabeth—and Lady Elizabeth until she becomes queen—is sacrosanct. The moment she dies, or is in danger of death from whatever cause, be you innocent or guilty, all power to the Dark Court will be choked off until she is in good health and safe again." His voice rose to a bellow again. "Hear me! Elizabeth's person is sacred to me."

"And to me also," Titania echoed. "And I will do a great deal worse to you than cut off your power if Elizabeth's rule does not fulfill completely the promise our FarSeers have Visioned."

"Thank you." Elizabeth sank down in a curtsey right to the floor. "This may be the last time I may do you a reverence with bent knee, for as queen it would not be seemly for me to bow, but in my heart there will always be reverence for King Oberon and Queen Titania and for all of Underhill, which has been my salvation in my times of trial. While I reign, all of you who do no harm and wish no ill to my people will be welcome in England."

Oberon's word held the Sidhe of the Bright Court in their seats, and prevented any demonstration—but it seemed to Elizabeth that she could feel the joy, the good will, and the relief coming from them. It felt like a tide, buoying her up, so that as Denno stepped to her side, she hardly needed his hand on her elbow to rise to her feet again.

"So let it be written!" Oberon said, his voice filling the Hall.

"So let it be done!" caroled Titania, turning the words into a song.

But Elizabeth had ears only for one voice; for Denno, who whispered with all of his old strength and gaiety, and yet with a new respect she had never expected to hear from him—

"And very well spoken, too, my gracious Faery Queen."

THE END

 

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