Deeds of Men (10 page)

Blackfriars, London: 27 July, 1625

The servant led Antony into Deven’s parlour, then left the two in peace.

Deven was attempting to tune his cittern, which he had not played in far too long. But he laid the instrument aside when Antony entered, for it was apparent from the young man’s expression that he had news of import. “Penshaw is in prison,” he said, “and the trial will be soon.” His eyes echoed the satisfaction of the words.

“Good,” Deven said. Despite the confidence he showed to Antony, he had not been certain it would work; much depended on the strength of Penshaw’s mind. But it seemed the man felt guilt over Henry’s death, even if his own hand had not wielded the blade. And that was lever enough to move him—at least with faerie aid.

Lune had proven her words to Antony: she did not flinch from punishing the guilty. The night Penshaw heard of Quijada’s failure and death, he dreamt of Henry, and every night thereafter the spectre returned, accusing him of his crimes. Not Antony, this time, but a faerie sent to plague his sleep. Lune would fabricate no evidence against the man, but she felt no compunctions about provoking him with what they knew.

Penshaw lasted a month before he confessed.

His family had enough wealth and influence to keep the matter from the public eye, and Charles had no desire to jeopardise the fragile alliance with France—let alone his marriage, which had not begun well. But neither had it begun so badly he would countenance his gentlemen plotting against his wife, and the Penshaws were far from mighty enough to save their son. Robert Penshaw would die for his crimes. Quietly, and without fanfare.

His conduct with Henry, though, remained a secret. As Deven had asked Lune to ensure.

It was a gift to Antony, though one left unspoken. Whether the young man counted sodomy among the crimes Penshaw should die for, Deven had not asked, and never would. They would each deal with that knowledge in their own way. And in the meantime, Henry would rest in his grave with his name, as Antony had said, unsullied.

Melancholy thoughts. Deven called for wine, and went back to tuning the cittern, hoping to lighten the young man’s mood, and his own. He was surprised to find some time later that the evening was drawing down; they had passed the whole afternoon in company. And if it was not as convivial as with Henry, Antony being far more reserved in his manner, it was pleasant enough.

“Will you dine with me?” Deven asked, once he noted his growling stomach. His larder was passing bare, but they could go out.

The young man looked surprised by the suggestion. “I will—and thank you.”

Deven laid the cittern aside, then hesitated. “Perhaps I should wait to say this,” he admitted, “but I would not want you to think my friendship offered under false pretences. Regardless of how you answer me, that offer stands. But I must ask: now that this business is done, will you come below again?”

Antony’s eyes softened briefly, showing hints of many things: healing grief, puzzlement, uncertainty.

And, perhaps, a trace of wonder.

“Henrietta Maria,” he said. “You mentioned the Armada, and the Gunpowder Treason. Are these…assistances something the fae do often?”

Yes
would be the persuasive answer, but not entirely honest. “Sometimes,” Deven said. “They also dice, and drink, and gamble at cards; they take mortal lovers, laugh at new fashions, and sing the most scurrilous broadside ballads they can find. They are not entirely noble, and I would be lying if I presented them as such. But they can be good.”

One blunt-fingered hand lifted briefly to rub his throat—remembering Dead Rick and Quijada, Deven suspected. Then the young man said, “Yes. I will come below again. If they will have me.”

“We will,” Deven said, laying the faintest stress on the pronoun. “And I am glad of it.”

Antony met his gaze. “Why?”

How much honesty was too much? With this man, more was better than less—which might, in time, be a detriment to him. But Deven did not think so. The fae could use a dose of sturdy honesty, to counteract all their twisted dealings.
Hanged for a lamb…

“Because,” he said, “I have found myself considering the prospect of you as Prince after me.”

It was enough to rattle the young man’s solidity. “
Me?
” Antony exclaimed, astonished. “You must be jesting.”

“Not in the slightest. You have a good head, and a good eye for politics. And you have no fear of Lune, no awe that would prevent you from standing up to her when she needs it.”

Antony blinked. “Does she need it often?”

“More than she thinks. But she agrees with me in this matter—that you might do well indeed.” Better than Henry, though it pained Deven to admit it. He had tried to shape the young man into the necessary form, because he seemed the best clay available. And Henry had been willing. But Antony, though less pleasing in company, and positioned more for Parliament than for court, was better suited to the task—if only Deven had known it sooner. The irony would forever tinge this memory, that Antony would never have come among the fae had Henry not died. The elder Ware would never have thought to introduce his brother to such wonder.

Pragmatic as always, Antony said, “I did not think she liked me.”

Deven chose his words carefully. “You will never have an easy friendship, I think. But that may, in certain ways, be good. She…will need someone who does not seem a replacement for me.” Antony’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded in thoughtful understanding. “But what she needs foremost is a good Prince. And we believe you might be that.”

He let Antony consider that for a moment, then added, “I expect no answer from you now; I would not take it if you gave me one. You do not know well enough what it is to be Prince of the Stone. But you should know that I have thought it.”

Antony sat, mouth slightly open, for quite a long time. Finally he said, “You are right—I do not know.” Then another stretch of silence, before he said, “But I would be willing to learn.”

Deven’s heart warmed. It was no promise, from either of them; Antony might refuse, or prove unsuitable after all. It was hope, though, and the light of possibility, shining a path through the darkness ahead.

Rising, he offered his hand to Antony. “Then we shall dine below, food from a larder kept safe for the likes of us to eat—if you will trust me.”

“I will,” Antony said, and accepted his hand.

Marie Brennan is an anthropologist and folklorist who shamelessly pillages her academic fields for material. She most recently misapplied her professors’ hard work to the Onyx Court historical fantasy series (
Midnight Never Come
,
In Ashes Lie
,
A Star Shall Fall
, and
With Fate Conspire
). She is also the author of the doppelanger duology of
Warrior
and
Witch
, the upcoming adventure
A Natural History of Dragons
, and more than forty short stories.

When she’s not obsessing over historical details too minute for anybody but her to care about, she practices shorin-ryu karate and pretends to be other people in role-playing games (which sometimes find their way into her writing).

England flourishes under the hand of its Virgin Queen: Elizabeth, Gloriana, last and most powerful of the Tudor monarchs.

But a great light casts a great shadow.

In hidden catacombs beneath London, a second Queen holds court: Invidiana, ruler of faerie England, and a dark mirror to the glory above. In the thirty years since Elizabeth ascended her throne, fae and mortal politics have become inextricably entwined, in secret alliances and ruthless betrayals whose existence is suspected only by a few.

Two courtiers, both struggling for royal favor, are about to uncover the secrets that lie behind these two thrones. When the faerie lady Lune is sent to monitor and manipulate Elizabeth’s spymaster, Walsingham, her path crosses that of Michael Deven, a mortal gentleman and agent of Walsingham’s. His discovery of the “hidden player” in English politics will test Lune’s loyalty and Deven’s courage alike. Will she betray her Queen for the sake of a world that is not hers? And can he survive in the alien and Machiavellian world of the fae? For only together will they be able to find the source of Invidiana’s power—find it, and break it….

A breathtaking novel of intrigue and betrayal set in Elizabethan England,
Midnight Never Come
seamlessly weaves together history and the fantastic to dazzling effect.

The year is 1666. The King and Parliament vie for power, fighting one another with politics and armies alike. Below, the faerie court has enemies of its own. The old ways are breaking down, and no one knows what will rise in their place.

But now, a greater threat has come, one that could destroy everything. In the house of a sleeping baker, a spark leaps free of the oven—and ignites a blaze that will burn London to the ground. While the humans struggle to halt the conflagration that is devouring the city street by street, the fae pit themselves against a less tangible foe: the spirit of the fire itself, powerful enough to annihilate everything in its path.

Mortal and fae will have to lay aside the differences that divide them, and fight together for the survival of London itself …