Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

The knight stepped back, violet eyes wide. “Madam—my exile is done.”

“But you went into Nicneven’s court on the pretense of disaffection here. They will not be surprised if you return.”

“They sent me back to spy on you! ”

Silence followed, ringing in the aftermath of his shout. Everyone in the room stood frozen, like statues, until Cerenel went to his knees, white as a ghost. “Your Grace—Lord Antony—the command came to me from Nicneven herself. She bade me return to your court and pass along what I learned here.”

Antony moved up to stand at Lune’s side. “By what means? How will you communicate?”

The knight shook his head. “She said a messenger would come. I know nothing more.”

To catch that messenger, they would have to keep Cerenel here. Exchanging a quick glance with Antony, Lune said, “No. I have no doubt that your orders began with this Lord of Shadows. To stop him, we must learn more of him, and that can only be done in Fife. Tell Nicneven I was suspicious of you, or that my favor has moved on; tell her whatever you wish. But you will go back.”

Tears jeweled Cerenel’s lashes, that he was too proud to shed. “Madam,” he whispered, from where he knelt before her, “this is my home .”

“Then help us preserve it,” Lune said. “Find us this Lord of Shadows.”

GUILDHALL, LONDON: January 3, 1642

“They’ve overstepped,” Antony said, angry satisfaction tinging his words. “It nearly came to blows in the Commons, when they first proposed to print the Grand Remonstrance. Bad enough to present to the King a list of grievances long enough to pass for the fifth gospel of the Bible, but publishing it for all to read…”

He did not exaggerate. The days when Parliament debated issues quietly and members dozed on their benches were long past; scarcely a man there had not drawn his sword in the end. It needed no faerie interference to spark their anger—assuming a fae could get within twenty feet of those godly zealots—their own bad blood was enough. They could pass motions to deal with the tumults outside their chamber, but what of those within?

Yet that victory, the public declaration of the Commons’ war against its own sovereign, had misfired exactly as Antony hoped. Printed just before Christmas, the Grand Remonstrance—God be thanked—had put loyalist mobs in the street, fighting the Puritans and Levellers and other fanatic malcontents who supported Parliament’s leaders. Pym and his friends had become drunk on their own power and ideals, and would reap the consequences.

Not before time, either. Ireland was in open rebellion, fighting to throw off the English yoke entirely. And Eochu Airt, furious at Antony’s reversal of position on Strafford, showed no willingness to halt the bloodshed. It was time for England to put its own house in order, and stop this internal fighting that threatened to gut all its strength.

But Ben Hipley did not seem to share his cheerful outlook. “I fear the King is about to lose what goodwill he has earned.”

“What? How?”

The ancient stones of the Guildhall echoed their every word to the would-be eavesdropper, and with City sentiment having swung fiercely to the Puritan, Antony had cause to fear it. He should have known Ben did not bear good news, though; the spymaster would not have come to him here unless the cause was urgent.

Hipley stepped in closer and lowered his voice. “Pym and the others have attacked the King’s advisers, and met with success. Now they aim their bolts at the Queen.”

Henrietta Maria. Hardly popular in England, for she was both French and Catholic, the latter a constant source of discord. “But to strike at her—that will only turn people even more against them. We may not love her, but who would see her dragged through the mud, as Strafford was?”

“The King would not,” Hipley said. “He’s sent Sir Edward Herbert to the Lords this morning, to impeach Lord Mandeville, and five from the Commons. Pym, Hampden, Holles, Hesilrige, and Strode.”

Antony’s heart stopped. “Will the Lords—”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. But you should get to Westminster.”

ST. STEPHEN’S CHAPEL, WESTMINSTER: January 4, 1642

He got to Westminster, for all the good it did. Pym already knew what was coming. The King’s creatures should have moved for the immediate imprisonment of the accused men, but they let the moment slip. Antony, who might have done it for them, was not prepared; he arrived only just in time to hear the impeachment read. And so nothing came of it, not yet, save a meaningless resolution that the Commons would consider the matter.

Whatever happens now, he thought on his way back to Westminster late the following morning, the damage has been done. If you threaten your enemies, you must follow through, and win. The King has done neither.

Only after the noon recess did he realize the disaster was not yet complete.

The sergeant-at-arms threw wide the doors of the chapel and bellowed in a loud voice, “The King!”

A hideous silence fell. Browne had been reporting on a delegation sent to the Inns of Court; he trailed off midsentence and stood staring. Lenthall gaped from the Speaker’s chair. Antony, in the midst of scribbling a note, sat paralyzed as ink dripped and blotted his page.

Into that silence came Charles. Sweeping his hat off with an elegant gesture, he advanced down the floor of the chapel, while around him the members of the Commons came to their feet in a ragged wave, snatching their own hats from their heads. Charles’s nephew trailed a pace behind him, their paired steps deliberate in the quiet.

The man behind Antony whispered, “Sweet swiving Jesus.”

“Mr. Speaker,” the King said, his tone mild, “I must for a time make bold with your chair.”

Lenthall staggered belatedly out of the way. Once arranged in his seat, Charles surveyed the chapel and its occupants with a curious eye. As well he might: no monarch of England had ever intruded on the deliberations of the Commons. They were—or had been—inviolate.

Charles had dressed with great splendor for his intrusion, in a doublet of well-tailored taffeta, a broad collar of finest lawn edged with point. They gave his body bulk, but not height, and he looked small in Lenthall’s chair.

But his presence was larger than he. “No person,” he said into the silence, “has privileges, when charged with treason. I am come among you to know if any of those so accused are in attendance.” He waited, but no one spoke. “Is Mr. Pym here?”

Not a soul breathed in reply.

Irritated, he turned to Lenthall. “Are any of those persons in the house, who stand accused of treason? Do you see them here? Show them to me!”

The Speaker lacked a spine of his own; he was a creature of the strongest authority about him. In that moment, he showed how truly the winds had changed. Swallowing convulsively, Lenthall fell to his knees. “May it please your Majesty, I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place, but as the House is pleased to direct me, whose servant I am here; and humbly beg your Majesty’s pardon that I cannot give any other answer than this is, to what your Majesty is pleased to demand of me.”

A few men gasped. A few more chuckled in malicious pleasure. Antony did neither. Having come late, he sat near the chapel entrance; now, hearing sounds in the lobby, he turned and looked into the gap between the benches. The Earl of Roxburgh lounged in the entrance, propping the doors open, so that Antony and anyone else who cared to could see what awaited them.

Armed men filled the lobby. Elegant courtiers, many of them the Queen’s men, but not a one of their number less than skilled in the use of the pistols they held. One met Antony’s gaze and grinned insolently, cocking his weapon and aiming it toward him—saying, clear and cold, I wait only for the King’s word.