Marie Brennan - Midnight Never Come

From behind him, Colsey said, “Best you get moving, master.”

The reminder was appreciated, though a little presumptuous —Colsey occasionally forgot he was not Deven’s father, to order him about. It made Deven take a deep breath and turn away from his blurred reflection in the mirror, setting himself toward the door like a man at the tilt.

Tilting. He had thought about entering the upcoming Accession Day jousts, but knew it would be a waste of his time and coin; certainly one could catch the Queen’s eye by performing well, but he was at best indifferent with the lance. He would have to content himself with the usual pageantry of the Gentlemen Pensioners, who would make a brave show around Elizabeth during the celebrations.

He had a hard time focusing on pageantry, though, when his feet were leading him toward a real chance for success at court.

He fingered the tabs at the bottom of his new doublet and wondered if it looked too frivolous. A useless thought — he had not the time to go change — but he was second-guessing himself at every turn today.

Deven gritted his teeth and tried to banish his nerves.

Several men were in the chamber when he arrived, and a number more came and went. Such was the inevitable consequence of absence from court, even with someone like Beale to cover one’s duties. But Deven was expected, and so he waited very little before being ushered into the chamber beyond, where the Principal Secretary sat behind a small mountain of paper.

Deven advanced halfway across the floor and then knelt on the matting. “Master Secretary.”

Sir Francis Walsingham looked tired in the thin November sunlight that filtered through the palace’s narrow windows. They had not been lying, when they said he was ill; the marks of it showed clearly. Deven had met him twice before — the rest of their dealings had been through intermediaries — and so he had sufficient basis for comparison. Walsingham was dark complected for an Englishman, but his skin had a pale, unhealthy cast to it, and there were circles under his eyes.

“I am glad,” Deven said, “that God has seen fit to restore you to health.”

Walsingham gestured for him to rise. “My illness was unfortunate, but ’tis past. Beale tells me you have some matter you would beg of me.”

“Indeed.” He had expected more small talk beforehand, but given the pile of work facing Walsingham, perhaps he should not be surprised the man wished to cut directly to what was relevant. That encouraged Deven to speak plainly, as he preferred, rather than larding his words with decoration, which seemed to be a substantial art form at court.

He clasped his hands behind his back and began. “I wished to thank you in person for your good office in securing for me the position I now hold in the Gentlemen Pensioners.”

“’Tis no great matter,” Walsingham said. “You did me good service among the Protestants in the Low Countries, and your father has much aided her Majesty in the suppression of seditious pamphlets.”

“I am glad to have been of service,” Deven answered. “But I hope my use might not end there.”

The dark eyes betrayed nothing more than mild curiosity. “Say on.”

“Master Secretary, the work I did on your behalf while on the continent made it clear to me that the defense of her Majesty — the defense of England — depends on many types of action. Some, like armies and navies, are public. Others are not. And you are clearly a general in the secret sort of war.”

The Principal Secretary’s lips twitched behind their concealing beard. “You speak of it in poetic terms. There is little of poetry in it, I fear.”

“I do not seek poetry,” Deven said. “Only a chance to make my mark in the world. I have no interest in following my father in the Stationers’ Company, nor does Gray’s Inn hold me. To be utterly frank, my desire is to be of use to men such as yourself, who have the power and the influence to see me rewarded. My father earned the rank of gentleman; I hope to earn more.”

And that, he hoped, would strike a sympathetic chord. Walsingham had been born to a family with far greater connections than Deven’s own, but he had earned his knighthood and his position on the privy council. Whether Deven could strike a target so high, he doubted — but he would aim as high as he could.

Or perhaps his words would turn, like a knife in his hands, and cut him. Walsingham said, “So you serve, not out of love for England and her Queen, but out of ambition.”

Deven quelled the urge to flinch and salvaged what he could. “The two are not in conflict with one another, sir.”

“For some, they are.”

“I am no dissident Catholic, Master Secretary, nor a traitor tied to the purse strings of a foreign power, but a good and true-hearted Englishman.”

Walsingham studied him, as if weighing his every virtue and vice, weakness and use, with his eyes alone. He was, in his way, as hard to face as Elizabeth.

Under the sharp edge of that gaze, Deven felt compelled to speak on, to lay on the table one of the few cards he possessed that might persuade the Principal Secretary and undo the damage of his own previous words. “Have you heard of the incident at Hampton Court?” Walsingham nodded. Of course he had. “Then you know ’twas I who came across the intruder.”

“And pursued him over the rooftops.”

“Even so.” Deven’s fingers had locked tight around each other, behind his back. “You have no reason to believe me, Master Secretary — but ambition was the farthest thing from my mind that night. I pursued that man without concern for my own safety. I do not tell you this out of pride; I wish you to understand that, when I had only an instant to think, I thought of the Queen’s safety. And when the man was gone — vanished into the night — I blamed myself for my failure to catch him.

“I have no wish to run across rooftops again. But you, Master Secretary, are dedicated to making such things unnecessary, by removing threats before they can approach so near to her Grace. That is a task to which I will gladly commit myself. I had rather be of more use to the Queen and her safety than simply standing at her door with a gold ax in my hands.”

He hadn’t meant to speak for so long, but Walsingham had let him babble without interruption. A shrewd move; the more Deven spoke, the less planned his words became, and the more inclined he was to speak from the heart. He just hoped his heart sounded more like a fervent patriot than a callow, idealistic boy.

Into the silence that followed his conclusion, the Principal Secretary said, “Then you would do what? Fight Catholics? Convert their faithful? Spy?”

“I am sworn to her Majesty’s service here at court,” Deven said. “But surely you have need of men here, not to find the information, but to piece together what it means.” He offered up an apologetic smile. “-I — I have always liked puzzles.”

“Have you.” The door creaked behind Deven; Walsingham waved away whoever it was, and then they were alone again. “So the short of it is, you would like to solve puzzles in my service.”

And to benefit thereby — but Deven was not fool enough to say that again, even if they both heard those words still hanging in the air. He hesitated, then said, “I would like the chance to prove my worth in such matters to you.”

It was the right answer, or at least a good one. Walsingham said, “Inform Beale of your wishes. You shall have your chance, Michael Deven; see you do not squander it.”

He was kneeling again almost before the words were finished. “I thank you, Master Secretary. You will not regret this.”