Marie Brennan: Midnight Never Come

An urgent need to relieve himself had woken him; in the bed, Vavasour slept on. Scrubbing at his eyes, Deven contemplated following his fellow’s example, but told himself with resignation that he might as well put the time to use. Otherwise he would sleep until noon and then get caught up once more in the social dance; then it would be too late to leave, so he would stay another night, and so on and so forth until he found himself crawling away from court one day, bleary-eyed and bankrupt.

Checking his purse, he corrected that last thought. Perhaps not bankrupt, judging by his apparent luck at cards the previous night. But such winnings would not finance this life. Hunsdon was right: he needed to borrow money.

Deven suppressed the desire to groan and shook Peter Colsey awake. His manservant was in little better shape than he, having found other servants with whom to entertain himself, but fortunately he was also taciturn of a morning. He rolled off the mattress and confined himself to dire looks at their boots, his master’s doublet, and anything else that had the effrontery to require work from him at such an early hour.

The palace wore a different face at this time of day. The previous morning, Deven had been too much focused on his own purpose to take note of it, but now he looked around, trying to wake himself up gently. Servants hurried through the corridors, wearing the Queen’s livery or that of various nobles. Outside, Deven heard chickens squawking as two voices argued over who should get how many. Hooves thudded in the courtyard, moving fast and stopping abruptly: a messenger, perhaps. He bet his winnings from the previous night that Hunsdon and the other men who dominated the privy council were up already, hard at work on the business of her Majesty’s government.

Colsey brought him food to break his fast, and departed again to have their horses saddled. Soon they were riding out in morning sunlight far too bright.

They did not talk for the first few miles. Only when they stopped to water their horses at a stream did Deven say, “Well, Colsey, we have until Michaelmas. Then I am due to return to court, and under orders to be better dressed when I do.”

Colsey grunted. “Best I learn how to brush up velvet, then.”

“Best you do.” Deven stroked the neck of his black stallion, calming the animal. It was a stupid beast for casual riding — the horse was trained for war — but a part of the fiction that the Gentlemen Pensioners were still a military force, rather than a force that happened to include some military men. Three horses and two servants; he’d had to acquire another man to assist Colsey. That still earned him more than a few glares.

By afternoon the houses they passed were growing closer together, clustering along the south bank of the Thames and stringing out along the road that led to the bridge. Deven stopped to refresh himself with ale in a Southwark tavern, then cocked his gaze at the sky. “Ludgate first, Colsey. We shall see how quickly I can get out, eh?”

Colsey had the sense not to make any predictions, at least not out loud.

Their pace slowed considerably as they crossed London Bridge, Deven’s stallion having to shoulder his way through the crowds that packed it. He kept a careful hand on the reins. Travelers like him wended their way one step at a time, mingling with those shopping in the establishments built along the bridge’s length; he didn’t put it past the warhorse to bite someone.

Nor did matters improve much on the other side. Resigned by now to the slower pace, his horse drifted westward along Thames Street, taking openings where he found them. Colsey spat less-than-muffled curses as his own cob struggled to keep up, until at last they arrived at their destination in the rebuilt precinct of Blackfriars: John Deven’s shop and house.

Whatever private estimate Colsey had made about the length of their visit, Deven suspected it was not short. His father was delighted to learn of his success, but of course it wasn’t enough simply to hear the result; he wanted to know every detail, from the clothing of the courtiers to the decorations in the presence chamber. He had visited court a few times, but not often, and had never entered such an august realm.

“Perhaps I’ll see it myself someday, eh?” he said, beaming with unsubtle optimism.

And then of course his mother Susanna had to hear, and his cousin Henry, whom Deven’s parents had taken in after the death of John’s younger brother. It worked out well for all involved; Henry had filled the place that might otherwise have been Michael’s, apprenticing to John under the aegis of the Stationers’ and freeing him to pursue more ambitious paths. The conversation went to business news, and then of course it was late enough that he had to stay for supper.

A small voice in the back of Deven’s mind reflected that it was just as well; if he ate here, it was no coin out of his own purse. Why he should dwell on pennies when he was in debt for pounds made no sense, but there it was.

After supper, when Susanna and Henry had been sent off, Deven sat with his father by the fire, a cup of fine malmsey dangling from his fingers. The light flickered beautifully through the Venetian glass and the red wine within, and he watched it, pleasantly relaxed.

“Your place is assured, my son,” John Deven said, stretching his feet toward the fire with a happy sigh.

Elizabeth’s ominous words about Tylney had stayed in Deven’s mind, but his father was right. There were graybeards in the Pensioners, some of them hardly fit for any kind of action. Unless he did something deeply foolish — like conspiring to kill the Queen — he might stay there until he wished to leave.

Some men did leave. Family concerns called them away, or a disenchantment with life at court; some broke their fortunes instead of making them. Seventy marks yearly, a Pensioner’s salary, was not much in that world, and not everyone succeeded at gaining the kinds of preferment that brought more.

But then his father drove all money concerns from his mind, with one simple phrase. “Now,” John Deven said, “to find you a wife.”

It startled a laugh from him. “I have scarcely earned my place, Father. Give me time to get my feet under me, at least.”

“’Tis not me you should be asking for time. You have just secured a favorable position, one close to her Majesty; there will be gentlewomen seeking after you like hawks. Perhaps even ladies.”

There certainly had been women watching the tennis matches the previous day. A twinge in Deven’s shoulder made him wonder how bad a fool he had made of himself. “No doubt. But I know better than to rush into anything, particularly when I am serving the Queen. They say she’s very jealous of those around her, and dislikes scandalous behaviour in her courtiers.” The last thing he needed was to end up in the Tower because he got some maid of honor pregnant.

The best eye to catch, of course, was that of the Queen herself. But though Deven was ambitious, and her affection was a quick path to reward, he was not at all certain he wanted to compete with the likes of the young Earl of Essex. That would rapidly bring him into situations he could not survive.

“Marriage is no scandal,” his father said. “Have a care for how you comport yourself, but do not stand too aloof. A match at court might be very beneficial indeed.”

His father seemed likely to keep pressing the matter. Deven dodged it with a distraction. “If all goes as planned, my time will be very thoroughly employed elsewhere.”

John Deven’s face settled into graver lines. “You have spoken to Walsingham, then?”

“No. He was not at court. But I will do so at the first opportunity.”

“Be wary of rushing into such things,” his father said. Much of the relaxed atmosphere had gone out of the air. “He serves an honorable cause, but not always by honorable means.”