councillors—
There. A man he did not know, standing a little distance in front and to the left of him. Respectably dressed, with nothing about him to draw attention—save some indefinable quality in how he held himself, some feral touch in his bearing, that most would not remark. But Antony had seen it before.
Wentworth knelt and stretched out his arms.
Disturbance was spreading around the stranger, ugly muttering, men scowling in anger and hate. The executioner raised his axe, and as it fell home, the stranger’s lips curved in a wicked smile.
Antony was moving almost before the roar began, well before the severed head was lifted for all to see. Not toward the stranger; anything he tried to do in this crowd would get him killed. He was a known Straffordian, and the howls coming from that knot of men sounded more like the cries of wolves than civilized Englishmen. It would be a riot, if he did anything to provoke it.
It might become one regardless.
Hoofbeats at the far verges of the crowd, men riding to bring the glad news to the rest of the country. Elbows jostled Antony, almost knocking him from his feet. If I fall, I will be trampled. He caught the sleeve of a nearby man and regained his balance while the fellow spat a curse in his face. I must get out of here!
Free air, finally, as he broke through into more open space. The fringes of the crowd, packed into the farthest reaches of the streets that still had some view of the scaffold, were roiling away now, shouting, singing joyous melodies. Antony joined their movement, but not their song, and headed for the realm below.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 12, 1641
“It has been a year and a day,” Lune said to Gertrude, pacing the small, painted chamber in a back corner of the Onyx Hall. Someone had decorated it decades ago for their mortal lover; now it lay empty, unused, forgotten. Which made it very suitable for private audiences. “Where is he?”
“Well,” the little brownie said philosophically, “times aren’t what they used to be. Can’t just go flying through the air on a bit of straw anymore; someone might see. Perhaps the roads were bad.”
Perhaps. Lune fretted, though. Had the oath been enough? Or had the knight found some way to betray her?
Or been discovered and killed.
She worried without cause. Scotland was far away; Cerenel might, as Gertrude suggested, have misjudged how long the journey would take. Or perhaps he could not slip away so easily. They were assuming, regardless, that he would go first to the Angel, and from there Rosamund would guide him. Cerenel might be planning a more public return, testing before the court Lune’s promise that he would be welcomed back.
A year and a day. A year and a day of the Ascendants rising in power, and brawls between courtiers about the proper relations of mortals and fae. No attacks as obvious as the murderer or Taylor’s attempt on the alder tree, but one of her more idealistic knights—one come to the Onyx Court after her accession, drawn by her rhetoric of harmony—was found dead in the streets, while wandering in mortal guise. Chance accident? Or a deliberate weakening of her support?
She hoped to find out today. Lune breathed more easily when the door opened, and Rosamund bowed Sir Cerenel into the room.
He was just as he had been; they were not mortals, to be aged and worn by their trials. True, he wore barbarous fashion—a loose, belted tunic laced at the neck and sleeves with leather thongs—but then, he had taken nothing with him in his exile save the clothes and sword he wore. Studying him, though, Lune saw stiffness in his posture. Whatever else happened, this banishment had forever changed how he would serve her.
I hope it was not in vain.
Cerenel knelt, the curtain of his black hair falling forward. When Lune offered her hand, he kissed it with dry lips. “Rise,” she said. “And tell us what you have learned.”
She settled into her chair as he began, hands clasped
There. A man he did not know, standing a little distance in front and to the left of him. Respectably dressed, with nothing about him to draw attention—save some indefinable quality in how he held himself, some feral touch in his bearing, that most would not remark. But Antony had seen it before.
Wentworth knelt and stretched out his arms.
Disturbance was spreading around the stranger, ugly muttering, men scowling in anger and hate. The executioner raised his axe, and as it fell home, the stranger’s lips curved in a wicked smile.
Antony was moving almost before the roar began, well before the severed head was lifted for all to see. Not toward the stranger; anything he tried to do in this crowd would get him killed. He was a known Straffordian, and the howls coming from that knot of men sounded more like the cries of wolves than civilized Englishmen. It would be a riot, if he did anything to provoke it.
It might become one regardless.
Hoofbeats at the far verges of the crowd, men riding to bring the glad news to the rest of the country. Elbows jostled Antony, almost knocking him from his feet. If I fall, I will be trampled. He caught the sleeve of a nearby man and regained his balance while the fellow spat a curse in his face. I must get out of here!
Free air, finally, as he broke through into more open space. The fringes of the crowd, packed into the farthest reaches of the streets that still had some view of the scaffold, were roiling away now, shouting, singing joyous melodies. Antony joined their movement, but not their song, and headed for the realm below.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 12, 1641
“It has been a year and a day,” Lune said to Gertrude, pacing the small, painted chamber in a back corner of the Onyx Hall. Someone had decorated it decades ago for their mortal lover; now it lay empty, unused, forgotten. Which made it very suitable for private audiences. “Where is he?”
“Well,” the little brownie said philosophically, “times aren’t what they used to be. Can’t just go flying through the air on a bit of straw anymore; someone might see. Perhaps the roads were bad.”
Perhaps. Lune fretted, though. Had the oath been enough? Or had the knight found some way to betray her?
Or been discovered and killed.
She worried without cause. Scotland was far away; Cerenel might, as Gertrude suggested, have misjudged how long the journey would take. Or perhaps he could not slip away so easily. They were assuming, regardless, that he would go first to the Angel, and from there Rosamund would guide him. Cerenel might be planning a more public return, testing before the court Lune’s promise that he would be welcomed back.
A year and a day. A year and a day of the Ascendants rising in power, and brawls between courtiers about the proper relations of mortals and fae. No attacks as obvious as the murderer or Taylor’s attempt on the alder tree, but one of her more idealistic knights—one come to the Onyx Court after her accession, drawn by her rhetoric of harmony—was found dead in the streets, while wandering in mortal guise. Chance accident? Or a deliberate weakening of her support?
She hoped to find out today. Lune breathed more easily when the door opened, and Rosamund bowed Sir Cerenel into the room.
He was just as he had been; they were not mortals, to be aged and worn by their trials. True, he wore barbarous fashion—a loose, belted tunic laced at the neck and sleeves with leather thongs—but then, he had taken nothing with him in his exile save the clothes and sword he wore. Studying him, though, Lune saw stiffness in his posture. Whatever else happened, this banishment had forever changed how he would serve her.
I hope it was not in vain.
Cerenel knelt, the curtain of his black hair falling forward. When Lune offered her hand, he kissed it with dry lips. “Rise,” she said. “And tell us what you have learned.”
She settled into her chair as he began, hands clasped
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