“But Buckingham is on the side of the Commons, is he not? Against Spain.”
“Not quite.” Deven kept sparse quarters here in Whitehall Palace, liking his ability to claim a room, but not often bothering to occupy it. The furnishings, however, did include a chess board. He fought the urge to place a piece in front of Henry and ask him to list the players in the question of Charles’ marriage, and the Palatine war. “Buckingham sees, not states, but something else. The Habsburgs.”
Henry paled. “Spain—and Austria.”
“And anywhere else they have extended their influence. Which is much too far, and that is why Buckingham hopes to check them.”
“Hence courting France,” his friend said, comprehension dawning. “The French can be Catholic all they like, so long as their sovereign is not a Habsburg. Though isn’t his Queen one of theirs?”
Deven scratched behind his ear, grimacing. “Yes, Anne of Austria. Sister to King Philip of Spain. Round and round the kinship goes, and that is why Buckingham fears the House of Habsburg. Henrietta Maria, by virtue of being Louis’ sister, is clean of that taint—and if this French match Buckingham desires goes through, it will bind France into alliance with England. First for the Palatinate, and then, perhaps, for more.”
Henry’s breath blew out in a long, impressed sigh. Then he said, “No wonder James quails.”
“Precisely.” The Scottish King had always been a peacemaker, detesting war. It must be a bitter pill in his old age to see Europe crumbling into chaos, the Protestant corners of the Holy Roman Empire against those that remained Catholic.
Deven let Henry consider it in peace, rising to stoke the fire against the day’s damp chill. The young man knew the details of the Armada’s defeat; he might well wonder what aid the fae could lend, if it came to war against half of Europe. That was the question Deven and Lune had debated for many long hours, with no answer offering even a semblance of satisfaction.
But when Henry spoke again, he chose quite a different tack. “This marriage with France, Buckingham’s attempts to ally with the Dutch—all of it will come to nothing if James crawls back to Spain’s empty promises.”
“Buckingham will convince him,” Deven said. “That worrisome influence does have its uses.”
“Enough to bring James to war with Spain? And Austria, too? I have not known him as long as you, but Robin says he will never turn on them, not after so many years of seeking alliance.”
Penshaw might well be right. Spain was too canny to give James serious offence, of the sort that would drive him to war. And the King was ailing, his good days fewer and further apart. What old man would accept the death of the policy to which he had dedicated his life, so close to that life’s end?
Charles was another matter. Here in Whitehall, Deven dared not speak openly of the succession, but he said, “The Prince has begun to feel his strength since returning from Spain, and he is more of Buckingham’s mind.”
“Good,” Henry said feelingly, and Deven thought, he is young. Henry, like Penshaw, like many of the Gentlemen Pensioners, wanted a war. Against Spain, for preference, but they would take what they could get, so long as there was glory to be had. James’ peace had lasted too long for their taste.
But it seemed Henry was thinking closer to home. “So what can we do?”
“We?” Deven asked, unsure who he was including in the word.
“You more than me, I suppose. To push matters in the direction they need to go. Isn’t that your responsibility? To do things on behalf of…a certain lady?”
Lune. Henry had not needed reminders to be discreet outside the Onyx Hall. “To consult with her,” Deven corrected him. Then he grinned. “Mind you, when I was a younger man, I indulged in my share of action—running across rooftops, lying to astrologers, and generally risking my neck. But I am old and sedate now, if not precisely wiser.”
Scandalised, his friend said, “You are not old.”
The grin became a laugh. “Flattery never loses its appeal. But I am happy to leave such vigorous pursuits to younger men, I assure you. Regardless, the time has not come for me to do anything. England cannot go to war without allies, and the Dutch are not enough. If you want to take action, then pray with me that nothing provokes us against Spain before we have France on our side.”
Henry looked faintly disappointed, but he nodded. Deven breathed an inward sigh of relief. You have years before you, my young friend. Do not race to meet a war that will come to us soon enough.
Coldharbour, London: 9 June, 1625
The tenements that crouched where once the great house of Coldharbour had stood were, despite Nithen’s words, not quite so desperate a place that their inhabitants resorted to the eating of dogs. But neither were they civilised enough that anyone had bothered to move the carcass; it still rotted on the doorstep of the building the fetch had named, adding its reek to the general foulness of the air.
It was obvious, long before they reached the alley in question, that Antony Ware had never been in any part of London half so poor. The boy looked appalled—and it was a good thing, Deven reflected, that he was not the sort of young gallant who gave the City and Court a reputation for excess in apparel, or he would make of himself even more of a target than his manner already did.
The awareness of that danger had delayed their investigation a day while Deven secured a guide and guard. He and Ware were both armed, but could use someone to watch their backs, and Mungle knew this area well. Without the bogle, Deven might spend half the day finding his way back to the right alley.
“That the house?” their goblin guide asked, jerking one thumb at the door.
Deven peered around the corner and nodded. “I believe so.” If Nithen did not lead us astray.
“Now what?” Antony murmured, shifting with unease. They could hear voices through the thin walls of the buildings, but stood alone in the mud of the lane, the jettied upper storeys almost blocking out the sky overhead. “I hardly imagine we can knock on the door and ask who has visited of late.”
Mungle gave an ostentatious sigh, puffing out his chest. Even disguised, he made an ugly man; he considered it a great insult to his kind to put on a more handsome face. And in a parish like this, where few could afford the services of a physician, his hard-used face stood out less than either of the two gentlemen. “You’d break your well-born legs, like as not, trying to sneak in by the roofs. I’ll go—but I want bread. A whole loaf.”
“I can’t give you that,” Deven said, astonished.
“He can.” Mungle jerked his twisted thumb again, this time at Antony.
The young man blinked. “You want…bread.”
“I’ll explain later,” Deven said. “For now—you have my word, Mungle, as Prince of the Stone, that a loaf of bread will be yours, in exchange for your services here. Investigate that house—find out all you can of who dwells there, who visits, what purpose Henry might have had in coming here—then, having done so, return to us here before the hour is out, to guide us back to ways we know, and tell us what you have learned.” He had to be specific, or the goblin would find some way to twist it. Nothing serious—a jape was not worth bringing the Queen’s anger down upon him—but Deven had no patience for it, however small. Not today.