“Quijada?” Deven asked.
“I believe so,” Antony said. “He was on the street in town—I would have thought nothing of it, for how am I to know his face? But he saw mine, and ran.”
Because of his resemblance to Henry. Deven walked down the slope to the body. Dead Rick had taken no chances, but had torn the Spaniard’s throat out. One of the other goblins searched the corpse and found a brace of pistols, with powder and shot, a dagger, and a coil of rope. “He must have thought his chances of escape better if he struck during the night,” Deven murmured. Was his assessment of Penshaw wrong? Or had Quijada made his own plans?
Either way, the man was dead, and Henrietta Maria was safe.
Antony had followed him, and stood hesitating a small distance from the group. He was seventeen, and he had lost his brother; he might resent being robbed of his vengeance. But he squared his shoulders, drew near, and thrust his hand out toward Dead Rick. “I owe you my life,” he said, voice rough. “My thanks—though they are little enough to repay you with.”
The skriker took it readily enough. “Buy me an ale,” he suggested. “To wash the taste from my mouth.”
The young man mustered an uncertain smile. “And a loaf of bread?”
“Wouldn’t go amiss,” one of the others said, and something tight inside Deven eased at last. The hostility with which Antony had first greeted him had not, in truth, been intended for the fae, but the revelation of Henry’s secret life could still have made an enemy of this young man.
One of his secret lives, at least. There was still Penshaw to deal with.
After nearly dying on Quijada’s blade, Antony could have been forgiven for not thinking of such matters. But as the group made its way back into town, to report the dead Spaniard to the local watch, Antony fell back to speak with Deven.
“Penshaw is a gentleman himself,” he said. “A judge would need proof for him.”
They were close enough to the docks now for the occasional lantern to be hung out. Deven took advantage of the light to watch Antony’s reaction as he said, “Must it be a trial?”
“I would not sully my brother’s name by calling him out,” the young man said flatly, confirming Deven’s evaluation of him that day in Westminster. But then he followed Deven’s gaze to the disguised goblins ahead of them, and guessed his true meaning. Antony set his jaw, then said, “Yes. It must be a trial.”
And not a second murder in the night. Deven said, “Then we shall find a way.”
The Onyx Hall, London: 27 March, 1625
Soon enough the Gentlemen Pensioners would be called to attend upon Charles, but not yet. For tonight, they were left to their own devices, while in the streets of London men said in tones varying from horror to satisfaction, The King is dead. Long live the King.
And occasionally, in hushed tones, Buckingham has poisoned the King.
It was arrant nonsense: whatever his political ambitions, however close his friendship with Charles, Buckingham had loved James. And it needed no poison to kill an elderly man who had been ill for months, even years. But the Duke was the most hated man in all of England, and an easy scapegoat for the upheaval that attended the death of a monarch, even with the succession assured to be peaceful.
“Now what?” Henry asked Deven, as they walked through the passages of the Onyx Hall.
“Now Charles will be crowned,” Deven said. “And Buckingham will go to fetch Henrietta Maria as soon as may be—though this will delay it a little.” The new King had no living brothers; he needed an heir. Until he produced one, the crown would not rest secure.
Henry gestured at the black stone of the walls. “I meant for this court.”
Deven shrugged, perplexed. “As before. They need not change when the mortal crown does, and there is no cause for Lune to interfere.”
The young man went a few steps away, staring at a tapestry on the wall. They stood in a long gallery of such tapestries, and Deven did not know whether that particular image had caught Henry’s eye, or whether he would have stared blindly at whatever hung before him. It showed a swordsman in a moonlit glade, gazing up at the silver disc above.
“You want me to succeed you,” Henry said, not facing him. “As Prince. Don’t you.”
Deven found himself glad he had waited for Henry to broach the subject. It meant the young man was ready to address it. “Only if you wish it,” he said, resisting the urge to cross his fingers. “I would not force you to it, if your desires lie elsewhere.”
Henry’s long-fingered hands curled, then relaxed helplessly. “I—not that I do not wish it, but—” A long pause, and then his shoulders slumped and he turned. Unhappiness and fear chased across his face. “I do not think I can do it. I know you’ve been teaching me, and I’ve tried to learn, but I’m not ready—”
What could Deven say to that? He took his young friend by the shoulders, stopping the words. “You need not be ready, not today. I am hale enough, thanks to this place. You have time to finish learning.”
Still Henry would not meet his eyes. “But surely there must be someone better.”
“Who? Henry, you’ve seen the other men in this place. Half of them don’t have the birth and position to be of use to Lune, and the other half can’t be trusted out of sight. Which is not to damn you with faint praise: I chose you, knowing you needed time to grow into the responsibilities of the Prince. As indeed you are doing.”
Henry scrubbed at his eyes, dislodging one of Deven’s hands. “You do not think me a coward, for what I have said?”
“I would rather a man honest enough to admit his fears, than one who lies out of bravado.”
It made Henry straighten. “You are sure?”
Deven smiled and gripped his shoulder more tightly. “I am.”
“Then I will find a way to be worthy,” Henry said, with fervent determination. “I will prove to you that your trust is not misplaced.”
I already believe it, Deven thought, watching the young man walk away. But when you believe it, too—then, Henry, you will be fit to bear the title Prince of the Stone.
Blackfriars, London: 27 July, 1625
The servant led Antony into Deven’s parlour, then left the two in peace.
Deven was attempting to tune his cittern, which he had not played in far too long. But he laid the instrument aside when Antony entered, for it was apparent from the young man’s expression that he had news of import. “Penshaw is in prison,” he said, “and the trial will be soon.” His eyes echoed the satisfaction of the words.
“Good,” Deven said. Despite the confidence he showed to Antony, he had not been certain it would work; much depended on the strength of Penshaw’s mind. But it seemed the man felt guilt over Henry’s death, even if his own hand had not wielded the blade. And that was lever enough to move him—at least with faerie aid.
Lune had proven her words to Antony: she did not flinch from punishing the guilty. The night Penshaw heard of Quijada’s failure and death, he dreamt of Henry, and every night thereafter the spectre returned, accusing him of his crimes. Not Antony, this time, but a faerie sent to plague his sleep. Lune would fabricate no evidence against the man, but she felt no compunctions about provoking him with what they knew.