Midnight Never Come by Marie Brennan Page A

collected the scattered pins that had fallen from her hair.
    There were possibilities. She simply had to bring one to fruition.
    And quickly, before the whirlpools of the court dragged her down.
    R ICHMOND P ALACE , R ICHMOND :
September 29, 1588
    “. . . You shall be retained to no person nor persons of what degree or condition, by oath, livery, badge, promise, or otherwise, but only to her Grace, without her special license . . .”
    Deven suppressed a grimace at those words. How strictly were they enforced? It might hamstring his plans for advancement at court, if the Queen were jealous with that license; he would be bound to her service only, without any other patron. Certainly some men served other masters, but how long had they petitioned to be allowed to do so?
    Hunsdon was still talking. The oath for joining the Gentlemen Pensioners was abominably long, but at least he did not have to repeat every word of it after the band’s captain; Deven only affirmed the different points that Hunsdon outlined. He recognized Elizabeth as the supreme head of the Church; he would not conceal matters prejudicial to her person; he would keep his required quota of three horses and two manservants, all equipped as necessary for war; he would report any fellow remiss in such matters to the captain; he would keep the articles of the band, obey its officers, keep secrets secret, muster with his servants when required, and not depart from court without leave. All enumerated in elaborately legalistic language, of course, so that it took twice as long to say as the content warranted.
    Deven confirmed his dedication to each point, kneeling on the rush matting before Hunsdon. As ordered, he had dressed himself more finely, driving his Mincing Lane tailor to distraction with his insistence that the clothing be finished in time for today’s Michaelmas ceremony. The doublet was taffeta of a changeable deep green, slashed with cloth-of-silver that blithely violated the sumptuary laws, but one visit to court had been enough to show Deven how few people attended to those restrictions. The aglets on his points were enameled, as was the belt that clasped his waist, and he was now a further fifty pounds in debt to a goldsmith on Cheapside. Listening to Hunsdon recite the last words, he prayed the expense would prove worthwhile.
    “Rise, Master Deven,” the baron said at last, “and be welcome to her Majesty’s Gentleman Pensioners.”
    The Lord Chamberlain settled a gold chain about his shoulders when he stood, the ceremonial adornment for members of the band. Edward Fitzgerald, lieutenant of the Gentlemen Pensioners, handed him the gilded poleax he would bear while on duty, guarding the door from the presence chamber to the privy chamber, or escorting her Majesty to and from chapel in the morning. Deven was surprised by the heft of the thing. Ceremonial it might be, and elaborately decorated, but not decorative. The Gentlemen Pensioners were the elite bodyguard of the monarch, since Elizabeth’s father Henry, eighth of that name, decided his dignity deserved better escort than it had previously possessed.
    Of course, before Deven found himself using the gilded polearm, any attacker would have to win through the Yeomen of the Guard in the watching chamber, not to mention the rest of the soldiers and guardsmen stationed at any palace where the sovereign was in residence. Still, it was reassuring to know that he would have the means to defend the Queen’s person, should it become necessary.
    It meant that
he
was not purely decorative, either.
    His companions toasted their newest member with wine, and a feast was set to follow. In theory, the entire band assembled at court for Michaelmas and three other holidays; in practice, somewhat less than the full fifty were present. Some were assigned to duties elsewhere, in more distant corners of England or even overseas; others, Deven suspected, were at liberty for the time being, and simply had not