Midnight Never Come by Marie Brennan Page B

bothered to come. A man might be docked pay for failure to attend as ordered — that was in the articles he had sworn to obey — but a rich enough man hardly need worry being fined a few days’ wages.
    Despite the revelry, Deven’s mind kept returning to the question of patronage. His eyes sought out Hunsdon, across the laughing, boisterous mass of men that filled the chamber where they dined. The officers of the band sat at a higher table — Hunsdon and Fitzgerald, plus three others who were the company’s standard bearer, clerk of the check, and harbinger.
    He could ask Hunsdon. But that would be tantamount to telling the baron that he intended to seek another master.
    Surely, though, that would come as no surprise. Hunsdon knew who had secured Deven’s position in the Gentlemen Pensioners.
    Deven reached reflexively for his wine, grimaced, then grinned at himself. He did not know how he was going to handle his patronage, but one thing he
did
know: making any plans about such things while this drunk was not wise. Attempting to ask delicate questions of his captain would be even less wise. Therefore, the only course for a wise man to follow was to go on drinking, enjoy the night, and worry about such matters on the morrow.
    R ICHMOND P ALACE , R ICHMOND :
September 30, 1588
    Deven had been among military men; he should have expected what the morrow would bring. William Russell, who either possessed the constitution of an ox or had not drunk nearly as much as he appeared to the previous night, arrived in his chamber at an hour that would have been reasonable had Deven gone to bed before dawn, and rolled him forcibly out of bed. “On your feet, man; we can’t keep the Queen waiting!”
    “Nnnnnngh,” Deven said, and tried to remember if there was anything in the articles that forbade him to punch one of his fellows.
    Between the two of them, Colsey and Ranwell, his new manservant, got him on his feet and stuffed him into his clothes. Deven thought muzzily that someone had arranged for a Michaelmas miracle; he didn’t have a hangover. Round about the time he formed up with the others for the Queen’s morning procession to chapel, he realized it was because he was still drunk. And, of course, Fitzgerald had assigned him to duty that day, so he was on display in the presence chamber when the inevitable hangover came calling. He clung grimly to his poleax, tried to keep it steady, and prayed he would not vomit in front of his fellow courtiers.
    He survived, though not happily, and passed the test to which he had been put. Moreover, he had his reward; the Queen emerged from her privy chamber just as he was handing off his position to Edward Greville, and she gifted him with a nod. “God give you good day, Master Deven.”
    “And to you, your Majesty,” he answered, bowing reflexively; the world lurched a little when he did, but he kept his feet, and then she was gone.
    The Queen remembered his name. It shouldn’t have pleased him so much, but of course it did, and that was why she did it; Elizabeth had a way of greeting a man that made him feel special for that instant in which her attention lighted upon him. Even his headache did not seem so bad in the aftermath.
    It came back full force as he left, though. Handing off his poleax to Colsey, he suffered Ranwell to feed him some concoction the man swore would cure even the worst hangover; less than a minute later his stomach rebelled and he vomited it all back up. “Feed me that again,” Deven told his new servant, “and you’ll find yourself sent to fight in Ireland.”
    Colsey, who still did not appreciate having to share his master with an interloper, smirked.
    Deven cleaned his mouth out and took a deep breath to fortify himself. He wanted little more than to collapse back into bed, but that would never do, so instead he addressed himself to the business at hand.
    It made no sense to ask Hunsdon about the permissibility of acquiring another patron, if he did