Prologue

 

Venice, 1598

 

THE REVELS IN the fairy court of Oberon are, it’s said, less glamorous than those of his wife’s bower, but more wild. But it was early yet; a hunter’s moon glowered over a copse in the woods overlooking Venice, throwing bloody light over a few satyrs wooing nymphs, a band of ogres playing heavy drums and goblins capering through a riotous gavotte. Later, the wine would flow and there would be duels and a hunt.

The King of the Fairies, reclining in a couch of bones and roses, had yet to join the festivities. He drank deeply of dark, bitter wine and watched his courtiers as he listened to his emissary Nightshade’s report.

“So the Medicis make war?” asked Oberon, staring into space. He wore an antlered form tonight, twice the height of a man and half-bestial. The revel promised to be savage.

“’Tis true. Ferdinand, the younger, sues the elder for the Tuscan throne.”

“Aye, and Ferdinand’s wife is Aragon’s niece, and so Pedro will rattle his sabre and offer hot words, though in truth he cares not whose throne it is.”

“And Francesco the Duke is wed to Orsino’s niece,” said the younger fairy, the crimson moon glittering in his featureless black eyes, “and so Illyr joins the debate.” He smirked. “Both brothers, it’s said, trouble the Wizard of Milan, but neither has had satisfaction.”

“And France?”

“Oh, Henry’ll none of it. He grants his lords to fight on this side or that as takes ’em, to seek honour and glory.”

The King threw up his hands, heedless of the wine splashing from his goblet. “Then will all the world fight?” he asked.

The goblin leaned back on his haunches and grinned. “Is’t not the nature of mortals to war?”

“Aye,” said Oberon darkly, holding out his cup to be refilled by one of his buzzing attendants. “Well, my thanks for your report, good Nightshade. You may return to your duties.”

“My lord...” ventured the fairy, nervously.

“Yes, fairy?” The King arched an eyebrow, surprised at his servant’s temerity.

“It seems to me... the Serenissima will find common cause with Aragon. And your Queen still resides in Illyria, where she woos Orsino...”

“Aye?”

“My king, it were best if the fairy courts did not take part in a mortal war.”

“Hmm.” Oberon mused for a moment. “You’re right. Choose a dozen fairies of good character and send them to the mortal courts as emissaries. Give a message of peace.”

He tossed his newly-refilled goblet on the moss, stood and sighed. “I will go and speak to my wife.”