Rhoslyn nodded slowly and sipped the wine. Like everything else in Pasgen's Domain it was delicious, gentle, soothing. She had to fight the effect, and her voice was sharper than usual when she said, "That wouldn't be Denoriel. He's never paid much attention to magic and I don't think he has much Talent." Her mouth turned down in disdain. "He only wants to be a mighty swordsman, a brave warrior, and nothing more."
"Possibly." Pasgen, who had finished his glass of wine and was pouring another, had regained control of his temper. "Does it matter who covered that child with spells? Aleneil could have done it. She's pretty strong. The point is that we now know. What are we going to do about it."
"Snatch the boy, of course."
Pasgen shook his head at his sister. "Not so easy now that an attempt has been made on his life." He flushed again with rage. "That fool! That incompetent! I'll have the skin off Martin Perez for trying to kill that child and not telling me about him."
Rhoslyn laughed. "No, don't do that. Mortals tend to die without their skins unless they are Underhill. And he might be useful in the future since he is apparently a mage. How good is he, Pasgen?"
"I never bothered to test him." He sighed. "You know, Rhoslyn, Vidal was not so far off the mark when he called us—me, anyway—careless and lazy. I knew Martin Perez had Talent, but I had no idea he knew how to use it." He was silent for a short time, but Rhoslyn saw he was thinking hard and did not speak. Then he took another sip of wine and said, "I wonder if that was more work by dear Aleneil. Is it possible that she is bespelling us so that we will not take this situation seriously?"
"Who knows what Aleneil and those teachers of hers will do. Liars . . . Hypocrites . . . Power is nothing, they say, but they use it. Oh, how they use it, sucking it from the air, from the ground, and blaming us for taking it from pain and death."
Her voice was hard and louder than usual as she fixed her attention on blaming the Seleighe Sidhe, on not remembering, not ever desiring, the music and laughter and applause in a certain theater in London when the red-haired queen ruled.
Pasgen looked at his sister, surprised by the angry passion in her voice. Usually Rhoslyn was the milder of them when discussing their Seleighe kin. He did not want to come right out and ask if their present project for seating Mary on the throne and bringing the Inquisition to England was making her uncomfortable. It was not knowledge he wanted in his mind when he came before Vidal Dhu again.
"We are wandering from the point," he said. "I agree that we must somehow take the child, I merely meant to point out that he will be far better guarded now that Perez made such a disastrous mistake."
"Against a nun? One single, small nun? A nun vouched for by Princess Mary's governess?"
CHAPTER 6
Denoriel was not simply able to say "Good night," to FitzRoy and leave, as agreed with Norfolk. Even though he had taken the precautions of looking in the cupboards and under the bed—in fact anywhere a frightened little boy could believe a person might conceal himself, when he gave the boy a last hug and turned away, FitzRoy burst into tears. His guards tried to intervene—not, of course, the same guards who had been at the garden gate—these two knelt and assured the boy that they would guard his door with their lives. On the whole, the poor child had been amazingly brave up to this point; small wonder that he gave vent to his feelings now. One, at least, of these guards must have had a young child of his own; without losing a particle of his deference, he looked into FitzRoy's eyes, and redoubled his assurance that the boy was safe.
What about the windows? Denoriel thought. He had come through a window. More uneasiness rose in him when he recalled how soundly the guard had slept when he had visited FitzRoy's rooms the previous night. Doubtless these men would be more alert tonight because of the aborted attempt on the child's life, but the killers had not been found and might make another attempt. If they were hiding somewhere in the palace and still had the sleep spell, these guards might be no more successful at protecting FitzRoy than the first pair.
So Denoriel lifted FitzRoy in his arms and promised to stay until Harry was completely sure it was safe. That stemmed the tears; the guards were relieved and made no protest, and Denoriel hoped that Norfolk would never learn how far his permission to accompany FitzRoy to his room had been stretched. At least FitzRoy's nurse, who Denoriel suspected knew more than most others, would not inform the duke. She smiled and nodded a welcome.
FitzRoy was soon in bed, but Denoriel made no move to leave. In fact he climbed the steps and sat down beside the child. Although he had no real presentiment of danger, no sense, as he had had the previous night, of approaching evil, he felt incomplete, uneasy, as if there were something he should do and had not. He spoke softly to FitzRoy, assuring him of protection—and with the words he knew one thing, at least, that he could do for the boy's safety.
The nurse had moved to the other side of the room where she was examining clothing and dividing what needed to be laundered from what could be used again. Denoriel whispered two words and FitzRoy's eyes closed. Then he closed his own eyes and sought for the thin white lines of power in the diffuse cloud that floated everywhere Overhill. He drew a sharp breath as he drew one to him and the line of light seared his power channels; then he put the pain aside and began to build a shell of protection around the sleeping boy.
When he was done he sighed with satisfaction although he felt as if thin streams of fire were burning within him. Still, the pain of his body was worth the peace in his mind. No one would be able to touch FitzRoy and no spell would penetrate that barrier. Until the child woke in the morning and got out of bed, he would be invulnerable. Denoriel rose and went to the nurse.
"I've got him asleep," he murmured. "Please don't touch him or speak to him so that he wakes. Let him sleep off his fright. By the morning it will be far away, more of an excitement than a terror."
"Certainly, m'lord," the woman agreed. Then tears filled her eyes. "Who was it, m'lord? Who could be such a monster as to wish to hurt so sweet a child?"
He heard his voice roughen with anger. "If I knew, I would hunt them down, and you may be sure they could never try to harm him again. Alas, there were two and aside from seeing that they both had black hair and dark eyes, I was too busy looking at their swords to look at their faces. Surely there are many who match that description, and men that are black of hair and dark of eye could be of any nation."
The nurse nodded, though he noticed that she narrowed her eyes in thought at his minimal description. "Of course, m'lord. God bless you for saving him."
Denoriel nodded and patted her on the shoulder. Outside the apartment, he headed down the stair. Everyone knew him now and all the guards he passed acknowledged him with nods and smiles. As he crossed the great front hall, a servant hurried to meet him and ask if he wished a mount and an escort to be brought from the stable to take him as far as the gate. Denoriel accepted and within the half hour was at the gate, where a whistle and a mental "come" brought Miralys from the copse. The groom that had accompanied him widened his own eyes at that.
Remounted, he rode west along the road that surrounded the palace as if he had been coming from London in the southeast so that he would have passed the postern gate and the garden with the pond. He had no particular destination, but turned south on the nearest road, which took him, just as dusk was falling, to the small town of Winkfeld. There to his relief he found a decent inn. He took Miralys to the stable himself, and when the ostler showed surprise and approached to remove the "horse's" saddle, Miralys threatened him with teeth and hooves.
Denoriel laughed. "He will let you fill his manger and the pan for oats and bring water, but if you try to touch him or his gear . . ."
"Never mind, m'lor'!" the man said, goggling at the elvensteed. "I can reckon well enough!"
Denoriel laughed again. "As you can imagine, I find it quite safe to leave him anywhere." He flipped the man a coin. "Here. Warn anyone away from him if you will. I am tired of threats and complaints when
he turns on fools who won't leave him be."
The common room was bearable, at least no worse than those he visited in London with George Boleyn and his friends. The rushes on the floor were not trodden into a slimy mass stinking with decaying food and spilled ale and wine, and the tables, if stained, were not wet and filthy. He ordered ale from the landlord who sat behind a counter that protected the barrels of wine and beer, and then went to sit at a table back in the shadows.
It was a relief that the place was tolerable. Denoriel knew he would have to wait until dark before he could ride back past Windsor to that copse at the crossroad. And he still had no idea of how to protect FitzRoy for tomorrow and tomorrow . . .
As he sat waiting for his ale, a new and horrible result of the attack on FitzRoy occurred to him. Until now neither he nor Aleneil, who was making her own contacts among the Queen's women and the few noble ladies who had leave to attend the court, had detected any Unseleighe interest in FitzRoy. Certainly there was no trace of Rhoslyn and Pasgen around Norfolk or Windsor. Denoriel could only hope they were ignoring the boy, thinking him of no account.
Possibly their Seeing had been somewhat different than that Aleneil and her teachers had. And, of course, Vidal Dhu and his FarSeers would have been concentrating on the second vision, the coming of the Inquisition, in which the Princess Mary was so prominent. Doubtless Rhoslyn's and Pasgen's first purpose would have been to make "friends," as he had made "friends," so that they could occasionally be near the girl to be sure all was well with her. They might not have learned immediately about FitzRoy's elevation. It was not impossible that Mary's servants, trying to ignore a threat they could do nothing about, did not mention the boy. And it was actually likely, seeing that he represented an indiscretion on the part of the Queen's beloved husband, would never mention FitzRoy under any circumstances at all.
Denoriel's lips thinned. Not all of Mary's servants or supporters were ignoring FitzRoy. When Harry had related the attack on him to Norfolk, he had again mentioned how one of the men called his boat "una barca." Although he tried to hide it from the boy, to Denoriel's eyes the duke had been visibly disturbed, cursing the Spanish under his breath. Later he had said something to the steward and the guard from the front gate about the assassins probably having gained entrance and escaped by hiding themselves among Mendoza's entourage. Next time he came, Norfolk ordered, he was to come in alone; his army of guards could wait outside.
One tiny mouse-hole plugged. Denoriel was reasonably sure that no other direct attack on FitzRoy would be attempted. What he feared was far more insidious. Pasgen could take on the seeming of anyone; he could even mimic the duke himself. Oh, not for long. The duke's servants and guards would soon know something was wrong, but Pasgen would only need a quarter of an hour. In that guise he would be able to approach FitzRoy, dismiss the boy's guards . . .
Suddenly Denoriel froze, smelling/sensing/recoiling within from something burning cold, inimical. Shifting his eyes cautiously first to the door of the inn and then over all the others within, he sought the source of the evil. But no one new had entered. Had one who had been there recognized him and now was seeking to seize him? There were not many. Two old men on a settle near the low-burning fire, two men dressed as drovers near the doorway so they could look out and keep an eye on their beasts, three or four men back near the far wall of the inn crouched over a table.
None of those was even looking at him, but the terrible hot/cold was approaching. The barmaid? Denoriel could hardly believe his eyes, but the woman was the only one coming closer. Denoriel slid his stool back so he could spring to his feet without catching his thighs under the table. His hand drifted down to his sword hilt. He could not imagine what would happen when he plunged that silver sword into a seemingly innocent woman just doing her ordinary work . . . And then he saw it!
Around the barmaid's throat was a black ribbon, and from that ribbon hung a black cross—long as Denoriel's thumb, its cross arms just the right width for a graceful form, and thick as a sliver of wood—not steel but a cross of true cold iron. It was not, of course, the cross that affected Denoriel—that symbol only warded off creatures of true evil—it was the cold iron. Now that he knew what had affected him, he was able to brace himself to bear the discomfort. It would do him no harm unless he actually touched it or tried physically to force the girl . . .
Denoriel's thoughts stopped dead and then began to race. "That is a beautiful cross," he said to the barmaid as she set the mug of ale down on the table.
She smiled at him. " 'Tis 'tisn't it? M'brother made it. He's blacksmith here."
She lifted it in her hand held it out as she spoke so Denoriel could see it better. He cringed back against the wall, shaking his head.
"I've trouble seeing things near-at-hand," he said, swallowing hard. "Makes it cursed hard to read—but then, what's a clerk for but to read to a gentleman, eh? Do hold it away from me so I can better see it."
Evidently the barmaid had heard of folk with the long-sight. She smiled agreeably. "Ay, there's those as can't see what isn't right by their noses and there's those that's arms ain't long enough to hold summat they want to see."
But she drew the cross back the width of the table and Denoriel let out his breath. "Yes, that's a lovely thing. Is it the only one your brother ever made? Could he make another?"
She looked at him quizzically. "If'n he made one, surely he could do more. Why, d'you want one, sir?"
"Well, yes, I do, but I am only traveling through on my way . . . ah . . . to visit a lady." Now, how to get her to part with this cross, now? "She'd be pleased with such a well-made ornament."
The barmaid cocked her head. "A lady what would be pleased to have a cross like mine? It's only iron, sir, not silver, and sure not the good gold."
"Because it's iron. You know, there are tales of such things holding particular virtue." Denoriel hesitated and then said, "I know this was a gift from your brother, but if you would be willing to part with it and ask him to make you another . . . I would pay well. I've never seen a cross of iron before. I'll . . . I'll give you a golden boy for it."
"Oh, sir!" The barmaid's eyes went wide and she started to reach up to untie the ribbon as if she could not give him the gift quickly enough.
"Wait—" he said. "I don't want to make any trouble in your family. Why don't you run over to your brother and make sure he will not mind your selling a gift he made especially for you."
The girl shrugged, and looked at him as if she thought he was a little simple. "He sells his work all the time, sir. That's how he lives. 'Course he wouldn't mind! 'Nd he ain't in Winkfeld, today. He's in Ripplemore. He won't mind, I swear it."
While she spoke she was struggling to undo the knot in the ribbon and Denoriel was wildly seeking a way to take the cross without seriously injuring himself. Fortunately the knot refused to yield and with several frantic pleas for him to wait, she rushed off to find someone to untie the ribbon.
Meanwhile Denoriel had pulled two large silk kerchiefs out, one from his sleeve, which was for elegance and show, and one from an inner pocket where he kept it for wiping splashes, tying around scrapes, and other mundane chores that arose while keeping company with a six-year-old. He laid them out on the table, folded into generous quarters, the stained one right in front of him and the other near his elbow. And when the woman came running back, breathless with fear that he had changed his mind, he took a golden guinea from his purse and laid it on the table beside the stained kerchief.
"Put it on the cloth, if you please, so that I may do it up for her," he said, gesturing for her to take the coin. "And will you bring me some bread and cheese?" That would get rid of her so that she would not see he didn't dare touch the iron cross.
"Wouldn't you like a whole dinner, sir?" the barmaid urged, tucking the golden coin down between her breasts. "I'll bring you the best, and no cost either."
"No." Denoriel laughed. "There will be a full meal waiting for me at my lady's house. Just th
e bread and cheese, if you will."
The woman almost ran to the kitchen, drawing the small amount of attention that had turned on Denoriel when he offered for the cross, and he quickly drew the silk over the cold iron. Holding it gingerly so his fingers did not come in contact with the metal, even through the layers of silk, he moved the packet to the other kerchief and covered it even more thoroughly. Finally he transferred the wadded silk to his purse. The worst was over, although he could still feel a kind of bite near his thigh and a general unease from the shielded cross.
Unwilling to wake the smallest suspicion about what he had done, Denoriel slowly ate his bread and cheese—which he noted, grinning inside, had been brought by the landlord; the barmaid had apparently decided to keep well out of sight in case he should change his mind—drank his ale, and finally made his way leisurely out of the inn and back to the stable. Miralys snorted and fidgeted as he neared, but Denoriel entered the stall and told the elvensteed to be quiet.
The ostler walked over, his face mirroring surprise in the light of the lantern he carried. "Be full dark, sir," he said. "When you didn't come right out, I thought you was staying at the inn. Not safe to ride in the dark. Moon's not even up."
What was dark to the ostler was like early evening to Denoriel, but he merely smiled and pretended to check Miralys's girth and the nonexistent bit. "I'm not going far and I know the road. Besides, there's a lady at the end of it," he said, earning a knowing laugh from the ostler, then led Miralys out and mounted.
As soon as they were on the road, he reassured Miralys, who was quivering with anxiety, that the sense of discomfort was not any oncoming danger but the cold iron he was carrying. He could feel the steed's unspoken protest and chuckled.
"I'm not going to keep it," he assured Miralys. "Certs, I could hardly keep it Underhill for long! It's for FitzRoy—he's mortal; cold iron won't bother him. And I'm afraid he'll need it. I think Unseleighe attention will be drawn to him after that attack, and I cannot stay with him day and night. I put a shield on him tonight, but I don't dare trust to shielding which he can't sense and couldn't renew. If the shield failed, all would be lost. But cold iron . . . no one could take him by force if he were carrying cold iron."
This Scepter'd Isle Page 10
