This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  Yet another woman grown. "Did she appear in a FarSeeing about the red-haired babe?"

  Aleneil sighed in an exasperated way. "Nothing clear enough to make it worthwhile to warn you, and I am almost sure that the child is not yet born. But the red-haired babe is associated with a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman—a very clever woman . . . a woman who has the makings of a witch . . . which would make sense, given the power we sensed around the babe."

  Perhaps the girl might be of interest after all. "And George Boleyn's youngest sister matches this description?"

  "I think so, but I am not certain, although she does have the nail of a sixth finger on her left hand." He sensed Aleneil's discomfort; like many FarSeers, she was uneasy when she could not foresee the future clearly.

  "Are you going to try to teach her magic?" he asked, with interest. Now that would be a fascinating prospect—especially if she chose to pit herself against Queen Catherine for the legitimate affections of the king.

  "No!" On that point Aleneil was certain. "She would reject me utterly and probably report me to the nearest witch-hating priest she could find. She is terrified of her Talent and seeks only to deny it, but she uses it unconsciously . . . on men. She is already welcome at court and has attracted attention . . . of Wyatt for one."

  "Wyatt is married," Denoriel pointed out.

  Aleneil laughed. "It seems to matter as little to Henry's courtiers as it matters to us."

  "Hmmm. If she is to be Henry's mistress and the mother of the red-haired babe, I had better see to it that Wyatt does not despoil her," he said, with just a touch of callousness. "We want no doubts about her to rise in the king's mind."

  "That would be useful," Aleneil agreed—just as callously. She could, he reflected, be just as ruthless as anyone when it was mortals who were being discussed.

  "Do you want me to try to meet her?" he asked, thinking it might be amusing to see the little fifteen-year-old coquette attempt to use her wiles on him.

  "No, certainly not," his sister said firmly. "If she developed a taste for you, she might refuse King Henry's advances, and we don't want that to happen until we are sure who will be the mother of the red-haired child."

  Denoriel was silent for a while, giving his attention to the many-flavored delicacies on his plate. When it was empty and had floated away, he looked at Aleneil, frowning.

  "I don't like the fact that her Talent is so strong and untutored and that she is using it. That use could attract unwanted attention, and she would be defenseless against any attack on her, against any idea a dark Sidhe wished to implant in her."

  "I am aware. I will try to protect her, but she is a very high-spirited girl and I doubt will accept a duenna, as a Spanish girl would." She made a moue of distaste, and added, "Her father and mother are too well aware of the advantages Mary brought them while she was the king's favorite. Now that Mary's allure seems to be fading, they do not wish to restrict Anne too much. If not King Henry, she is like to snare a powerful suitor."

  He raised an eyebrow. "At least then we will not need to worry about an untutored witch being the mother of the red-haired babe."

  Aleneil shrugged and shook her head. "Let us forget all this for now. The child's birth is some years in the future."

  Denoriel smiled and the talk turned to small personal matters. After the meal, considerably refreshed, although with a new worry at the back of his mind, Denoriel Gated to his house in London. He arrived shortly after the white kitten had appeared on his shoulder and he had rushed off, but Ladbroke and Dunstan did not appear in the least surprised and neither mentioned the miraculous appearance of the white kitten. Having lived so long Underhill, they were well aware that the kitten was some spirit the Sidhe was using and that hours or even days might have passed for Denoriel between his previous departure and his seeming arrival only some quarter hour later.

  To Denoriel's relief, Dunstan pronounced himself capable of attending to a gentleman's needs. Fortunately one of his masters Underhill had affected the highest mode of mortal dress. It was not quite as elaborate as that popular in the Tudor court, but Dunstan knew how to tie, hook, and button. Only, he pointed out that becoming Denoriel's valet would mean he must wear different clothing than he had bought for himself and that doing so would leave Ladbroke as the only groom.

  "Get what clothing you need," Denoriel said to Dunstan, and, turning to Ladbroke, "Take on a boy. Pick one out of one of the workhouses, one who can ride. That should make the poor creature grateful enough to close his eyes to a few peculiarities of his master and to keep his mouth closed about them, too. You can hint, I suppose, that my disappearances and reappearances are owing to my business and I don't like that business discussed. And I won't be coming and going quite as much while we're on the road . . . no Gates."

  Another thing that long residence Underhill had induced in Ladbroke and Dunstan was self-reliance and resourcefulness. Partly out of curiosity about what they would do, partly out of envy over the human ability to create new ways to deal with problems, Sidhe masters would often drop their human companions—adult ones, anyway—into difficult or dangerous situations and watch them squirm out. Not all survived.

  Denoriel had had no human servants but was sufficiently familiar with the practice and with the evidence of what Dunstan and Ladbroke had already accomplished to be sure they would find a way to do anything he asked. He said only, "Some trunks with clothing for me will be Gated through from my sister in Avalon. See if it will fit on the packhorse—"

  "Mule, m'lord," Ladbroke said. "Mules are better for carrying packs."

  "Fine. If my trunks will overload the beast, get another. And set out for Windsor as early tomorrow morning as you possibly can. You can bed down in the inn in Windsor if they have room for that night; if not, you have your tent. I will meet you at the main gate of Windsor at dawn day after tomorrow. The cortege is due to leave at dawn."

  "Will it, m'lord?" Dunstan looked surprised.

  Denoriel grinned. "It won't, of course; probably won't leave until nine of the clock or even later. Still, we should be there—that is, by the principal gate to Windsor—so we can choose our places."

  "Very good, m'lord," Dunstan nodded. "You'll be riding right by his young Grace's carriage or alongside his horse if he's allowed to ride. Where do you want me and Kip? Should we be together or spread out in the line of march?"

  "You need to be as near as possible to where I am so you can see where I'm lodged." He considered his tactics, deciding that he would order his little force as if he expected attack at any point. "You'll also need to see where Ladbroke goes so you can run messages to him if it's necessary. As I said, I'll meet you at Windsor, but if that white kitten should come to you, follow it and be sure to carry your weapons . . . steel weapons, not silver."

  "Steel, m'lord?" both men echoed in chorus.

  He nodded grimly. "Yes. You'll have to set them aside when you actually serve me, Dunstan, but I am not as badly affected as some. Sword, poniard, bow. No armor, though, nor helms. Armor may be too much iron for me."

  "Outfitted as you say. Day after tomorrow at dawn at the main gate to Windsor," Ladbroke repeated.

  Denoriel smiled and clapped him on the back. "I know I can depend on you two."

  "That you can, m'lord," Ladbroke replied. "Leave the journey to us, and keep your mind on seeing the boy stays safe."

  "Oh, do believe me," Denoriel replied. "That is what is uppermost on my mind. . . ."

  CHAPTER 14

  Denoriel's party met as planned at dawn outside the great gate of Windsor. Within the gates, those who were traveling from Windsor should have been forming up in some kind of order, considering the number of supposedly trained and disciplined royal guards present. After all, nobles of the great houses went on Royal Progress with the king all the time, and they themselves changed their habitations twice yearly, between London and their own estates. But—Denoriel had to swallow his urge to laugh—the royal party was rapidly mirroring the large a
nd disorganized mass of servants, luggage, guards, and pack animals that accompanied his courtier friends when they traveled.

  Not that Denoriel's entourage was disorganized. Shandy Dunstan, attired in plain, serviceable black worsted garments headed the procession on a handsome, sorrel cob. Kip Ladbroke, in brown homespun and leather, followed on a larger, nondescript bay. Behind him was an emaciated boy with a dazed look of wonder on his face. He was also attired in decent homespun, mounted on a sturdy pony, and holding the lead rein of a glossy, well-fed mule, to whose pack saddle was attached another mule as like the first as could be a twin. Despite the dazed expression, the boy sat his saddle as if he were glued to it, and his head turned to check the mules each time one of the animals shifted. Clearly he knew horses and their ilk; Denoriel wondered what his tale was.

  Time passed. The light, which had been dim, brightened gradually, promising a pleasant morning. More and more people arrived, most on foot. Denoriel thought that most of the inhabitants of the village had come to see the party off. They stood by the road, waiting to see the cortege go by, hoping that the lords who accompanied it would scatter largesse. Two groups, however, were on horseback. A discreet signal from Denoriel sent Kip Ladbroke back toward those. Denoriel scanned those who waited by the sides of the road, opening himself to sense for magic of any kind. There was nothing.

  The crowd inside the gates thickened and Denoriel could hear a rising volume of sound, pierced once in a while by a female shriek or a masculine bellow. The sun came up over the trees. More servants and lesser personages were thrust down the entrance avenue. The noise rose. Denoriel was sure it must be deafening near the palace.

  He approached the open gate. One guard leveled his pike and then said, "Oh, it's you, Lord Denno." Then he looked uncertain, glancing from Denoriel to the slowly revolving mass of men, horses, mules, and carts near the palace and trailing down the long entrance avenue. After a moment, he said, "If you want to go in, you can, m'lord, but . . ."

  "Since I'm quite sane," Denoriel said, chuckling, "I don't want to go in. But I promised His Grace of Richmond that I would be traveling with the cortege and I am a little concerned that if he does not see me, he will be distressed."

  "That's all right, m'lord. His guard Nyle was down here not long since. Maybe he'll be down again and can carry a message back."

  Denoriel's lips thinned. He would lay strong odds that Nyle had been sent to the gate to look for him, but he had been back down the road concentrating on those waiting to see Harry pass and had missed the guard. He was just about to ask how long ago Nyle had been there, when the noise reached a new peak and a double column of Royal Guards drove their horses down the avenue, pressing those already in it to the sides, except for one cart, whose driver whipped up his mule and careened out of the gate before the guards reached him.

  Shandy Dunstan rode past Denoriel, his sturdy gelding blocking the road so that the smaller mule was forced to turn aside and draw the cart southward. The driver cursed fluently, but not in English. Shandy retorted, loud and strong, in Elven. Denoriel grinned, knowing that Dunstan would say he was speaking Hungarian if anyone asked. Then the grin grew rigid as the pony pricked up its ears and put on a sudden burst of speed.

  Aleneil had chosen better for him than he had suspected. Apparently Dunstan, at least, had a thread of Talent. What he had shouted in Elven was addressed to the beast, bidding it to run away—and so it had, carrying the small cart rapidly toward London, with Spanish curses trailing more and more faintly behind.

  What had the Spaniard planned to do? Surely he had not intended to attack Harry in the midst of a substantial armed guard. And why in a cart? If he had wanted to lay an ambush from the side of the road, he should never have appeared in Windsor at all. An informant? Seeking news and gossip among the servants?

  Denoriel put the questions in the back of his mind as the guards came through the gate, two, four, six, eight, ten. Behind them came a gorgeous coach. Denoriel felt his eyes widen. It was nearly as elegant as anything mage-built Underhill from its decorated, spoked wheels to its domed roof.

  The side panels were carved, gilded, and painted with Harry's coat of arms—ridiculous crotchet, that, the poor child was hardly of an age to bear arms, much less need an escutcheon, but the arms went with the title, and he'd been given the title of a man grown. The posts that supported the roof were elegantly turned and had elaborate gilded finials. More carved and painted wooden panels about a foot wide were suspended from the roof. Behind those, Denoriel did not doubt were rolled-up leather curtains that could be let down to keep out the dust or the rain. The dome of the roof, which provided room for one or two of the occupants of the coach to stand up, was also gilded and topped with a gilded finial.

  On this fine, mild morning, the curtains were raised and Denoriel could see four occupants, one very small who was twisting and turning in his seat, one plump motherly figure beside the uneasy child, a hand on his shoulder as if to keep him from launching himself out of the coach, and sitting back to the horses, two men Denoriel did not recognize. Denoriel pushed to the forefront of the mounted groups, but he could not really see any way to approach the child.

  That problem was soon solved. Behind the coach were four more guards, who divided two by two as soon as the coach passed the gate, and rode quickly to take up positions to each side. Gerrit, the forward man on the near side of the coach, called out immediately in surprise and relief.

  "Oh, Lord Denno, there you are. His Grace has been asking for you."

  At his words, FitzRoy let out a shriek of joy and bounced to his feet, twisting out of his nurse's grip on his shoulder. She grabbed at his arm, but was unable to keep him from leaning so far over the side of the coach that he seemed in danger of falling out.

  "Harry! Sit down at once!" Denoriel shouted.

  The dark-haired, black-bearded man seated on the far side of the coach, had leaned forward to grab at FitzRoy, as did the large, fair-haired one beside him, but the child had already popped back into his seat, only waving energetically and shouting, "Here I am, Lord Denno. Here I am."

  The black-bearded man then asked the nurse a question, which she answered volubly. Meanwhile ten more guards rode out of Windsor to form up behind as the coach came nearly to a dead stop while the groom, who rode the front near-side animal, maneuvered the four horses around. Sharp turns had to be negotiated carefully because the coach wheels did not turn and too hard a pull at right angles could topple the vehicle.

  Black-beard then spoke to Blond-hair, and he called out to Gerrit to ask Lord Denno to ride around the coach so he could speak to Black-beard. Denoriel wasn't sure whether he should be overjoyed or annoyed, but it turned out that FitzRoy had done just the right thing.

  Sir Christopher Fiennes (Black-beard) was quite ignorant about dealing with children and, moreover, had not the kind of authority over his charge that Norfolk had. He had not the faintest idea of what to do when at the hour of departure FitzRoy began to scream and declare he did not want to go to Sheriff Hutton; that he had not known that Henry and Mary Howard were not going with him; that he had to talk to Norfolk—which was impossible, the duke having removed to London as soon as Sir Christopher arrived.

  One does not beat the son of a king, even a bastard son, or drag him along kicking and screaming, not when that son is obviously being groomed to follow his father to the throne. Children can have surprisingly long memories. Sir Christopher compromised by calling for the boy's nurse. Ordinarily she would have ridden in the large char full of women servants that was to follow the coach, but she was able to calm the boy—Sir Christopher, not the most perceptive of men, did not bother to learn how—so he kept her with them in the coach.

  Actually the nurse had told FitzRoy that Lord Denno was a man of his word. If Denno said he would be in the cortege, he would be. Perhaps business had made him late and he would need to catch up. They would send Nyle or Gerrit to look for him once they were out on the road. That had sufficed to get
FitzRoy into the coach, but he had been very restless, peering this way and that in the hope of seeing Denoriel and when he did not, obviously trying to delay the departure by demanding to get out to piss, complaining that he had forgotten some toy that he could not live without, and other such ploys.

  No command from Sir Christopher or plea from his nurse had been able to quiet him, so his prompt obedience when Denoriel shouted for him to sit impressed his unhappy deputy warden. The nurse's further assurance that FitzRoy was always quiet and obedient to Lord Denno and that Denno was a man to be trusted completely, having saved FitzRoy's life at the risk of his own, was a further insurance atop the glad and relieved way the boy's guard had called out to Denoriel.

  Furthermore, it seemed to Sir Christopher, who knew little about foreign affairs, except those with Scotland, that it was much better that Lord Denno should be a Hungarian merchant, even if he claimed noble status, than that he be one of a voracious English family seeking advancement. After all, if Denno sought tax relief or trade advantages through the king's bastard's influence, that was less important than seeking political advantage. How much damage to the Treasury could one rug merchant do, after all? One man, granted a miniscule relief from import levies—insignificant.

  Thus, in short order of his being summoned to speak to Sir Christopher, Denoriel had permission to ride beside the coach and keep FitzRoy occupied. Denoriel gave grateful thanks. Sir Christopher nodded and turned away, but Denoriel was sure for a little while, at least, Sir Christopher was likely to pay close attention to what an utter stranger to him said to the king's son.

  That was no problem. Denoriel was happy to keep the conversation to matters of childish interest. Besides, since he had no intention of confiding to a child his worries about the purpose of the Spaniard in the cart or his fears of ambush on the road, he had nothing to say to FitzRoy of which Sir Christopher could disapprove. Still with Sir Christopher's suspicions in mind, Denoriel kept his voice audible.