He played some word games with FitzRoy and then urged the child to correct his English usage, because he occasionally made errors in idiomatic speech. He sent FitzRoy into gales of laughter by confusing "press" a person to do something with "squeeze," as in "Can we not squeeze the young lady to play another tune on her virginals."
They had covered all of a league and a half by then, the horses straining and the coach bumping and banging over the deep, hard-dried mud ruts. Sir Christopher and his guard had had enough. When the coach hit a particularly bad bump and came to a stop until a wheel could be freed, he shouted to the driver to hold up until he dismounted. He would ride for a while, he said, to save himself from being battered to a pulp.
"And what about me being battered to a pulp?" FitzRoy asked, watching with disfavor as Sir Christopher's man ran off to bring forward their horses.
"I'd take you up on Miralys," Denoriel said, "but—"
"Oh, please! Please!"
"But I'm sure it wouldn't be allowed." Denoriel shook his head warningly at FitzRoy. "Still, we can make the ride easier, I am sure. Mistress Bethany, if you could bear riding pillion behind my man Dunstan for a little way, he could take you back to the char and you could bring back pillows and bolsters to make His Grace and yourself more comfortable."
"It's an angel you are, Lord Denno," the plump nurse said, smiling. "I'll do just that. It will make me feel like a girl again." She got down from the coach, and as Ladbroke lifted her to Dunstan's cob's broad back, she said to Denoriel, "I was surprised that Sir Christopher didn't have pillows brought, but it isn't my place to speak unless I'm asked."
"I doubt he's ever traveled by coach before," Denoriel said. "Or, at least, not on country roads. I'm sure he rides when he travels."
Mistress Bethany sniffed, getting across a definite sense of disdain without saying a word. Dunstan cautioned her to hold tight, and rode off down the line of the cortege.
"Why can't I ride?" FitzRoy asked. "I know they brought my pony. I like to ride. I'm a good horseman."
"Yes you are, Your Grace," Denoriel said, smiling despite the cold shiver that ran down his spine.
Nothing could be more dangerous. Even if the guards closed tight around the pony, Denoriel could envision a hundred ways to spook all the horses and send them galloping off in every direction. Maybe he could freeze the pony and snatch Harry off onto Miralys, but he and Miralys might be kept busy fending off an attack. Nor could he tell Sir Christopher the truth about what kind of dangers threatened them on this journey. And the man might just give in if Harry whined and carried on about wanting to ride. Anything was better than that.
"But the pony would soon tire and you would be back in the coach," Denoriel continued. "I have a better idea. Tomorrow, you show your bruises to Sir Christopher and tell him you will be seriously ill if he makes you ride in the coach all the way. Ask him to take you up before him."
FitzRoy's eyes widened and began to glisten with tears. "But I don't want to ride with him. I want to ride with you, on Miralys."
"Oh, you will. You will." Denoriel smiled a truly wicked smile. "It is possible he will refuse to take you with him, in which case you will begin to cry and threaten to write to your father about his cruelty. If he suggests that you ride with one of the guards, become haughty. Insist that only a nobleman can carry you. See if you can get your nurse to suggest me to carry you."
"Oh, good!" FitzRoy giggled. "Bethy will do that. She likes you. She loves the kitten you gave her." But then the boy frowned. "But what if he agrees to carry me?"
Denoriel laughed aloud. "Ah, then you must become an actor. You must talk, and talk, and talk. And ask questions and more questions. And if the poor man tells you to be quiet, you can sniffle a little and say he does not care for you and he does not wish you to learn anything. I suspect you will be given over to my care soon enough."
FitzRoy giggled and held out a small hand. "You don't mind if I talk and ask questions, do you?"
Denoriel bent from Miralys to squeeze the little hand.
"You do love me, Lord Denno, don't you?" he whispered
"Indeed I do, my heart," Denoriel whispered back.
The wheel was freed. Mistress Bethany returned followed by a packhorse loaded with cushions and bolsters and tied atop, the white kitten's basket. FitzRoy was seated on a cushion and padded back and sides by bolsters, the nurse turning her head as she tried to armor her charge against the jolting to tell Denoriel that she had had a terrible fright about the kitten. Someone had opened the basket, it seemed and found it empty. She shook her head.
"That little devil. I don't know how she does it, but she can manage to hide in that basket. Anyhow, when I looked she was there, fast asleep."
Denoriel smiled at her and sent a mental warning to the air spirit not to appear on his shoulder or in his lap where anyone could see. He received in reply an uncertain warning. The air spirit sensed something foul, but it was not close. Denoriel decided that one way or another, tomorrow he would have Harry on Miralys with him, even if he had to bespell Sir Christopher to get him to agree.
It was easier than he expected. Despite pillows and bolsters, more bruises and two nasty scrapes were added to poor Harry's collection of injuries. The road between Windsor and Maidenhead, where they would stop for the night, was heavily traveled and it had rained the previous week. That meant that wagons and carts had worn deep ruts in the mud, and when the rain stopped, those ruts dried hard. The ridges had been broken down somewhat, but that made the road worse yet, where a ridge had been smoothed only to meet a harder, higher ridge.
Harry was twice thrown to the floor of the coach and once jounced up so hard that his head hit the edge of the seat. He was not rendered unconscious, but had a scrape and a decided bump to show for the experience. After that Denoriel dismounted and sat in the coach holding the child in his lap.
Sir Christopher found them that way and was appalled when he saw FitzRoy's swollen and bleeding forehead. He explained to Denoriel and FitzRoy that the road improved further along, but the expression on Denoriel's face and the fact that FitzRoy burst into tears did not imply any confidence in what he said. Whereupon he asked angrily if they expected him to somehow smooth the road, and FitzRoy immediately said he wanted to ride too.
To Denoriel's eternal gratitude, Sir Christopher vetoed that notion immediately, saying it was too dangerous, that the pony was not accustomed to the open countryside, only to the confines of Windsor park and might shy or bolt. Then the nurse said that Lord Denno had offered to take His Grace up before him on his horse. Pillion was too dangerous, she said, the child could be shaken loose or slip off; but astride on the front of Denno's saddle, with the pommel to grip and Lord Denno's arms to either side, His Grace would be safe.
Denoriel said only that he would be glad to do it. Having Richmond in front of him in his saddle would be a far less painful way to travel than having the boy on his lap and riding in the coach. Denoriel found it interesting that Sir Christopher did not offer to carry Harry himself. He swallowed a smile, deciding that if he had not the keenest mind in the kingdom, Sir Christopher had a strong sense of self-preservation. He was at least clever enough to see that if there were an accident in which the child was hurt, he could blame Denoriel, the nurse, and the boy himself.
For everyone except Denoriel, the remainder of the afternoon was delightful. The nurse went back to ride in the char with her friends. That vehicle, although also without springs, was much wider than the coach so that its wheels avoided most of the ruts. In addition, being more heavily laden, it bounced less and there were many bodies to brace oneself against. Mistress Bethany was well pleased.
The groom in charge of the coach was overjoyed. Because he no longer had to keep the horses to a snail's pace while he tried to avoid the worst of the ruts, the whole cortege was moving faster. That pleased both sets of guards and Sir Christopher.
FitzRoy was in seventh heaven. Perched on the back of Miralys, he could see much more
, even though his four guards had closed up around him. And his beloved Lord Denno's arms were around him, tighter than they had to be to keep him safe, holding him in a warm embrace. He was secure and loved and important, because, little boy though he was, he still knew a great deal more about England's nobles and court gossip than did foreign born Lord Denno, and with no Sir Christopher to listen, Denno could ask and he answer.
Denoriel had been as happy as everyone else as they made another league and a half. Harry had shielded his cross as soon as Denoriel took him into his lap, and with the boy's body between him and its baleful influence, he was only minimally aware of discomfort. And that was wiped away by being able to hold Harry in his arms, occasionally to bend his head and kiss the child's hair, to have Harry rub his cheek against him.
Besides that, the boy's prattle was very useful indeed. Master Croke instructed the children about what lands and territories each great power controlled so that Denoriel learned things that were too common knowledge among his courtier friends to be mentioned. And Harry picked up this and that from hearing Norfolk talk. One thing Denoriel learned that answered a lot of questions he had not dared ask—hints and meaningful glances but never any direct remark—was that Cardinal Wolsey—Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste—was the real king of England.
Denoriel had just parted his lips to ask Harry another question about Wolsey and his policies when a shriek holding absolute horror burst into his mind.
:Goblins! Goblins!:
The air spirit was terrified, and rightfully so. A goblin could see an air spirit and was often quick enough to seize and crush it, absorbing the power that gave it life energy. Truthfully, Denoriel was terrified also. He was less afraid of the goblins themselves—he had fought them several times when something had aroused them to try to invade one or another Elfhame—than he was of their effect on the humans he accompanied.
If they fled, leaving him alone with Harry, he could be overwhelmed. Goblins never came by ones or twos, but in swarms. Would Harry's cross protect him against them? Denoriel found he could not remember whether goblins were sensitive to cold iron but he thought that even if they were not, they would still shrink away from the religious symbol itself. Should he tell Harry to take the cross out of its pouch and display it on his chest? But if the boy did that, Denoriel himself would be incapacitated or partially incapacitated so that he could not defend them properly.
And why were goblins here, now? Why would Vidal Dhu break the concord that bound Seleighe and Unseleighe to secrecy? What could be important enough to make the Unseleighe prince bring a host of goblins into the mortal world and expose the existence of Underhill and its unearthly denizens? The Wild Hunt was one thing. Those who saw it close and clear did not live to speak of it. Those who caught a single glimpse of it before hiding, were only half believed, just enough to keep the fear of the Sidhe alive without rousing the mortals to concerted action. And anyway, most thought the Wild Hunt to be a troupe of ghosts and demons, not the Sidhe.
Could King Henry have suddenly named Harry his heir and died? Be on the borders of death? Surely that was the only eventuality that could force Vidal Dhu to be indifferent to an act that would bring Oberon—and, indeed, all the Sidhe rulers, Seleighe and Unseleighe, and in France and elsewhere—down upon him.
Nonsense. Vidal would never take such a chance. More likely he would begin to plan how to destroy Harry, and make way for Mary.
Denoriel took a deep breath and dismissed his panic. Panic would gain him nothing—and how could a horde of goblins come down on them here?
As for postulating that Harry had suddenly become king, that was absurd. Had Henry named the boy his heir and fallen on his deathbed, twenty riders would have been sent galloping on Harry's trail. They would surely soon have overtaken the slow-moving cortege. And even if Vidal had scryed the king's illness and knew of it at once, it would take time to gather an army of goblins and build a Gate to send them through.
And why would Vidal set goblins on the cortege on the well-traveled road between Windsor and Maidenhead instead of waiting until they reached the wilds of Yorkshire?
Another question suddenly occurred to Denoriel. Miralys had been plodding steadily along in the wake of the first ten guardsmen without a sign of nervousness. Denoriel knew that Miralys was no more afraid of goblins than he was, but the elvensteed was no fool either, and would not dismiss the warning the kitten had given without intense watchfulness.
So, was the air spirit mistaken? About goblins?
He sent out the thought, :Are you sure about the goblins?:
:Goblins! Goblins! Hundreds! Thousands!:
:You are safe in your basket. The goblins cannot reach you. Where are they? Why cannot I sense them?:
:Many! Many! Little. Little. Like mice.:
Denoriel's first impulse was to burst into laughter. Goblins the size of mice did not seem much of a threat, particularly as goblin power seemed to be proportional to goblin size. Then there was an echo in his mind of his own thought that the best way to seize Harry would be somehow to startle the horses of the guards and other gentlemen riders so the cortege would disperse. It did not take much power to scurry under the horses' feet, to climb up their legs, their tails, and claw and bite. Hundreds of the tiny creatures could surely send the horses wild. It would have been easy enough then to gallop a horse free of goblin attack up to the carriage, seize Harry, and ride away.
Despite his concern, Denoriel almost smiled. There would be no seizing Harry off Miralys's back and out of his arms. A shield would easily ward off such tiny pests. But surely Pasgen and Rhoslyn—he assumed it would be Rhoslyn trying to redeem her previous failure—were watching and had seen Harry riding with him instead of in the carriage. They must know Harry was out of their reach, so why go ahead with the attack? Denoriel thought he knew the answer: because it would be nearly impossible to dismiss all those goblins.
His apprehension returned, and then a deeper fear. Perhaps Harry was not out of their reach, after all. Enough goblins, however small, could overwhelm anything.
As to why here rather than in the wilds of Yorkshire? Probably no one among the Sidhe would notice what sort of tiny beastie was attacking the horses. The concord would not be violated. And because this road was often traversed by patrols guarding against outlaws, the guards would not be expecting trouble. Their reins would be loose in their hands, their weapons seated solidly in their sheathes. They would scatter when their horses were panicked.
No, Harry was not safe. And neither was he.
:Where?: Denoriel sent with considerable force, hoping to pierce the air spirit's terror.
:Near! Near! Near! Let me go! Let me go!:
:I cannot reach you to take off your collar. Stay in your basket. You will be safe.:
Near? How near? Denoriel was afraid to open his mind fully for fear Rhoslyn would sense it and launch a violent strike at him. He thought he could resist her alone, but if Pasgen joined with her . . . Gingerly he extended his feeling for magic and more rapidly closed it down. There was a foul stench, a disgusting miasma all along the ground.
Now! Now Miralys was uneasy. The elvensteed's steady pace did not vary, but Denoriel could feel the tension in his mount's body.
"Harry," he said urgently, "if the other horses run away, don't be frightened. Just hold on tight and if I have to draw my sword, try to lie down alongside the pommel and curl around it."
"What's the matter?"
"I'm not sure, little friend. I just . . . There's something nasty in the woods. I . . ."
Then it came. The ground seemed to heave—black, brown, gray—at the edge of the woods that bordered the road and roll forward over the green grass verge. Denoriel shouted a warning. Harry's four guards looked wildly around, drawing their weapons, but they were looking for men charging out of the woods.
"Look at the ground," Denoriel shouted. "Hold your horses hard."
"Rats!" Nyle yelled. "A plague of rats!"
They look
ed like rats only if you didn't look at them too closely. Those were tiny hands, not foreclaws, and wizened faces beneath cowls of dirty hair, but their mouths were full of needle-teeth, and those fingers ended in talons. Whoever had called them up must have forgotten how little power was available to them in the mortal realm—that was why they were so tiny—
Denoriel only cried out to beware, that the creatures bit, but chaos had already engulfed the rank of guardsmen ahead of them. Horses screamed and plunged. Others bucked and leapt sidelong. Still others ran across the verge and burst through the brush on the side of the road into the field beyond. The troop of ten was scattered in moments.
Clutching Harry to him, Denoriel called up the strongest shield he had. Unaware that he was protected, the boy clung to the pommel with one hand; the other lay on his chest, ready to pull his cross out of its pouch.
Meanwhile, panic had cleared the road immediately ahead. Miralys suddenly made a gigantic leap, right over the squirming pall of brown, black, gray that covered the road ahead of him. Denoriel turned and cast a spray of levin-fire behind, sure it would not be noticed in the panic. However, even as the power flowed out of him and cold weakness flowed in he knew it had been wasted. Oh, possibly a few dozen of the horrid little beasts had been destroyed, but they had not been following Miralys. They were streaming down the road, sending all the horses mad and even attacking the riders and those in the char.
He patted Harry's arm. "It's all right Harry," he said. "They won't bother us."
The boy let go of his cross. "Nyle? Gerrit? Dickson? Shaylor?" he asked anxiously.
"Here they come now."
And so they were, controlling their frantic horses and forcing them forward through the thinning tide of goblins to close on their charge. One stubborn goblin clung to Dickson's breast, trying to gnaw through the leather and he swatted it hard with one hand. There was a moment's resistance as the tough skin held against the pressure and then the creature burst. All the men cried out at the terrible stench.
This Scepter'd Isle Page 24
