"He's my friend," FitzRoy said, stopping in the middle of the street. All trace of his usual good nature was gone from his face, and his voice was hard and cold enough to go ice-sliding on. "He's my dear, my beloved, friend, and he dares strike me because he does not want me to be a dead duke. Denno's saved my life more than once, but the older I get, the more freedom I have, the more afraid he is that he won't be with me the next time I'm attacked. He's trying to make me able to defend myself."
Dunstan, Ladbroke, and the two guards had closed in, providing further proof there was real danger.
Lord Henry swallowed. "I forgot," he said honestly remorseful, and shuddered slightly, remembering the attempt to drown FitzRoy. "Sorry, Harry, but it's just crazy that anyone should try to harm you now. The king is going to marry my cousin Anne, and she'll surely have a boy child. That will put you right out of the succession." He hesitated, studying FitzRoy's face. "Do you mind?"
FitzRoy shook his head vigorously as they commenced walking down the street again to where their horses had been stabled and explained, as he had explained to Anne, why he did not wish to be king, only leaving out his desire to be a diplomat. Since Lord Henry was equally desirous of avoiding dull responsibility, he truly understood. Thus, they were on better terms by the time they reached their destination some miles west of the city, and fortunately Lord Henry's third diversion, shooting at butts, did not reawaken any conflict.
FitzRoy was as good a shot as Lord Henry, but he pulled a much lighter bow so his arrows did not penetrate as far and sometimes even fell out of the target. The match was judged a draw, and Lord Henry had the pleasure of loftily promising FitzRoy that when he had his full growth they would be equal.
Since they had ridden out a mile or two past Westminster to try their archery and on their return had to thread their way through increasing traffic, Lord Henry had sufficient opportunity to measure FitzRoy's horsemanship. He judged correctly (although he did not acknowledge it), that FitzRoy had a superior seat and, lighter though he was, better control. Thus, as they neared Norfolk House he commented rather sourly that he wondered what his father had been talking about when he said the duke would need his help and instruction.
"Instruction in what? You can beat me with a sword or a bow and probably on the hunting field."
"Well, of course," FitzRoy said, opening his eyes wide. "What else have I had to do? Sword, bow, and riding are things one does in the country, so I've had lots more practice than you. But your father is quite right. There's lots of things I hope you'll teach me—to dance for one thing and how to talk and not say anything for another."
"To dance? Who's going to dance with a boy of twelve, even if he is the duke of Richmond?"
"Your cousin Anne, for one," FitzRoy began.
Lord Henry slapped his forehead with his open palm and let out a muted howl. "Right. Right. I forgot that too. Father told me and I swear, I clean put it out of my mind because you'll only have to learn one dance."
He dismounted in the court in silence, watching FitzRoy slide down from his saddle, then put a hand on the younger boy's shoulder and said, rather grimly, "As for talking without saying anything—" he sighed "—don't worry about it. Whatever you say or don't say, even if you stand mute as a stone, the ones who talk to you will decide what you mean, like it or not. We'll stick to the dancing. I can teach you that."
CHAPTER 28
Norfolk and his family-party arrived in Greenwich several days before Christmas and hustled FitzRoy into a cold apartment at the very end of the east wing of the palace. To his surprise, by the afternoon of the second day after their arrival, he had Lord Henry to keep him company, and not a sullen Lord Henry who had been ordered to do an unpleasant duty but a Lord Henry who seemed to regard their chilly and under-furnished apartments as a haven.
That afternoon soon after he arrived in the apartment, Henry announced that they had better concentrate on dancing. He played for his pupil himself, saying that he wished to spare FitzRoy any embarrassment from strange watchers, and since FitzRoy was in complete agreement with that sentiment, he readily agreed. Although FitzRoy was aware that Lord Henry wanted to be "better" than FitzRoy himself, he also sensed that Henry was really rather fond of him, and would protect him from the scorn of others. Fortunately the swordplay that had made FitzRoy graceful and quick on his feet had also taught him to memorize movements and hand gestures, so Henry had an apt pupil. Still Henry's brow was creased with a frown and his mouth down-turned with dissatisfaction, even while it uttered praise.
"What's wrong, Henry?" FitzRoy asked, when Henry had said FitzRoy had the dance thoroughly mastered and started to turn away. "Am I so utterly hopeless? If I am, I'd better tell your father. I suspect it would be worse to embarrass Lady Anne by tripping over her or stepping on her feet than to change the plan. Maybe I had better go to my father at once and allow Lady Anne to come out of the Mound—"
"No!" Lord Henry exploded. "That would make everything much worse. And you're not hopeless. You do that dance as well as I could. Why do you say you're hopeless?"
"Because you've been frowning and shaking your head and looking like you've bitten into a sour apple all afternoon and it's gotten worse and worse."
"That's nothing to do with you, Harry." Lord Henry was silent a moment, and then added, "You don't know what it's like in the public rooms and at the public feasts."
"Why? What's the matter?" A thrill of apprehension ran down FitzRoy's back. "The king isn't sick, is he?"
"No, no. King Henry is very well. It's just . . . just . . ." His lips tightened and his jaw moved as his teeth clenched. Then he moved closer to FitzRoy and bent to speak in a murmur directly into his ear. "Everyone misses the queen."
"Everyone?"
Lord Henry nodded. "Even my father and I and Lord Wiltshire. . . ." He bit his lip. "It's like there's a big hole in the middle of the floor, and everyone walks around it without mentioning it . . . but it's there. She . . . she wasn't bright or gay or really part of the fun, but . . ."
"I see." FitzRoy nodded understanding. "That was why your father said I was supposed to come out of the Mound, so that my father would be surprised enough to forget everything else and have someone of his own family to be with him."
"Yes, well, I think it would have been better if you went to him as soon as you arrived, but Anne . . ." Lord Henry shook his head. "It's all of a muddle, I fear. Politics is only part of it. I want the king to have a male heir as much as anyone and, naturally, it would be greatly to my benefit if Anne were queen and brought him that heir, but just now there is such an atmosphere of discomfort . . ."
"Come into my rooms," FitzRoy said, "they're a little warmer and Dunstan managed to get me some really good wine. I know I won't be able to help, but I won't talk to anyone about what you say—I swear it—and talking might make you feel better."
Lord Henry sighed, looked for a moment as if he would refuse, and then said, "For this, my thanks. And maybe these are things you should hear."
He began by talking about Christmas at court, beginning with Queen Catherine's piety and her reluctant yielding to her husband's desire for pleasure. Thus in the court, the eve of Christmas had always been given over to religious celebration in which the king took enthusiastic part, but the next twelve days were for making merry and giving gifts—about which the king was even more enthusiastic. The queen never cared much for the Lords of Misrule and the coarse games they played, but she accepted the bawdy merrymaking as she had always accepted anything the king desired.
Now for the first time in over twenty years, the queen and her ladies were absent. That absence left an uncomfortable void, and one that Anne Boleyn could not fill. To put her in the queen's place would outrage many in the court. But there was a further danger for Anne, for to put her beside the king would also imply that she was "wife" in terms of consummation. And above all, that was an impression she must not give publicly.
They talked about it and FitzRoy explained what he
was supposed to do when he came out of the Mound. Lord Henry hmm'd and bit his lip and finally advised that, regardless of Anne's feelings, FitzRoy had better go first to his father. "You can then beg him to let you dance with the worthiest, the fairest, and purest maiden in his court, and then you can go to Anne and ask her to dance."
FitzRoy looked admiringly at Lord Henry. "I' faith, I like that much better than what your father told me to say. It doesn't sound so made-up. I can make that sound as if I truly mean it. But do you think Lady Anne will be angry enough to refuse to dance with me?"
Lord Henry laughed. "After you've publicly called her worthiest, fairest, and purest? And with the king watching, filled with joy over being newly united with his son? Not likely."
FitzRoy, although none too happy about incurring Anne's anger and, perhaps, a lasting spite, agreed. He thought it wrong to ask Anne to dance before he greeted the father he had not seen for so many years. Still, he had little enough appetite for his evening meal and he slept restlessly, twice waking in a cold sweat from dreams of being pursued by angry harridans.
He woke late and sluggishly and, unhappy with his own company, asked Lord Henry to join him at breakfast. Neither of them had much to say. Henry finally suggested that FitzRoy practice his dancing one more time. They were so engaged when Dunstan brought in Lord Denno, who wanted to know at once the reason for such glum faces.
"If you can't dance, Harry, you can't." Lord Denno said, warmly. "Don't worry. I'll think of something."
"No, Lord Denno, he can dance," Lord Henry said. "At least he can do the one dance he'll need to do with Lady Anne, but—" and then, despite his earlier disparagement of Denno, the foreign merchant, possibly not even deserving of his notice, he blurted out his uneasiness over the feeling in the court and what he and FitzRoy had decided to do.
Denoriel shook his head. "I am the last person to advise you. For one thing, I know little of the court, and for another, I've been far too busy to take the temper of the Lady Anne's feelings. But I should say, Lord Henry, that I would trust your instincts. If I were the king, no matter how fond I was of my lady, I would be hurt if my son ran to her instead of to me after our long separation. But put that aside. His Grace knows both choices. I am sure His Grace will know what to do when he actually steps out of the Mound. What I've come for is to show him the hall and the Mound and how the mechanism that opens it works."
He had instant and fervent acceptance of his offer and they all went down to the main floor and then trailed through the building to the Great Hall. This was closed with guards before the doors, but Denoriel led them to what looked like a stable off to the left. There were no horses within and the floor had been carefully cleaned. In the middle sat . . . FitzRoy gaped at what looked like a small grassy hill.
Lord Henry only gave it a single glance. He had seen it often before. Nonetheless, he followed eagerly when Lord Denno picked up a lantern, lit it, and then pulled at what looked like a small bush, which permitted him to lift away a panel through which they entered. There would be room for ten to fifteen people, FitzRoy thought, depending on how tightly they could be packed.
The curved ceiling and walls, which ran into each other, were painted dark blue on which appeared many silvery stars. Here and there hung light-green gauze curtains on which were painted trees with flowers at their roots.
Denoriel gestured to Nyle and Dickson to move right and left and directed them together to press down on the levers attached to the wall. When they did, a split appeared in the center of the Mound directly ahead and the walls slid back smoothly. Denoriel set the lantern down on the floor and beckoned everyone out, then told them to turn and look back.
FitzRoy gasped and tears stung his eyes. For a moment he felt as if he were looking out from the Gate at Elfhame Logres into the dim twilight in which one could make out only a distant vista of large trees, the ground carpeted with nearly colorless flowers. But he could not speak. Whatever it was that had touched him when he stood before King Oberon in Llachar Lle still bound him to silence.
Denoriel gripped his shoulder and explained that he would hold the place just before the central opening; Nyle and Dickson would work the levers and he would step out. There would be a loud bang and thick, colored smoke—the trick he had had Sir Edward copy, only the smoke would be thicker because he knew better how to work the trick. His eyes met Harry's and Harry nodded. He understood that true magic would thicken the smoke and enhance the color, but that did not matter.
FitzRoy was warned not to tear the gauze curtains, not to move until most of the smoke cleared, and not to fall down the steps, which were hidden in green cloth that had cut loops protruding from it so that it really looked like grass. The cloth also hid the wheels on which the Mound rolled. It would be pulled into the Great Hall by six royal guards dressed as wild men, their swords concealed in their fur robes.
Then Denoriel led them out, carefully closing the stable doors behind him. A guard stepped out of a small shelter and Denoriel nodded at him. The guards in front of the Great Hall, stepped aside for Denoriel, and he shepherded Lord Henry and FitzRoy and FitzRoy's ever-present personal guards into the chamber. All of them stopped just inside the doorway, staring first out and then upward and then around at the busy crowd rushing this way and that, carrying and dragging great bundles of greenery.
The hall was more than forty feet long and perhaps twenty-five wide and the arched and beamed ceiling soared up a full two floors. Large as the chamber was, it was well lit near the middle of the day by large glassed windows between the arches. And it would be as well lit after the dark of the short winter's day had fallen by the huge chandeliers that hung from every cross beam and the candelabra that were fixed to the walls.
Because of its height and width, it was not as noisy as one might expect from the activity. Men perched on high ladders attaching swathes of ivy and branches of pine and hemlock to the beams. Others hung precariously over the railings of the balcony that ran around the far end of the Hall over the dais, hanging bay and holm, more ivy and mistletoe, which would permit the king to steal a kiss or two from any maiden coming near.
"Your Grace," Denoriel said—apparently not for the first time from his tone of voice. "The Mound will be drawn forward to between that second pair of windows facing the dais. The king will be seated on a throne in the center. Lady Anne will be standing just to his right, at the foot of the dais."
"Yes. I was supposed to start toward the king and then, as if I caught sight of her and was irresistibly attracted, I was to turn aside and ask her to dance." He shook his head. "I won't do that—as if a pretty girl were enough to distract me from my father."
Although he had made up his mind and was not tempted to change it, FitzRoy was still uneasy about Lady Anne's reaction. He had gone to considerable trouble to make a good impression on her and had, he thought, succeeded. But it made no difference. It felt wrong to be turned aside from his king and his father to flatter a woman.
So the rest of the day passed and the next day was taken up with going to church and trying on clothing and costume. Still if FitzRoy had known the effort Lady Anne was putting into her appearance for that moment, he would have been even more uneasy.
On Christmas day, an hour before Lady Anne Boleyn went down to the Great Hall, Lady Lee and Lady Alana, both stood examining her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Lady Lee merely looked with fatuous fondness. Lady Alana nodded curtly, and Anne sighed softly.
She knew she was pushing the limit in her dress. Her hair was not hidden completely beneath cap-and-gable headdress. The band and headdress were there, but had been pushed back to sit on the crown of her head, exposing the rich mass of her hair, parted in the center, smooth and shining. The gable itself was sewn with pearls on two golden bands and raised up on a base of stiffened buckram. That was normal, and when it sat forward on the head it merely framed the face; pushed back as Anne had set it, it hinted at a crown.
Her gown was rich near
ly to ostentation, saved only by the color, which was a quiet mulberry. It was the only thing that was quiet. The square neck was bordered by a thin band of gold lace set with tiny garnets. Around her neck was an elaborate necklace of cunningly worked gold interspersed with larger garnets and from the center hung down a pendant, also worked gold, set with three dark rubies. A longer chain of garnet-set gold made a wider circle around her neck, dipping into the front of her gown to lie on her breasts. Around the outside of the square neckline, on her shoulders, lay three more chains of gold, and from the center of the neckline hung a heavy gold pendant, a conjoined AB with another large ruby dropping below.
Alana nodded again. "In a general way, I would say it was too much, but for today, when it is very important for the king's attention to be riveted upon you—"
"You think the boy is a danger to me?" Anne asked.
Alana laughed softly, which softened her otherwise solemn expression. "Oh, no. Not at all. I think he will be helpful and will put Princess Mary completely out of his father's mind. But—everything is different this Christmas, so if the king should think of Lady Catherine, let his eyes come to you and tell him how rich a prize he has in exchange."
In so much Lady Alana seemed to have judged correctly. When Anne entered the Great Hall it was too crowded already for the king to see her at once, but she saw the uneasy movement in those who approached the dais and when she reached it herself she saw the petulant droop of her Henry's mouth. She knew how to deal with his petulance, but there was something else, a kind of sadness for something lost, in his small blue eyes. Anne swallowed a sharp remark and smiled and held out her hand.
She was relieved when she saw admiration replace petulance, and she stepped up onto the dais and leaned down to kiss his cheek. Then, laughing, she kissed his other cheek. He looked surprised. Anne was not often so demonstrative. Then she looked up above his head and seemed to count, and at last bent lower and kissed his lips, explaining that there were no less than three bunches of mistletoe over his head. "I must needs pay the sweet forfeit thrice, you see," she explained.
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