This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  King Henry laughed, and seeing him pacified, the parade of courtiers began again. Before those pressing about him with good wishes could thin, trumpets sounded, the great doors were flung open, and Denoriel came through, flourishing a golden staff from the head of which came a sizzling noise and popping little stars of brilliance. He wore a tall pointed hat, all hung with arcane symbols and a black robe on which glittered more symbols. Then he pointed the staff at the doors; there were gasps of surprise and a few small cries of fear when everyone realized that the courtyard was no longer visible. Beyond the doors was nothing but blackness.

  Another flourish of the staff. The blackness was gone and the Fairy Mound appeared, drawn by groaning and cavorting wild men, each of whom were followed by another in fantastic garb, cracking a whip. Behind the Mound, the doors closed. The staff pointed. In the balcony above the dais, musicians struck up a lively melody. Denoriel approached the throne, his magician's staff lowered so that its glowing knob trailed on the ground in submission.

  As the Mound approached, Denoriel backed away from the king until he stood near the center. He swung the staff, striking the Mound with a resounding crash. A huge billow of smoke gushed from the broken head of his staff, enveloping him. Denoriel muttered the Don't-see-me spell and stepped quietly away. As the smoke dissipated, the Mound cracked open. Sighs and murmurs of astonishment passed through the crowd as they seemed to look into a moon-lit, tamed forest of great trees and pale flowers.

  Before the falseness of that vision could become apparent, FitzRoy leapt out of the Mound with ten courtiers behind him. All wore leaf-green hose topped with tunics of various light and bright colors. The tunics, square-necked, worn over white shirts with high collars, came to mid-thigh and were double-sleeved, the undersleeve, tight to the arm, of the same leaf-green as the hose, the oversleeve wide and trailing with dagged hems.

  FitzRoy paused and looked around; behind him the courtiers made a low, musical sound of awe and pointed. FitzRoy looked ahead at the dais and cried out, "Father!" and ran.

  King Henry, who had been watching the performance with unalloyed pleasure, started at FitzRoy's voice. The boy had reached him and fallen to his knees before Henry could rise.

  "Harry?" he said uncertainly.

  FitzRoy looked up, tears marking his cheeks. "Yes, Your Majesty, Harry . . . your son."

  The king pulled the boy up from his knees and into his arms. "Harry!" He bussed FitzRoy soundly on one cheek and then on the other, then pushed him a little away so he could look at him. "You have grown so much. I almost did not know you."

  FitzRoy took the king's hand and kissed it without reply. What could he say? That it had been years since his father had tried to see him? He would sound resentful, and he was not, not really. Denno had told him over and over that the separation was more for his own safety than because of political problems.

  "I was worried about you," the king added, frowning. "I knew when you started for London, and guessed about when you should have arrived but when I asked for you all my accursed councilors would tell me was that the roads were terrible and you were delayed."

  "They were. I was." FitzRoy grinned. "But I have been here a few days. Everyone thought a day or two more or less would not matter if you could have a pleasant surprise for Christmas. Was it a pleasant surprise?"

  King Henry kissed him and laughed. "I was surprised all right. That magician . . . My hair stood up when he smashed that scepter and the smoke rose. And then he vanished." He looked around. "Where is he?"

  "It's all tricks," FitzRoy whispered into his father's ear. "He is a very nice man and later he'll show everyone how the tricks are done. If you will be good enough to grant me an audience, Your Majesty, I can tell you all about him. And I have so much more to tell you, but now—" FitzRoy straightened up and raised his voice "—now I wish to beg you to allow me to ask Lady Anne Boleyn, the most worthy, the loveliest, and the purest maiden in this company, to dance with me in your name."

  The crowd had been hushed while FitzRoy clung to and talked with his father. Now his voice rang clear through the hall. The courtiers, who had followed him out of the Mound and had been standing in graceful poses, raised their arms, their trailing sleeves falling back to show bright contrasting linings. With raised arms, they circled twice on the floor before the Mound and then opened their circle and flowed toward where Lady Anne stood stiff and silent at the edge of the dais. They bowed. They made an aisle through which, having received his father's laughing permission, FitzRoy made his way to his partner.

  He swept off his cap and flourished it as he bowed, its long, brightly colored plume sweeping the floor. For a moment he thought Anne would refuse him, but Henry, laughing still, begged that she would not refuse him, else he would be forced to die of shame, and she held out her hand. The musicians struck up just the tune Lord Henry had played. FitzRoy made a wide, slow circle in the space before the Mound, giving plenty of time for the watchers to bow to Anne.

  They did the first figure of the dance alone, which gave FitzRoy time, when he and Anne came together, to apologize. "Lady Anne, I am so sorry," he said, "I know that I have spoiled what was planned, but when I saw my father—" Tears came to his eyes, and he blinked them away. "I have not seen him for so long! I was overpowered by my desire to greet him." Tears came to his eyes again as he begged her to forgive him.

  She said she forgave him; whether her words had meaning or not, FitzRoy did not know . . . and did not much care. All he could think about was being with his father again, being with him in private to talk as a son did with his father.

  The rest of the evening's revels—or as much of it as FitzRoy was permitted to attend—passed in a kind of hectic dream. He watched the dancers, listened to the musicians, even danced a bit more himself. He knew that he ate and drank, but could not recall the taste of anything. And long before the revels were over, Lord Henry was sent by Norfolk to take him back to his own chambers, where he dreamed that he was riding with his father through an elven forest.

  Normally such a hope would have been doomed to disappointment, but in a fit of pique because some of his council were still resisting his claim to be supreme head of the English church, King Henry had put aside all business until Twelfth Night. His own slight uneasiness about what he was doing, made him reluctant to spend his time in religious reading or writing or disputation. Those two accustomed pursuits temporarily ended left a gap in his morning activities into which FitzRoy just fit.

  His open joy at being with his father was very soothing to both of them. Henry asked questions and got answers that were very pleasing. FitzRoy was just the kind of boy that Henry liked—a hard rider in the hunting field, a good shot with a bow, and a serious student of the sword. The crown was set on the king's approval when FitzRoy admitted that he was no hand at tennis at all. They had not had a court in either Sheriff Hutton or Pontefract and his tutor had been reluctant, he admitted, to provide another distraction to his already reluctant scholar.

  Although he was a fine scholar himself, Henry laughed heartily over his son's confession. He remembered being much less enamored of books and lessons when he, himself, had been the boy's age. Moreover the deprivation provided the king with the pleasure of introducing and instructing his son in one of his favorite games.

  Again FitzRoy's practice in swordplay came to his aid. He was quick with eye and hand and soon mastered the correct moves. And again his age and incomplete growth saved him from winning against the older, more corpulent king. His aim was accurate enough, but he had not the strength to drive the ball far, so many of his strokes fell short of the net. He did not mind losing at all; the king praised him for learning so well, put the right reason on his failure . . . and had the joy of winning the game.

  All in all FitzRoy spent a lot of time with his father over the twelve days, and when the question was raised about the boy traveling back north, the king quashed the suggestion at once. No traveling until the roads were dry and the weather set
tled, King Henry said. He had been frightened enough when his son had been so long in coming. He was taking no chances on losing him on the way back. The northern properties were in the capable hands of the councilors. Harry should stay with the court.

  For a month or so, FitzRoy was very happy. As the king reluctantly returned to the business of ruling, FitzRoy saw less of him, but he did ride with his father on the almost daily hunts and was praised highly for his horsemanship. Also, King Henry found pleasure in an occasional game of tennis and a cozy chat while they cooled off and drank some ale, and Harry was often called to stand beside his father—with Anne on the other side—when courtiers were received.

  FitzRoy got along well enough with Anne. He was deferential to her and showed that he enjoyed her presence and conversation. She was bright and witty, and even when he occasionally felt she had gone too far in making one of the courtiers the butt of her wit, he kept his disapproval from his face. She was less satisfied with his company, he was sure, but he knew it had nothing to do with him. She simply did not like anyone, even someone who approved of her, drawing away the king's attention.

  Moreover, more of the courtiers than Anne had begun to notice the king's growing affection for his baseborn son. This man and that made excuses to talk to or ride with FitzRoy, and most of them had ideas they wished transmitted to the king. Now Lord Henry was very useful and helpful—when FitzRoy could reach him. Lord Henry had a group of friends and often went off with them to pursue private amusements. FitzRoy compromised by telling his father he had been approached by this man and that and repeating what they wanted. Mostly the king laughed, but it all made FitzRoy uncomfortable. He did not want to anger anyone, and yet, it seemed that no matter what he did, unless he was very careful, he would have to anger someone. That was the part of being a diplomat he had not sufficiently considered.

  By the end of February, FitzRoy was heartily tired of the court and was aware that he had seen nothing of Denno. He wanted most sincerely to be back in the snow-heaped quiet of Sheriff Hutton or Pontefract talking quietly with Denno and drinking hot cider before a roaring fire, but he could not bring himself to tell his father he wanted to leave him.

  Finally he caught Lord Henry, on a flying visit to court, who grinned and said, "Don't! Go tell Lady Anne. She wants to be rid of you as much as you want to be gone. She'll think of something."

  When Anne agreed to receive him alone, he told her how tired he was of being at court. First she regarded him suspiciously and accused him of wanting to get her into trouble with the king. But after he had denied this vehemently, he could see that she was beginning to consider the benefits of his suggestion. Finally she said that she could not ask he be sent back to Sheriff Hutton, not over winter roads. That would sound as if she were hoping ill would befall him.

  "And I don't," she said, stroking his cheek carelessly. "You are a very nice boy. I don't want any harm to come to you . . . but I would prefer it if I could talk to Henry more often without you right beside us."

  "Could I have a house of my own, say, in London? If I weren't right here, so a page could run and fetch me . . ."

  "A house of your own in London, close by nearly all of Henry's favorite places, even Whitehall?" Anne pursed her lips and then nodded. "That is no bad thought. Then no one could say I was trying to keep you apart." Slowly she smiled. "Well, why not? There are several residences right here in the city that are too small for the king himself. He uses them occasionally to house diplomats on short missions . . . Why not?"

  FitzRoy returned to his apartments, feeling that he had truly won Anne Boleyn as an ally.

  Anne watched the boy leave, feeling that for now, at least, she had truly won the king's bastard as an ally. And the longer this went on, the less likely it was that he would change his mind, or be won over to another faction. She was still troubled, however, that the king would suspect her of trying to be rid of the son who was giving him so much pleasure. She talked that over with her two intimates and Lady Alana who was usually silent on every subject except clothing, lifted her nothing face and smiled.

  "His health, madam," she suggested in her soft voice. "Speak to the king of the boy's health. Surely it is not common for boys of twelve to be so constantly at court, to have so many late hours and so few times of quiet."

  Lady Anne smiled; she was beginning to treasure her odd lady-in-waiting for more than her expert hand with costume. Lady Alana had a shrewd mind, and was often able to concoct a means by which Anne could get something she wanted while casting herself in the best possible light.

  This particular suggestion would not only allow her to appear concerned about FitzRoy's health, it would allow her to appear maternal. . . .

  The ploy was so successful—FitzRoy having caught on the first time his father asked him how he was feeling and admitted to some fatigue—that by the end of March the king had signed over to FitzRoy's possession Baynard's Castle, near the river south of St. Paul's. And, to FitzRoy's secret delight, not far at all from Denno's house on Bucklersbury.

  He was so profoundly grateful when the king told him, that Henry, rather hurt, said, "Are you tired of my company so soon, Harry?"

  Whereupon FitzRoy threw manners and protocol to the winds and threw his arms around his father's neck. "Of your company, Sire? Never! When I am with you, I am always at ease and happy. I never need to watch each word out of my mouth for fear I will say something someone will misunderstand or, even worse, take as a promise. I love you, father, but I am wearied and yet I cannot sleep, when I am pulled this way and that and importuned . . ."

  The king returned the boy's hug and then patted him on the shoulder. "I understand all too well," he said, but he was still resentful, and added, "but I do not see what good living in a house apart from the court will do you."

  "My servants can say I am not at home," FitzRoy answered promptly. "To any except your messengers and possibly Lord Henry, mostly I will be denied. If I am not at home to anybody, no one can be offended, and if they can't get in, they can't talk at me."

  The king stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and burst into gales of laughter, and FitzRoy knew that all was well.

  CHAPTER 29

  Baynard's Castle was actually no longer a castle. The stronghold of a twelfth century rebel lord, it had been razed to the ground and a handsome, commodious house built over its old cellars by the seventh Henry, the current Henry's father. However, what had been commodious in the previous century was cramped in terms of royal guesthouses now; embassies from one king to another had grown far more elaborate.

  Henry's council thus felt it would be a good thing to get the expense of maintaining the house off the king's rolls, and it would do well enough for a ducal residence. There were much grander ones—some on the council owned them—but Richmond was not quite thirteen years old. He could add to Baynard's or build a grander house when he was a man.

  Long before FitzRoy had been gifted with Baynard's Castle, the remainder of his servants and his baggage had finally made their way to Greenwich. There was no room for them with half the nobility of the kingdom squeezed into the area and no need for them either. Under-grooms and under-valets and a bevy of maids had been appointed from the overflow of such servants on the king's staff.

  Norfolk had found FitzRoy's own people various lodgings in London, but they felt idle and lost and feared they would be dismissed. When Ladbroke and Dunstan arrived with the news that FitzRoy had a residence of his own, they were all overjoyed and hastened to move into the castle to make it ready. If Norfolk had intended to appoint a new staff for FitzRoy, he never had the chance.

  By then FitzRoy himself would not have cared if Baynard's Castle was a hovel, and he fled to the cold, empty house only two days after the deed was delivered to him. He had barely escaped from going with the king to Hampton Court. Henry had said the house could not possibly be ready—and he was right—but FitzRoy was now desperate for a safe haven. Fortunately an encounter with an aggres
sive, opportunistic woman rescued him. She was importuning him with so much warmth to come and meet her daughter, that in his efforts to escape he had backed up right into the king's arms.

  That was enough. King Henry knew he could not watch his son every minute and he had no intention of allowing twelve-year-old Harry to be trapped into any compromising situation—not with his own situation being so ambiguous. He gave permission for his son to depart the court. FitzRoy found only two rooms warm and furnished, his bedchamber and the kitchen. He did not care a bit and he wept with joy as he was folded into Mistress Bethany's arms and again when only half an hour later Denoriel, alerted by Ladbroke, appeared in the doorway.

  "I thought I'd lost you," he sobbed, holding tight to the Sidhe. "I tried and tried to think of a way to invite you to come to me, but I never could. And when I asked for you outright, Norfolk said it was time to break our connection, that I had my father and you were no longer necessary. I was afraid you would think that, having been welcomed by the king, I no longer cared for you."

  Denoriel laughed and hugged the boy hard. "No, no. What with all those under-grooms the king provided for you, Ladbroke had plenty of time to ride to London and let me know what was happening. Still, I missed you, Harry." He ruffled the boy's hair and laughed again. "But your father or his council could not have chosen a better place. Did you know there are deep cellars below the house, part of the old castle that was here?"

  "Cellars?"

  "Yes, my boy, and you are going to become an expert on wine, so no one will be surprised if you are occasionally met coming out of the cellar at odd times of day or evening. Nor will it be thought odd if a close friend, who buys wine for you, is seen coming and going from the cellar."