George Boleyn sighed with complete sincerity. "It is because the queen could never give King Henry an heir," he explained. "And now—"
Now, as Denoriel knew well, she never would. Not with the king growing openly discontented with her company—and seeking other beds. Such as Elizabeth Blount, FitzRoy's mother, and George Boleyn's own sister, Mary.
"But the queen and king do have an heir, the Princess Mary."
No hesitation or inflection in Denoriel's voice betrayed his memory of the cold wash of revulsion that had passed through him when he had made his bow with others to Princess Mary. The reaction seemed dreadfully unfair. She was a sweet-faced child with a pleasant manner and a marked skill in music. She had even been a red-haired baby, although now her hair was a dull auburn. But Mary's face had never worn the engaging scowl Denoriel had seen on the infant in King Henry's arms, there was no power in her, as there had been in the babe, and the frisson of withdrawal from her hinted she was the antithesis of the ruler who would usher in a golden age for England.
Boleyn made a dissatisfied sound and Denoriel asked, "Why do you not like her? She is healthy and clever. She even has a royal air about her, young as she is. What is wrong with Princess Mary?"
If Denoriel had hoped for some light to be cast upon why he did not like the princess, he would have been disappointed. However, he had no such hope. He already knew that George Boleyn had no trace of Talent, although his father, Sir Thomas, did, and so did his youngest sister Anne. George would not have been responding to whatever repelled Denoriel about Princess Mary, but he could possibly explain just how much of a threat she was to the welfare of the Sidhe.
Boleyn's lips pursed. "She is a girl."
Denoriel frowned. "That is all? Is there some law in England as there is in France forbidding a woman to rule? Hungary had a queen once, and the country flourished."
That was not strictly true, but Denoriel had discovered that George Boleyn and his circle were profoundly ignorant of any history but their own, and not too proficient in that. To his mild consternation, for his knowledge of Hungarian history was superficial, Boleyn looked strongly interested.
"Is that so? Who did she marry? Did he influence her rule?"
"Marry?" Denoriel hastily sought through what he had been told by Jenci Moricz, who had been induced to come from Elfhame Csetate-Boli to Elfhame Logres to give him a quick course in Hungarian history and social customs. "It was a long time ago," he protested mildly. "I'm not very sure, but I think she married the man who had been betrothed to her by her father. Sigismond, he was called."
"Ah, yes, but what I really want to know was who ruled?"
Denoriel laughed. "It was some two hundred years ago. I did not live there then. They were called joint rulers, but I suspect that it was Sigismond that ruled because Queen Maria died after about fifteen years and Sigismond continued to rule for many years more."
"Ah ha!" Boleyn nodded vigorously. "That was what I thought and that is exactly what King Henry opposes. If Princess Mary becomes his heir she will have to marry a prince of a foreign country. To marry other than the reigning prince or the heir apparent, would be to demean England's honor. Yet, if Princess Mary marries the reigning prince, he will doubtless rule England as well as his own land and England would become no more than a conquered state, although no war had been fought."
So, Denoriel thought, that is a way that Spain could come to rule England without war. If Mary married a Spanish prince and the people came to accept him or were so cowed they could not rebel . . . and then Mary died. Then Spain might continue to rule.
"Then why could she not marry one of her own noblemen?" Denoriel asked. "Surely he would be less important than she, and she would hold all the power."
"That would also demean the crown of England, but there is another danger there," Boleyn said, and Denoriel was surprised at the shrewdness of his expression. "Wives often become attached to and dependent upon their husbands. King Henry fears that any noble house from which a husband was chosen for Mary would soon wield far too much influence over all the rest of us."
"Hmmm." Denoriel considered that while the horses began to stretch into a trot. "There is sense in that," he agreed after a moment.
They rode southeast now on a well-traveled road. Denoriel felt as if they were hardly moving. With some difficulty he restrained himself from urging Miralys faster, reminding himself that Miralys was pacing himself so as not to stress Boleyn's horse. He saw that Boleyn was staring ahead, chewing on his lower lip and decided to distract him. He really did not want to know what Boleyn's business was, as it could not concern the red-haired child.
"But George, I do not see what King Henry's dissatisfaction with his heir has to do with loading such heavy honors on a six-year-old child."
"FitzRoy . . . ah, Richmond, is male," Boleyn said. "When he marries, he will rule no matter what his wife's heritage."
"But he is not legitimate," Denoriel protested, not because that had any meaning to him but because he remembered the suppressed fear and passion with which the boy had announced he did not wish to be king.
Sidhe sometimes took life companions, but by and large they loved until they tired of one another and then parted. In any case, even if they chose to use the seldom invoked state of legal binding, which mortals called marriage, that had nothing to do with children. A child, no matter how conceived, was a blessing to be cherished more highly than any other thing in Underhill.
Bolen nodded agreement with Denoriel's remark, then shrugged. "Well, there is good precedent for bastards ruling England, William the Bastard, who is now often called 'the Conqueror,' being the best known example. Still that is why the king is moving slowly, indicating what might be his preference by the honors but not yet naming the boy his heir. He wishes to discover how his people react to the idea."
Denoriel shook his head and then hurriedly put up a hand to stabilize the large, floppy hat that would hide his ears if some encounter with cold iron should break the round-ear illusion. He had had to abandon his favored clothing for garments that were fashionable at court. The stylish clothes together with his skill as a swordsman and the quality of his horses—Miralys in several different colors and lengths of mane and tail—had gained "Lord Denno" of Hungary a place within the circle of Henry VIII's friends.
"I don't understand," he admitted, laughing. "I don't think I want to understand. Let me enjoy riding about the country and hunting with you, George, and looking at gardens. Do not trouble my head with politics."
CHAPTER 3
Several weeks later Denoriel came to Windsor again on one of his regular, if secret, visits. He dismounted and Miralys disappeared into the little copse opposite a long-forgotten postern gate in the wall around Windsor Palace's gardens. He listened for a moment, but there was no human sound nearby. The gate yielded to his touch—he had, at the cost of a sick headache that resisted Mwynwen's best efforts at Healing for three days—removed the iron lock and substituted a blackened silver imitation that had only an illusion for wards and was sealed with magic.
As far as the safety of Windsor, his substitution was an improvement. No thief, no assassin, could open his lock as, with patience and skill, such a man might have opened the iron one. For his purposes, it saved the chance of raising questions in anyone's mind about the frequency of his visits to young Harry FitzRoy. Officially he had seen Harry once in the interval. That time Lord Denno had again accompanied George Boleyn, who had business with the Duke of Norfolk, to Windsor—for the pleasure of the ride and Boleyn's company, he said. Lord Denno had then politely left Norfolk and Boleyn to discuss their business in private and had gone off to walk in the gardens.
Considering Lord Denno's fondness for flowers, it was not surprising to anyone that he should encounter the young duke of Richmond in company with his playmates Henry and Mary Howard. The children all liked Lord Denno, who had the wit to invent new twists for old games, and, since Harry FitzRoy never mentioned Denoriel when he met him
alone, Norfolk believed the foreigner only saw all three children together.
This was a clever lie—without one false word being uttered—because over those weeks FitzRoy had insisted on sailing his boat in the pond every day. Sometimes Henry and Mary brought boats and sailed them too——Denoriel never appeared on those days—but most of the time the Howard children found something more interesting to do and left FitzRoy alone. The guards, knowing the garden to be safely walled, stayed at the entry from where they could usually watch all three children.
Denoriel approved heartily of the situation as it was. The official visits when he accompanied George Boleyn had made Norfolk familiar with Lord Denno's fondness for children—and Denno had provided a sad tale of young brothers and sisters lost to the Turks—but aroused no suspicions of any particular relationship with FitzRoy. Denoriel's other incursions, twice or thrice a week, went totally unnoticed by anyone.
No one even knew Denoriel had ridden out of London, since he had, with King Oberon's approval and the assistance of one of the Magus Majors of Elfhame Logres, created and set a small Gate to open from near the palace Llachar Lle to two places: Lord Denno's private set of rooms in his rented house in London and a tiny wood near a crossroad about a mile from Windsor. Four other destinations could be set into the Gate, even though it was a small one, only able to take him mounted on Miralys, but for now the other possibilities were empty.
Actually when Denoriel arrived at Windsor today, he was not certain that he would find Harry at the pond. He had visited the boy only the previous day, and ordinarily would not come again for one or two days more; however, he had had news that he found unsettling after he had returned to his London house.
A message had been waiting for him. That was innocent enough, only being a pressing invitation to accompany George Boleyn, Thomas Wyatt, Henry Norris, and Francis Bryan to attend the theater that afternoon. Although Denoriel found the scenery and effects incredibly crude and unconvincing, he had great admiration for the plays themselves and George's friends were all devoted to art and literature, which made discussions of what they had seen fascinating. Wyatt was a remarkably fine poet, George somewhat less skilled but with a pretty turn of phrase. Norris and Bryan were musicians of considerable skill. Denoriel always enjoyed an evening with them . . . and sometimes picked up valuable court gossip too.
So it was after the play, when they had all settled at a favorite tavern. To Denoriel's surprise the men did not discuss the entertainment, even though it had been thought provoking. They were too full of the fact that King Henry had named Princess Mary Lord Lieutenant of Wales and ordered that she be sent with a great household to Ludlow Castle—a traditional appointment for the heir to the throne.
That should have settled the confusion about who King Henry would name his heir . . . except that the king, with clear intent to obscure the issue, had ordered almost the same honors for Henry FitzRoy. At the time he had been elevated to the peerage and given precedence over all other nobles, except those of the king's blood, he had also been named Lieutenant General North of the Trent. Now the king publicly reconfirmed him in that position and named him in addition keeper of the city and castle of Carlisle. Finally the king decreed that FitzRoy would be sent, with a household every bit equal to that of the princess, to rule—through his council—the north.
Denoriel had no idea why that news made him immediately uneasy. It would be some weeks, possibly even months, before FitzRoy's household could be assembled and the move begun. However, when he parted from George and his friends and reached his London house—ostensibly to go to bed for the night—he had naturally Gated to his apartment in Llachar Lle. There he found a bright, nearly transparent little creature flitting about his living room. It flung itself at him as soon as he entered the house, twittering with delight. It was a nearly mindless, but very affectionate, spirit of the air and, in contrast to its own happiness, carried an uncomfortable message from Aleneil.
Aleneil had waited for him for some time, the bright little thing burbled, but had to leave for a session with her teachers. She, too, had had presentiments of danger—not a true Seeing, not even a hint of what kind of danger, only danger and soon. Possibly with the assistance of the more experienced FarSeers, she would learn more, but she had wanted to warn Denoriel.
Danger. But from where, for whom? Denoriel reviewed his recent movements and realized he had hardly interacted at all with the rest of the Sidhe of Elfhame Logres—other than Mwynwen. He had been with Mwynwen frequently, either in his own chambers or her house, resting and leaching out of his body the subliminal aches and slight sickness that extended exposure to iron caused . . . because most of his time was spent in the mortal world. So the danger must come from there, but the only change in the situation was the renewed emphasis on the elevation of FitzRoy.
Did he dare wait to hear again from Aleneil, Denoriel wondered? No, he did not! FarSeeing was more a nuisance than a help, he thought, sending a thought for Miralys. Soon. What did soon mean? Within minutes of when Aleneil had the presentiment? Within hours? Within days?
Anxious and exasperated, Denoriel Gated to Windsor, left Miralys to conceal himself in the copse, and let himself into the garden. Having slipped sidelong through the barely opened gate, he stood with his back to the wall, hidden in the shadows, and listened. Aside from the normal sounds of night, insects and some peeping of frogs from the pond, there was utter silence.
Carefully Denoriel worked his way through the gardens, slipping from hedge shadow to tree shadow, to where he could see the palace itself. The bulk of the huge building was dark and silent—no flickering of light from window to window as if someone were rushing around, no sounds of excitement. Torches flamed at the front door and guards stood to each side of it, but from their stance, there had been no trouble recently nor were they expecting trouble. There were other entrances to the palace, but those were all locked and barred every night. He did not believe any of them could be breached without considerable noise.
Denoriel allowed a soft sigh of relief to ease past his lips. Whatever Aleneil had felt had not happened yet. But despite that assurance, inside he was as taut as a bowstring. It would happen . . . soon. How soon? Denoriel stood in the shadows, staring out along the road that led to the outer gate.
It took a moment for his eyes to recover from that glance at the torches and he had to restrain an impulse to "tch" with irritation and shake his head. What in the world could those guards expect to see if their eyes were accustomed to the light of the torches? And mortals were near blind at night anyway. But that was irrelevant.
The road was empty and silent. Denoriel shrugged. No one would be admitted to the palace at this time of night, at least not without considerable fuss and bother. So either the danger was already within or it would arrive in the daylight tomorrow . . . or the next day, or the next.
He felt like howling with frustration. Within. He sighed. Yes, he could get within. He had witched a window—fortunately that had had only had a small metal catch—near FitzRoy's apartment during his "official" visit to Windsor, when he had asked the children to see their wing of the palace. But if he were caught, there was no explanation he would be able to give. Lord Denno would have to disappear, and it would be very much harder to find a new identity . . . and still harder to re-win Harry's confidence.
There was no way, he told himself, that anyone could get the child out of the palace, but to slip into his bedchamber and smother him . . . Denoriel's breath caught. No one would! Surely no one would harm such a small, sweet child!
Even as the thoughts passed through his mind, his clothing turned a dull, dusty black and he was slipping from shadow to shadow across the open ground. His footsteps made no noise and his movements, a short rush when a cloud passed the moon, and an utter stillness in which his dark form could easily be one more ornamental tree or bush, would deceive most watchers. He reached the wall of the building that held the children's quarters.
Here there w
as shadow enough between the towers that beetled out from the wall. Beneath the witched window, Denoriel stopped, put his back to the wall, and stood, hardly breathing, listening. Nothing. Silence. It was too far from the pond to hear the frogs and there was nothing to attract insects. The walls were rough, unfinished stone blocks. Denoriel pulled off his boots and attached them magically to his back where they would not get in the way; there were plenty of places for his long, thin fingers and toes to grip.
He went up and was inside quickly enough to be sure that no one could have come on the scene and noticed him. Inside the silence was even more profound. Several of the chambers were vacant, reserved for visiting children of friends and relatives. Denoriel passed silently along the corridor, his heartbeat increasing with his fear of what he would find—but all he found was peace.
In the outer chamber of FitzRoy's apartment, a fat night candle in a corner near the door lit the room as bright as day to Denoriel's night-sighted, dark-adjusted eyes. In the next room, a manservant or a guard was asleep on a settle. That made Denoriel tense and he hurried past to the next door. The innermost room was FitzRoy's bedchamber; that was also well lit with a night candle.
The boy's nurse slept on a truckle bed pulled out from beneath the high four-poster, but not with sodden flaccidity as she would had she been drugged. Her fingers twitched very slightly on the coverlet and she made a tiny whistling snore. Although the lightness of her sleep threatened discovery, Denoriel's pulse began to slow as he circled around and approached the bed on the side opposite the truckle bed. If Harry was safe, he could deal with the nurse if he must.
Silently, careful not to rattle the rings, Denoriel pulled the curtain back a bare inch. He heard FitzRoy's peaceful breathing, saw his face, the cheek resting on a familiar silk kerchief clutched in one hand; Denoriel remembered wrapping that kerchief around FitzRoy's wrist when he had hurt it in a game. He swallowed. The truckle bed creaked. Denoriel froze. When the sound was not repeated, he dropped the curtain and eased to the edge of the bed, then around the bottom until he could see; the nurse was quiet now, seeming more soundly asleep.
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