This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  Because she felt Edward needed to understand why most Sidhe avoided the mortal world and that he might settle better into his life Underhill when he had tasted Overhill, Aleneil took him to her brother's establishment. It did not take him long to realize his mistake.

  He had been taught English as well as Elven and as his first lesson Aleneil gave him a few coins and sent him to the market. The rutted, muddy street (and that was a main road through London) awash with all kinds of debris—from offal to excrement in its gutters—that led to the East Chepe was a shock. The crude market, the yelling, pushing peddlers, the loud, cheating merchants, who groaned of being beggared when he protested their inflated prices, and the goods themselves, rough fabrics, crude furniture, blemished, half-ripe or overripe fruits and vegetables, sickened him. No heaven here.

  Beyond that, there was no magical breeze to waft his purchases back to the house. He had to carry them himself through the noise and the filth. Muddy water fouled with Dannae alone knew what spattered his hose, and he knew there would be no near-mindless, faceless servitor to wash them. He would need to do by hand menial tasks done Underhill by spells or those mindless servitors, for he had no magic to perform them as the Low Court Sidhe did. The mortal world no longer seemed like a place of endless glorious possibilities from which the Sidhe had been keeping him. He elected to go back Underhill with Aleneil.

  The other two men, Kip Ladbroke and Shandy Dunstan, were different cases. Both had also been snatched up after a Wild Hunt—Denoriel even remembered Kip—but they had been much older, Dunstan nearly fifteen and Ladbroke twelve. In each case, but at separate times and places, they had been traveling, not willingly, in the company of an older male. Dunstan had been bound and bruised, beaten so severely that he could barely stagger along; Ladbroke, tethered by the neck like a dog, had been bloody and weeping. Both had been caught up by the Sidhe, separated from the target of the Hunt, judged innocent but as having seen too much, and delivered to Elfhame Avalon.

  Both Dunstan and Ladbroke knew the mortal world well and the bottom of it to boot. Both knew what they would be losing by leaving Underhill. Even for servants of the Seleighe Court life was easy, safe, beautiful. Both knew they would still be servants in the mortal world and that in many ways life would be much harder.

  On the other hand, both were mortal and clever and bored to death by the sameness of life in Elfhame Avalon. Both wanted to go places and do things, to find wives and marry and have children; both hoped for adventure and excitement, and the chance, maybe, to help some other young lad in dire straits, if only by calling on their own elven rescuers. Neither was foolish enough to wish to "escape" Avalon, to try, penniless and without friends or relatives, to build a life in a hard world. So they had remained Underhill; however, when offered a place in the retinue of a Sidhe lord who was masquerading as human, both seized the offer with joy. This would be the ideal chance to insinuate themselves back into the world of men—if Denoriel's task came to an end, he could and would easily find them employment in the retinue of one or another of his noble friends. And if it did not—they were assured of a continuing place in his employ.

  Denoriel accepted both and left them to make themselves comfortable in the house, to find quarters for themselves, to buy horses and tack for the journey, and, most important of all, to construct stories of who they were, where they came from, how they had come into Denoriel's service. When they—and Denoriel—were satisfied by the tales, the Sidhe would arrange to have some papers prepared that would support their claims. It would not need to be much—parish birth-records, and a forged letter or two of recommendation.

  Having Gated back to Windsor, Denoriel spent another totally unproductive day guarding Harry. The white kitten was just as bored as he, so it was fortunate that the newly reinforced spell in the collar kept it fixed to its duty.

  Now only two days remained until the party left Windsor. Denoriel, again refreshed by a night Underhill, came directly to the London house in the morning. He checked on what Dunstan and Ladbroke had done and was well satisfied. As Aleneil had assured him, these were clever, resourceful men.

  Despite having been away from the mortal world for respectively ten and twelve years, they had chosen excellent horses, sturdy cobs without much beauty or speed but with considerable endurance; respectable tack, worn but in good order and repair; and they had each concocted a solid tale.

  Each kept his native birthplace, fearing to be caught speaking in the wrong accent. Ladbroke claimed he had been an orphan and was picked up in the street and sold to a shipmaster. Dunstan said his father had sold him, having too many children and not enough to feed them.

  Eventually they had come to the same ship and become friends, risen to be marines, and when they came to port in Southampton had decided they had had enough of ship life. Their shipmaster, sensibly not wanting disaffected fighting men aboard, not only released them but told them of having heard, through a fellow shipmaster, of a foreign gentleman who needed servants who could also wield a blade. A dispatched message had received a favorable reply, and here they were.

  Denoriel pronounced himself well satisfied and promised to arrange identification for them. Then he handed over another purse and bade them go out and buy clothing sufficient for a journey of at least a month and a pack mule that could carry their baggage and a tent. They would leave for Windsor the following morning to be sure to be ready whenever Norfolk gave the order for FitzRoy's cortege . . .

  And just as he was giving them the last of their instructions, a white kitten landed on Denoriel's shoulder.

  :Black Sidhe!: It shrilled at him. :Come now! Black Sidhe! Great power!:

  Denoriel did not even finish his sentence. He fled to the stable, leapt on Miralys, who formed a saddle beneath him as he struck his back. They burst through the wall between the worlds as only an elvensteed could, setting off alarms as they passed into Elfhame Logres. But Denoriel and Miralys were known; the guard set no magic barrier and without waiting to explain, he Gated to Windsor.

  He arrived at the main gate of the palace looking enough disordered to make the guards smile. "Busy night? Slept late did you?" he asked.

  For once Denoriel did not echo the smile. His mouth was thin and grim, but he forced himself to look pleasant, though cool—as indeed, he should, for the guard's comment was presumptuous. "I—needed to say good-bye; it took some time. May I enter? I need to ask some questions about the journey."

  The guard nodded. "A'course, milord."

  The guard looked and sounded chagrined, as if he knew he had overstepped even the foreigner's affability. The gate was opened wide and Denoriel and Miralys passed through. He was tempted to ride the elvensteed right up to the palace door so he could ask questions, but Miralys went toward the stable and the white kitten suddenly appeared again in his lap.

  "Where is Harry?" he asked it in a frantic whisper.

  :Tutor:

  Denoriel breathed again and ceased pulling at the reins, a useless enterprise since they were not connected to a bit. Miralys continued toward the stable. "Where is the black Sidhe?"

  The kitten promptly disappeared. Still anxious but less so, Denoriel looked around and saw that the doors of the carriage house as well as those of the stable were open. Just within them was a very handsome coach, a more elegant design even than that of Francis Bryan, and on the seat Denoriel caught a glimpse of something very strange. He hurriedly stabled Miralys and told the stable boys to leave his horse saddled.

  "I don't expect to be here long. I just came to confirm the date of departure. Oh, whose is that most elegant coach in the carriage house?"

  "Princess Mary's. She is departing for Wales very soon and sent a nun with a gift for His Grace of Richmond."

  A nun! Black Sidhe! Denoriel had been too alarmed to wonder at what the air spirit had said, but now he remembered the creature could not tell liosalfar from dark elf. So what the air spirit meant was a Sidhe clothed in black.

  Controlling his urge
to run from the stable, Denoriel nodded his thanks at the boy who had answered his question, and tossed him a coin. The other boys promptly converged on the recipient to claim a promise of sharing, which was what Denoriel had hoped they would do, and he stepped out and slipped into the carriage house.

  He hesitated near the doors for a moment, extending his senses, but the coach itself was of ordinary mortal stuff and there was no coachman. Likely the man was in the stable with the horses. Denoriel walked closer, came right up to the window, and finally opened the door to look inside.

  A large toy ship that reeked of magic! A ship exactly like the one that had been damaged when FitzRoy hit his attacker with the mast. Cold coursed up and down Denoriel's back. Someone had wrenched the description of that ship from deep within one of the attacker's mind. Neither man would have consciously remembered all the details. Could the ship be bespelled?

  He had no intention of allowing Harry to touch that thing until he had examined it more closely. He raised a foot to step into the carriage so he could take hold of the large ship and his toe hit something soft. He looked down and barely prevented himself from screaming "Harry!"

  The naked child lay on the floor of the coach, wrapped only in a heavy black cloak. He was so exact an image of Henry FitzRoy that Denoriel blinked and bit his lip. But it was not Harry. The child stank of magic and more magic; it was the child, not the ship, that was bespelled, which was why the boy had not wakened when prodded by Denoriel's foot.

  Sent to seek for the black Sidhe, the white kitten had first appeared in Master Croke's apartment, one room of which had been set aside and fitted out as a schoolroom. It was a moderately large room with two small tables and chairs for Mary and FitzRoy and two normal sized tables—one much larger than the other—and covered with books and pamphlets. One served for Master Croke and the other for Henry Howard. A large and handsome globe stood in one corner; in the other was an unusually large and smooth slate fitted upright into a wooden frame. Against the wall behind Master Croke's table was a short bookcase holding more books and loose papers.

  Unfortunately Mary had seen the kitten and cried out, "Oh, you cute little naughty. How did you get in here?"

  Whereupon Master Croke went to open the door and let it out and Mary protested and jumped up to catch it and set it on her lap. The kitten ran away to avoid her. Master Croke ordered her to her seat but then started to look for the little cat himself to be sure he had evicted it. He knew it would cause more disruption if he had not.

  The kitten did not dare actually vanish, so there were another few minutes of delay while it appeared, disappeared, and finally scuttled from behind the globe stand to whisk through the door and out.

  To go from chamber to chamber, even as an air spirit could travel, would take too long. The kitten listened and felt, sending out diaphanous probes, but it did not dare open itself fully for fear the Sidhe would sense it and seize it. Thus its search was slower than it could have been, but eventually it perceived the Sidhe aura, followed it, found it . . . felt a flicker of recognition.

  Rhoslyn, wide-wimpled and garbed in lustrous black—a nun of wealth and family—stood with her head modestly bowed while the duke of Norfolk waved away his servants and clerks and gestured for his guards to go out too. She read his expression easily enough and had a little struggle with herself to keep from smiling. She had asked to speak to him alone and a moment later saw him dismiss her as a threat. After all, what harm could one small nun do him?

  But Rhoslyn only wanted privacy because she could not bespell a room full of people, and Norfolk's clerks, guards, and servants would see what she was doing to bind him. Bind him she must; she couldn't take the chance that he would refuse to allow her to take FitzRoy to the stable. It was an odd request; she should, of course, have brought the present to the house.

  Actually she intended Norfolk no harm at all—at least no physical harm. After the changeling he believed to be his charge sickened and died, he would lose the profitable sinecure of being FitzRoy's guardian and he would certainly consider that harm, but it was nothing his clerks and servants and guards could have protected him from, so—

  A twinge of magic, the briefest scent of Underhill, made Rhoslyn wince and glance around. If her information had been wrong and Denoriel was near . . . But the sense of intrusion, the flicker of white, was gone.

  Startled by her sudden movement, Norfolk said, "Yes?"

  She looked up and simpered. "Beg pardon, Your Grace. It was a little prick. A flea bite perhaps."

  Her eyes held his. He moved a hand uncertainly and began to frown. "You are from the Princess Mary's household and need private speech with me?"

  "It is no great matter, Your Grace. Because she is leaving very soon for Wales, the princess wished to send to her half-brother a little gift."

  Rhoslyn's fingers made a gesture and Norfolk looked down to where they were now drawing invisible symbols on the table that stood between them. Norfolk's eyes were beginning to glaze but he was a strong-willed man and he had been disturbed by the idea that someone in Mary's household felt that secrecy was necessary to deliver a small gift.

  "Why . . . Why . . ."

  He meant to ask why news of a gift from the princess to Richmond need be kept secret, why he needed to dismiss even his guards, but the words clotted on his tongue and he did not remember what he had intended to ask.

  "I would like to talk a while in private to His Grace of Richmond. I wish to show him the princess's gift and remind him of her prior claims, remind him that the will of God is more binding than the will of kings. We could sit for a few moments in my coach. His guards may, of course, accompany us. You will have to give an order that he be taken from the schoolroom to speak to me. I will wait for him in the entranceway, and I will bring him back to the entranceway."

  Now Rhoslyn flicked her fingers up and Norfolk's eyes rose following them, their gazes locking together once more. Norfolk's expression became less wooden. He licked his lips and shook his head. She snapped her fingers softly and he blinked and rang the bell that stood on the table.

  The door swung open. His guards stepped quickly into the room, hands on their sword hilts, but seeing their master and the nun in the same positions and perfectly calm, the guards merely took their places by the door and stood waiting. The duke's clerk followed them in. Norfolk crooked a finger at him and the clerk hurried forward.

  "Go up to Master's Croke's apartment and tell him to send Richmond down to the entryway. His Grace of Richmond is permitted to go to the carriage house with this nun. She has a present for him in her coach."

  The sharp anxiety for Richmond's safety that had made everyone in Windsor overcautious about him right after the attack had waned in the weeks that followed without any alarms, but enough remained to make the clerk ask doubtfully, "His Grace of Richmond is to go alone?"

  "No, with his guards, of course," Norfolk said.

  There had been a look of stress under the duke's bespelled calm that had made Rhoslyn tense, but the mention of the guards seemed to relieve that. Rhoslyn was grateful that she had remembered to permit the guards to accompany them. A single touch could make them walking sleepers, able to follow their young master but incapable of really seeing or doing anything.

  Rhoslyn thanked the duke for his courtesy, curtsied, and followed the clerk out of the room. He turned left in the corridor and went toward the back of the building; Rhoslyn turned right and walked the short distance to the wide staircase that led down to the entrance hall. There she stopped, signaling the servant who waited to open the front doors that she was waiting for someone. The man stepped back, Rhoslyn turned to watch the stairway, holding her breath.

  Vidal Dhu had commanded that they bring Henry FitzRoy to him, but he had no real interest in the child. It was she who had made the changeling, hair by hair, to be perfect, not only in face and form but close enough in mind so he could take up FitzRoy's place in the schoolroom, in his games with the other children, in his rel
ationship with his nurse.

  She had almost come to love that simulacrum. It had wrung her heart that the poor little thing must wither and die in the mortal world as the magic which fed and sustained him slowly faded and ebbed. Certainly she would not deliver his mortal model to the untender mercies of Vidal Dhu. It was enough that she was sacrificing her creation, that in the mortal world, Henry FitzRoy would die and be no rival to Princess Mary for the throne of England. Underhill, for her labor and her pain, Rhoslyn intended to keep the real Henry FitzRoy for herself.

  Her eager waiting was not disappointed. Within a quarter hour, two tall guardsmen came down the stairs, one before and one behind a child whose features she knew better than her own. Her breath quickened with eagerness. For once, she would have a real reward, something she valued, in return for her labor in the service of Vidal Dhu. She would have a child, a child of her own!

  CHAPTER 11

  Gasping with fear, Denoriel caught the changeling up in his arms and drew the cloak more completely around him so that he might appear to be a large and unwieldy bundle. He backed out of the coach, nudged the door closed with his shoulder, and stood for a moment, his heart pounding wildly. If whoever had brought the simulacrum came now . . . He could not fight with the child in his arms and a magical attack or defense . . . he had no idea what effect it would have on the changeling. Denoriel looked frantically around the carriage house for a place to hide what he held.

  In the next instant he realized he could not hide the boy—no! the construct—here in the carriage house. Whoever had brought him—it—would feel its presence. Denoriel stared down at the bundle in his arms, feeling the warmth, the steady breathing, the relaxation that felt like trust. He knew that what he should do was draw the magic out of the—the thing and let it crumple to nothingness. His gorge rose and he swallowed hard, clutching the little boy closer in his arms.