This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  The trip downriver back to Greenwich the next day, with the cross where he could easily reach it in his sleeve, was much quicker than that the previous night upriver to London. It made no difference; he still had not thought of a way to arrange for the baby to wear the iron cross. Beside that, he had conceived the fear that the child had already been snatched. She was a princess and would have every attention, but no one but he could realize how precious, in how much danger she was.

  He tried on three separate occasions that afternoon to get in to see the child. He would know at once if any exchange had been made, whereas her attendants might only think she was sickening, as several of the king's children had before. But he could not say that to anyone. Who would believe him? They would say he was mad.

  Lady Margaret Bryan, who had been nurse to Princess Mary and was now appointed to care for the new princess, had come out to speak to him herself on his third visit. He smiled at her and asked eagerly, "I . . . is she well? Does she cry lustily? Is her color good?"

  A dying changeling had no lusty voice; it made faint mewling sounds and its skin was like potter's clay, gray and moist. There was a moment of silence while Lady Bryan stared at him, and then FitzRoy blushed hotly, realizing that her gaze held a kind of horrified suspicion. Her charge was only a girl and had bumped him off the line of succession. Could he be hoping the same fate would overtake this child as those of Queen Catherine and the king?

  Finally she said, "Those are very particular questions, Your Grace. How is it that you are so intent on the princess's health?"

  FitzRoy swallowed and then, hurt and flustered, made everything worse. "I would not hurt her," he said. "I love her. I think she is the most adorable baby I have ever seen—"

  Lady Bryan's lips thinned. "Yes? A quick-found love. And how many newborn babies have you seen, Your Grace?" She looked him up and down, sniffed, and turned away.

  Appalled at what he had done, FitzRoy stood looking after her, biting his lip. He knew he would make things worse if he pursued her, and he nervously ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. A maid who had followed Lady Bryan through the hangings that separated the inner and outer chamber but had stopped near the entrance when she saw Lady Bryan engaged, uttered a small gasp.

  FitzRoy jerked his eyes away from the spot where Lady Bryan had passed through the hangings and looked at the maid. He saw that she was carrying an armful of cloths that must be for diapering or swaddling. She would be one of the women who actually tended to the child physically and a hope rose in him.

  "Should I know you?" he asked, beckoning to her.

  She was of an age to have attended him when he was an infant. She might be one who was regularly employed in the king's household for such a purpose. If only it were so . . . he almost held his breath. She shook her head, but a little to his surprise, she came toward him, her eyes still fixed on his face.

  "I do not know how you could, Your Grace," she said very softly. "I was a nursemaid to Her Grace the queen when she was an infant, and she remembered me and did me the great honor of offering me a place in Her Grace the princess's household."

  Made uneasy by the woman's stare, still fixed on his forehead, FitzRoy raised a hand to pull his bangs down. He knew there must be some mark there that could not be discerned by mortals because when his hair became disarranged Underhill, everyone stared at him just as this woman was doing. To his astonishment, the maid put out one hand and caught at his wrist.

  "Who are you?" she asked in a murmur.

  "I am the duke of Richmond, the child's half-brother."

  The maid nodded. "I heard Lady Bryan call you 'Your Grace' but I didn't know . . . It was true what you said to her? That you love the baby and would not hurt her?"

  Her eyes did not meet his; they were fixed on his forehead. FitzRoy wondered what she saw there, but he would not ask her. He was cold as ice with fear. If she were Unseleighe Sidhe, he might be too late to save the princess. His free hand slipped into the sleeve of his gown and he gripped the cross. At least he would have some revenge.

  "Yes, it is true. I love her. I would gladly give my life to protect her, but Lady Bryan suspects that I wish her harm because she is now the king's heir. It is not true. I fear for her and would offer her what little protection I have to give, this good-luck charm."

  He pulled the cross from his sleeve and slapped it into the hand that still lightly touched his wrist. The maid started slightly, but did not cry out and instinctively closed her hand instead of flinging the cross away. Not Sidhe, then, FitzRoy thought. So how could she see whatever marked him? A witch?

  She was looking down at the cross, then raised her eyes again to look at his forehead. "Iron," she breathed. "You want the babe to wear cold iron?"

  FitzRoy nodded. He could not speak of anything pertaining to Underhill, which meant he could not warn against the Unseleighe Sidhe. And what if she were their agent? She could be a mortal enslaved to the Unseleighe. She would take his cross and throw it into the deepest, darkest privy she could find.

  He almost snatched the cross back from her hand and then remembered what she had said about being Anne's nursemaid. And Anne, Denoriel had told him, was a witch herself—untrained and utterly rejecting of her Talent, but still a witch. The maid had swiftly secreted the cross within the bundle of cloths she carried. Now she curtsied and smiled at him.

  "It will be done," she said. "And you are in time with it. The child is strong. She suckles well; the wet nurse complained of the grip of her jaws, young as she is. She is rosy and warm."

  FitzRoy sighed with relief. "If you need anything or if you see anything that is alarming to you, send for me. I will be staying in Greenwich as long as the child is here, but my home is in Baynard's Castle in London, hard by the river Thames. I . . . I have friends who might help if there is a threat."

  "My name is Blanche Parry," the maid said, "and if you want news of the child, you had better ask for me. Also you had better not come here again, at least not until there are other visitors, or Lady Bryan may mark you down as suspicious and unwelcome."

  FitzRoy had been feeling better, not quite such a fool for giving away his precious cross, until that last sentence. His heart sank. Who knew what the maid was. He should have brought Denno—somehow he would have to arrange for Denno to see her, but he knew that would be very difficult.

  He left Anne's apartment and went to find Denno near the stables where men came and went constantly. He told Denoriel his fears and suspicions, but did not receive the reproaches he expected. Instead Denno said, "Queen Anne's nursemaid, was she? Very interesting. No, I don't think she could be an Unseleighe slave. That would mean the Unseleighe FarSeers had Visions almost thirty years before ours and arranged to place one of their own in the Boleyn household. Unlikely. I'll ask Aleneil, but I don't think the FarSeeing works that way when it affects both the Seleighe and Unseleighe Courts. How come she spoke to you?"

  "Because I pushed back my hair," FitzRoy said, his voice suddenly hard. "Denno, what did she see on my forehead?"

  "She saw King Oberon's mark?" Denoriel whistled softly. "That is most unusual, most unexpected. She must be a strong witch, very Talented."

  "You never told me there was something on my forehead."

  The cold anger in FitzRoy's voice finally pierced Denoriel's concentration on the maid. "No, I didn't," he admitted. "I'm sorry, Harry. Because it was my fault, you see. That cross is so strong that it made my bones ache even when it was in its pouch. You were marked to protect you, so you wouldn't have to wear the cross any more. No one from . . . from anywhere would dare hurt you or try to abduct you. Then when the danger was past, I was so used to seeing the mark upon you that it simply never occurred to me to say anything about it."

  Having been skillfully led away from the question of whether the mark was what also prevented him from speaking of Underhill, FitzRoy shook his head. He could never be angry with Denno for more than a few moments. He owed him too much, loved him
too much.

  "What is the mark?" he asked.

  "A six-pointed star that glows bright blue."

  FitzRoy's eyes widened; he sighed. "I guess I'm glad no one can see it but your people . . . and a witch or two."

  "Witch, yes." Denoriel's mind returned to the problem of Blanche Parry. "Why would the Boleyns hire a witch—and strong as she is, it is likely she was known to be a witch—to be a nursery maid? And why would Anne send all the way to Hever for a nursery maid? Is it possible that odd things happened in the nursery when Anne was a baby? Did they need someone who would understand and could control the events? And was Anne afraid her child might exhibit her unwanted Talent and be thought unsuitable to rule? No, I don't think Mistress Parry is of the Unseleighe—but I will ask."

  In fact FitzRoy did not need to wait until Denoriel's questions about Blanche Parry were answered. Only three days later, when he took part in the magnificent christening ceremony that named the child Elizabeth, he saw that the iron cross was pinned to the inside of the chrisom, the robe in which the child would be wrapped when she was taken from the baptismal font. More important, he saw Elizabeth herself, red-haired and rosy and with a pair of lungs that produced shrieks that made the church of the Grey Friars echo when the cold water struck her.

  Now that the child was baptized and Anne was almost fully recovered, although she was still confined to her apartment because she had not yet been churched, visitors were encouraged. FitzRoy was among the first. Lady Bryan watched him suspiciously, but she soon softened toward him.

  He spent hours by Elizabeth's cradle, just watching her. There was devotion on his face, gentleness when he cautiously touched the baby's down-soft cheek, and a marked quickness to come between the cradle and any person not in Elizabeth's own household that approached her. Anne noticed and laughed, complaining that her erstwhile friend was faithless and had abandoned her for a younger and more beautiful woman.

  "Perhaps not more beautiful," FitzRoy temporized with a sigh and a laugh, "but I certainly have been ravished away. You are still the most witty and lovely lady of my acquaintance, but it is Elizabeth who has a tight grip on my heart."

  "For shame," Anne said. "Are you not about to marry Lady Mary Howard? It is she who should hold your heart."

  "Yes, and I love Mary dearly, for she is pretty and clever and sweet. I look forward to our marriage. Only—" his eyes drifted back to the cradle and the sleeping child within "—only Elizabeth must come first."

  Actually Anne was rather shocked by FitzRoy's fixation on her child and she told Henry, who laughed heartily. "Our child is his salvation from a fate he could barely tolerate," the king said. "I remember how I felt when my poor brother Arthur sickened and then died. Harry has no taste for power . . . yet. Now he sincerely hopes for a boy to be my heir, but meanwhile he wants to make very sure that Elizabeth survives to stand between him and the throne."

  His affection and well-meaning accepted at the highest levels, FitzRoy was free to spend as much time with Elizabeth as he liked. However for the next few weeks he did not have all that much free time. There was the matter of his marriage. He pleaded that Elizabeth's need was more important; Denoriel countered with the fact that all doubts had been put to rest about Blanche Parry. She was a strong witch, a white witch, and for a few weeks, she and the cold iron cross could protect the child.

  Fired with the purpose that had consumed him with his first sight of the red-haired babe, FitzRoy protested. Denoriel lectured him on the need to make his bride happy. He and Mary were making a life union. For the sake of the long years they would spend together, he must show her that he cared for her. He reminded FitzRoy of the misery of Mary's own mother, who had separated from Norfolk largely because of his mistress, and pointed out that Mary might fear her own life would go the same way.

  Partly out of liking, partly out of pity, FitzRoy pushed his obsession with Elizabeth aside and began to pay attention to his future wife. He found her warm and pleasant and was definitely looking forward to their union . . . only that was a grave disappointment. He and Mary were married quietly with no royal pomp or celebration . . . and then told that they were not to live together because they were too young to cohabit.

  FitzRoy thought back to his year in France and laughed aloud rather raucously, but when he looked at Mary he saw that relief predominated over disappointment in her face. He realized that she was afraid, and took her hand. Looking into her eyes, he said he was sadly discontent, that he had been relishing the thought of her company, that he had envisioned quiet evenings where he would read to her as she embroidered or that she would play for him on the virginals and sing or they could play music together. They could go together to a masque or to a friend's house to dine and then talk about their experience when they returned home. He looked to Norfolk and said that if he promised there would be no more to their marriage than that until permission was given for more, could he not have Mary's company at Baynard's Castle?

  "Next year, perhaps," Norfolk said firmly.

  So FitzRoy hugged Mary and let her go and her father shepherded her away. However, once the immediate sense of deprivation was overcome, FitzRoy was glad of Norfolk's stricture. He was able to move to Greenwich—his father always welcomed his company and Anne did, too, now that she was safely married. Since he no longer needed to be with Mary—although Dunstan took on the duty of reminding him to send his wife trinkets and tokens; several times a week one of his guards carried to her a book, a pretty comb, a lace kerchief—he could watch the little princess become more awake and more aware day by day.

  He was not the only one who watched her, of course. One at least of Catherine's children had lived six weeks before it died. But Elizabeth gave no cause for alarm. She continued to nurse greedily, and her shrieks when anything displeased her were evidence of her will and strength.

  Anne was churched after six weeks, according to custom, but she kept Elizabeth by her another six weeks. At the end of that time the king began to grow impatient with the mother instinct that wanted to keep the child close. It was a girl; he and Anne had better set about making a boy. Elizabeth and her entourage of servants were moved to Hertford by the king's order.

  FitzRoy followed, found lodging in the area, and continued his visits to his half-sister. She was old enough at three months to be tickled and made to laugh, to be gently swung back and forth in his arms and soothed when she was fretful. And now, well away from the king and queen, he brought his dear friend, the man who had thrice saved his life, to see the baby.

  Lady Bryan was stiff with disapproval at that first meeting, but that did not last long. Denno was as much of a charmer as King Henry, although his use of that talent was never so selfish, and he regaled her with tales about FitzRoy's childhood. He glowed with love and Lady Bryan recognized a kindred spirit. Before he left, Denoriel had held Elizabeth in his arms under Lady Bryan's watchful but approving eye.

  "She is, indeed, the red-haired babe of the FarSeeing," he said to FitzRoy as they rode back to the house FitzRoy had let two miles down the road. "I did not really doubt you, Harry. I just . . . I hoped you might be mistaken, merely enamored of a beautiful baby."

  "Why?" FitzRoy asked sharply. "Is she not all that was promised? Is there not a spirit in her that can . . ."

  "Yes! But she is female, Harry."

  They entered the farmhouse, where FitzRoy shouted for a servant to bring mulled ale, and hurried into the parlor where two cushioned chairs stood before a large hearth holding a bright fire. The night air was cold at the end of November.

  "So what if she is female," FitzRoy said, harking back to Denoriel's last remark. "Thank God there is no Salic law in this realm as there is in France. There is nothing to prevent her from taking the throne. And once she has it—"

  "Yes, Harry, but taking the throne is the rub. Not only will any male child precede her but also her elder sister. And if Elizabeth does not yield there will be civil war. Perhaps it is from that rather than from the Inq
uisition that the burning and misery come." Denoriel rubbed his temple; arguing with Harry made his head ache. "But what I am trying to say, Harry, is that there will be no quick seating of Elizabeth on her father's throne as there would have been if she had been male. There will be long years of danger through which we must guard her if the bright future promised is to come."

  "Long years," FitzRoy echoed, looking troubled. "But . . . but once she is a maiden, not a child, I will not be able to . . . to watch over her bed or be with her as constantly as I am now."

  "We will cross that bridge when we come to it. There is always Aleneil, who can become an intimate, and likely we will be able to find a way for Blanche Parry to remain with Elizabeth." Denoriel nodded thoughtfully as he said that, and indeed, getting Aleneil placed in Elizabeth's household was indeed the best solution. "Our business is to give her enough protection now to ward off any attempt on her that neglect might encourage. For now your care and Blanche's will be enough. The real danger to her will be if Anne conceives soon and births a strong son."

  "But why? Surely that will make her less important."

  The mulled ale came and Denoriel was silent until both had tasted it and approved and the servant had withdrawn. Then Denoriel said, "The one who wants her does not want her for the power she will have over England. He wants her for her inventive mind and strong will. And he wants her while she is still very young so that she can be bred up to believe what they wish her to believe, to relish cruelty."

  FitzRoy looked appalled. "It would be terrible to so pervert her bright spirit. What more can we do to protect her?"

  "Fortunately right now I doubt we need to do more than not invite an attack by neglect of the precautions we are taking." He sighed as he said that; now his beloved Harry was safe—or safer—but at the moment when he should be able to breathe a little, now there was a new danger to a new child! "For the moment we have one advantage. There is a prohibition against harming or abducting anyone really close to King Henry. That was what protected Anne, and I think it will be of some protection to Elizabeth while she is heir to the throne. However, the less important she becomes to the king, the more danger that she will be taken."