This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  "Dannae favors us," the servant repeated when allowed into Aurilia's presence. "The queen has miscarried. We can be rid of her and see her child discarded within six months."

  Early in February Pasgen was directed to meet Aurilia in the pleasure gardens of Caer Mordwyn. There she handed him a small wriggling bundle, a very pretty little dog, a friendly, happy, little dog, wearing a handsome collar inscribed: My name is Purkoy, my mistress Queen Anne.

  Pasgen took the dog but said, "Anne still has Oberon's protection. If the dog or the collar are bespelled to her hurt, we could be blamed."

  Aurilia laughed. "I am not a fool. The collar is indeed bespelled, but no blame will attach to the Unseleighe Court even if it is detected. First, all the spells are beneficent. All support calm and good feeling—and, second, every one of them is a Seleighe spell."

  "How did you come by Seleighe spells?"

  Aurilia laughed again. "Some, bored with milk and honey and seeking a sharper flavor to life, come to us from the Seleighe Court. Such a one, disgusted as he was, remembered enough of the spells taught him to cast them onto the collar and to add a dampening spell so that only the person holding the dog will be affected. That dampening spell may also dull the queen's power over her husband."

  The little dog's head turned from one speaker to the other, then he licked Pasgen's nose. Pasgen couldn't help smiling, and he was impressed with Aurilia's thoroughness. Vidal in his pride occasionally scoffed at Oberon's power. Aurilia never did, but still she was willing to try to circumvent that power by sly cleverness.

  As if to prove that conclusion correct, Aurilia added, "But here—" she pressed into his hand a small gold stud "—is the final spell, another bit of protection. When you deliver the dog to a mortal, press this stud into his collar—but do not do it a moment before you are ready to leave. As soon as the spell is invoked—the collar will do that itself—Purkoy will sense and be terrified of all Sidhe. Thus, if there is a Bright Court spy near Anne, the dog will run and hide."

  The spell was so effective that Cromwell, to whom Pasgen had been forced to hand the dog before he was ready, nearly lost the creature. Purkoy leapt from his arms and rushed, howling, to the farthest corner of the room.

  "Some gift for the queen!" Cromwell snarled. "A dog that hates people."

  "No," Pasgen said, raising his voice about the dog's howls. "Come away, leave it to itself for a few minutes. It was just frightened by you grabbing for it and my holding it back. I am sorry."

  Fearful of driving the little dog completely mad, Pasgen did not wait for Cromwell's reply but bowed stiffly and walked out of the room. That did nothing to pacify Cromwell, who bustled after him. Seeing disaster for his support of the Boleyns—whom he didn't even like—looming over him, Cromwell was seeking someone to blame and was already furious with Master Otstargi.

  He caught Pasgen in the corridor and dragged him into another withdrawing room. Slamming the door behind him, he began to berate his tame magician, complaining that when he really wanted advice Otstargi was missing.

  Pasgen was so delighted at how well Aurilia's spell had worked, that he found it easy enough to keep his temper. He was pleased, too, at how dependent on him Cromwell had become because he was about to urge the man into a very dangerous game. And it was likely that he would play it.

  For once Cromwell was not certain which way to jump or how. Anne was totally distraught, openly blaming her husband for her miscarriage because of his dalliance with Jane Seymour. Anne would take no advice of his. Henry was almost equally distraught. Instead of offering comfort to his wife for her loss, he had said to her only that she must put up with his behavior as her betters had done, and then added threateningly, "I see that God will not give me male children."

  "Encourage that thought," Pasgen murmured, and then said more briskly, "I have brought better than advice. See that the queen gets Purkoy—that is the dog's name—and you will have time to think and plan. When she has the dog in her arms, the queen will grow calm and happy. She will talk of another conception and see no pitfalls in her path to it."

  "And win back the king again so we will just begin all over?" Cromwell muttered under his breath.

  "No, I think it has gone beyond that," Pasgen said, "but my readings are still not clear on whether the king will put her aside . . . or find a more permanent solution. Perhaps the dog should not come from you directly. But be sure she has received it and kept it."

  "I think I may by accident have destroyed Queen Anne," Aleneil said to Denoriel.

  Her skin, always fair, was now near transparent and the flesh beneath it seemed almost drained of blood. She had arrived in the dark, hidden in a deep-hooded cloak, and she was shaking so hard when Denoriel came out to meet her and help her dismount from Ystwyth that, without a word, he carried her inside. Now they were sitting side by side on the settle in the well-furnished parlor of Denoriel's London house.

  Although it was April, the evenings were chill. A comfortable fire burned steadily in the hearth and candles cast a warm glow over the glimmering satin of "Lady Alana's" soft golden gown. Denoriel leaned forward and took his sister's hands in his own.

  "How? What happened?"

  "I killed her dog."

  "You? You killed a dog? Oh, it was a construct? You have been saying for two months now that something was wrong with Anne, that she was not her usual self. How came you to miss a construct for so long?"

  "Because it was not a construct." Aleneil swallowed and tears ran down her face. "It was only a very friendly, very silly, very sweet little dog."

  "And you killed it? For what?"

  "I did not kill it apurpose." Aleneil sighed deeply. "Lady Lee kept telling me about this adorable little dog the queen had, how when Francis Bryan had given it to her, it cured her grief over her loss. At first I paid little attention, but after a while I began to wonder because I had never seen this dog. Then I began to notice that the queen was very calm and that when something troubled her, she held her arm as if she were carrying something."

  Denoriel lifted his brows. "Peculiar, but it is the calm that troubles me. From what Harry told me, calm is not a common state to Queen Anne."

  "But she has been calm, yes, even happy, which seemed stranger and stranger because I do not believe the king has come back to her bed and Jane Seymour is more a favorite than ever. The only bright spot is that clearly the king finds her useful for some political purposes. He got the Imperial ambassador to bow to her and thus recognize her. If he can make the emperor recognize her, that will tacitly mean acceptance of Henry as supreme head of the Church. But—"

  Her voice shook and Denoriel said, "Wait, love, you are whiter than milk. Let me get some wine for you."

  Aleneil nodded and raised a hand to wipe away the tears. She sipped the wine when Denoriel had carried it to her and sighed. She went on to tell him of her growing suspicion about the dog and her growing doubts about Anne solacing herself for the lack of Henry's company with that of a number of gentlemen. She had even broken her usual silence to warn Anne that it was not wise in the king's absence to be closeted with this or that gentleman. But Anne had only laughed at her and pointed out that the gentleman most frequently with her was her own brother.

  "And then this afternoon Anne complained to Cromwell about his giving up his rooms to the Seymours. The secretary was angry because it was by the king's order and he did not like it any better than she did. But he does not quarrel with her and turned on his heel just as I entered the room. He came toward the doorway, blocking my entrance. I just caught a glimpse of Anne, standing near the fire and clutching the little dog to her. I had to curtsey to Cromwell, but when he passed me, I began to walk toward the queen. I heard her call the dog's name reprovingly, then cry out in pain as the dog leapt from her arms."

  Aleneil had finished the wine in her glass and Denoriel reached for the decanter on a side table and refilled it.

  "When I reached her, the queen was rubbing her arm. I could see that t
he dog had torn her sleeve and scratched the arm beneath and I said I would get some salve for it, but the queen sent me instead to retrieve the dog, which had run into the next chamber. So I went to fetch it. The little thing was crouching in a corner as if I were going to eat it alive—" Her lips trembled and she bit them. "Oh, the poor thing. But I meant no harm. I spoke soft as I could and stretched out my open hand for it to smell and . . . and it leapt on a chair and out of the window rather than let me touch it."

  "That is not possible, Aleneil," Denoriel said flatly.

  "What do you mean not possible," Aleneil sobbed. "I saw it happen myself."

  "Not that the thing did not happen, but that the dog, who everyone else said was sweet, friendly, and foolish, should jump out of a window to keep you from touching it. I have never known any animal—even the wild ones in the woods—to flee from you. They are more likely to run to you than to run away."

  Aleneil put her wine glass down on the broad, flat arm of the settle and extracted her kerchief from her sleeve to wipe her eyes. Then she admitted what Denoriel said was true, that fortunately before she could rush to Anne and confess what had happened, another lady had entered the room and commiserated with her on the difficulty of catching a small agile dog.

  Clearly the other lady believed the dog had darted by her and got away. And, of course, it should have . . . only that would have meant running closer to her, and apparently the dog could not do that. By then she had realized the oddity of the dog's behavior, and she slipped away to run outside before someone else found the body.

  She wept again, remembering the limp, broken body of the little animal, but she swallowed back the tears and admitted to Denoriel that as soon as she actually touched it, she felt the spells in the collar.

  "The dog was bespelled to run from Sidhe?"

  "Yes," she sighed.

  "Then you did not kill it," he said firmly. "Whoever put the collar on it killed it."

  "Everyone said it was such a happy, pretty little thing." Aleneil sniffed and wiped away more tears.

  "And a great comfort to its mistress," Denoriel said, his mouth set grimly, "inducing her to live in a fool's paradise. Well, now it is gone and Anne is awake again, can she—"

  Aleneil shuddered. "No," she whispered. "That was why I first said I had destroyed the queen. It is as if all the terror and ill feeling and jealousy and spite that the spells in the collar held at bay are now pouring out."

  Denoriel stared into nothing for a moment and then said, "I'll need to tell Harry to double his watch on Elizabeth who, fortunately, is in Greenwich now. Do you feel well enough for me to accompany you back to the queen?"

  Aleneil sighed. "I am not going back. I am dismissed. She blames me for Purkoy's death, which is fair enough, although I did not intend it. And there is nothing more I can do for her." Aleneil looked at her brother with wide sorrowing eyes. "To FarSee is useless. I Saw three paths and I, intending only the best, have driven the queen down the one that leads to the headsman's block."

  CHAPTER 32

  Although Denoriel cried out in protest against Aleneil's prediction that Anne would die, his sister had Seen true. He did not realize then, that the clarity of the Vision was owing to its imminence. They thought they would have time; Seeings were only possibilities and by actions could be changed. Denoriel did try to warn George Boleyn, offering to help with money if he would leave England.

  Obviously he could not tell George that his sister had had a Seeing, but George was only annoyed with him, pointing out haughtily that he could not leave his sister when so many harpies gathered to tear at her flesh. But George could do little to control her. All through April, Anne alternately raged and laughed; she seemed to have lost all balance and it was clear she knew that many were pressing the king to be rid of her. And then she made a fatal mistake.

  It began simply enough when Anne began to chide Henry Norris for not completing his marriage to Margaret Shelton, a cousin of Anne's. FitzRoy, who happened to be near, made a jest of men desiring not to answer to a wife, but Anne only irritably waved him silent. Clearly she suspected that Norris did not want to make a commitment to her cousin because of the campaign against her. Norris denied, tried to make some light remark, which only infuriated Anne further.

  "You," she cried, oblivious to far too many heads turned in her direction, "you look for dead men's shoes; for if aught came to the king but good you would look to have me!"

  "Anne!" FitzRoy gasped.

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted, likely to change the words into some jest or excuse them, but Norris was so horrified that his voice overrode hers, crying that if he had ever had such a thought, he would rather his head was off.

  And that it was on the seventeenth of May. Considering the many factions that wanted Anne repudiated, it was no surprise that Cromwell had news of Anne's outburst and Norris's response. Cromwell, amazed at the accuracy of Master Otstargi's prediction—although he had not been specific about what mistake Anne would make—went right to the king with an accusation of Anne's infidelity, and he had half the court as witnesses to support him.

  Even FitzRoy was forced to repeat what he had heard, although he tried to insist that it was half jest and half temper—something the king should know well about Anne. He was dismissed with angry words, dismissed from the court entirely for his attempted defense. And by the time the week was out, five men had been arrested for adultery with Anne and she, herself, was in the Tower.

  "Evidence" was found, trials were held with indecent haste, and every man—including, incredibly, Anne's brother George—was found guilty. Whether the judges actually believed the verdict they gave—Norfolk was weeping when he pronounced it—no one would ever know, but Anne and her "lovers" were sentenced to die, and so they did, the men on the seventeenth, Anne herself on the nineteenth.

  FitzRoy was ordered—perhaps as a punishment for his attempt to defend Anne—to attend the beheading. At first he said he would defy his father and absent himself; however, on the seventeenth of May, Anne's marriage to Henry had been declared null and void and Elizabeth was declared a bastard. FitzRoy had to go to the Tower, had to speak one last time to Anne to assure her that he would care for Elizabeth and protect her, as long as they both should live.

  His attendance at the execution was now necessary. To refuse—in King Henry's present mood—would be dangerous, even to his son. FitzRoy saw, at least, that Anne did not suffer. She was praying quietly when she laid her head on the block, and the stroke that ended her life was sure and swift.

  * * *

  "That was a piece of work very well done," Aurilia nic Morrigan said, smiling at Pasgen. "It was as if those fools of the Bright Court were our lackeys." Aurilia giggled softly, her green eyes bright with amusement. "Imagine them arranging for the dog's death! I could not have done it better myself."

  Pasgen, who stood beside Rhoslyn before Aurilia and Vidal Dhu, who occupied a pair of magnificent gold-wrought chairs in a private, red-walled chamber in Caer Mordwyn, bowed slightly.

  "You also manipulated that servant of the king—Cromwell, is that his name?—very well indeed. No one will ever suspect our role in bringing down the queen."

  The words were complimentary, the tone was not. Pasgen wondered whether Vidal Dhu was as unaware as he seemed of the ability of others to read him or whether the subtle insults were designed to expose opposition.

  "Thank you," Pasgen said. "And the quick declaration of Elizabeth as a bastard ensures that the child will be of no interest to anyone very soon. We will be free to take her whenever we like."

  "I would not be so sure of that." Vidal's lips twisted in scorn and he shifted in the taller of the two chairs. "So far you have been remarkably unsuccessful in seizing anything the Seleighe wish to keep. The FarSeers tell me they still See a possibility of a future bound to that blasted child. I am sure those of the liosalfar receive the same Vision and may think it worthwhile to guard her."

  "That is true," Pasgen sai
d. "And beside that the boy FitzRoy—" an unpleasant memory, a memory of FitzRoy's grim face as he shot down a Sidhe, made him grimace "—no, I must not forget he is a boy no longer, and he is most unnaturally attached to the little girl. Moreover, what FitzRoy wants, Denoriel wants."

  "And what Denoriel wants, Aleneil wants," Rhoslyn added.

  Vidal waved a hand dismissively. "The child is no longer an adorable baby. I think FitzRoy will soon tire of her willful ways. We can wait."

  Aurilia shook her head. "No, my lord, we cannot. Possibly FitzRoy will tire of her, but by then she may be useless to us. Remember that she is absorbing stupid mortal values with each day she is in her governesses' care. We can make any mortal obedient by breaking its spirit, but that is useless in this case. She needs the full range of her mind and heart to be able to dream of power and the ways to use it and to bring others under our hand."

  Rhoslyn's eyebrows twitched—Pasgen thought it was in patent disbelief at that statement. It seemed that Aurilia knew what Elizabeth was by her reaction to their demon spies, and probably Rhoslyn could not accept the idea that Aurilia would welcome another attractive female with as strong a Talent as Elizabeth displayed with free will within Vidal Dhu's household. Even to Rhoslyn it must seem that to leave Elizabeth entirely in possession of her will might be dangerous. Pagen wondered what scheme was working in the back of Aurilia's mind.

  Vidal, however, had nodded and shrugged, saying, "Oh, I am willing to take her as soon as Rhoslyn has made an adequate changeling."

  "Two weeks, perhaps three," Rhoslyn said, "but I think no more than two."

  A black frown replaced the bland expression on Vidal's face. "It took you months to create the changeling that was supposed to take FitzRoy's place," he snapped. "How does it come about that this changeling will take only two weeks?"

  Rhoslyn's lips thinned. Pasgen suspected that there was still a small sore place in her heart where FitzRoy's changeling had lived. All she said, however, was, "You wanted that changeling to live for some weeks at least and be able to pass for the living child. A boy of six, already taught several languages and the history of his family . . . If he suddenly no longer knew those things surely a replacement would be suspected. I had to teach him. I had to instill enough power in him to keep him alive. I—" Her voice was rising.