This Scepter'd Isle

by Mercedes Lackey

  For a moment, Denoriel stared at him in utter disbelief. Surely the changeling—no, it was not a mere construct any more, and had not been for a very long time—the young creature knew that this would be a death sentence! "You would die, Richey!" Denoriel exclaimed. "There is power in the mortal world, as I know to my sorrow, but it would not keep you alive."

  "Yes, I know." He smiled faintly. "And I would rest at last, really rest. Can you devise a way to exchange me for your Harry?"

  "Mwynwen would kill me! No, of course she would not, but she would hate me forever. I would not dare mention such a thing to her." He stretched to touch Richey's thin hand. "Don't worry about Harry. Aleneil is clever and Harry's servants were once mortals Underhill. They will find a way."

  "To save Harry? Yes, I don't doubt it. But will they be in time? I fear not." He lowered his head and a tear streaked his cheek. "And what of me? How much longer must I suffer?"

  "Oh, Richey, Richey!" The door flung open and Mwynwen ran in and dropped to her knees beside the young man's chair. "My dearling, dearling. Why didn't you tell me you were in pain? I could—"

  "Lull me asleep, Mother?" The tears were now flowing more freely down Richey's cheeks. "How many days, weeks, months have I lain in a near stupor, too tired to sit, too tired to read, too tired play a game or watch my creatures at play? I could not be ungrateful to you. I love you too much. I could not tell you and hurt you, but I am glad you were listening in case Denoriel called and overheard." He sighed. "I am glad you know. I am tired . . . tired. And . . . and I do not want to rot, to dissolve, while I am still living and aware. Look!"

  He pinched his flesh and a piece came off, leaving a sore that oozed for only a moment but did not heal. Mwynwen watched, horror marking her face.

  "Richey," she breathed. "My dearling. Richey." Tears began to pour down her face. "Oh my dear—what have I done to you?"

  * * *

  The fifteenth of July was a particularly pleasant day, clear and bright and not too warm. Shandy Dunstan lifted his master, gritting his teeth to repress his alarm. "Those stupid Sidhe have left it too long," he muttered under his breath, probably thinking FitzRoy couldn't hear him.

  But there was nothing wrong with Harry's hearing, though the rest of him was failing. They looked down at a body weighing nearly nothing, and the movement was enough to set off a new spasm of coughing. Dunstan looked around in alarm. He had sent Mistress Bethany to procure fresh kerchiefs, but if she heard FitzRoy coughing she might come back too soon and make Dunstan leave him alone.

  Which, at the moment, was what Harry would rather have had.

  A nearly transparent hand wearily raised an already stained kerchief to FitzRoy's mouth. He wiped his lips and whispered, "Let me lie, Dunstan. You say the sun will do me good, but you know and I know that nothing will do me good. I only wish I knew how Denno was."

  To FitzRoy's intense surprise, Dunstan grinned. He had not really smiled in over a month. "Just don't order me not to take you out, Your Grace, and you're likely to find out."

  "What?" FitzRoy mumbled, not sure he had heard aright.

  "Yes, and there's a nice visitor wanting to see you, only she can't come in the palace."

  "I don't . . ." There was a pause while FitzRoy coughed again. This time Dunstan took the bloody kerchief from his hand and put a clean cloth into it. "I don't think I really want to see even Mary," he added when he could speak again.

  "Not your wife. It's a Lady Aeron that's looking for you, but she's a little too big to get entrance into St. James's through a door, so we have to bring you out."

  "What?" His mind struggled to grasp what Dunstan had just said, but his body seemed to have figured it out already; his eyes were wide open, and he began feebly trying to help Dunstan pull a heavy dressing gown over his body. "Did you say Lady Aeron?"

  "Yes, Your Grace. And here's Master Ladbroke to help carry you out into the garden. Just let me slide you to the edge of the bed and help you stand . . . just for a moment. Now an arm around Ladbroke's neck and another around mine. That's all you've to do, Your Grace, is hang on."

  * * *

  Shaylor was waiting just outside the door. He bit his lips when he saw FitzRoy seated on Dunstan and Ladbroke's arms, trying gamely to keep his head up. But he had done what he was told to do, made sure the corridor was clear. If any of the nurses or doctors saw them carrying FitzRoy out, they might prevent taking him out into the sun and Dunstan said that might help.

  However, they made it outside and then through the elaborate gardens near the house, each one guarded by one of his men—Nyle, who gently touched his hand as he bowed, Gerrit, with tears streaking his cheeks, who murmured, "Wish you well, Your Grace," and Dickson, who swallowed and swallowed and could not speak at all. Then they came out through a tall hedge to a less ordered garden with clumps of tall rose bushes. There was a well-cushioned chair almost hidden by the roses, into which FitzRoy was lowered.

  For a while he must have lost consciousness, because the next thing of which he was aware was the blowing of a horse and a velvet muzzle touching his cheek. He tried to say, "Lady Aeron," but the coughing took him again . . . only this time the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—well, he had seen Queen Titania, and she was more beautiful of course, but this woman was dark and vivid and her eyes were kinder—put her hand on his chest, and the coughing stopped.

  "Quick, off with that robe," she said

  To FitzRoy's amazement he had strength enough to stand up and undo his robe, but he hesitated to remove it because he wasn't even wearing small-clothes underneath. It had been too much effort to get them on. And then he saw Dunstan and Ladbroke helping an equally naked man from Lady Aeron's saddle, while a second elvensteed waited.

  "Off. Off," the woman said impatiently, pulling at the robe, and when she had it off him, turning to the wilting young man, who—FitzRoy's breath caught—who had his face . . . She wrapped her arms around his—twin?—but he had no twin—and sobbed, "Richey. Richey." And tears ran down her face. But then she helped Richey into FitzRoy's robe and set him in FitzRoy's chair.

  It was very, very strange to see yourself sitting in a chair while you were standing elsewhere, FitzRoy thought, but even the amazement he felt began to slip away from him. The strength that the woman's touch had given him was ebbing swiftly and sun or no sun it was chilly to be standing naked in the garden.

  FitzRoy wavered on his feet and looked around for someone or something to hold on to. He did not need to look far. Dunstan was on one side of him and Ladbroke on the other. They had peculiar expressions, broad smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes as they lifted him up onto Lady Aeron's back.

  His feet feebly sought stirrups. He knew it was insane for a man in his condition to try to ride a horse, but to be on Lady Aeron's back again was like a foretaste of heaven. He was perfectly willing to die trying to ride her. Besides, something warm and soft was around him, and he hardly felt it when Lady Aeron leapt straight upward into seeming nothingness. Gate, he thought, as he felt the strange shivering chill, but there was no Gate at St. James's palace. . . .

  And then he remembered that Denno had once told him that the elvensteeds didn't need a Gate. And it must be true because Lady Aeron was down without a jar on a lawn like velvet approaching a house that seemed to flower from the land around it, and by the door . . .

  "Denno," FitzRoy gasped, beginning to weep. "Denno. I thought you were dead. They told me you were healing but I didn't believe them. I couldn't believe you wouldn't come to me when I was dying."

  Lady Aeron had stopped and Denoriel ran forward to reach up so that FitzRoy fell off into his arms.

  "Harry," Denoriel breathed, trying weakly to hold his dearest friend up.

  Then the invisible arms of a healer's servants, always alert for those needing help, caught at FitzRoy, and Denoriel had only to walk beside him, staggering slightly. Inside the house, FitzRoy was laid in a bed and a silken coverlet floated over him.

  "I'm near
ly well, Harry," Denoriel said, grinning like a fool with joy, "but don't tell Mwynwen that I came out to meet you or she'll burn off my ears. She told me not to."

  FitzRoy touched his face. "I'm so glad to be with you Denno, so glad. And to have seen Lady Aeron again. I don't mind dying now."

  "You won't die, Harry," Denoriel said, laughing softly. "Mwynwen said you wouldn't, and no one dares die when she says they'll get well. You'll be hunting on Lady Aeron's back before there's snow in the mortal world."

  And so it was.

  But, on the twenty-second of July, in the Palace of St. James a changeling, who had lived his life as Richey, peacefully died as Henry FitzRoy, earl of Nottingham, duke of Somerset, and duke of Richmond. FitzRoy's father was not there—King Henry was on progress, showing his new wife, Jane Seymour to the country. However Richey, who had never known the king as his father, did not care. Nothing hurt; power did not force its burning way in to galvanize his aching body; his "mother's" terrible grief no longer tore at his heart.

  Nonetheless he was never alone and was tenderly cared for by three of FitzRoy's faithful servants—Mistress Bethany, Shandy Dunstan, and Kip Ladbroke. The men showed no horror over his disintegrating body—the woman never saw it, for she had been bespelled to see only her duke's wasting form. All talked gently to him when he was not too tired to listen. That morning a priest came; Richey pretended to listen because that was what Denno's Harry would have done, but he wept when the priest was gone because he had lived all his life in "heaven" and had no desire to return, only to be at peace. Afterward, in the outer chamber four silent guardsmen kept the young man they believed to be Henry FitzRoy safe from further intrusion—until nothing could intrude on him ever again.

  "You know you'll never be able to go back, Harry," Denoriel said, and glanced uneasily at his companion.

  They were sitting in the back garden of Mwynwen's house with Lady Aeron and Miralys grazing in the near distance. News had come the previous day about Richey's death and his strange funeral. They had heard that the duke of Norfolk, placed in charge of the funeral arrangements, had been ordered to wrap the body in lead and have it hidden in a farmer's wagon. It had been carried in secret to Thetford and buried quietly in the Cluniac priory there.

  They had not spoken about the consequences of Richey's death then, but had concentrated on trying to console Mwynwen. She had wept bitterly for a while, knowing the reason for the lead wrapping and the secrecy, but when the worst of her grief and horror had passed, she had taken FitzRoy's hand in hers and kissed his cheek and called him Richey's gift.

  Denoriel had breathed a sigh of relief. He had been much afraid that when Richey died she would begin to resent Harry and not put forth her greatest effort to save him—and then he had been ashamed of himself. Mwynwen had loved Richey, but she was a dedicated healer.

  In the week between Harry's arrival and Richey's death Mwynwen had struggled constantly to draw the poison of the elf-shot from FitzRoy's body. Fortunately what FitzRoy had absorbed was only an exhalation loosed by the mild pressure of the blow of the bolt. Had the elf-shot really touched him, she could not have saved him.

  Even so, he would need to live with her so she could continue to draw out the poison as it slowly leached from his flesh and bone. At least he no longer coughed and he could breathe easily. He was still skeletally thin, but that would soon be amended by the meals Mwynwen's servants stuffed down his throat at frequent intervals.

  "Yes, I know," FitzRoy said in answer to Denoriel's warning that his own world was closed to him forever. "You know I always wanted to live Underhill. Why should I repine when I've got my wish?"

  "It's very dull Underhill," Denoriel warned.

  Harry glanced over his shoulder at the house where Mwynwen was seeing another patient and then looked across the garden at Lady Aeron. "Not to me," he said. "Besides, I've had enough excitement to last me for a good long while." Then he said sadly. "I'll miss Elizabeth and she'll miss me, but I would soon have become a danger to her—the first duke in the realm and the king's bastard to boot, how long do you think I would have been permitted free access to the princess who had been declared a bastard?"

  Denoriel frowned. "I suppose that's true. In any case, you need not worry about her safety. Vidal Dhu is still hanging between life and death and Aurilia has not the sense of an infant. Both may recover, but it will be a long time, much longer than my full restoration. Aleneil will soon be established as a maid of honor to Elizabeth and Blanche has an air spirit to serve as messenger when Aleneil is not on duty."

  FitzRoy was silent for a moment, but then suddenly he grinned broadly. "I will lay odds that Elizabeth will be a lot more trouble than I ever was."

  Denoriel groaned softly, but he was grinning too. "Do not remind me, Harry. I cannot stop thinking of the color of her hair . . . and that scowl . . . My heart nearly fails me."

  FitzRoy laughed, and the healer's garden was filled with the sound of unfettered joy. "She's more than a match for any mortal ever born, Denno, and that includes my father, I wager! No matter what he says, there will never be any doubt in anyone's mind that she's Great Harry's child. Not to him, and not to anyone else in or out of England."

  "Nor Underhill, either," Denoriel sighed. "I fear it's myself that will be needing protection from her, and not her enemies, before she's much older."

  "Believe it, my friend," FitzRoy said, grinning. "Oh, truly believe it!"

  AFTERWORD

  Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond, died on the twenty-second of July, in the Palace of St. James, exactly as described in our story. And, as we described, for some unknown reason, though the official cause of death was stated as "consumption," his body was wrapped in lead and buried with almost obscene haste and in great secrecy. Henry VIII, his father, was enraged when he learned of how his son's body had been treated, and that he had not been told of the death until after the burial.

  No one knows why FitzRoy was treated in this odd fashion, though there has been a great deal of speculation by hundreds of scholars over the years.

  With the exception of the Sidhe and some underlings, all of the characters we have used in this book were real, historical personages. We have, however, for the benefit of modern readers, kept their language "modern" and kept "forsoothly" speech to a minimum. And we have done our best to work entirely within the framework of actual history.

  This includes baby Elizabeth's amazing precociousness; she was, indeed, speaking in whole, nearly adult sentences by the age of two. One almost does begin to believe in Sidhe. . . .

  THE END

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