“But an accidental mention …”
“You will choke. You will cough. You will change the subject. An accident will call forth only a reminder … unless the accident is repeated too often.”
He seemed about to protest again; she frowned at him and he remained silent and bowed once more.
Aurilia nodded her satisfaction and went on briskly, “Now the nuisances. In London on what I believe is a street called Bucklersbury is the house of Lord Denno.” Hidden by the coils of the gold chain had been the amulet for Gating to London. Now she picked it up. “This amulet will take you from any Gate in Caer Mordwyn to the house of a fortune-teller and magician called Fagildo Otstargi. Otstargi is away at present and his servant will not interfere with you. You may stay in that house for a day or two while you find another lodging, but do no business from there.”
With obvious reluctance, Albertus took the amulet. He looked relieved when it just lay in his hand, and after a moment he tucked it into a pouch supported by his belt.
“You are to rid me of both Lord Denno and his distant cousin, Lady Alana, who occasionally stays in the house. I have no other direction for her.”
“If this Lady Alana comes only occasionally, it may take me some time …”
“For now time is not an urgent matter. I admit I know little of the mortal world. I am leaving to you and trusting you to accomplish my purpose without more help than the gold I promised and the new face and body. And I must warn you that the man will be no easy target. He can use a sword. Be sure you send enough men against him. Do not think to spare the gold and keep it for yourself.”
Albertus was silent, staring into the reflecting surface that had appeared before him. He was younger, but not a young man so that he still had the authority of age; his hair was grizzled, his eyes black instead of faded blue, his nose was shorter and broader and he had a short, pointed beard, also grizzled. His eyes shifted to Aurilia and he bowed almost double.
“No, indeed, madam. Why should I be tempted to steal your gold? As long as I am assured I am to come back here to Caer Mordwyn, for what do I need gold?”
Chapter 8
If Joseph Clayborne had not been well drilled in decent manners, he would literally have drooled over the goods that Lord Denno showed him in a locked back room of the warehouse in the alley off Thames Street. Bales of fur—lush silvery fox pelts, white ermine, sleek mink—bolts of rich brocades in every color gleaming and glinting with the gold and silver thread in the weavings, and separate packets wrapped in thick silk, which could itself be sold, that held ribbons and panels of delicate embroidery set with tiny pearls and precious stones.
Denno laughed. Joseph sighed. Even though it was the dead of night and Denoriel and Clayborne were alone in the back room with a locked door between them and the one guard standing near the outer door, Joseph made no mention of the fact that what he was seeing was impossible. Lord Denno had been gone only three days. There was nowhere, not even from his supposed sources in north Germany, France, and Spain that he could have shipped such goods in so short a time. It was another of the many mysteries of Lord Denno. It did make him curious though … if Lord Denno could somehow magically conjure all this, why did he not simply magic up gold and avoid all the tedium and risk of being a merchant-adventurer?
Perhaps he simply had some magical way of moving goods themselves. Surely that must be it. What was here would not fill a corner of a ship, so of course, for great cargoes, Lord Denno would still need his ships. Perhaps, as in the song about the Boys of Bedlam, Lord Denno could conjure a “horse of air.”
Well, useless to speculate, and really, better not. Better just to pretend that he thought Lord Denno had all this hidden away somewhere, like a motley conjuror’s false-bottomed box.
“May you live a thousand years, m’lord—as I understand they say when they mention the emperor in China,” Joseph said, grinning. “I have more than half of this already sold, so much did I trust in you, but I cannot deny I spent a few uneasy nights wondering how I would explain selling what I did not have and leaving some very highborn ladies and gentlemen without proper trimmings for their new clothing.”
“The dates for the funeral and coronation are now set?” Denoriel could not fathom these mortal ways of delaying such things until the poor corpse had to be buried in sealed coffins to avoid prostrating the bereaved with stench.
“Yes, m’lord. The funeral for the sixteenth as was proposed all along. There is to be much ceremony on the following day also. The young king is to be knighted and”—Joseph’s lips twisted cynically—“those who have well served the kingdom will be rewarded. It is said that Hertford will have a dukedom and Dudley will be made an earl.” He gestured toward the carefully laid-out goods. “I will hire extra men and attend to the distribution myself.”
“All except these,” Denoriel said, taking up four of the silver fox pelts and a tied bundle of the ermine. “These are for Lady Elizabeth and, hmmm,” he also picked up several gleaming mink skins, “these, I think for Queen Catherine. I hope I am not taking what you have already promised?”
“Well, the ermine. Everyone was asking for ermine, but thank God I did not accept payment … except from Hertford’s lady. I did not wish to annoy her. She is … ah …”
“Proud and spiteful,” Denoriel said. That was an understatement. For someone whose husband was so recently jumped-up, she had the manner of one whose blood had come direct from Adam.
Joseph nodded. “Well, I doubt she will see Lady Elizabeth so she will not know the little lady is so well supplied. But I do not think that any of the royal ladies will be invited. From something in Lady Hertford’s remarks to Lady Dorset—I cannot imagine why she thinks I become stone deaf the moment she does not address me directly—Hertford will be named Protector, and she does not take it well that Queen Catherine and Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth will still have precedence over her.”
“Truly if I were only sure that Queen Catherine will have charge of Elizabeth, I would be happy enough that neither of them should come to Court—at least until the striving for political place is finished.” He shook his head. This was a bad business all around, what with spite, posturing, political maneuvering both subtle and unsubtle, added to all the usual court intriguing.
“There are times,” Joseph said, “when I am very happy to be no more than a common merchant. And times when I could wish you were not such a successful one.” He sighed. “Go home, m’lord, and get what rest you can. You look tired. I will send the guard out for more men.” He reached out and took a rough cloth from a shelf on the wall and wrapped the furs Denoriel had chosen in it. “How thieves discover where goods of special value are, I have no idea. Sometimes I think that they use the mice and rats as spies.”
Denoriel laughed heartily over that, knowing that such creatures—or what looked like them—could be used that way by the Sidhe, but not to find furs or silks and jewels which could be too easily come by Underhill. Then he shook his head over Joseph’s suggestion that he wait for the extra men to come and take one or two to escort him home.
“It would take a very desperate thief to be out this late on so cold a night. Certainly it is not likely that there would be a large group out just to get a cloak.” He patted his sword hilt. “And one or two I do not fear.”
Nor was there anything to fear as he made his way to Thames Street, along it the short way to Dowgate, and then north, across Watling to the narrow, curving way that led to Bucklersbury. What might have been dangerously dark to humans was twilight to Denoriel. In fact he saw nothing at all moving—it was bitterly cold, even for him—and felt no threat until he stopped to fumble for the keys to his own door.
As he held the large key poised, he thought he heard the click of a doorlatch, and he turned swiftly, the key now in his left hand, sword half drawn in his right. Perhaps a shadow moved in the deeper dark of the doorway across the road, but his own door opened before the threat, if there was one, could materialize. Light
spilled out of the open doorway, and Cropper’s voice spoke a cheerful welcome.
“Been watching for you, m’lord. Master Clayborne said he thought you’d meet him at the warehouse. Welcome home.”
Denoriel walked in, glancing over his shoulder, but there was no movement now in the opposite doorway, not even a shifting of shadow. Cropper also looked around Denoriel’s shoulder at the house across the street, but he didn’t say anything, merely shut the door, took Denoriel’s cloak, and set the package Denoriel had thrust under his left arm on the small table.
“I thought you went home to your wife and child at night, Cropper,” Denoriel said.
“Yes, m’lord. In the usual way, I do.” The massive footman nodded. He was a most ordinary-looking man—most footmen were large and strongly built—but there was something about him that reminded Denoriel of a mastiff. Not in looks, but in attitude, perhaps. Friendly, good with children, but if the master was threatened—it would not go well for the one doing the threatening. “But since Master Clayborne saw those men watching the house—and I thought we were followed when we went to bring the wine to Mistress Cecil—I been staying if Master Clayborne goes out. He don’t want to leave the house all empty and I don’t mind, m’lord. It’s an extra shilling, which I can surely use. Kept the fire going in the parlor, m’lord, and started one in your bedroom when Master Clayborne said you might be coming home. What do you want done with the parcel, m’lord?”
For one moment, Denoriel could not remember what was in the parcel he had carried. Although Clayborne had remarked he looked tired, he had no idea just how tired his master was. Even in the power-rich atmosphere Underhill, it took enormous effort to correctly ken such intricate and elaborate items as furs and brocades. Denoriel looked blankly at Cropper, then shook his head and told Cropper he hadn’t decided and that he would take the package up with him to his chamber.
This he did, and when he had the door closed safely behind him, he began to gesture at his clothing. His overstrained power channels burned and he cursed softly, stopped his attempt to remove his clothing by magic, and started to struggle out of his garments one by one. It took forever, but eventually the gown and doublet, the jacquet and shirt, the upperstocks and hose were in a pile on the floor. Then, Sidhe did not sleep, but Denoriel lay down on the thick featherbed, pulled over himself the down coverlet and went blank and empty.
He was roused by Clayborne’s voice calling at the door and opened his eyes to dull and rosy light. Apparently he had been resting all of what remained of the night and nearly all the next day. From the look of the light it was now evening.
“Come,” he called.
“I am sorry to disturb you, m’lord,” Joseph said, “but there was a messenger from the queen. He brought a note and I was sure you would want to have it as soon as possible.”
Denoriel levered himself up, sat against the pillows, and held out his hand. He wasted no time in breaking the seal and unfolding the letter, which was brief enough to take in in one glance.
After the suitable salutation, there were only a few lines. I have happy news and I have writ a letter to Lady Elizabeth explaining all. If you will come to Chelsea as soon as you may, and if you are willing to be my messenger, you may carry my letter to her.
“I must go to Chelsea Palace at once,” he said.
“Can it not wait until morning, m’lord?” Joseph asked. “Chelsea is a long way and it is very cold. And I must speak to you about the sales from the warehouse from where I have just returned.” Denoriel shook his head, repeating Chelsea, and Joseph sighed and turned toward the wardrobe, asking, “Court dress?”
Denoriel groaned. “Since I am going to the palace, I suppose so. A curse on the formality … Oh, send one of the men up to help me dress.”
“Yes, m’lord. Will you have the midnight blue lined with vair or the maroon trimmed with sable?”
“Blue.” Denoriel watched Joseph pull garments from the wardrobe and lay them on the foot of the bed.
“And I will have a sup and a bite ready for you,” Joseph said. “You’ve had nothing since last night and though the queen might offer you refreshment, by the time you reach Chelsea it would likely be only a glass of warmed wine.”
About to protest about the waste of time, Denoriel was forestalled by his own belly, which rumbled audibly at the notion of food. Both he and Clayborne laughed.
“Yes, all right,” Denoriel said, getting out of bed. “I would hate to have my stomach inserting comments into the conversation if the queen should wish to talk.”
As Joseph went out, Denoriel noticed that the heap of clothing he had left on the floor was gone, the room was warm, the fire burning brightly. Someone had come in to pick up the discarded garments and lay fresh logs on the fire. No doubt one of the Low Court Sidhe that acted as servants in the house. They could move silently enough not to disturb his rest, and he would have sensed Sidhe in the chamber and not felt the alarm that a human intrusion would cause.
He turned toward the clothes Joseph had set out on the bed and stared. They assembled themselves on his body. Since he was not creating anything, very little power was involved. Nonetheless a faint ache along the power channels warned him that he would need to be cautious about using magic for some time longer. When the servant came in, Denoriel set him to making the bed while he took the mink pelts from the package, leaving only the fox and ermine for Elizabeth.
“They are to be a gift,” he told the Sidhe in the Elven tongue. “Use some pretty cloth and ribbon to wrap them. When you are done, bring the gift to me in the small dining parlor.”
Although Miralys took no more than a quarter hour to carry Denoriel from Bucklersbury to Chelsea, he was very glad he had taken Clayborne’s advice and had a meal. He was not, to his surprise, expected. Fortunately he had carried Catherine’s letter with him and her seal opened the gate. Nonetheless it was at least another half hour before he settled Miralys in the stable, removed his package from his saddlebag, and got back to the house. And then, although the servant who greeted him did seem to expect him, he was not at once shown into Queen Catherine’s parlor.
The servant showed him instead into a reception room, saying that the queen had an unexpected visitor and that he would need to wait until she was free. Denoriel made no protest; in the mortal world he was, after all, no more than a common merchant—if uncommonly rich—and this might be Court business. However, he was soon sorry he had not asked the servant at least to tell Queen Catherine that he had arrived because he was left to wait longer than he expected.
The full dark of a winter’s night had closed in before Thomas Seymour walked into the reception room, strolled up to the chair in which Denoriel was sitting, and smiled condescendingly down at Denoriel.
“Queen Catherine will see you now,” he said. “I told the servant to send you in.”
So it was this popinjay who had been the cause of the delay—not business. Denoriel rose to his full height and in turn stared down at Seymour, who was a tall man among his fellows but still at least a half head shorter than the Sidhe. The smile on Seymour’s face faded and he stepped back a pace. Denoriel smiled.
“Thank you, Sir Thomas,” he said softly.
Seymour backed another pace, then stiffened as he realized what he had done. His mouth opened … and the servant came around him, looked up at him, and then beckoned to Denoriel, saying, “This way, my lord.”
A moment later Denoriel had scooped up his package and was in the queen’s private parlor where Catherine was standing up, her hands clasped before her and an anxious frown on her face. “Oh, my dear Lord Denno,” she cried, as soon as the door closed behind him. “That stupid servant! I had no idea you had arrived. Sir Thomas and I were only playing a silly card game. Who could imagine the fool servant would not announce you?”
Sir Thomas, eh, Denoriel thought, suddenly remembering how the servant had looked up at Seymour before he asked Denoriel to follow him. I will see to you, you puffed up pile of �
�� He bowed and smiled at Catherine.
“It does not matter, madam. Even if you had seen me at once, I could not have ridden to Enfield tonight. Aside from the dark and the cold, I would have arrived so late that I could not have seen Lady Elizabeth.”
“Ridden to Enfield tonight? But I sent the message to your house before dinner! Why did it take so long to come to you?”
“I—”
About to tell Catherine that Seymour had paid her servant to delay the message until it seemed as if Denoriel were unwilling to go to Elizabeth, he swallowed the words. He did not know that was true, did not want to be caught in a lie, and, in addition, from the way she blushed whenever she said Seymour’s name, she would be angry at Denoriel over the accusation, not at Sir Thomas over the crime.
Denoriel sighed and said, “I’m afraid the fault for that is mine. I was asleep all the day. I had just returned from a most exhausting journey to bring to England some goods I had stored in foreign warehouses.” He smiled apologetically. “But I believe the effort was well worthwhile.” He held out the gaily wrapped package. “Do you look, madam, and tell me you forgive my tardiness.”
It was common enough for those who intended to ask favors to gift the giver of those favors. Catherine suspected that the favor she would be asked was to allow Lord Denno to visit Elizabeth. Since she had already done so while the girl was in her care, she was perfectly willing to agree. She did not stop to think that the situation was different. Elizabeth was now second in line for the throne and Catherine was now solely responsible for her, not a mere caretaker under her father’s direction.
Thus she undid the rich ribbon and opened the shining cloth. She had expected that there would be several layers of the same cloth, which was a pleasant but not extravagant gift, and so she gasped when the mink pelts were exposed.
By Slanderous Tongues Page 13