“Oh, Lord Denno,” she sighed, lifting the furs and touching them gently to her cheek. “Oh, this is too much. I cannot …”
“Indeed, you can, madam. Let me assure you that these are only a small sample, a bare token. I was very lucky in my purchase and have sufficient reward in seeing your pleasure, and in hoping you will allow me to give a similar token to Lady Elizabeth …”
She laughed aloud and stepped aside to lay the furs carefully on a table, then turned to face him. “So, I am to be bribed to allow you to court Elizabeth—”
“No!” Denoriel exclaimed, eyes widening with shock. “No, madam. I am far too old …”
Catherine laughed again. “Oh, Lord Denno, no. I only meant to court her favor. I know you have no evil intent toward the child.”
Did he not, Denoriel wondered. The way his heart leapt when the queen said he would court Elizabeth was … wrong. She was a child. Fourteen years old. But Denoriel knew that many mortal girls were married at fourteen. Sometimes it was a marriage in name only, but sometimes … There were very young mothers. But he had no need to fear that. Mortal and Sidhe could couple but not breed. He could feel the heat of color staining his cheeks and running up the long peaks of his ears. By God’s grace Catherine could not see that!
Concerned at having distressed him, Catherine came forward and put her hand lightly on his arm. “So, I see that you suffer from servants as stupid as my own,” she said, changing the subject, “and they had not sense enough to wake you when a message came. Truly, I am glad of that, for you still look somewhat worn.”
“It is not so much that my servants are stupid but that they do not speak or understand English. And Clayborne, my man of business, was in the warehouse with my one English footman. The message was left for Clayborne. He woke me as soon as he arrived at the house, but it was almost evening.”
“I see.” Catherine smiled. “A coincidence of errors. When no one came to announce you, I thought that you were not able to ride to Enfield. I must admit was annoyed that you had not sent a message to that effect, but Sir Thomas offered to send his man with the letter.”
Denoriel froze, then forced a smile. “Did you give him the letter?” If she had, Seymour would soon have lost it and maybe a little blood too.
Catherine laughed aloud. “A further coincidence of errors. I am afraid we were so absorbed in that silly game that we both forgot. See, the letter is there on my writing desk.”
“Then no harm at all is done,” Denoriel said. “I promise that Elizabeth will have it when she sits down to break her fast in the morning.”
Now Catherine looked concerned, but not for Elizabeth. “There is no need for that. You would have to start before dawn. I know you said you slept almost the whole day, but you still look tired, Lord Denno, and as you said yourself, you are not a young man. It does not matter if Elizabeth receives my news a few hours later. I can send the letter to Sir Thomas—”
The queen was not a cruel woman, but to her a few hours of anxiety for Elizabeth were a minor thing. Denoriel could see, in his minds’ eye, Elizabeth at her most anxious, see her pacing and wringing her hands as she was wont to do when distressed. A strange twisting pain, as if his heart were writhing, made Denoriel draw a sharp breath.
“No, madam, I beg you to let me take it. Children have little sense of time. To me an hour is brief indeed. I know whatever my pain, if it is only for an hour it will soon end. But to a child an hour can stretch into an infinity of misery.”
Catherine shook her head. “You spoil her dreadfully.”
“I spoiled Harry too … but not enough for his short time. To me, it seems that every moment Lady Elizabeth is unhappy is a year too long.” He allowed his voice to falter. “Because … one never knows …”
Catherine sighed. “Well, if you are sure that the ride will not be too much for you … Yes, I will be glad to know that Elizabeth begins her day with happiness.”
He took the letter quickly and kept his farewell so short it was hardly decent, excusing himself with the need to go early to bed in preparation of his early rising. Catherine was content with that and hurried him on his way. Miralys was waiting at the door for him. Denoriel mounted with a word of thanks. He hoped the ostler would believe that he had come for the horse and not raise an outcry about a stolen beast, but it was too cold to want to have walked to the stable.
Miralys held to a decorous pace on the road that led to the palace gate as he had when they had arrived. It was less likely that the guards would see him virtually disappear in the dark, but they might be puzzled if they did not hear the sound of shod hooves on the frozen-hard earth of the road.
The road turned sharply left to avoid a small building by a private wharf. They were now out of sight and sound of the palace. Denoriel said “Home,” felt Miralys tense to leap ahead, and a sharp whirr went right by his face. He had jerked his head back an instant before the arrow passed, warned by the aura of sickening cold that preceded the iron head.
Denoriel flung himself out of the saddle, shouting “Cerdded! Rhedeg!” The violent order to Go! Run! would catapult Miralys into his full speed. Without the command the elvensteed might have taken a moment to be sure of what his partner wanted, and that moment might have been too long if an iron-headed arrow, already launched, should touch him. Denoriel was not concerned for himself. He was a much smaller target than Miralys and he could use the Don’t-see-me spell and become totally invisible.
He knew he could have escaped by staying in the saddle, but he was so furious, so wildly enraged by the attack, which could have wounded or killed Miralys, that he intended to lesson the perpetrators so that they would never attack anyone again. That he knew Miralys was not the target, that the arrow had been aimed high, at him, made no difference to his rage. He was small; Miralys was large. Miralys had been endangered.
“Gone! The friggin’ ‘orse disappeared!”
Denoriel had landed in a crouch near the hedge that lined the far side of the road. His sword was out in his hand and, his head turned in the direction from which the arrow had come, he saw the man standing in the shadow of the small building. Had he been looking in that direction, he could have seen him before he loosed the arrow, but he had been looking at the road in case there were deep holes.
The shout that the horse had disappeared drew Denoriel’s eyes to the side of the road on which he was. He saw another man, spent bow in hand. He must have shot an arrow too, although Denoriel had not been aware of it. For a moment the second man’s remark made Denoriel think that the purpose of the attack had been to steal Miralys, but the next instant confirmed that he was the object.
“Shut yer maw!” The man near the building had run across the road. His voice was tense but low, apparently he feared that sounds would carry to the palace guards. ” ‘e fell off when t’orse jumped. Saw that. Where’d ‘e land?”
” ‘Ope ‘e broke ‘is neck, yellin’ like that and scarin’ t’orse. Good ‘orse it were. Like t’ave it.”
“Where’d ‘e fall, you fool? Need to finish ‘im. ‘Nyhow, think ‘is friggin’ ‘ighness ‘ud let us keep t’orse?”
” ‘Ood tell ‘im?”
Denoriel watched them, mentally shaking his head, though he made no move that might alert his attackers. In a thin layer over his continued outrage at the threat to Miralys, he was almost amused by their foolishness. True, they believed he had fallen off and possibly been rendered unconscious, but if he had been stirring, their talk would have covered any sound he made.
“Shurrup!” the second man snarled. “Let’s find ‘im. We can talk about t’orse arter we slit ‘is throat.”
And then Denoriel made a mistake, engendered by his contempt. He strolled out into the middle of the road, which to him in the moonlight was as bright as day, and said, “I don’t think I’d like that, and I certainly wouldn’t like you to have my horse. I don’t like being attacked—”
The men leapt apart, drawing swords and knives, and Denoriel realiz
ed that they were trained and practiced fighters despite their carelessness in making sure of their victim. He too drew his knife, watching the man on his left, which was usually a fighter’s weaker side, advance. He was waving his sword in threat to attract Denoriel’s attention; the one on his right backed away almost as if he had been surprised by Denoriel’s remark and approach, and was about to run away.
Their contempt for someone they thought of as an effete dilettante saved Denoriel from his own error. The attacker advancing expected Denoriel to back away, right into the sword or knife of the second man. Instead, Denoriel leapt forward and beat aside the sword of the man advancing on him. It was not all gain. Denoriel gasped as the shock of close contact with steel ran up his sword into his hand. He was hardly in time to parry the knife stroke from the man’s left hand. Another shock rocked him as steel blade met silver.
The pain and weakness of meeting steel reminded him that he could not afford to fence with these killers. Setting his teeth, he disengaged his weapon from the attacker’s, drew back with elven swiftness, and plunged his sword forward again just to the left of the attacker’s breastbone. The man screamed, his voice thin and high. Denoriel flung himself to his right, raising his knife and twisting as he tried to pull his sword from the man he had skewered.
The weapon came free just as a blow struck his shoulder from behind. Another thrill of pain and weakness passed through him from the nearness of the steel, but the heavy layers of clothing, the gown and doublet, jacquet and silk shirt, protected him from any direct touch. Still he shuddered and for a moment was physically unsure. Striving to find space to turn and face his second attacker, his foot caught against the spasming body and he fell forward crying out.
All he could do was to roll further right and bring up knife and sword. But the fall was lucky; the second man was near blind in the dark and the thrust aimed at the sound of Denoriel’s cry pierced the fallen man, who screamed again. Shock at hearing his companion’s shriek jerked the second attacker upright and half a step backward. Denoriel needed no more advantage. He leapt to his feet, now clear of the dying body. Nor did he wait for the second man’s shock to abate or for him to decide whether to continue the fight or run.
He said, “You could not have mastered the horse anyway,” stepped forward and ran him through the heart.
For a long moment Denoriel stood looking down at the second body, remembering how one of them had said ” ‘is ‘ighness” wouldn’t let them keep the horse. Then he knelt and wiped his sword carefully on the dead man’s doublet. When it was clean, he sheathed it and used his knife to cut away the purse hanging from the belt. Briefly he ran his hands down the front of the doublet, shuddering a little as he deliberately wrinkled the cloth and blood slimed his fingers. There was no sound of rustling as might be made from a hidden paper or parchment.
Then Denoriel’s head came up sharply and he could feel his long ears cup forward. Voices. Footsteps pounding fast along the road. In the quiet of the night, the palace guards must have heard the cries. Denoriel hurried to the first body, cut the purse and again felt around the doublet for any concealed letters or messages. The voices were closer.
Although it would do Lord Denno’s reputation no harm to have fought off two street thugs, it would certainly do it no good to be found with the thugs’ purses and blood on his hands. Denoriel thought of vanishing the stains or covering them with illusion and realized he was trembling with weariness. No, let the palace guards think what they would. To have had a killing so close should make them more alert. With a shrug, Denoriel melted into the shadows of the hedge and hurried away, silent as a wraith.
He was now alert for any sound or movement along the road, both ahead of him, which he could see as twilight, or on the open road, which was bright and clear. Now that he had almost been killed by a steel arrowhead and that two men were dead, of course there was nothing to be seen. When the road had curved again and hidden both sight and sound of the guards, Denoriel stepped across the dead grass of the verge and silently called for Miralys.
Chapter 9
The door between the passage to the stable and the house was locked. Denoriel stared at it stupidly, aware of a fine trembling in his limbs and a hollowness in his gut that spoke of power drain and exhaustion. Had the house been attacked at the same time he had been? By whom? Why? What had happened to Joseph Clayborne?
He remembered at last that he had a key. The same key that opened the front door opened this one. He fumbled in his purse, inserted the key somewhat uncertainly after scraping it around the lock because his hand was shaking. Before he could turn it, the door was flung open and he was confronted by Joseph with a sword in his hand. Behind him, cudgel ready, stood Cropper.
Denoriel’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Joseph, apparently, had decided to take over the business, and when the street thugs failed him …
“M’lord! M’lord, are you hurt?”
Joseph’s voice was high with anxiety, the sword hastily sheathed. Cropper dropped his cudgel and rushed forward, hands extended to support his master.
Denoriel blinked. “Hurt? No, not at all.”
“But you are all over blood, m’lord!” Joseph exclaimed.
“Yes, but not mine.” Denoriel laughed shakily. “I was attacked on the way home from Chelsea. There are two dead men on the road—but I did not wait until the palace guard came to explain. When the door was locked and you opened it sword in hand …” He shook his head. “I began to wonder if you wanted to take over the business.”
Now Joseph also laughed. “Not until I learn how to produce in three days a cargo such as was in the warehouse.” He stepped back. “Come in, m’lord, do. Forgive me but you look terrible.”
“I forgive you readily. I feel terrible.” Denoriel went past Joseph and Cropper, who had flattened himself against the wall to make room. “But why are you armed for war? Are you expecting an invasion?” he asked as he entered the parlor and dropped into a chair by the hearth.
Joseph followed him into the parlor. “You said two men attacked you, m’lord? Could they have been the same two who have been watching the house? They are gone from the house across the road.”
“Are they?”
“Yes. You wanted to know whether we feared an invasion.” He shook his head. “You are a good deal richer tonight than you were last night, m’lord. I have never had a day for selling like today in my whole life. By midday I knew I would have no time to do any accounting and would need to bring the money home, so I sent for Cuthbert and Petrus to walk home with me. I do not like to walk from the warehouse to home carrying bulging satchels.”
“Very wise.”
“And toward evening, I bethought myself as to whether those men in the house across the road had just been waiting for a day of exceptional business, so I sent Cuthbert and Petrus to see if they could get rid of them.”
“But they were gone?”
“Yes, m’lord, so I brought the money home. And no one bothered us. But later, after Cuthbert and Petrus were gone, I began to wonder … There is so much money. I began to wonder if those men had gone to get reinforcements, so Cropper and I armed, and when I heard what I felt were stealthy sounds on the side door …”
Denoriel smiled. “So you met me prepared for defense. I see. I wonder if the watchers were the ones who lay in wait for me at the palace? That would mean they had been watching all this while to see me go out alone.”
“Could they have known about the cargo and meant to hold you for ransom?”
Denoriel shook his head. “The men who lay in wait for me at Chelsea meant death. It was only by chance that I did not get an arrow through my head. There is no ransoming a dead man.”
“An enemy from your past?”
Denoriel shrugged. “From Hungary? I have been gone from there for over twenty years. A fellow merchant who envies my trading? What good would my death do him? Who else might think me worth the danger and expense?”
As he said the
words Denoriel recalled the malevolent look on Thomas Seymour’s face when he himself had stepped out of the shadows near the queen’s bed. Yet this evening Sir Thomas had looked … contemptuous, as if Denoriel was no longer a threat. How the devil was he to deal with Seymour? Then Denoriel remembered his conversation with Aleneil when she warned him that Vidal might wish to destroy those whom Elizabeth loved.
An odd fluttering started right under Denoriel’s breastbone at the thought that Elizabeth might love him. He suppressed it. But, he thought, even if she did not love him, Elizabeth surely relied upon him and hearing of his death so soon after that of her father would shake her to the core and make her vulnerable.
Vidal? Could Vidal have sent the assassins? For a moment Denoriel almost felt relief. Knowing who was trying to be rid of him would be half the battle won by knowing where to look for more trouble. Better Vidal, whom he could fight openly, than Sir Thomas. A chill passed through him as he remembered that the men who attacked him were not Sidhe. They were using steel arrowheads and steel swords.
“The truth is, m’lord, that I cannot think of anyone in the community of merchants that even dislikes you. A few envy you, but none believe they could take over your trade routes, so where would be the benefit …” Joseph shrugged.
Denoriel hardly heard him. He was thinking about whether he could still hope the attack could have been arranged by Vidal. But he could not speak of that to Joseph, so he turned the subject to the goods he had kenned and Gated to the warehouse.
Joseph waxed almost lyrical about the prices he had obtained and the fact that they were nearly sold out of everything.
Denoriel slapped his hand on the arm of the chair. “Grace of God,” he groaned, “I meant to tell you to hold back some lesser items. I have what I want for Lady Elizabeth, but I should have tokens for the maids of honor and for Kat.”
A broad, self-satisfied grin spread over Joseph’s face. “Aha! I have just what you need. A parcel of vair, good furs but too ordinary for a coronation, and a pair of marten skins. Somehow they fell behind the vair and no one noticed them. The vair will do well for the maids; Mistress Ashley will enjoy the martens.”
By Slanderous Tongues Page 14