This Scepter'd Isle Page 22

  "I am not to live with His Grace of Norfolk any longer?" The child looked worried and his voice was tremulous.

  "You would not have done so in any case," Mwynwen said in a comfortable, matter-of-fact tone. "The move to Yorkshire changed all the plans. Do you know who you are, my love?"

  "Of course. I am Henry FitzRoy, duke of Richmond and Somerset and earl of Nottingham."

  "Oh, my," Mwynwen said, a smile in her voice. "That's rather a large mouthful isn't it? But since you are to live here with me, could we make it a bit shorter? Could I call you . . . Richey—short for Richmond?"

  "I am not to be a duke any more?"

  "Will you mind very much? Perhaps—"

  "I won't mind at all," the changeling said. Suddenly his brow creased in a puzzled frown. "Someone was always telling me how I must act and . . . and . . . I suppose it was my guardian, but it was so hard to remember . . ."

  "That's all done with. You don't need to remember any of it. Only remember that your name is Richey. Mwynwen is my name, and if you call me, I will always be there to help you. Now do you feel well enough to have some bread and milk?"

  "Have I been ill?"

  "No, love, not really. But you were taken on a long journey and that tired you. Are you still tired?"

  The construct sat up. "Only a very little," he said. "But I don't feel like sleeping any more."

  "No, indeed," Mwynwen agreed. "Come along with me now, Richey, and have a nice nuncheon."

  Behind her back, Mwynwen made dismissive gestures at Denoriel. Again he felt like protesting and again swallowed the protest as he realized that Mwynwen didn't want Richey to see him. Likely she was afraid seeing him would wake some confused half-memories in Richey of what had happened since Rhoslyn brought him into the mortal world and Denoriel carried him back Underhill. So, very quietly, Denoriel backed away and stood quite still while Mwynwen maneuvered the little changeling out of the room. When they were gone, Denoriel made his way to the front door where he found Miralys waiting.

  "Where now?" he mumbled to himself.

  He leaned against the elvensteed, cold, empty, and exhausted, trying to dismiss his sense of loss and unable to decide whether the loss of Mwynwen or that of the changeling was the most painful. The elvensteed snorted gently, managing to convey a sense of disdain over folly. Denoriel sighed as he mounted, but his lips soon parted in silent laughter at himself.

  How could the changeling have preferred him? It wasn't Harry. It had never seen him or known him. Even if the minds of the attackers had yielded images of him fighting them, Rhoslyn was unlikely to have transmitted those images to the changeling's mind. She would not want the simulacrum to feel any affection or dependence on him and the attackers would not have been aware of his relationship with Harry. And he wasn't as pretty as Mwynwen . . . even a six-year-old would notice that.

  Was he piqued because Mwynwen had not been aware—or cared if she were aware—that he was hurt and depleted? Ridiculous when the changeling was in so much worse condition. No, he had to stop thinking of Richey only as Harry's simulacrum. They would grow in different directions now, no matter how long Richey lived. In a few months or a year—if Richey lived that long—they would not even look much alike, even though their features were similar, because life in the mortal world and Underhill was so different.

  Harry's face would grow older faster with the need for wariness both physical and emotional. All stress would be absent in the bland, protected environment Mwynwen would provide for Richey, and the child . . . yes, child. Richey was a child, no matter how he had come to life. He would look young and innocent, probably for the whole short term of his existence. And how foolish it was to envy Mwynwen the care of him. He had Harry, and would have him for many years.

  He was aware then of a shock of disorientation. If Miralys had not somehow held him to his saddle, he would have toppled to the ground. Which Gate, he wondered, and then did not need to wonder as Miralys came to a halt in front of Aleneil's cottage. Of course. He needed to tell Aleneil what had happened. His head was so thick right now; it felt as if it were stuffed with silk floss. Maybe she would have a better idea than he about what he should do next.

  He managed to dismount and get to the door. It opened but Aleneil was not there. Denoriel knew he was always welcome in his sister's home and went through to the parlor where they usually talked. He felt a stirring in the air around him and understood that he could ask for food or drink and he would be served. He could not remember the last time he had eaten, but he wasn't hungry and just shook his head.

  He sank into his favorite chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. His fingers traced the inlaid patterns of silky, cool mother-of-pearl and he felt calmer, but his thoughts still would not come clear. He kept seeing the tears on Rhoslyn's face. He had not known that she could cry. He wondered if she had put too much into the changeling. His eyes opened slowly and he stared across Aleneil's room. The walls were white but with the faintest rose tint, which made them warm and somehow cheerful. The ever-changing pictures were of sylvan scenes of exquisite beauty. His eyes closed again.

  "You look as if you had been dragged backward through that precious Wild Hunt of yours. What have you been doing with yourself?"

  Denoriel yawned and sat up, putting up a hand to rub the back of his neck, which was twisted. Elves did not sleep, but he must have been close to that state. Perhaps he was catching it from so much time spent in the mortal world. At least he felt better than he had when he arrived. He was not as cold or as empty, perhaps not as exhausted either, but he surely did not want to do anything yet.

  "Preventing Rhoslyn from putting a changeling in Harry's place," he replied in answer to her question.

  "A changeling!" Aleneil looked around as if she expected to see the construct lying about somewhere in her room.

  Denoriel chuckled a little. "He was fading fast, poor little devil. I brought him to Mwynwen. She restored him and will keep him safe."

  "Him?"

  "She named him Richey, and I think she means to keep him alive as long as she can," he explained. "I can understand why. He is not like other constructs. He is truly a child. He talks and thinks and feels to a remarkable extent—if I had not known better, I would have mistaken him for FitzRoy. He knows who he is and has 'memories' of his earlier life. Rhoslyn intended him to pass for Harry without raising any doubts so that his death would be accepted as the end of any threat of a male to supplant Princess Mary as heir."

  Aleneil looked troubled. "Was it wise to restore him? If Rhoslyn can snatch him back—"

  He rubbed his chin uneasily. "She believes I killed him. She called me a murderer, and I did not contradict her. She . . . she wept."

  "Oh, poor Rhoslyn," Aleneil sighed. "To make a changeling so real, she must have invested a huge amount of herself in the creature. Oh, dear. She would not have done that unless she felt it truly important that FitzRoy be removed from the world, and I suppose that means that she and Pasgen have seen the image of the future that we have. Tell me what happened."

  So Denoriel described the entire morning to her, beginning with his summons to Windsor by the white kitten and ending with the scene in Mwynwen's house. That last made Aleneil's lips compress, but she said nothing, clearly feeling that Mwynwen was more than old enough to know how she should and should not bestow her time, energy, and heart.

  All she said was, "I do not need to warn you to keep a close watch on FitzRoy. I am glad I was able to renew the spell on the air spirit only a little while ago. It will be attentive, especially because there was an attempt on the boy. And do not allow yourself to be distracted. The most likely device they will try is to attack some innocent and helpless member of the party traveling north. Do not go to rescue the innocent or you are likely to lose FitzRoy."

  He nodded. "I had thought of that already. Fortunately Norfolk is not going with us. He is needed in London and may go to France on some diplomatic mission. Northumberland has gone ahead to be sure all is
ready. Lord Dacre was supposed to accompany the cortege, but his gout is crippling and he has sent his brother Sir Christopher Fiennes. That one is not the most perceptive of men and Norfolk seems not to have warned him about preventing my closeness to the boy. I think there will be no trouble if I actually ride beside Harry. I know his guards will not object; they are aware of my skill with a sword."

  Aleneil still looked concerned. "You will not be able to share his quarters at night."

  "Yes I can, if I use the Don't-see-me spell." He sighed. "But it drains me, Aleneil, and Mwynwen warned me not to use mortal-world power . . . and I am tired."

  She looked at him with concern. "I think you need to come back Underhill every night, once FitzRoy is settled in his bed. Surely his guards will be alert, and the air spirit will summon you."

  "To where?" Denoriel asked, a touch bitterly. "There are no Gates between here and our destination, and I am not even certain which route they will take. Once Harry is established in Sheriff Hutton, I can ask Master Treowth to construct a Gate for me, but to build one each night . . ."

  "No, that is too much to ask," she admitted. "And I cannot now see how you could return here every night. But instead of exhausting yourself, perhaps we should try another way. Surely a gold coin or two to whoever arranges quarters should make it possible for you to be lodged near the boy. If you are in the same building, you should be able to respond quickly enough to the air spirit to foil any attempt on him." She nibbled on her lips for a moment and then said, "Arrange for the guards to tell the servants of this Sir Christopher about how you rescued FitzRoy and have the boy ask for you to be near him."

  He nodded; that was a much better idea than trying to lurk unnoticed in Harry's room. "I can do that. We will have to hope that Sir Christopher is less suspicious of a foreigner binding Harry's affection. Still, since I will have no baggage train—"

  Aleneil looked aghast. "No baggage train? You cannot be serious, Denoriel. How can you travel from Windsor to Sheriff Hutton without a baggage train? Do you intend to wear the same clothing for a month or more?"

  He waved dismissively. "Of course not. I have gold enough to pay for whatever needs I may have other than clothing, and I can make a new suit every day, or even two, if I must dress for dinner."

  Aleneil sighed. "And precisely how do you intend to explain your wardrobe with no baggage train?"

  Denoriel opened his mouth, then shut it, then said, "Oh."

  Aleneil grinned and shook her head at him. "I will see to the making of five suits suitable for dress wear, three for daily riding and two for private comfortable wear after a day's riding, with suitable undergarments, hose, boots, and shoes. And each servant you bring with you will also need a change of livery. You will need a packhorse. No elvensteed is going to carry baggage."

  They both giggled at the thought. Then Denoriel remembered that he had told Ladbroke and Shandy Dunstan to buy a packhorse for their clothing and a small tent in case there was no room in the cortege's lodging for servants. Perhaps his goods would fit on that horse. He shrugged. It was not important; he had gold, and packhorses were easy to come by.

  There was again a stirring in the air and then a stirring around Denoriel. He assumed Aleneil's servants were taking his measure. He did not ask about the style. Aleneil herself dressed in the highest of courtly fashion copied from the mortal world. If she did not already know what a gentleman should wear, she would find out without trouble. And then Denoriel wondered again why she chose to wear such uncomfortable clothes—and promptly felt like a fool. Aleneil was a FarSeer. She must have some idea that there would be a need for her to have an identity in Henry VIII's court—or at least, among the ladies-in-waiting about the Queen—and was accustoming herself to the garments.

  He was about to ask her about that when the servants were gone, but Aleneil forestalled his question by inviting him again to eat. Denoriel was surprised to find that he was feeling much better, and quite hungry, so he agreed.

  But then, he began to wonder why she never spoke about what she was doing any more, and he realized at that moment that of late, Aleneil told him only what she thought he needed to know and nothing more. He took a sidelong glance at his sister, and it came to him with a feeling of shock that it was she, and not he, who had always been more involved in what he lumped under the general heading of "politics." As a FarSeer, of course, she would be—which meant that if anyone knew what all the repercussions of what he—and by extension, Pasgen and Rhoslyn—were doing, it would be Aleneil.

  For a moment he was annoyed; and then it came to him that before he had begun to nursemaid Harry, he had not wanted to know about the sometimes delicate maneuverings between Under- and Overhill. He had been satisfied to go and fight wherever he was told or to hunt whoever was chosen as the quarry for the Wild Hunt. It was not fair to blame Aleneil for not telling him everything she knew, nor to think she was trying to conceal anything from him, yet now he wanted to know the very things he had wished to avoid before. Thus when they moved to Aleneil's dining room, he began diplomatically by asking why she had such a passion for uncomfortable Tudor clothes.

  She demurred. "Well, they are very elegant, are they not?"

  He snorted. "I think they're miserably uncomfortable. How can you bear that tight bodice? And that stupid corset flattens you. You could be a boy!"

  "Not in this skirt," Aleneil said, laughing. "It takes long practice to learn how to move at all without tripping or catching one's heel in the hem or the train."

  "For men it's that stupid gown! It's always in my way. Those huge padded shoulders and the sleeves that hang down behind . . . And the shirt and the doublet and the jacquette—"

  He stopped speaking suddenly and a look of horror came over his face, just as a plate of food appeared in front of him. There was an indistinct sound, an agitated swirl, and the plate rose in the air and began rapidly to float away.

  "Hi!" Denoriel called. "Where are you going with my dinner?"

  Aleneil was laughing heartily. "It's the face you made. My poor servant thought you were horrified by the food."

  "No, no. Put it back," Denoriel said, waving at the plate which was hanging uncertainly in the air. As it settled, he said to Aleneil. "When I was describing the clothes, I realized I would actually have to put them on and take them off during the trip instead of just calling them into existence on my body. I'll need to find out if Ladbroke or Dunstan can serve as a valet. If not, I'll have to see if Boleyn can recommend one."

  "Boleyn?" Aleneil repeated, looking very interested.

  "Yes, George Boleyn." Now was the time, Denoriel thought, to make clear to Aleneil that he wanted and needed to be alert to the politics and relationships in the mortal world. "George is the son of Sir Thomas Boleyn, who is one of King Henry's favorite diplomats. Sir Thomas gets sent all over Europe and was elevated to Viscount Rochford when Harry got all those titles."

  Aleneil smiled at him. "So you do understand that just being a watchdog is not enough. My dear brother! I am extravagantly pleased with you!"

  He laughed. "Oh, yes. A rich merchant would be interested in politics, so I must be. And of course, what happens between England, France, and Spain affects Harry."

  "Good." Aleneil sighed. "I was worried about how to make you aware of problems around FitzRoy that don't seem to touch him now, but may in the future."

  He sobered, seeing the worry in her eyes. "I could see that. I've managed to insinuate myself into George's group of friends—Francis Bryan, Thomas Wyatt, Francis Weston, Henry Norris . . . a couple of others. They are close to King Henry, play tennis with him, gamble with him, and could provide an introduction if I should ever need one." He knitted his brows when she showed some surprise at his comment. "I'm a Hungarian nobleman whose family were all killed by the Turks, but who's rich as Croesus because of a wide-flung trading empire the Turks couldn't touch. Didn't I tell you all this?"

  She shook her head, and he could not imagine how he had failed to tell her o
f his plans. But then, he had been very angry at being sent to watch over a child. . . .

  "I don't think you did," she admitted. "But your connection with George Boleyn is very, very convenient. I am also acquainted. Not with George himself but with his mother, who is Elizabeth Howard—"

  He caught that name as one familiar to him. "Howard? Related to Norfolk?"

  She nodded. He thought he saw approval in her glance. "His sister."

  "Ahhh. What made you interested in the family?" So she was going into the mortal world on her own! Presumably she was in search of that elusive child who would bring the age of gold to the mortals.

  "The women, of course," she said reprovingly. "The elder daughter, Mary, may still be the king's mistress, although he seems to be losing interest."

  He raised an eyebrow. "And the likely mother of the red-haired babe?"

  "I hope not!" she exclaimed. "The red-haired baby must be in the royal line with no doubt attached to its parentage. Mary is married to William Carey, and if she bears a red-haired child it will be acknowledged by Carey as his own. He has already acknowledged her first child—"

  "The king's get?" he asked, a little crudely.

  She shook her head. "I think not. The child was not fair, but dark. The boy was named Henry . . . but that might not mean anything; many children are named for the king, and Henry, who is starving for boy children, never acknowledged this one."

  "I suppose because Mary does also lie with her husband, and he could not be sure." Denoriel speared what looked like a pink rosebud and conveyed it to his mouth. "Ah . . . this is excellent! I thought it would be sweet, but it is pungent and delicious."

  "Smoked fish," Aleneil said, absently. "No, it is the second daughter in whom I am interested. She is very young now, just fifteen, and when it looked as if there might be war between England and France, she was called back from France where she had been one of Queen Claude's women."