This Scepter'd Isle Page 26

  With that fixed in his mind, he began to wonder whether his charge would be safe in Sheriff Hutton. It had been known for months that that was where Richmond was going; what if the servants and guards of the castle had been bribed to allow the child to come to harm? Sir Christopher felt he could trust no one except the members of the cortege, who had proved themselves faithful. But the members of the cortege could not garrison a whole castle. So, from York Sir Christopher sent a message to his brother, Lord Dacre, desiring him to change the entire garrison of Sheriff Hutton.

  Whether that precaution had foiled any further attempts on the boy or the Unseleighe had decided for reasons of their own to desist, Denoriel did not know. Of course when they first arrived, Harry was strictly confined to the castle itself and its immediate grounds. That was no hardship because the castle was very large.

  Very, very large; even Denoriel was impressed as they rode up to it, with Harry in the coach with Sir Christopher, in order to present the proper dignified approach.

  "It's big!" Harry exclaimed in surprise.

  "It was built," Sir Christopher told Harry, "in 1379 by Lord Neville of Raby on the site of a twelfth-century keep built by Bertram of Bulmer. And now it is yours, and it is my opinion that a lord ought to learn every inch of the properties in his possession."

  Possibly because he had learned something about FitzRoy or possibly by accident, Sir Christopher had said just the right thing to intrigue a child. Denoriel could see that Harry would be happy for weeks exploring. Not only would he have the four great towers, each four stories high, and the interconnecting buildings full of galleries, passageways, and chambers, some of which held ancient furniture; in addition he could look for the remains of the earlier keep, including the base of its donjon, which was said still to exist.

  The southwest tower was given over to the boy. The top level housed his guards so that no one could come through the roof to attack him. FitzRoy's own apartment was on the third level, which was high enough for the windows to give a fine view of the countryside. They were true windows rather than arrowslits, but firmly barred with elaborate wrought iron grates. Denoriel sighed faintly as his bones began to ache and his stomach churned. However, no Sidhe was going to come in through those windows. There were two rooms to the apartment, a bedchamber and a small parlor in which the boy could eat.

  Servants quarters were on the ground level, which had no entrance and no windows. The servants and everyone else had to go through the gatehouse of the main building into the garden where an outer wooden stair rose to the second level. Normally that level would not have been living quarters at all, but assigned to guards on duty, who would examine anyone who entered. However, after some negotiation with the other members of the council—who were finally convinced that a Hungarian lord could have no interest and no influence on the Scottish border—Sir Christopher had arranged that Lord Denno and his personal servants, who had shown themselves as good as any guardsmen in the many attacks during the journey, should occupy those rooms.

  Within the four towers was an inner bailey that held the small garden. In any attack that won through the gatehouse, the guards would destroy the four flimsy wooden stairways and leave any intruder faced with unscaleable walls from which arrows and other lethal materials could be rained down.

  Outside the castle was a large outer bailey within a formidable stone wall and beyond the wall, a substantial moat. The outer bailey held the stables, the pens for animals being fattened for the table, the coops for chickens, the dovecot, the kennels, a smithy, the laundry, the kitchens, many sheds for storage, and many small cottages for the army of servants needed to support the establishment. Swans and geese floated in the moat, available for dinner and a first warning and early defense against any invasion.

  For the time being, FitzRoy was confined to the castle itself and the small inner garden. That suited Denoriel perfectly. He spent two weeks examining every chamber and corridor from the top of each tower to each cellar below. He took Harry and whichever two guards were on duty through all the public places in the castle; the private rooms he checked with even greater care at night. Nowhere was there a hint or a smell of magic. The air spirit also flitted through the castle and agreed—Sheriff Hutton was not tainted with magic.

  After two weeks, Denoriel felt his excuse of lingering until FitzRoy was settled into his new residence was growing a trifle thin. He told Sir Christopher, who was still in charge of the castle and FitzRoy while the other commissioners attended to legal and political affairs, that he must be about the business that brought him to Yorkshire and left Sheriff Hutton, ostensibly to purchase wool. He rode with his men as far as Aldborough and then bid Miralys to look for a Gate.

  The senses of an elvensteed were much keener than those of a Sidhe when it came to finding Gates. As he had suspected, there was one, long abandoned, in a Node-grove a quarter-hour further on by elvensteed's swift pace. Marked by druidical signs, he knew immediately it would take him through the wall between the worlds to Avalon, as most Gates that had been used by druids did. It would not do if he was to travel regularly from Sheriff Hutton, but it would serve for now.

  Aleneil was very glad to see him. She had been worried about him because she had been scrying their journey and was aware of how often the cortege had been under attack. She was amazed that he was not worn to a thread as he had been while guarding FitzRoy in Windsor. Unwilling to give even Aleneil Mwynwen's secret without her permission, Denoriel bypassed discussing his unusual reservoir of power by asking urgently whether his sister knew the whereabouts of Magus Major Treowth or any other Magus Major who would be willing to build a Gate for him.

  "Treowth is gone," Aleneil said. "No one knows for certain where or why but a persistent rumor has it that he has moved to the Bazaar of the Bizarre." She closed her eyes a moment in thought, then brightened. "Gilfaethwy is at the school, however, and he specializes in Gates. I'm sure he'll help you, to keep the boy safe!"

  Denoriel gave her a hug and turned to leave, but she held him back, saying she presumed he had not seen his mortal court friends since he had been on the road.

  Denoriel shook his head, impatient to get negotiations for his Gate going.

  "You had heard that the Emperor Charles has refused to join Henry in tearing France apart and had finally decided to marry a Portugese princess and not wait for Mary?" she asked.

  "I heard enough wild talk by George and his friends about how they would grow rich on French lands, and yes, they were furious that Charles would not accommodate their greed, but that was in March or April while I was just beginning to win my way into their circle. As for Charles marrying the Portugese woman, thank God for that," Denoriel by habit used the Christian God in his speech. "The last thing we need is Charles's Spanish or Imperial notions driven into Mary's head. She's Church-ridden enough as it is. What are you trying to tell me, Aleneil? This is all old news."

  "Yes, but it is becoming new again because Wolsey is urging on the king a peace treaty with France. And that may be good news for you in that Rhoslyn and Pasgen may be so busy keeping Wolsey from tying the king too tightly to France that FitzRoy may become less important to them."

  He made a face. "Or more important because of the king's reluctance to have a French prince rule England through his wife."

  "I did not mean you should be less vigilant on FitzRoy's behalf," she protested, "Only that however little King Henry may want a French prince on the throne, Vidal Dhu would want it even less. Remember, the Inquisition was never allowed to take hold in France as it did in Spain, and the French are more addicted than the English to making merry. I think Pasgen and Rhoslyn—who are the most likely to serve Vidal's purpose—will be making mischief in the King's Court and you should not bury yourself in the north, but cultivate your courtly friends and pay attention to the gossip about England's balancing between French and Imperial interests."

  "Hmmm." Denoriel gnawed gently on his lower lip. "That may be possible. Fortunately S
heriff Hutton is too far north for casual visits by Boleyn and his set and they are not much interested in Scottish affairs. Well, except for Percy . . . It might be possible for me to be in two places at once, or very nearly. I can Gate from Sheriff Hutton to London . . . Ah, yes. By any chance, have you discovered what mortal guises Pasgen and Rhoslyn have taken?"

  "Yes." His sister pulled a face of her own. "It is fortunate that Lady Elizabeth is watching politics closely, because her husband is so often sent abroad by the king, and she has found me a good confidant when he is gone. Rhoslyn is Mistress Rosamund Scot, fervently religious, which makes it possible for her to go on retreat frequently; she is a close friend to Queen Catherine's favorite maid of honor, Maria de Salinas. Pasgen is Sir Peter Kemp. He is supposed to be related to the wife of George Cavendish, who is Wolsey's gentleman usher. He is apparently a welcome guest at all times to Wolsey. I can only believe that both Rhoslyn and Pasgen meddled with their patrons' minds."

  Denoriel's lips curved down in distaste. "Very likely. I will do what I can to avoid both and listen hard for those names. Anything else?"

  Aleneil cocked her head at him. "Yes. When you have leave to do so, please tell me how you are managing to drink power as a sponge drinks water."

  So he had not succeeded in throwing her off that scent. Well, he should have known better—in her place, he'd not have been distracted, either. "Good God, will everyone in Underhill see it? Should I try to shield it?"

  She thought, looking hard at him for a moment, then shook her head. "It is clear to me because I know you so well and you are different from what you were before. Close friends might notice but not someone who does not know you passing well. As to the shield, to build one would prevent you from drinking power. But there is a danger. You will be like a beacon light to anything that eats power—so have a care if you go into the chaos lands."

  He raised his brows. "Anyone who goes into the Unformed places needs to have a care. But I will remember what you say. If I cast a shield, I will lose my ability to take in power." He frowned. "Oh, bitterly do I now regret thinking my sword could solve all problems. I will study magic, I swear it . . . as soon as I find the time."

  She laughed at him and sent him on his way. A few heartbeats later Miralys brought him to the soft, glowing white, apparently featureless round building that housed the Academicia, often just called the "School" or the "Place of Wisdom." He dismounted and asked permission to enter. A door promptly manifested just in front of him. It looked invitingly open, but Denoriel—whose own door always looked open—did not attempt to enter. He came closer and thought clearly of who he was, that his sister was the FarSeer Aleneil, and that he wished to consult Magus Major Gilfaethwy.

  A moment later a tall and surprisingly portly elf stood in the doorway. His hair was more white than blond, his ear-tips inelegantly short, and his expression was not inviting. He stared at Denoriel, taking in the round ears, the round-pupilled eyes, and the court clothing.

  "What do you want, mortal?"

  "I'm not mortal, magus," Denoriel said without heat, although he had already identified himself and the mage would have had that information if he had bothered to listen. It also surprised him that the mage had not bothered to send a probe that would differentiate between mortal and Sidhe. Still, mages were sometimes other; Treowth certainly was. So he went on, "I am Aleneil, the FarSeer's twin, Denoriel. I am wearing mortal guise because I am now working to protect a mortal child who my sister Sees is of importance to the well-being of Underhill. That is why I have come to you. To protect the child, I need a Gate to a place in the mortal realm."

  The mage frowned. "Gates to the mortal world are not easy to build."

  "I am willing to offer compensation, if there is something I have that would be pleasing to you," he said, humbly—remembering the adage, "It is not wise to anger a wizard, for you would not enjoy the taste of flies."

  "What could you have—" the mage began, and then suddenly stopped and smiled.

  He pointed at Denoriel, who immediately felt the odd quiver of being moved a short distance by Gate. And he had been. He was now in an incredibly cluttered workroom. Books lay on shelves, on benches, on the floor. They were atop of and under sheets of parchment and paper; other sheets were stuffed between the pages. Among the books were all kinds of vessels, mostly of glass but some of silver and pewter, even gold. Around a few, tiny salamanders danced, and within the vessels liquids bubbled. A few had fallen and spilled their contents onto the books and papers. The spills looked dry, most of them, as if they had been long ignored. At least the odors in the room were pleasant.

  "You said you were often in the mortal world?" the mage asked, and gestured vaguely at a stool.

  Since it was covered with papers and two squashed scrolls, Denoriel made no attempt to sit. "Yes, magus."

  "Good! There are some things I desire from the mortal world. I will build your Gate, and from the mortal world you will bring me . . ."

  Denoriel's lips tightened, ready to refuse to abduct a child, although from what he had learned about the life of the boy who was now assisting Ladbroke, there were many who would be better off Underhill. But to his surprise, the mage reached out and fingered the hanging sleeve of his gown, then snorted disparagingly.

  "Kenned," the mage said. "I want the real thing and the first thing I want is wool."

  "Wool?" Denoriel echoed unbelievingly.

  "Yes, wool. That stuff that grows on one of the mortal world animals."

  "I know what wool is," Denoriel said. "I was just surprised because I am supposed to be buying wool right now. But I had no idea that there was any difference between a kenned artifact and that from which it was kenned. I will get all the wool you want . . . er . . . For what do you want wool, magus?"

  "Never you mind," Gilfaethwy said. He then raised his hand and snapped his fingers. When he opened his hand, a silvery amulet lay in his palm. "Take this and set it where you want the Gate to open."

  He was about to gesture, which Denoriel was sure would deposit him outside the door of the Academicia, but an idea had come to Denoriel and he raised a hand. If all Magus Gilfaethwy wanted was artifacts from the mortal world, he could afford to have an extra Gate or two.

  "Ah, magus . . ." Denoriel said hastily. "I will bring you anything you want from the mortal world. Could you build two Gates, one inside the castle of Sheriff Hutton and one about a mile outside it? And another two some months from now in Pontefract castle?"

  The mage pursed his lips. "Not everything I ask for will be as easy to obtain as the wool. And it must be real, and from the mortal world. Blood, for example. I need mortal blood that has never been Underhill and has never been touched by a magic spell."

  Denoriel was just about to say he did not need the extra Gates when he remembered the ridiculous mortal practice of bleeding themselves. He could easily bribe a chirurgeon or a barber to save blood for him . . . but he would have to remember to go as someone besides Lord Denno. If people heard of Lord Denno of Hungary buying blood, they would think he wanted to drink the stuff and call him an evil spirit, or suspect him of sorcery. That was the last thing he needed!

  "Very well. I can bring you blood, but you know it does not stay liquid very long."

  "No trouble. I will give you a spell of stasis, that will keep it fresh."

  Stasis. Denoriel suddenly remembered FitzRoy's guards standing like statues. Had they been breathing? He could not remember.

  "Magus, I have another problem. The boy I must protect is a target of the Unseleighe Courts. They seek to abduct him. He has mortal guards, but they have already once been made helpless by magic. Do you know of a spell that can ward a mortal against magic, either mortal or Underhill magic?"

  He was thinking how much safer Harry would be when he could not be with him if his guards could not be turned into statues or automata. Awake and aware, with their steel armor and steel swords, they could protect the boy against any Sidhe attack.

  "There i
s still mortal magic?" Gilfaethwy asked, his eyes lighting. "I had thought that idiotic Christianity they stupidly embraced had destroyed both the magic and those able to use it. It was said, but that was even before I was born, that mortal spells were much stronger than Sidhe magic because the spell had to work on so much less power. Do any books from those ancient days survive?"

  "That I do not know," Denoriel confessed, "but I can certainly find out."

  "If such exist, get me a true grimoire and I will build as many Gates as you desire. Here—" He snapped his fingers again and opened his hand to show half a dozen silver medals. "As an earnest of my goodwill. These amulets will ward off most spells of compulsion."

  Denoriel accepted them gleefully. "Gilfaethwy, my thanks! I had not expected such generosity!"

  "It is not generosity," the mage said, bluntly. "I expect a full recompense. And if you are going to start on fulfilling your bargain, you had best get on your way."

  It is not wise to anger a wizard, he reminded himself, and hastily did just that.

  CHAPTER 16

  Denoriel spent a really busy two weeks gathering up the materials he had promised to Magus Gilfaethwy. Surprisingly the least expensive and most satisfying to obtain was the grimoire. Denoriel had guessed why the mindless and dead assassins had been deposited on the steps of that particular house. When the king's men had taken away the fool that dwelled there for questioning, he had entered it, smelled out the secret room in which the magician worked, found the grimoire, and took it. If the theft crippled the magician, it was, he thought, an entirely appropriate punishment for the attack on Harry.

  The wool was, of course, no problem. He purchased two fleeces from a Yorkshire wool merchant, thinking that Gilfaethwy might want the wool in its most raw form, as well as a bale of sheared wool, and several skeins of yarn, both dyed and in the natural state.

  The blood was the most difficult because of needing a reasonable explanation for the chirurgeon. He had no trouble finding the man, simply presented himself at his own house in London in disguise. He called himself Master Christopher Atwood, and said he was a wine merchant. He wore decent merchant's dress, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and asked to speak to the business manager he had employed on George Boleyn's recommendation. When he was admitted by the Low Court servants—who recognized him but who were silenced by a gesture—he asked the manager for the name of George's doctor. His own had died, he explained, and he liked to be bled regularly.