This Scepter'd Isle Read online

  "Ah!" Mwynwen seated herself again, tugging lightly on Denoriel's hand so that he sat down beside her. "You did not like the future a FarSeer predicted for you? But who had ordered such a Seeing?"

  "Not for me . . . well, yes, of course for me, but it was not my future that was foretold. It was Aleneil—"

  Mwynwen frowned. "I do not believe Aleneil would ever See what was not good for you."

  "Oh, good . . . bad . . ." He wrinkled his nose. "It was cursed undignified, that's what it was."

  "Undignified?" Mwynwen echoed, her perfectly arched brows rising until they nearly touched her gleaming black hair. She tightened her grip on his hand. "You are very young, my Denoriel, to grow so angry over your dignity."

  "I am a warrior," Denoriel said, lifting his head proudly. "I am one of Koronos's best, and when they were brought to bay, I have fought men with steel blades and steel poniards without weakening. Yet my sister and her teachers tell me I am fated to be a—" he hesitated, then confessed it, flushing "—a nursemaid." Not even a proper Guardian to one of our own. . . .

  "To whom?" Mwynwen asked, not scornful but brightly interested.

  He snorted. "I do not know! A red-haired babe! Some king's get, so they say!"

  Mwynwen frowned. "I cannot recall any babe being born in any Seleighe domain. An Unseleighe—"

  He shook his head. "No, a mortal. Some king's get, in the mortal realms, and they cannot even tell me which." His lip curled. "The mortals breed apace, and the kings are worst of all. How am I to tell which child it is supposed to be, even?"

  But Mwynwen pursed her lips and looked very sober indeed. "Mortal? Then mayhap what you said about not weakening when you fought those who brandished steel weapons was why you were chosen. You know, Denoriel, that only a few of us can bear the mortal world with their iron fireplaces and iron pots and iron nails in so many chairs, even iron belts about their bodies . . ."

  She shuddered and raised her free hand to look at it. Still, so many, many years later there were faint white scars where an iron girdle had burned her fingers when she tried to pull it away from a wound. Before she could find silk enough to shield herself so she could undo the belt, it had been too late. Arthur had not died, but he still lay in a deep sleep and might sleep forever.

  Denoriel was frowning but more in thought than in anger now. "I had not thought of that," he admitted. "It is true that while I do not like iron—it roils my belly and makes my mouth taste like cat pi- . . . ah, sorry, makes my mouth taste foul—but I can abide it without much weakness, so long as it does not touch me direct."

  "And if your charge was threatened by men with steel swords, you could fight." She sighed. "There are many who could not, no matter how great their desire."

  "True." Denoriel pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  The healer nodded wisely, and his temper cooled. So, this lady, whose wisdom he respected, saw nothing to scorn him for—and now that he came to think of it, if Seleighe must needs go to guard a child in the mortal realms, well, perhaps he was the only one for the task. "So," she said, interrupting his musing. "Tell me of this red-haired babe and why you must protect it."

  And when the tale of the two futures for England was told, Mwynwen sat quietly, watching her salamander dance in the flames. Very softly she said, "It was only two hundred mortal years ago, just about when you were born . . . I knew Alhambra and Eldorado before . . ." After a pause to swallow, she went on, "Denoriel, it is important—I cannot tell you how important—that the child survive and take the throne."

  "Well, what should stop it, if it is fated to rule?" he asked testily, still unreconciled to the notion that he must needs waste his time in such a task. Truly, what could harm a mortal child in the close custody that any of royal blood must have that an elven warrior could defend against?

  "Does it not occur to you," she said slowly, "that if Aleneil saw these futures . . . Rhoslyn and Pasgen would also see them."

  "Good Lord Koronos!" Denoriel exclaimed, sitting upright suddenly. "How could I have forgotten my dearly beloved half-brother and -sister? No, I had not thought of it, but of course, nothing is more likely than what called to Aleneil also summoned Rhoslyn."

  "And they are not likely to keep their vision from Vidal Dhu . . . ?"

  "No, not at all likely. They are favored pets . . ." but he corrected himself before the Healer could. "No, that is unfair. They have their powers and they are very useful to Vidal Dhu. Still, they would not dare keep such a vision from him." But once again, his feelings got the better of his tongue. "And why should they wish to? They are as rotten—"

  Mwynwen sighed, her expression full of melancholy. "Denoriel, give them the benefit of some doubt."

  He did not argue, but the stubborn lift of his chin offered little hope that his opinion would change. Mwynwen sighed again. "Well, you are right in that they would not dare keep the tale of the vision from Vidal Dhu. And then even if they preferred the rule of the red-haired child, Vidal Dhu would not. Think you, would Vidal Dhu let matters progress as they will?"

  It was now Denoriel's turn to sigh. "No, indeed, he will not." Then he frowned. "But even Vidal would not harm a child."

  "He would not need to harm the child," Mwynwen pointed out. "He would only need to steal it away, leaving behind a changeling that would soon sicken and die . . ."

  Denoriel's hand tightened on hers. "But how can I guard against that? The child will be in line for the throne and will be most carefully guarded. How could I make a place for myself in the child's household without betraying my true nature? And even if I could manage that, could I watch day and night for who knows how long?"

  She narrowed her eyes in thought. "No, you could not. The Sidhe do not sleep, as do mortals, but even the Sidhe must rest. We will need to content ourselves with checking on the child every day or every few days to make sure its soul is whole. If it is not . . ." She leaned closer to him and Denoriel could feel her shivering.

  "We will know that a changeling has been substituted, and that we will need to find the child and bring it out of whichever Unseleighe Domain it has been taken to. Probably Vidal Dhu's." Denoriel sounded nearly cheerful now, and indeed, felt a tingle of eagerness.

  The thought of a battle with the Unseleighe set his blood racing. It was forbidden fruit—as mortal Christians would say. Queen Titania, and thus King Oberon, had ruled that there were to be no attacks on the Unseleighe Domains, but for a cause as worthy as the rescue of the red-haired babe, Denoriel was sure the rule would be relaxed.

  Seeing the light in his eyes, Mwynwen sighed again. "Denoriel, please, remember. We lost your father and several more when we tried to wrest Pasgen and Rhoslyn from Vidal Dhu, and their mother Llanelli gave herself up to the Unseleighe because she could not bear to lose her children."

  "But the Seleighe were half dead already from their battle to rescue Aleneil and me," Denoriel protested. "And—" he stopped abruptly and began to laugh. "We are making dire plans for dire circumstances . . . and we haven't the faintest notion who this child is, except almost certainly King Henry's get."

  A soft chuckle added depth to his harsher laugh and the salamander, which had slowed its gyrations, began to leap and tumble again. "Well, you have a point," Mwynwen said. "I suppose then that the first order of the day is to find yourself an entrée into King Henry's court so you can examine his children."

  "Ahhh . . . yes." He shook his head. "Oh, my poor ears!"

  Mwynwen laughed and caressed those elegant members, whose long points reached quite to the crown of Denoriel's head. But then she frowned—and a moment later began to offer serious advice, first on a disguise. The Sidhe did not dare reveal their existence to mortals, who were as numerous as ants compared with their own limited numbers and, having found Underhill, could overrun it. It was one thing to appear as the Wild Hunt, which most men of education did not believe in, and which in any case was thought to be made up of ghosts and demons, not of the Sidhe. It was quite another thing for the Sidhe to
appear in true form under the sun of the sons of Adam, for to reveal that the elves and their ilk were something other than the figments of fearful and superstitious country-folks' nightmares would be to invite trouble from those same men of education. Thus none of the Fair Folk ever appeared in his or her natural form among mortals.

  "Make it simple," Mwynwen urged. "Leave the color of your hair and eyes alone. You are just a touch careless when you are challenged or hurried, my love, so the less you have to remember about your appearance the better."

  He was a little bit hurt at being called careless, but since he did not expect to live constantly in the mortal world, it did seem too much a bother to recall exactly what color of hair and eyes he had last worn. There were mortals enough who were blond and green-eyed, so all he would need to remember if he kept his own coloring was to cast the illusion of small, round ears and round-pupilled eyes. He tried it out, and Mwynwen laughed.

  "Very good. Very good, indeed. And we are fortunate in the hats that are being worn now." Suddenly a large floppy velvet hat with a fluffy, curled plume appeared in her hand. "Here, try this on," she said. "If you pull it over your ear on the left and let the plume curl over the ear on the right, they will be completely concealed, even if you forget the illusion."

  Denoriel left the hat on because his thoughts had gone beyond clothing. "Who will I be?" he asked. "I need to walk among the lords of the land, and they are not so many that they do not all know each other or know of each other."

  "Hmmm," Mwynwen murmured. "A noble exile . . . A very rich noble exile from far away," she began, and they settled down to make plans for a long-term stay in the mortal world.

  "You will, Lord Denno, won't you?" the child asked anxiously, tugging at Denoriel's hand.

  Jerked out of his memories, Denoriel smiled at the boy and gently squeezed his fingers. "If I can," he promised, carefully hedging his assurance because he had no idea what the child had asked. In the distance, he heard a man's voice calling his name and he lifted his hand and waved.

  "Oh, Sir George will have to come to talk to His Grace of Norfolk again." FitzRoy pursed his lips solemnly. "His Grace is very stubborn and likes to consult others before he agrees to anything, even if he has made up his mind in the first five minutes."

  Denoriel chuckled and pulled the boy against him for a quick hug. "That's very naughty, Harry—making fun of your elders. I wonder what you say about me."

  FitzRoy's eyes went large and round. "I never say anything about you, Lord Denno, except that you talk a lot about gardens and it's very boring." A faint glisten of tears showed in the eyes. "You're a foreigner. If they think I like you too much, they'll find ways to keep me busy when you come . . . and you're the only one who listens to me." Denoriel suppressed a faint pang of guilt over his violation of the child's simple trust. "So you will ask to see me when Sir George comes again, won't you?"

  "I will certainly ask to see you," Denoriel assured the boy. George Boleyn's voice, closer now, called his name again. Suddenly worried, Denoriel bent down. "I will find a way to see you if I am denied, Harry. I will meet you in the garden with the fish pond. Look for me there—sail a boat so you can stay a while—and don't worry," he said softly, and then, much louder when he had straightened up. "George! These gardens are just wonderful. I suppose it's because of all the rain you have in this country, and the child showed me several new paths today."

  Sir George managed to smile and look faintly supercilious at the same time. He was obviously rather annoyed at having had to pursue Denoriel into the garden. Pretending not to notice, Denoriel returned Sir George's smile with mild amusement, noting that irritation did not improve the young man's looks. Boleyn could only be considered almost handsome when he was amused and being amusing. Glowering, he was somewhat too swarthy of skin and too prominent of nose, and his neat black goatee hid what Denoriel suspected was a weak chin. However, his lively dark eyes, abundant black hair, and considerable charm of manner—when he wished to exert it—redeemed him.

  That famous charm was not particularly in evidence when Boleyn asked irritably, "However did a man who can ride and fence like you, Lord Denno, come by this womanish love of flowers?"

  "By spending most of my life in a part of my country that is much harsher than England, where flowers do not grow so easily or in such profusion," Denoriel said smoothly, referring to his fabricated history, which made him an exile from Hungary, now under the heel of the Turks.

  That claim made reasonable his occasional lapses from English manners, his occasional ignorance of current court gossip, and his faint accent. His English was totally fluent, marked only by the lilting intonation of the speaker of Elven.

  "Well, if I can tear you away, we should get back. It will be a long ride."

  Surreptitiously, as George Boleyn turned away, Denoriel hugged FitzRoy, then took his hand.

  "Are you coming, Denno?" Boleyn called back.

  "I must see the child to his guards first," Denoriel said, suiting his stride to the boy's.

  "They can see him from here," Boleyn said impatiently.

  "But I took him from them, and he is my responsibility until I return him," Denoriel said, and then added, "Tell the servants to call for our horses, George. I will be with you before they arrive."

  Boleyn sighed as he turned to walk back to the palace, but he said no more. Denoriel continued his unhurried way to the guards, FitzRoy's little warm hand in his. He knew that Boleyn and his circle of friends considered Lord Denno's sense of honor far too exact to be reasonable, but it was a useful crotchet and, Denoriel thought, might serve him well in the future if he needed to do anything questionable.

  Denoriel was, by Miralys's response to his sent thought, as good as his word. He left FitzRoy with his guards with another brief hug and many thanks for showing him this private garden, then set off for the front of the house. He did lengthen his stride to what was comfortable for him, but did not hurry unduly; Miralys would see to it that the horses arrived only after he himself did, by creating enough mischief to keep the stable-hands more than occupied.

  Boleyn was muttering to himself about the inefficiency of Norfolk's stable staff when the groom finally came, rather breathless and mussed, pulling his forelock and apologizing for taking so long. "The devil got into this 'un for a couple o' minutes," he said, gesturing at Miralys with his head. "Wouldn't let me tighten the girth. And like you warned me, m'lord, wouldn't let me near 'is head to check 'is bit. Reared right up and threatened me with 'is 'ooves. Bit of an 'ellion, ain't he?"

  "Yes," Denoriel agreed, smiling, "but what a ride. And he knows me and doesn't give me any trouble. Won't let anyone else ride him either, so I don't need to worry about having him stolen."

  Denoriel stepped forward and took the rein from the man's hand. He stroked Miralys's soft nose, with care not to allow his hand to pass through the illusion of the bit with reins attached. The reins were real enough—they had to be for situations like this—but they were attached to a loose noseband that Miralys could discard if necessary.

  Naturally Miralys wore no bit. Any head furniture at all had been a matter of considerable negotiation, but its lack could not be explained in the mortal world. Miralys either had to wear something or not take part in Denoriel's venture. That would mean Denoriel would have had to ride a real horse. Everyone, especially Miralys, considered that too dangerous, not so much because Denoriel would be unable to manage a stupid, mortal beast, but because he might forget he was riding one and expect from it things Miralys would do.

  Actually Denoriel was rather grateful to Norfolk's groom because his innocent remarks confirmed the reason for one of Denoriel's peculiarities—unsaddling and grooming his own horse. It had rather horrified George Boleyn and his friends that Lord Denno would stoop to groom's work. They had been equally annoyed when Denoriel wouldn't offer to let them ride Miralys. Fortunately on such a brief visit unsaddling was not required. All that needed to be done for a horse's comfort was to loosen t
he girth.

  Denoriel swung into the saddle and when Boleyn was mounted, moved off with him down the approach to the park gates. "And was your meeting with Norfolk successful?" he asked in a tone that was more polite than interested.

  Boleyn laughed. "Sorry about Norfolk sending you off like that. We weren't really talking secrets. He's got an exaggerated idea of his importance and considers all foreigners dangerous. Well, if you'd been French or Spanish there might be some sense to it, but I doubt Hungary's in the least bit interested in the internal politics of England."

  "Poor Hungary has little ability to be interested in anything with the Turks squeezing out her life," Denoriel said, "but I did not mind being sent away at all, to tell the truth. I cannot say that I am particularly interested in political squabbles in England. Oh, England is my refuge and I wish it to do well in every way. I will take up arms to fight for England if the country is threatened, but I have no knowledge and no influence so I could not help you in a political maneuver. And being sent away, ever so politely with young Harry, gave me a chance to look more closely at the gardens. Beside that I like the boy. He's a nice child."

  "FitzRoy . . . oh, I mean Richmond. Yes, he is."

  They paused to allow the gatekeeper to open one of the iron-bound leaves for them, Denoriel holding back until Boleyn was well ahead and then bolting through in one leap so he and Miralys would be exposed for as short a time as possible to the baleful influence of the black metal. Fortunately the area had been wide enough that the illusion of the bit in Miralys's mouth did not break. The elvensteed was beside Boleyn in two strides.

  "Richmond," Denoriel repeated. "That seems so strange to me, to heap so many honors on a six-year-old child—Knight of the Garter . . . a six-year-old knight? Earl of Nottingham, Duke of Somerset, Duke of Richmond. Really, Boleyn, I thought I was coming to understand England, but this leaves me completely dumbfound."