This Scepter'd Isle Page 42

  "Magic?" Norfolk and Wiltshire exclaimed in chorus.

  "Not real magic," Denoriel said, "mountebank tricks that the mountebank will himself expose for the amusement of the court. He could even allow some of the courtiers to use his devices and perform a trick themselves. Thus all the court can see no true witchcraft was involved."

  "Do you know of such a conjuror?" George asked eagerly.

  "Not here in London, no," Denoriel replied sadly. "I knew of one in Hungary, but he is long since fled . . . or dead. I thought you would know."

  "No magician in London would admit he was a fake and show people his fakery. They all wish to be thought true wonder-workers." George looked disappointed. "How did you know this one you speak of was willing to expose his tricks?"

  "Because he taught many of them to me," Denoriel said, smiling. "Since I know I have no more magic in me than my scullery maid—" That was true enough; Denoriel's scullery maid was a Low Court Elven maid with considerable power. "—and I could do the tricks as well as he, after some practice, I knew there was no true witchcraft in it."

  "You can do magic tricks!" That was no question; it was a demand. George turned toward Denoriel, who slid back into the corner of the settle.

  "That was long ago," Denoriel protested faintly. "I am long out of practice. I could not . . ."

  "Oh yes you can," George said emphatically. "You will make an ideal Lord of Misrule. You have two months to practice, and I swear I will murder you if you try to refuse."

  "Hmmm, yes," Norfolk said thoughtfully. "You are not English, but you can be trusted. I am not so sure that I would wish to trust any common conjurer with an open entrée into the court."

  Denoriel swallowed hard so all the men could see his uneasiness—which was, of course, entirely feigned. "Very well, I will see what tricks I can muster and practice them, but I truly am not fit to be Lord of Misrule. I have no idea what to say . . ."

  "Make no pother about that," George assured him buoyantly. "I will write out several speeches for you. You need only commit them to mind and say them entire or in parts when the Lord of Misrule must speak."

  "And what do I wear?" Denoriel asked pathetically.

  George Boleyn leapt to his feet and extended a hand to pull Denoriel out of his seat. He bowed quickly to his father and to Norfolk. Guessing his intention, Denoriel also bowed and caught up his cloak from the back of the settle.

  "We will devise something, never you fear," George said as he hurried toward the door. "And you will be masked, you know, so you need not worry about your customers recognizing you and accusing you of magicking their accounts."

  Although he continued to protest, Denoriel could not have been more satisfied with the outcome of the morning's meeting. Not only had he finally arranged for Harry to come to court, but he had arranged for his own attendance too. He would be able to watch over Harry, to protect him against any physical, mortal attack, and to counsel him about sycophants and flatterers who would try to take advantage of his good nature or those who might slyly hurt his feelings.

  In fact, of all the Sidhe directly involved in the affairs of England, only Denoriel had been enjoying himself over the years between 1529 and 1531. True, Denoriel had to Gate back and forth between London and Sheriff Hutton, but all the Gates had the feel of Treowth about them now, and he soon shook off his anxiety. His confidence had been buoyed up too by the king's frantic efforts to find some path to a divorce; as long as Henry's intention to marry Anne remained fixed, Harry was no longer important.

  The boy was a delight to him, growing, as he passed his twelfth year, into the fine stripling his childhood had promised. If he was no great scholar—his Latin was sadly rudimentary, his Greek nearly nonexistent—he could speak good French and his manners were exemplary. He had other skills, honed by Denoriel, mostly in private. He was a good swordsman, a superior horseman, a decent bowman for his age and size, and a remarkably fine shot with the strange gun he had brought from the Bazaar.

  He was learning politics too, from Sir Edward and his other councilors, but Denoriel was not polishing his ability as a sportsman without purpose. The Sidhe had given some thought to what was to become of his beloved ward. Was Harry to be no more than another useless bored and idle popinjay of a courtier? And if he were that and the king never had a legitimate son, would he not be a danger to whoever held the throne? His Harry could not sink into obscurity because of the blood in his veins and the status of premier nobleman in the kingdom which King Henry had fixed upon him.

  It would not do. To live safe from royal suspicion, Harry must become an honored and trusted agent of the Crown—preferably with his duties set outside England. With his calm and humorous disposition and his closeness to the throne, Denoriel could foresee for Harry a long life of satisfaction and usefulness as a diplomat. And for that his skill as a sportsman would be as important in many cases as his knowledge of politics.

  Now Harry's suitability for that life seemed about to be tested. He must please his father, charm Anne Boleyn, and manage not to offend a flock of jealous courtiers looking for offense.

  During the second week of November, Denoriel arrived in Sheriff Hutton carrying the duke of Norfolk's command that Richmond come to court for the Christmas celebrations. No one could be certain of the weather at that time of year, and plenty of time had been allowed for travel. Even so they were nearly late.

  It rained two days out of three, and in many places the ditching and draining being half-done or totally neglected, the roads were foul pits of mud. To add to the difficulty, the law that roads be fifty feet wide was largely observed by ignoring it. In far too many places there was hardly twelve feet from verge to verge, and those verges—again contrary to law—were overgrown with bushes so that travelers were forced into the rutted and fetlock-deep mud in the center of the road.

  The overgrown verges also left the travelers open to attack from outlaws hidden in the brush. The constant rain and aching cold—and the number and obvious armed strength of their party—saved them from that, but at some point in the journey, they knew they would not make London in time. FitzRoy and his guards and servants with Denoriel and Sir Edward simply left the baggage carts behind and made for London at the best speed of the saddle horses.

  Denoriel did not dare express surprise or complaint since he was supposed to have traveled this way many times. To his relief and amusement, FitzRoy thought it great fun. He never seemed to mind being cold and wet, which Denoriel alleviated with a little spell for warmth as soon as he noticed his Harry shivering, and the boy positively delighted in the small, dark, dirty alehouses where they often had to stop for shelter when it became impossible to reach the elegant lodgings Norfolk had arranged. Harry slept on the floor without protest, stamped on roaches and other nameless creatures that tried to invade the bedding, and squashed lice with only a sigh.

  That forbearance was doubtless partly inspired by the fact that in the mean hovels where there was no other entertainment and no one to tell tales to the court, Denoriel practiced his feats of legerdemain. Sir Edward was uneasy . . . until Denoriel rubbed Sir Edward's own hands with two different powders, and Sir Edward himself made smoke by clapping his hands together. It was nowhere near as dense or strongly colored as the smoke Lord Denno made, but that, Lord Denno said, was a matter of practice.

  Entertainment aside, Denoriel mentioned to Harry that he would make a fine diplomat, as a great part of a diplomat's time seemed to be taken up in traveling—in the greatest discomfort—from place to place. The idea enchanted Harry, who had only recently regretfully given up the notion of being a merchant like Lord Denno. He had finally come to accept the fact that his being a merchant could never be permitted. A foreign lord was not important enough to disgrace his title by mercantile activity, but the premier duke of England could not so embarrass his good name.

  By the time they reached London, no one would have guessed—except for the fine horses they rode—that Harry was the premier duke of Engla
nd; they looked more like beggars come to town. All the changes of clothing they had been able to carry in their saddlebags were so mud-stained and filthy that it was impossible to tell Tolliver, the lowest of the grooms, from Harry himself.

  Obviously they could not present themselves at court in this condition—not that Denoriel knew where the court was. Nor could they spend too much time seeking shelter, as the short winter day was coming to a close. Denoriel would have taken the party to his house, except that he was sure Norfolk would disapprove of such familiarity without permission. The duke now seemed resigned to Lord Denno's relationship with Harry, but Denoriel did not want to take any advantage that might raise the duke's doubts again. He asked Sir Edward to lead them to Norfolk's London residence.

  If Norfolk was not there, then Denoriel would offer the house on Bucklersbury. But the duke was at home—it was, for a change, pouring rain mixed with sleet, and he had cancelled several appointments. He came running down the stairway himself to greet his guests with cries of relief because they were already more than a week behind their estimated arrival and he had been worried. Relief soon mingled with horror when he learned they had no baggage and had no idea when it would arrive, if ever.

  Servants were sent scurrying for changes of clothing, although the duke said, apologetically, that he did not think the servants would find anything to fit Lord Denno, who was so tall. Denoriel promptly eliminated that concern by reminding Norfolk that he had a home in London and would have no trouble changing his clothing.

  He realized too late that being rid of him had been Norfolk's purpose, but he left forthwith. It would be worse to make excuses to stay than to leave Harry to his own devices. He couldn't be with the boy every moment; Harry would have to manage on his own. Later he learned he had missed the perfect confirmation of his idea that the boy would make a diplomat—if he lived.

  Taking advantage of their condition, Norfolk sent his ward's servants off to be cleaned and reclothed. He summoned his own valet and dressers to his son's apartment, in which FitzRoy would temporarily be accommodated because it was warm while another apartment was prepared for him. FitzRoy was stripped and a bath brought up. When he was clean and wrapped in one of Henry's bedgowns, Norfolk invited him to sit down to a belated meal and himself joined him.

  After commonplaces about the trip and FitzRoy's health and what he was currently studying, Norfolk got to what he really wanted to know and asked about Lord Denno.

  "I' faith, we are good friends now," FitzRoy said. "Since I went to live in the north, Lord Denno has been coming several times a year to see about his wool—actually I think he may own the sheep from which it is sheared. He is very particular about the wool."

  "Wool is sheared in the spring," Norfolk remarked. "Why would he need to come north several times a year?"

  "I said he was particular. He comes to inspect the sheep in the summer and autumn, sometimes even in winter. Whenever he comes, he stays at Sheriff Hutton. He says it is because the accommodation is free, but I think he doesn't care a bit for that. He's very rich, you know. Very rich."

  "Then I suppose he need not ask you for any favors." Harry was very good at reading nuances of expression. Norfolk was probing, and Harry was happy to give him an answer of which he would approve.

  "What kind of favor could I do Lord Denno?" he asked, innocently. "He'll take nothing from me, unless it is a keepsake of some sort—one of my poems, or suchlike. I wish I could think of something. I'd do it quick enough. He's saved my life twice, you know, once at Windsor and once when something . . . a plague of tiny things like mice or rats gone quite mad, attacked my cortege when we were first going to Sheriff Hutton."

  Norfolk frowned. "Lord Denno shouldn't remind you of that. It's enough to give you nightmares."

  FitzRoy laughed. "Lord Denno has never mentioned either rescue—except to tell me that the men who attacked me in Windsor were dead. That was because I asked him directly whether they would try to hurt me again."

  Norfolk was still frowning, but now it was in puzzlement. "Then what do you talk about when he comes to visit you? I assume he does spend some time with you when he comes to Sheriff Hutton."

  "Talk? About wool and his accursed sheep." FitzRoy laughed again. "And about gardens. Lord Denno has a passion for flowers and plantings. Sometimes we talk about books. He likes Caesar and Herodotus. But mostly we fence or shoot at butts or ride out hunting." For a moment the boy's eyes grew misty, but all he said was, "He's a capital horseman, Lord Denno. And he tells me about the court. He admires the Lady Anne very much, I think, for making my father happy."

  Nothing to fear there . . . yet, Norfolk thought, so when a servant came in with some of Lord Henry's outgrown clothing, Norfolk wished his charge a good and quiet night's sleep and left, presumably to allow the boy to try on the garments in private and then go to bed. Actually he made his way to the room assigned to Sir Edward to probe further.

  First Norfolk thanked FitzRoy's master of the horse for bringing the boy safely to London. He received a smiling denial, a reference to the passionate devotion of FitzRoy's servants and guardsmen, and a laughing encomium of Lord Denno's ability to find some hovel or other to shelter in when all hope seemed lost.

  That gave Norfolk his opening. "I had no idea that Lord Denno was such an intimate in Richmond's household," he said rather coldly. "Is that wise?"

  "It used to worry me," Sir Edward admitted, "but in the beginning none of His Grace's councilors wished to add any more grief and anxiety to him. He was upset enough at losing his playmates, your son and daughter, and the familiar servants of Windsor. Lord Denno's presence did him much good."

  "And he took advantage of that to enlarge the intimacy. Richmond will be a very rich and very powerful man when he comes of age." Norfolk came directly to the point. "So, what do you think Lord Denno wants?"

  Sir Edward shrugged. "We all waited, of course, for the bill to be tendered . . . but there has been no bill. The man has never asked for anything—except his lodging and food—in all the years he has been coming to see His Grace."

  There was another opening for information; Norfolk took it. "Then he does come to see Richmond, not to examine his sheep or his wool?"

  "I think so," Sir Edward said thoughtfully. "No, I am sure so. Although he does go out and ride about the farms. He often takes His Grace of Richmond with him."

  "Inspecting sheep farms?" Norfolk was not certain whether or not to be offended. It was not unheard of for a nobleman to take direct interest in his holdings, but it seemed very 'rustic' an occupation.

  "I do not think it can do the duke any harm to know where wool, which is so much the wealth of England, comes from." Sir Edward sounded defensive.

  "Perhaps not. But what does Lord Denno want that is precious enough for him to spend so much time with a child?" Norfolk did not understand this, and he did not like things he could not understand, "It isn't as it was at first, when it looked as if the king might name Richmond his heir. There's no chance of that now, and yet Denno pursues this relationship with the boy."

  Sir Edward smiled at him. "Believe it or not, I will swear that it is just being with the boy himself that Lord Denno wants. I made some enquiries, Your Grace. Lord Denno does not need money. He could probably buy his bankers. He pays all tariffs and taxes promptly. He has never asked any of Richmond's councilors for any favor at all and has never been in any trouble with the law."

  "So?" Norfolk persisted.

  "So, I stand by what I said." Sir Edward smiled to soften the defiance. "I know Lord Denno has no one in the world to call his own. His own family is all dead, and I think because of the terrible pain that caused him he hesitates to marry and have children. I think what he wants from Richmond is . . . the feeling that he has someone. There is no doubt in my mind that he sincerely loves the little duke, that he would lay down his life for the boy."

  "Hmmm. I like him myself, you know," Norfolk confessed. "It is only the thought of a foreigner having such a gr
ip on someone as powerful as Richmond will be that makes me uneasy. And Richmond admits he would do Lord Denno any favor he could but that he cannot think of any—which means Denno has put nothing in his head." He still didn't understand it—and he wished devoutly that the foreigner would do or ask for something so that he would at least know where the man stood! Still—it all seemed harmless enough. "So, for now it seems safe to allow all the access to Lord Denno that Richmond desires."

  "You relieve my mind," Sir Edward said. "Cheerful and pleasant as Richmond is, he has a will of his own—and when it is crossed he can be vicious and of long memory."

  Now this was something that Norfolk understood. Richmond had his mother's sweet and biddable manner most of the time—but cross him, and it seemed, you got Great Harry in a rage. "Ah. And he will have the king's ear . . . So, the servants and guards . . . you say they are fond of him and he of them? I had no time to look at them—not that there would have been much I could see under the mud. Are they fitting to attend and guard the duke in Greenwich?"

  Sir Edward nodded. "The guards are the same ones you yourself appointed in Windsor. They love that boy like a son. When he was lost, only his servants continued to search the forest in the dark, which no one else would do for fear of the terrible creatures that had attacked us. Nor did they fear they would be faulted. Everyone else had quit the field. They are devoted."

  Devoted was precisely what Norfolk wanted. "Good enough. They know the ways of the court, too, having been royal guards. The others?"

  "The grooms will be fine, although there are only two," Sir Edward replied. "They know horses and are quite capable of holding their own with other servitors. If the king offers Richmond more horses, he may need one or two more under-grooms, which will not be a problem. The valet . . . most interesting man. Although he is common born, his speech is fine, and I have never known him to be at a loss in any situation. When we ride, he wears a sword, and he can use it . . . I have seen him do so. His sense of style seems good, too, but as you know we have little occasion for full court dress at Sheriff Hutton or Pontefract. You might want to appoint an under-valet with knowledge of what will be needed."