This Scepter'd Isle Page 8

  Norfolk's face was turning a dangerous color. "Open? A postern gate was open? I know nothing of any postern gate there!"

  With some effort, Denoriel did not permit himself to sigh. "Yet the gate is there, and it was open. If you will come with me, Your Grace, I will show it to you." He saw Norfolk flush, remembered he needed a favor from the choleric human, and added placatingly, "Truth to tell, my lord, I had never noticed it either, until I saw it open, and I have accompanied the children to the pond once or twice."

  With Norfolk steadily insisting that he had never heard of any postern gate in the wall, they all trooped out of the palace, across the lawn of the inner bailey, and through the gate of the garden that held the pond. FitzRoy's boat, its mast broken and its sails in shreds, lay sadly half in and half out of the water. The child picked it up as they passed, turning it in his hands, while Denoriel led the way down the overgrown path, now showing broken twigs and crushed plants where he had run through. At the end of the path, he gestured to the low door, overhung with ivy and the branches of a weeping willow. "Here you see it, my lord. It is easily overlooked from this side. I am only glad that I saw it when I did."

  "I cannot believe my eyes!" Norfolk exclaimed. He turned an accusing gaze on the guards who had accompanied them. "Who knew of this?"

  They all shook their heads, muttering equivalents of "Not I, Your Grace," until the steward cleared his throat.

  "I did not know of this gate, Your Grace, but Windsor is very old," he said. "It was begun by the first William. It has been much changed, but parts of the old structures remain. It is possible that that piece of wall dates to the Conquest. I can have the clerk of the muniments check."

  Norfolk grunted at him irritably. It was clear that he didn't care how old the wall was. "It's closed now," he said to Denoriel.

  "Yes, Your Grace," Denoriel agreed meekly. "When I came through, I closed it behind me. I was sure it was wrong to have a hidden gate like that open."

  While the steward was speaking, Denoriel had walked to the gate. Now he shook its "fastenings" until no one could doubt they were secure. He sent up a brief prayer to his goddess that no one else would want to test it, but Norfolk was staring at him, not at the gate.

  "You should not have come through—"

  He bowed his head, and allowed distress to enter his voice. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I explained to you why I am so very fond of the children. I always fear for children, for they are very vulnerable, and I knew they played in that garden. What if they found it, and in childish mischief, slipped outside? Anything could have happened to them then. I could not leave that gate open while I rode around to the front and argued with a guard about a gate he did not believe existed being open. And there was no way I could close that gate from the outside. I had to enter the grounds to close it from within and then I heard Richmond cry out and I ran."

  Norfolk grunted again, and said, "I will yield you so much, Lord Denno, that your entry, however wrong, was very necessary and had the best result. Nevertheless, I must admit I am very puzzled as to what you were doing at Windsor at all. I am sure I have no appointment with Boleyn today nor do I remember your name as requesting an interview."

  "No, Your Grace," Denoriel agreed, having no intention of trying to prove Norfolk wrong again. "I had no intention of visiting Windsor Palace. I was simply riding past on my way to . . ." He hesitated and brought a faint flush to his pale cheeks, then continued uneasily, " . . . ah, Your Grace, I would rather not say. It is a private matter, an . . . ah . . . an appointment with someone I met when I rode here with Sir George . . . a lady, one I am sure is not of your acquaintance, but . . ."

  "I see." Norfolk's expression became less severe and his lips twitched. "Very well. I need not pursue the matter further."

  "Thank you, Your Grace."

  Then Norfolk frowned again. "But how did you get here? Your horse . . ."

  "Probably in that copse, Your Grace; I believe I mentioned that I was riding here. Miralys is very well trained. The countryside—" Denoriel recalled an image provided to him by Jenci Moricz "—near my home was not . . . not so tame as yours. Miralys knows not to stand in an open road but to seek shelter when I dismount. He will come when I call as long as he can hear me."

  FitzRoy openly tugged on Denoriel's hand and he looked down at the boy. "What is it, Your Grace?" he asked.

  "You promised," FitzRoy said. "You promised you'd ask."

  "Ask for what?" Norfolk said, his voice hard again.

  Denoriel pretended to look embarrassed. "The child was frightened," he said softly. "He asked if I would be able to protect him when he must move north. I assured him he would not need my protection, that he would be well guarded . . . ah . . . but at that moment he was not willing to trust his guards." Denoriel shrugged. "I promised I would ask you if I would be received if I requested to visit His Grace in the north."

  Norfolk looked both baffled and a trifle annoyed. "You would come all the way to Yorkshire to visit a child, Lord Denno? That seems a great deal of effort to go to merely to indulge the boy."

  Denoriel smiled, and contrived a little more embarrassment. "I know it may seem soft and womanish of me, but I am so very fond of children that I find it harder to deny them than to indulge them. I grieve, deeply, for my brother and sister." Well, that was true, although it was not for Pasgen's or Rhoslyn's death. He sighed. "And it so happens that it would be no true effort, as I have business in the north. Wool brings me there, wool for the carpets that are woven by my family's retainers in the Middle East. The Turks took everything in Hungary, but the businesses of my family were far flung, and I am now the heir to everything outside of my native country."

  "A substantial business," Norfolk remarked, with a touch of the hereditary noble's contempt for mere "business."

  "Very substantial," Denoriel said flatly, as if he had taken offense at Norfolk's words, then added stiffly, "And as I no longer have my lands and properties, I must concern myself with it if I am to prosper. Once, I was a prince as well as a merchant; if I must become all merchant, and prince in name only, then I shall do what has been laid before me by God and even though others may forget that I bear the blood royal, I, at least, will not." Norfolk had the grace to look a little shamefaced. "I must visit my factors in Yorkshire some time. To me it would not matter if I went soon after His Grace of Richmond arrived there. Then I could redeem my promise to him and assure him of his safety."

  "Please, sir?" FitzRoy begged, looking toward Norfolk but pressing himself against Denoriel's leg. "If Lord Denno says I will be safe, then I will be. No one here could help me today, only Lord Denno."

  "But that is ridiculous—" Norfolk began.

  Denoriel shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "He is a child, Your Grace," he said softly. "If you agree and I come once or twice, he will soon forget and feel secure. Life is, I suspect, difficult for a child in his peculiar position."

  Norfolk made no response at first, his eyes fixed on Denoriel's face and Denoriel held his breath, fearing for a moment that his disguise had failed and that the duke had noticed his strange eyes. But obviously the duke's mind had been elsewhere for he nodded suddenly and said, "Turkey carpets? Your family makes Turkey carpets?"

  "Not my family, Your Grace," Denoriel replied, his voice cold and stiff. He sounded strongly indignant, which he meant to do, but much of the ice in his tone was from choking back laughter at the opening Norfolk had given him. "My family are not, nor ever were, weavers. We were noble when the ancient Britons were painting themselves blue and capering about naked except for half-tanned animal skins. I can trace my ancestry to—"

  "I beg your pardon, Lord Denno," Norfolk said, raising a placating hand and looking embarrassed. "Of course I did not mean to imply that you did the weaving yourself. Do you import the carpets here to England?"

  "I have not been doing so yet," Denoriel replied. "My usual port is Marseilles, but my original purpose in coming to England was to determine whether it would be
worth my while—"

  Now, though Norfolk attempted to conceal it, he was as interested as any Flemish importer at the prospect of new revenues for himself. "It would. Indeed it would be worth your while to have the carpets come directly into London or Southampton. I could arrange—"

  But Denoriel allowed his tone to hold a touch of frost. "I said my original purpose. To my surprise I have found friends here and lovely, clever women, and I like the climate. I had thought recently to buy property and live in England, but if I am to be . . . ah, rejected . . . because of my connection with business—"

  "Not at all!" Norfolk exclaimed. "Not at all!" He laughed. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "It had seemed to me that you were not precisely enthused with my offer to visit the duke of Richmond after I mentioned my wool factor."

  "Do not take offense where none was intended, my lord," Norfolk said. "That had nothing to do with your business. I—" he hesitated, frowned, then continued in a rush "—I hope you will not take umbrage, but I would speak plainly. You are a foreigner, Lord Denno, and . . . ah . . . depending on Richmond's future, which is too uncertain to speak of now, it might not be wise for him to be too attached to you."

  Now he shrugged, judging it wise to point out to Norfolk that of all of the people with whom FitzRoy might be in contact, he was the only one without a long list of personal interests. "To me, Your Grace? I am the safest kind of friend for His Grace. Remember, I am a man without a country. My poor nation has been swallowed by the Turks. I will do nothing to benefit those conquerors, and I am connected with no party in England by family or tradition. And as for my business interests—they are without borders. My wares can be sold—or not—in any civilized country. I have, as the saying goes, no ax to grind. In fact, I care only for him in that he is a fine young lad, who reminds me greatly of my own, lost sibling." Then suddenly he laughed. "The boy is six years old, Your Grace, and his father in the best of health, thank God. The question of who might or might not influence him need not be considered now, surely?"

  Norfolk rocked back on his heels as he pondered Denoriel's words. "I suppose not. Very well, Lord Denno. If you should come north, you will be welcome at Sheriff Hutton or Pontefract—Richmond will not be going to Carlisle Castle although he has been named its keeper."

  "Hurrah!" FitzRoy shouted.

  Norfolk looked down at him and frowned, then transferred the expression to his own children. "Henry, Mary, take Richmond off to have his tea, and see that you do not leave him alone again. Nor do I want you to leave the house. I will have Croke sent to you."

  "Will you come up to my rooms to say good-bye?" FitzRoy asked, turning to Denoriel.

  "There is nothing to be afraid of now, Har— I mean, Your Grace." Denoriel said. "You heard His Grace of Norfolk give orders that the entire palace be searched and that extra guards be assigned to your corridor and room."

  "I heard," FitzRoy muttered, "but there were guards at the gate and those men got in. You knew something was wrong. I want you to come look at my rooms." He clutched tight to Denoriel's hand, his tone growing shriller, his face pinched. "Look at my boat. If you hadn't come, I would be dead. I'll tell everybody! I'll tell everybody!"

  "Go up to his rooms, if you don't mind, Lord Denno," Norfolk said hurriedly, stemming what he feared would be a hysterical outburst and now convinced that Lord Denno would calm the child.

  "No, of course I don't mind," Denoriel said with his arm around FitzRoy. "Thank you, Your Grace. He will be calmer tomorrow, I am sure."

  CHAPTER 5

  "You fools!" Vidal Dhu snarled. "Or are you traitors?"

  Pasgen and Rhoslyn stood shoulder to shoulder. Often enough they competed with each other, but not when Vidal Dhu was threatening; then it was best to present a united front. Both stared at their master—green cat-pupilled eyes glaring back at their prince's.

  Vidal Dhu had called them to stand before him in his ebony throne-room. That had been a bad sign. It had been worse that he had sent guards to bring them. But worst of all was that he had kept them waiting, cooling their heels in the antechamber, for nigh onto an hour before he had them brought within.

  "You will have to be more specific, my lord," Pasgen said, reaching out to Rhoslyn as he spoke, gently pushing power at her. "About what were we fools?"

  No communication accompanied that gentle probe of power; Pasgen did not dare form a thought of what he wanted for Vidal Dhu to pick out of his mind. The small finger of power would, he hoped, be lost in the general surge in Underhill and the roiling currents around Vidal stirred by his mood. Pasgen took no chance with the prince in so foul a temper; he never knew how deep the prince could read him.

  However, he had not underestimated Rhoslyn's understanding. Her strength met his, and together they began to spin a web that could catch and dissipate any strike Vidal Dhu launched against them. The prince was unfortunately prone to striking first and thinking later. Likely he would regret it if he blasted those so useful to him, but then it would be too late for them. If they foiled his strike, he might even be grateful.

  "You Saw the wrong child," Vidal roared. "You have spent months insinuating yourselves into Princess Mary's household, and she was never the one who is critical to the future we desire."

  Now both Pasgen and Rhoslyn looked dumbfound. "But that can't be true, my lord," Rhoslyn protested. "Princess Mary is the ruler who will bring the Inquisition to England. She is already fanatically devoted to her religion. She has been taught by her mother to be almost as devoted to Spain and its causes. Moreover Queen Catherine will not conceive again—I have made certain of that. It would be unlikely that the child would live, as no others have, but I could see no reason to leave such a chance alive. That makes Princess Mary the legal heir to England."

  "Legal heir," Vidal Dhu snarled. "In England the legal heir is who the king says is the heir."

  "But there is no other he could name," Pasgen said, raising his chin stubbornly. "Why should you call us traitor? We have done all that was required to ensure Mary's coming to the throne—"

  "There is another," the prince bellowed, springing to his feet. "And you did not See him or mention him. Was that apurpose? Are you so warped by that mother of yours that you secretly crave playing with the mortals and for that idle pleasure would deprive us all of the power that comes from their pain?"

  At the sneering mention of their mother, Rhoslyn's release of power to the net surged so strongly that to Pasgen's eyes it took on a soft glow. Rhoslyn might often be impatient with their mother's clinging, cloying affection, but she would hear no other criticize Llanelli. Pasgen touched her arm.

  "If Rhoslyn and I missed an heir to the throne, it was not by intention," Pasgen said with seeming calm. "For certain there is no red-haired infant—not even a distant cousin."

  "A son." Vidal Dhu sat down again, now his expression as he looked down at the twins would have been suitable if they were excrement left by one of his creatures on the carpet. "A son," he repeated. "And you missed him. Henry FitzRoy—"

  "We did not miss him," Rhoslyn said, flatly. "The son is nothing. I went with Mary's servant to bring him a little gift and I examined him." She shrugged. "He is six years old, and no infant. He is a bastard, and thus, not in the line of succession. And furthermore, he has none of the power that was hidden in the red-haired babe. He isn't specially clever. He isn't even specially pretty. He lives in obscurity—luxurious, well provided for, but with no hint of favor or special interest by his father."

  "True enough," Pasgen agreed. "I made an occasion to talk to the Spanish mage . . . ah, Martin Perez is his name. He is a servant of Charles V, sent to England to keep the Emperor informed of everything political. Perez told me that the king displayed FitzRoy widely when he was born to show that he could engender a live son, but then he swiftly lost interest in the boy. It would take a miracle before England would accept a bastard as the heir to the throne."

  Vidal Dhu's face had grown colder
, more frozen, with each word they uttered. The twins fell silent.

  "Stupid! Lazy, stupid fools!"

  His voice was soft now and Rhoslyn and Pasgen braced themselves, but what he sent at them was not the massive blow of power they half expected or the ball of baelfire, both of which the net would have caught and dissipated. What flowed from the gesture he cast at them was a shower of tiny threads of brilliant colors—sick green, dirty yellow, virulent blue, bloody red—that wriggled through the spaces in the net and struck at any patch of bare skin.

  There was enough of that. Rhoslyn's gown exposed her neck, her shoulders and arms, and her chest down to the cleavage between her breasts. Pasgen wore only a sleeveless tunic, open in the front to his navel, to expose his well-muscled shoulders and arms and the smooth swell of pectorals. Rhoslyn screamed and beat at her body. Soon tears poured down her cheeks and she whimpered. Pasgen hissed between his teeth, but made no attempt to wipe away the writhing threads. Instead he spoke three words, and the fire-worms faded. And when he raised his eyes to Vidal Dhu, there was that in them that made the prince gesture at Rhoslyn, who was instantly free of her torment.

  "That was to teach you not to think you can avoid my punishment," the prince said to them. "And I see that you have not yet dismissed that useless barrier."

  "My lord," Pasgen said, his voice flat. "We are aware of your infinite variety of punishments and did not intend to avoid your righteous wrath. What we intended was to avoid being struck down without true cause. Your wrath is fearsome, and when you are angry, it is difficult to reason with it. We have always and will always do our utmost for you, but there are others in your court who are jealous of your regard, and may persuade you of misdeeds on our part that we had not even thought up, much less performed. " He gestured broadly. "So we protect ourselves. Fire-worms—indeed, anything that can get through this net—I can deal with. If you had chosen to blast us with power or burn us with fire, the net would protect us. I would find it hard to reverse death."