"I am a warrior, not a nursemaid."
The words rang heavy with irony in his memory as Denoriel regarded the child before him. It was very easy to see who the boy's parents were; the sweetness of the mother's temper was mingled with the mulishness of the father's. Even without Great Harry's red hair, it would be obvious to whom the boy owed that temper, too. But what the boy had to say rather surprised him.
"The very last thing I want is to be king," the boy said.
"King!" Denoriel echoed, gazing down at the child, who gazed fearlessly back at him.
That could have been a taught response, but the losalfar did not think so. Truth was in the large eyes and the earnest expression. But surely this was not the red-haired infant of his sister's vision. Then a chill slowed his heart. Could this boy be the other ruler, the ruler who would bring the Inquisition to England? No. Impossible.
He was already very fond of this child, and had been drawn strongly to him from their first meeting. He had made some slight excuse to accompany one of the mortal friends he had cultivated on a ride to Windsor Palace. Sir George Boleyn had business with the duke of Norfolk, whom Denoriel knew had Henry FitzRoy, the natural son of the king, in his care. Boleyn was glad of the company, for it was a long ride from London to Windsor, and had not bothered to question Denoriel's reasons. Denoriel was fulfilling his duty to meet and measure all of King Henry's children.
This boy, Denoriel was sure had never been that red-haired babe. He was not even overflowing with those human characteristics that fascinated the Fair Folk. Henry FitzRoy had no wit, no brilliance, no great inventiveness, none of the things that marked the infant prodigy. He was one thing only, an innocent, and his goodness shone through him like a candle through a horn lantern. That would be the mother's contribution, Bessy Blount, who seemingly had not an enemy in the world. No small feat, in Great Harry's court.
Good and innocent. Denoriel's lips almost curled into a sneer. For good or ill, he was a warrior, not a nursemaid. He should be mounted behind Koronos, driving suitable victims to their well-deserved deaths, reminding the humans that the Fair Folk were. For a moment he burned with the desire for the Hunt—then, he sighed. No matter how much he thrilled to the Hunt, never, ever, would he take pleasure in the sacrifice of victims like Henry FitzRoy. The Wild Hunt of the Seleighe Court took down those who would not be missed; those who—although their own families and neighbors might mouth horror—were a relief to be rid of. So two purposes were accomplished: Underhill continued to waken fear and respect but no one was ever angry enough to seek an open confrontation.
"Because your father is king, does it follow that you should wish to be?" Denoriel said, and suddenly found himself squatting down so that he would be on more equal terms with the child, not looming over him; he suspected that far too many loomed over Henry FitzRoy threatening or demanding.
"Yes, but luckily I am not the son of the queen," FitzRoy said.
He spoke very softly, flicking a glance over his shoulder to be sure that no one was close enough to overhear, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. Denoriel could not help but grin in response. For the first time since he had met the child he felt there was something more in him than simplicity and goodness. Then he reproached himself. What did he expect from a six-year-old?
"What do you mean 'luckily'?" he asked, still grinning.
The boy giggled. "If I were the son of the queen, I would have to be king." Suddenly the smile disappeared. He sighed, his expression too adult for the rounded baby face. "I still hope to be spared that."
Denoriel became aware that the guards who were waiting at the gate of this secluded part of the gardens of Windsor Castle had begun to stir uneasily. He realized that, squatting as he was, the guards could see neither FitzRoy or him. The boy had not yet noticed the guards' uneasiness, but Denoriel's hearing was particularly keen. He stood up.
"I think we had better stroll about or throw your ball or something," he said. "Your guards must be wondering why we are so still."
"Guards," the boy repeated, and sighed again. "Before I suddenly became a Knight of the Garter, and Duke of Richmond and Somerset, and Earl of Nottingham I could play in the garden any way I liked. Oh, my nurse or the tutor came with me. But usually they just sat on a bench. He read; she did her needlework. Now I have guards telling me not to go too far, not to lean over the pond, not to climb a tree . . ."
"They are concerned for your safety," Denoriel said, as he reached down and took FitzRoy's hand. "You cannot blame them. It is their duty to protect you."
"I know." The child allowed his hand to lie in Denoriel's and then curled it confidingly around one of the Sidhe's long fingers. "Still, it is irksome to have them always stepping on my shadow. The only time I am free of them is when . . ."
Denoriel made suitable sounds of sympathy and encouragement but he only half heard what the boy was saying. He was wondering again what he was doing here. FitzRoy seemed over- rather than under-protected. He wished the FarSeers could have been more specific about FitzRoy's role in the future. Why did he need to be involved with this child . . . although now he liked the boy so well he would miss visits with him.
Denoriel recalled how furious he had been when he was first told of his role as nursemaid. Swallowing anger as best he could—one did not vent a private frustration on a FarSeer—he had returned to where he had left his elvensteed when he arrived in Elfhame Avalon.
Miralys had been waiting near the Gate giving passage to Elfhame Logres, where Denoriel had a lavish apartment in the palace. Their majesties, King Oberon and Queen Titania, only occasionally graced Llachar Lle with their presence; they stayed when they wished to join the Hunt or settle some dispute that pertained particularly to Logres, but they lived mostly in Elfhame Avalon.
Denoriel did not need to speak or guide the elvensteed. Miralys stepped delicately up on the mosaic under the silver trees and was at the heart of the eight-pointed star when he was barely in the saddle. With his mind on his distasteful duty, Denoriel hardly felt the disorientation of passing through the gate and was only minimally aware of the steed trotting through Logres. When Miralys stopped, Denoriel dismounted. He did not look to see where he was; all he did was rub his face gratefully against the cheek of his elvensteed, who lipped his hair fondly and moved away.
Sighing, Denoriel turned to climb the broad marble steps to the wide portico. He did not try to enter by the huge brazen doors that were opened only to admit the king and queen. Beside them, deep inset into the thick wall of the palace, was a man-sized door, always open. As he passed he felt the slippery, icy feel of the recognition spell. Had he not been approved, an invisible wall would have formed before him, and if he had not retreated swiftly enough, that cold welcome would have changed to one hot enough to broil the flesh off his bones.
The corridor he faced when he entered, though short, was broad enough to permit passage to anything the great doors could admit. There had been times when that space was necessary, as when the Cern Abbas giant had come to complain that his worshipers were not being given free passage through the Gates of Underhill. Mythical beings were not common even Underhill but it was the expression on Oberon's face that made the visit memorable. Denoriel's own taut features relaxed a trifle as he recalled the sight of the enormous naked being, club in hand, with, even for his size, exaggerated private parts.
At the end of that broad corridor was another pair of closed doors, these of marvelously worked silver depicting scenes of the founding of Elfhame Logres; the doors opened onto the throne room of the king and queen. Denoriel did not even glance at them but turned right into a cross-corridor that looked narrow. That, however, was only in comparison with the grand scale of the center passage.
Once in, the cross-corridor was a comfortable size, the walls glowing softly in opalescent mother-of-pearl colors broken regularly by doors. These were as fanciful in color, design, and composition as the maker of the private domain behind them wished . . . or could manage.
Denoriel's door was an amusing trap. It looked like an open way into the outdoors, showing a flower-starred meadow with an elegant manor and some trees in the distance. Many an uninvited guest had ended with a sore nose and forehead from trying to walk through. To any not sealed to it, the doorway was as solid as a painting on stone.
Denoriel passed through and stopped dead. The small antechamber opened left into a spacious dining area with a huge window that looked out onto the same meadow scene, except that the manor and the woods, dark and tangled, were much closer. To the right a broad arch showed a comfortable living space. The floor was covered with glowing rugs, thick and soft. Chairs covered in spider-silk formed two groups around small marble tables; other chairs flanked a beautifully carved lounge, also upholstered in dark red spider-silk, which faced a handsome white marble fireplace.
The witch-lights in the chamber were all glowing, but they would have lit as soon as Denoriel passed the door. The give-away that his apartment was not empty was the small but brilliant fire leaping behind a silver screen in the hearth.
For one heart-stopping moment Denoriel could not remember whether he had forgotten to seal his doorway against one of his past mistresses, and then he saw the little, lithe orange-red creature cavorting and dancing in the flames. His breath whooshed out.
"Mwynwen," he said, walking forward as a tall, slender woman rose from the lounge that faced the fireplace.
He was pleased, flattered even. Mwynwen was no easy-come, easy-go light of love. She favored few males. He had been honored when she asked him into her apartment, delighted that she seemed to find his conversation engaging, and so surprised—and awed—when she invited him into her bed that he had been almost unable to perform.
Only almost. He suspected Mwynwen could, if she desired, stimulate a corpse. He had staggered home in the dawn and eagerly given her image to his door, the scent of her, the look of her, the essence of her magic, although he had never expected that she would come. And she never had come to him before, although they continued to be lovers.
"You were so angry," she said, holding out a hand.
He took her hand, his feelings split in two. He was thrilled that Mwynwen was so attuned to him that she had felt his anger across the Elfhame, for Mwynwen, a Healer, unlike most of the inhabitants of Llachar Lle, lived in a separate manor in the silver woods beyond the palace. At the same time her mention of his anger renewed it. Irritation, pique over the task set him, but more than that, a smoldering rage that he should be accounted of so little worth as to be set to be a puling infant's nursery-guard leapt up in him again, but he could not bear to be petty in Mwynwen's eyes and held his tongue.
"You are angry again," she said, great eyes growing greater with anxiety, "with me?"
"No! Not with you. Not ever with you," Denoriel said.
She folded her hand around his and drew him closer. "Then at whom?"
"Not whom either," he replied, beginning to smile a little. "One cannot be angry at a FarSeer. What they See is no blame to them. They do not make the future, only say what it might be."
"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 the 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."
George Boleyn sighed with complete sincerity. "It is because the queen could never give King Henry an heir," he explained. "And now—"
Now, as Denoriel knew well, she never would. Not with the king growing openly discontented with her company—and seeking other beds. Such as Elizabeth Blount, FitzRoy's mother, and George Boleyn's own sister, Mary.
"But the queen and king do have an heir, the Princess Mary."
No hesitation or inflection in Denoriel's voice betrayed his memory of the cold wash of revulsion that had passed through him when he had made his bow with others to Princess Mary. The reaction seemed dreadfully unfair. She was a sweet-faced child with a pleasant manner and a marked skill in music. She had even been a red-haired baby, although now her hair was a dull auburn. But Mary's face had never worn the engaging scowl Denoriel had seen on the infant in King Henry's arms, there was no power in her, as there had been in the babe, and the frisson of withdrawal from her hinted she was the antithesis of the ruler who would usher in a golden age for England.
Boleyn made a dissatisfied sound and Denoriel asked, "Why do you not like her? She is healthy and clever. She even has a royal air about her, young as she is. What is wrong with Princess Mary?"
If Denoriel had hoped for some light to be cast upon why he did not like the princess, he would have been disappointed. However, he had no such hope. He already knew that George Boleyn had no trace of Talent, although his father, Sir Thomas, did, and so did his youngest sister Anne. George would not have been responding to whatever repelled Denoriel about Princess Mary, but he could possibly explain just how much of a threat she was to the welfare of the Sidhe.
Boleyn's lips pursed. "She is a girl."
Denoriel frowned. "That is all? Is there some law in England as there is in France forbidding a woman to rule? Hungary had a queen once, and the country flourished."
That was not strictly true, but Denoriel had discovered that George Boleyn and his circle were profoundly ignorant of any history but their own, and not too proficient in that. To his mild consternation, for his knowledge of Hungarian history was superficial, Boleyn looked strongly interested.
"Is that so? Who did she marry? Did he influence her rule?"
"Marry?" Denoriel hastily sought through what he had been told by Jenci Moricz, who had been induced to come from Elfhame Csetate-Boli to Elfhame Logres to give him a quick course in Hungarian history and social customs. "It was a long time ago," he protested mildly. "I'm not very sure, but I think she married the man who had been betrothed to her by her father. Sigismond, he was called."
"Ah, yes, but what I really want to know was who ruled?"
Denoriel laughed. "It was some two hundred years ago. I did not live there then. They were called joint rulers, but I suspect that it was Sigismond that ruled because Queen Maria died after about fifteen years and Sigismond continued to rule for many years more."
"Ah ha!" Boleyn nodded vigorously. "That was what I thought and that is exactly what King Henry opposes. If Princess Mary becomes his heir she will have to marry a prince of a foreign country. To marry other than the reigning prince or the heir apparent, would be to demean England's honor. Yet, if Princess Mary marries the reigning prince, he will doubtless rule England as well as his own land and England would become no more than a conquered state, although no war had been fought."
So, Denoriel thought, that is a way that Spain could come to rule England without war. If Mary married a Spanish prince and the people came to accept him or were so cowed they could not rebel . . . and then Mary died. Then Spain might continue to rule.
"Then why could she not marry one of her own noblemen?" Denoriel asked. "Surely he would be less important than she, and she would hold all the power."
"That would also demean the crown of England, but there is another danger there," Boleyn said, and Denoriel was surprised at the shrewdness of his expression. "Wives often become attached to and dependent upon their husbands. King Henry fears that any noble house from which a husband was chosen for Mary would soon wield far too much influence over all the rest of us."
"Hmmm." Denoriel considered that while the horses began to stretch into a trot. "There is sense in that," he agreed after a moment.
They rode southeast now on a well-traveled road. Denoriel felt as if they were hardly moving. With some difficulty he restrained himself from urging Miralys faster, reminding himself that Miralys was pacing himself so as not to stress Boleyn's horse. He saw that Boleyn was staring ahead, chewing on his lower lip and decided to distract him. He really did not want to know what Boleyn's business was, as it could not concern the red-haired child.
"But George, I do not see what King Henry's dissatisfaction with his heir has to do with loading such heavy honors on a six-year-old child."
"FitzRoy . . . ah, Richmond, is male," Boleyn said. "When he marries, he will rule no matter what his wife's heritage."
"But he is not legitimate," Denoriel protested, not because that had any meaning to him but because he remembered the suppressed fear and passion with which the boy had announced he did not wish to be king.
Sidhe sometimes took life companions, but by and large they loved until they tired of one another and then parted. In any case, even if they chose to use the seldom invoked state of legal binding, which mortals called marriage, that had nothing to do with children. A child, no matter how conceived, was a blessing to be cherished more highly than any other thing in Underhill.
Bolen nodded agreement with Denoriel's remark, then shrugged. "Well, there is good precedent for bastards ruling England, William the Bastard, who is now often called 'the Conqueror,' being the best known example. Still that is why the king is moving slowly, indicating what might be his preference by the honors but not yet naming the boy his heir. He wishes to discover how his people react to the idea."
Denoriel shook his head and then hurriedly put up a hand to stabilize the large, floppy hat that would hide his ears if some encounter with cold iron should break the round-ear illusion. He had had to abandon his favored clothing for garments that were fashionable at court. The stylish clothes together with his skill as a swordsman and the quality of his horses—Miralys in several different colors and lengths of mane and tail—had gained "Lord Denno" of Hungary a place within the circle of Henry VIII's friends.
"I don't understand," he admitted, laughing. "I don't think I want to understand. Let me enjoy riding about the country and hunting with you, George, and looking at gardens. Do not trouble my head with politics."