Several weeks later Denoriel came to Windsor again on one of his regular, if secret, visits. He dismounted and Miralys disappeared into the little copse opposite a long-forgotten postern gate in the wall around Windsor Palace's gardens. He listened for a moment, but there was no human sound nearby. The gate yielded to his touch—he had, at the cost of a sick headache that resisted Mwynwen's best efforts at Healing for three days—removed the iron lock and substituted a blackened silver imitation that had only an illusion for wards and was sealed with magic.
As far as the safety of Windsor, his substitution was an improvement. No thief, no assassin, could open his lock as, with patience and skill, such a man might have opened the iron one. For his purposes, it saved the chance of raising questions in anyone's mind about the frequency of his visits to young Harry FitzRoy. Officially he had seen Harry once in the interval. That time Lord Denno had again accompanied George Boleyn, who had business with the Duke of Norfolk, to Windsor—for the pleasure of the ride and Boleyn's company, he said. Lord Denno had then politely left Norfolk and Boleyn to discuss their business in private and had gone off to walk in the gardens.
Considering Lord Denno's fondness for flowers, it was not surprising to anyone that he should encounter the young duke of Richmond in company with his playmates Henry and Mary Howard. The children all liked Lord Denno, who had the wit to invent new twists for old games, and, since Harry FitzRoy never mentioned Denoriel when he met him alone, Norfolk believed the foreigner only saw all three children together.
This was a clever lie—without one false word being uttered—because over those weeks FitzRoy had insisted on sailing his boat in the pond every day. Sometimes Henry and Mary brought boats and sailed them too——Denoriel never appeared on those days—but most of the time the Howard children found something more interesting to do and left FitzRoy alone. The guards, knowing the garden to be safely walled, stayed at the entry from where they could usually watch all three children.
Denoriel approved heartily of the situation as it was. The official visits when he accompanied George Boleyn had made Norfolk familiar with Lord Denno's fondness for children—and Denno had provided a sad tale of young brothers and sisters lost to the Turks—but aroused no suspicions of any particular relationship with FitzRoy. Denoriel's other incursions, twice or thrice a week, went totally unnoticed by anyone.
No one even knew Denoriel had ridden out of London, since he had, with King Oberon's approval and the assistance of one of the Magus Majors of Elfhame Logres, created and set a small Gate to open from near the palace Llachar Lle to two places: Lord Denno's private set of rooms in his rented house in London and a tiny wood near a crossroad about a mile from Windsor. Four other destinations could be set into the Gate, even though it was a small one, only able to take him mounted on Miralys, but for now the other possibilities were empty.
Actually when Denoriel arrived at Windsor today, he was not certain that he would find Harry at the pond. He had visited the boy only the previous day, and ordinarily would not come again for one or two days more; however, he had had news that he found unsettling after he had returned to his London house.
A message had been waiting for him. That was innocent enough, only being a pressing invitation to accompany George Boleyn, Thomas Wyatt, Henry Norris, and Francis Bryan to attend the theater that afternoon. Although Denoriel found the scenery and effects incredibly crude and unconvincing, he had great admiration for the plays themselves and George's friends were all devoted to art and literature, which made discussions of what they had seen fascinating. Wyatt was a remarkably fine poet, George somewhat less skilled but with a pretty turn of phrase. Norris and Bryan were musicians of considerable skill. Denoriel always enjoyed an evening with them . . . and sometimes picked up valuable court gossip too.
So it was after the play, when they had all settled at a favorite tavern. To Denoriel's surprise the men did not discuss the entertainment, even though it had been thought provoking. They were too full of the fact that King Henry had named Princess Mary Lord Lieutenant of Wales and ordered that she be sent with a great household to Ludlow Castle—a traditional appointment for the heir to the throne.
That should have settled the confusion about who King Henry would name his heir . . . except that the king, with clear intent to obscure the issue, had ordered almost the same honors for Henry FitzRoy. At the time he had been elevated to the peerage and given precedence over all other nobles, except those of the king's blood, he had also been named Lieutenant General North of the Trent. Now the king publicly reconfirmed him in that position and named him in addition keeper of the city and castle of Carlisle. Finally the king decreed that FitzRoy would be sent, with a household every bit equal to that of the princess, to rule—through his council—the north.
Denoriel had no idea why that news made him immediately uneasy. It would be some weeks, possibly even months, before FitzRoy's household could be assembled and the move begun. However, when he parted from George and his friends and reached his London house—ostensibly to go to bed for the night—he had naturally Gated to his apartment in Llachar Lle. There he found a bright, nearly transparent little creature flitting about his living room. It flung itself at him as soon as he entered the house, twittering with delight. It was a nearly mindless, but very affectionate, spirit of the air and, in contrast to its own happiness, carried an uncomfortable message from Aleneil.
Aleneil had waited for him for some time, the bright little thing burbled, but had to leave for a session with her teachers. She, too, had had presentiments of danger—not a true Seeing, not even a hint of what kind of danger, only danger and soon. Possibly with the assistance of the more experienced FarSeers, she would learn more, but she had wanted to warn Denoriel.
Danger. But from where, for whom? Denoriel reviewed his recent movements and realized he had hardly interacted at all with the rest of the Sidhe of Elfhame Logres—other than Mwynwen. He had been with Mwynwen frequently, either in his own chambers or her house, resting and leaching out of his body the subliminal aches and slight sickness that extended exposure to iron caused . . . because most of his time was spent in the mortal world. So the danger must come from there, but the only change in the situation was the renewed emphasis on the elevation of FitzRoy.
Did he dare wait to hear again from Aleneil, Denoriel wondered? No, he did not! FarSeeing was more a nuisance than a help, he thought, sending a thought for Miralys. Soon. What did soon mean? Within minutes of when Aleneil had the presentiment? Within hours? Within days?
Anxious and exasperated, Denoriel Gated to Windsor, left Miralys to conceal himself in the copse, and let himself into the garden. Having slipped sidelong through the barely opened gate, he stood with his back to the wall, hidden in the shadows, and listened. Aside from the normal sounds of night, insects and some peeping of frogs from the pond, there was utter silence.
Carefully Denoriel worked his way through the gardens, slipping from hedge shadow to tree shadow, to where he could see the palace itself. The bulk of the huge building was dark and silent—no flickering of light from window to window as if someone were rushing around, no sounds of excitement. Torches flamed at the front door and guards stood to each side of it, but from their stance, there had been no trouble recently nor were they expecting trouble. There were other entrances to the palace, but those were all locked and barred every night. He did not believe any of them could be breached without considerable noise.
Denoriel allowed a soft sigh of relief to ease past his lips. Whatever Aleneil had felt had not happened yet. But despite that assurance, inside he was as taut as a bowstring. It would happen . . . soon. How soon? Denoriel stood in the shadows, staring out along the road that led to the outer gate.
It took a moment for his eyes to recover from that glance at the torches and he had to restrain an impulse to "tch" with irritation and shake his head. What in the world could those guards expect to see if their eyes were accustomed to the light of the torches? And mortals were near blind at night anyway. But that was irrelevant.
The road was empty and silent. Denoriel shrugged. No one would be admitted to the palace at this time of night, at least not without considerable fuss and bother. So either the danger was already within or it would arrive in the daylight tomorrow . . . or the next day, or the next.
He felt like howling with frustration. Within. He sighed. Yes, he could get within. He had witched a window—fortunately that had had only had a small metal catch—near FitzRoy's apartment during his "official" visit to Windsor, when he had asked the children to see their wing of the palace. But if he were caught, there was no explanation he would be able to give. Lord Denno would have to disappear, and it would be very much harder to find a new identity . . . and still harder to re-win Harry's confidence.
There was no way, he told himself, that anyone could get the child out of the palace, but to slip into his bedchamber and smother him . . . Denoriel's breath caught. No one would! Surely no one would harm such a small, sweet child!
Even as the thoughts passed through his mind, his clothing turned a dull, dusty black and he was slipping from shadow to shadow across the open ground. His footsteps made no noise and his movements, a short rush when a cloud passed the moon, and an utter stillness in which his dark form could easily be one more ornamental tree or bush, would deceive most watchers. He reached the wall of the building that held the children's quarters.
Here there was shadow enough between the towers that beetled out from the wall. Beneath the witched window, Denoriel stopped, put his back to the wall, and stood, hardly breathing, listening. Nothing. Silence. It was too far from the pond to hear the frogs and there was nothing to attract insects. The walls were rough, unfinished stone blocks. Denoriel pulled off his boots and attached them magically to his back where they would not get in the way; there were plenty of places for his long, thin fingers and toes to grip.
He went up and was inside quickly enough to be sure that no one could have come on the scene and noticed him. Inside the silence was even more profound. Several of the chambers were vacant, reserved for visiting children of friends and relatives. Denoriel passed silently along the corridor, his heartbeat increasing with his fear of what he would find—but all he found was peace.
In the outer chamber of FitzRoy's apartment, a fat night candle in a corner near the door lit the room as bright as day to Denoriel's night-sighted, dark-adjusted eyes. In the next room, a manservant or a guard was asleep on a settle. That made Denoriel tense and he hurried past to the next door. The innermost room was FitzRoy's bedchamber; that was also well lit with a night candle.
The boy's nurse slept on a truckle bed pulled out from beneath the high four-poster, but not with sodden flaccidity as she would had she been drugged. Her fingers twitched very slightly on the coverlet and she made a tiny whistling snore. Although the lightness of her sleep threatened discovery, Denoriel's pulse began to slow as he circled around and approached the bed on the side opposite the truckle bed. If Harry was safe, he could deal with the nurse if he must.
Silently, careful not to rattle the rings, Denoriel pulled the curtain back a bare inch. He heard FitzRoy's peaceful breathing, saw his face, the cheek resting on a familiar silk kerchief clutched in one hand; Denoriel remembered wrapping that kerchief around FitzRoy's wrist when he had hurt it in a game. He swallowed. The truckle bed creaked. Denoriel froze. When the sound was not repeated, he dropped the curtain and eased to the edge of the bed, then around the bottom until he could see; the nurse was quiet now, seeming more soundly asleep.
A few strides took Denoriel to the far wall where he skirted a heavy wardrobe and a chair. The door was open as it had been. Half in, half out of the room, he paused and listened. The guard/manservant was asleep as deeply as when he entered; still, it seemed to Denoriel that he did not breathe again until he was out in the corridor. There he paused. The boy was safe and well, but the feeling that something ill was brooding all around was even more intense.
What had he proved, Denoriel wondered. Harry was safe in his bed, but someone else could do just what he had done with a far less innocent purpose. He thought of searching the area for strangers and then realized how very silly such a plan was. For one thing, that was just asking to be caught. For another, how would he know who was a stranger and who belonged in the castle? He had no roster of all of the servants, nor of the noble guests who might be staying at Norfolk's invitation.
Across the corridor was a door. Denoriel went and listened. Silence. He tried the latch. The door was not locked. He opened it, listened again, then slipped inside, leaving the door barely ajar. He would watch. If anyone tried to enter FitzRoy's apartment he would . . . what? Denoriel sighed. What could he do without betraying his own presence?
Eventually the answer came to him and Denoriel sighed again. Magic was very hard to do in the mortal world and he was already depleted by having changed his clothing to black. Still, the spell he needed, the Don't-see-me spell, was very simple and required very little power. Telling himself to listen all the more carefully, he closed his physical eyes and began to look around with inner sight.
The ability was not common to the Sidhe; when as a child he described it to one of the Magus Majors, the magus wanted to take him as an apprentice. He had refused because he wanted to be a warrior, an armored knight, like the father who had died fighting the Unseleighe . . . Denoriel's lips twisted. Now he was a nursemaid. Or, perhaps not; the very air seemed heavy with threat.
To Denoriel's surprise he could "see" a very faint palely glowing haze. There was power in the mortal world, it seemed. He mentally shook his head at himself. Of course there was power in the mortal world; there were mortal mages and more humans than they themselves knew were born with Talent. With his inner sight, Denoriel stared at the haze of power, but it seemed so dispersed as to be useless. No, not entirely. There was a bright thread in the glow for which Denoriel "reached." It was thinner than a spider's web, but when he "caught" it, he gasped with shock.
It was as if the power that smoothly filled Underhill, as the spirits in good wine blended perfectly in the body of the liquid and could not be separately tasted, had been distilled into a thin but powerful stream of brandy, almost pure spirits. It burned along the power channels in his body, making him aware of them as he never was in Underhill, but his weariness dissipated and he was prepared to watch for the rest of the night without doubting his alertness.
He even hoped for a few moments that the replenishment would remove the sense of dread that hung about him, thinking that the feeling of sharp anxiety and heavy threat was a result of the iron in his surroundings. Far from relief, he felt even more anxious. Something was coming, something evil.
It did not come that night, however. No assassin slipped down the dark corridor. No peak of warning hinted at anyone with ill intent entering through a window as he had. When false dawn passed and the sky began to lighten again, Denoriel made ready to slip from the room and make his way out of the building. Although he was not familiar with the morning activities, he assumed no one would attack the boy for the next few hours. Too many servants would be in and out, bringing water for washing and breakfast and generally making ready for the day. Then FitzRoy would be in the schoolroom with the others.
His suppositions soon became fact. Doors began to open and shut on the floor above, steps sounded on the tower stairs, there were low voices giving greetings, issuing orders. Denoriel made sure the corridor was empty, invoked the Don't-see-me spell, which barely drew on the power he had taken in, walked calmly down the main staircase, and waited near the doors for the guards to open them. When they did, to allow a clerk or some upper servant to enter, Denoriel stepped out.
During the long dark hours, he had considered remaining with FitzRoy but he had finally decided the attempt would be useless and might well be dangerous. He could not be close enough to Harry to protect him from an attack by a long-trusted servant, and if he could leap on the attacker in time he would have betrayed himself. Besides such an attack seemed utterly impossible. Henry Howard and Mary Howard would be there as would their servants; guards would be at the door. And, although he did not trust the feeling, his sense of threat was somehow . . . outside, not within.
The place where Harry might be alone was after nuncheon when the children were free for some hours of play. On any fair day, they all made for the garden. Denoriel did not know whether he hoped the boy would stay with his friends, in which case Denoriel thought no attack would be made and the tension he felt would continue, or would go by himself to the pond to sail his boat. If he did that and the guards saved themselves the walk to the pond by remaining at the gate, as they usually did, FitzRoy would be alone and vulnerable.
And the threat might not even be directed against FitzRoy, Denoriel thought, walking toward the garden that held the little pond. He felt it and felt it urgently, but perhaps that urgency was a signal that he should be elsewhere watching and warding. He ground his teeth with helplessness and anxiety and then suddenly realized that Aleneil might well have an answer by now. She had not sent any message, but it would be hard to reach him in the mortal world. He had several hours before FitzRoy would not be surrounded by friends, guards, and teachers; he would Gate to Llachar Lle.
That was not quite as easy as usual this early in the morning. Cartloads of supplies, meat, vegetables, milk, and cheese, were coming in from the surrounding farms. Messengers were leaving the castle. Bailiffs and other clerks were traveling toward it to make their reports to Norfolk who, Denoriel realized, must be in residence. Perhaps the threat was directed at Norfolk; he was a proud, hot-tempered man and had enemies in plenty. Denoriel could not guess why a threat to Norfolk should make him uneasy . . . All the more reason for him to speak to Aleneil.
He could not simply call Miralys as usual; he had to cross into the copse and find the elvensteed, and then they had to wait some time for the road to clear. When they reached the small wood that held the Gate to Llachar Lle, Denoriel almost cursed aloud. There was a seemingly endless train of horses and carriages following a most elegant hearse. Denoriel could do nothing but ride on past the wood; because the copse was so small, there was scarcely any reason to enter it—and if he did so and did not emerge, someone was sure to notice.
By the time Denoriel reached his apartment, he was utterly enraged. That Aleneil sprang to her feet and rushed to him as soon as he entered did not assuage his temper.
"The boy," she cried. "They are going to kill the boy."
"Kill!" Denoriel echoed. "Even the Unseleighe would not do that. Surely not Rhoslyn and Pasgen! Not even if Vidal Dhu ordered it."
"No, no. The Sidhe are not at fault," Aleneil said. "I hope Rhoslyn and Pasgen do not even know about FitzRoy . . . or if they do, they think him of no account. I do not know why he is of account."
"He will not come to rule?"
Aleneil shook her head. "I do not believe so, and if he should, it will be for only a few years and will not affect the rule of the red-haired child. There is a boy of his seeming who will rule, but . . . but he seems to be much younger than FitzRoy, although in a Seeing, time . . ."
She sighed and walked back into the living quarters to seat herself on the lounge. Denoriel followed and sank into one of the red-silk-covered adjoining chairs. There was no fire in the hearth; of course, there was no need for one, except as a decorative effect. The temperature everywhere in Llachar Lle was comfortable.
Denoriel wanted to let himself rest. The channels in his body still burned slightly and those that did not ached. But he could barely lie back in his chair although he knew there was no hurry; he could return to Windsor and arrive at any time he desired. Then he realized it was Aleneil, who usually was a pool of serenity, that was transmitting tension to him.
"You must save FitzRoy," she said.
"Of course I will," Denoriel assured her irritably. "I got into his apartment last night to make sure all was well with him—and it was. It was no changeling in his bed. Then I watched by his door to make sure no one entered or left. He is safe now with his friends and teachers."
"But the danger comes soon," Aleneil insisted, her face creased with anxiety. "Perhaps it is already there or on its way. I feel it pounding within me like the beat of my heart. I do not know why, but if FitzRoy dies, the red-haired child will never rule and we . . . we will go down the same path as Alhambra and Eldorado."
Denoriel repressed a shudder and stood up. Mwynwen had showed him those two, sad realms herself, and told him in great detail what had happened to them. He could not bear for such a fate to come upon his own home. "Comes from within? From among his friends? Those who are supposed to be his guardians? Comes from without?" His voice was higher than usual. Fear was so unaccustomed an emotion to him that he did not recognize it and covered it with anger.
"I don't know!" Aleneil wailed, and then, suddenly her breath was coming quick and short and she whispered, "Now! Go now, Denoriel."
Considering the emotions that had been generated in his chambers, Denoriel was not surprised to find Miralys waiting. He flung himself into the saddle and less than a quarter hour later out of it in the copse across from the magicked gate. There was no one in the road. Denoriel ran across, ran in through the gate . . . and realized that he had not willed his time of arrival to be the same as that when he left.
He heard a child's shrill cry of shock and fear, and he ran as he had never run before, tearing his sword from its scabbard, bellowing "Harry! Harry!"
He burst through the hedge that surrounded the pond and saw two men, one standing guard, the other leaning over the water, cursing, reaching for FitzRoy. The boy had apparently torn himself out of his attacker's grasp when it loosened at Denoriel's shout. But Denoriel could only hope FitzRoy could keep out of reach because the man standing guard had drawn his sword and struck at Denoriel's lighter blade.
Denoriel twisted his wrist, rolling his blade along and around his opponent's. He was trying to catch the other sword and tear it loose, but the ruse failed—in fact, he almost lost his own weapon as an icy, burning chill ran up his sword and his arm, spread across his chest. He was not as resistant to steel as he had believed; at least not when he actually touched it through his silver blade.
It was his opponent who saved him because he disengaged to feint high and thrust low. Denoriel parried, gasping, realizing that this was a more skilled swordsman than the noble-born dilettantes with whom he had practiced. Desperate not to touch the other's blade, Denoriel slashed right and left, advancing on his opponent, smashing his blade down on the attacker's arm with all his strength when the man tried to thrust through his wild swings. He was aware of movement behind the man he fenced with, aware that he could not prevail against two fighters of the same caliber.
"Run, Harry!" he shouted, wondering why the guards had not yet arrived.
With the boy's cry and his shout, they must have heard. From where they stood at the gate to the garden with the pond, they should have seen him fighting. Why did they not come? He needed the help. He was a fine swordsman, and he had fought men bearing steel before—but never alone, never two against one. And he had not repeatedly had to touch the steel as he parried. He was chilled and shaking. His guts knotted tighter and harder with each touch of his weapon against the other's and sickness clogged his throat, making it hard to breathe.
Then the other man cried out, not in pain but in shock and disgust. There was a thud and a splash. Denoriel's opponent was distracted—no more than a twitch of the head and a flick of the eyes to see what had happened behind him, but it was enough. Denoriel's blade slid up then pierced the man's sword arm, his silver blade carrying Denoriel's spell of pain and poor healing. The attacker howled and dropped his blade but made no attempt to retrieve it or to run, either of which Denoriel guessed he feared would have been fatal. Instead, he flung the poniard he held in his left hand at Denoriel's face.
Aware of the damage a scratch from the weapon could do—even a glancing blow could raise a dangerous welt—Denoriel staggered back. The attacker took the chance he had made for himself; Denoriel could feel him dart past and thrust at him but missed. He could not see well enough to stop him. From the sound, he had run for the garden gate. Then Denoriel knew the guards would not come, that they had somehow been disposed of. He started forward as FitzRoy shouted a warning, whipping his blade back and forth although his vision was so blurred he could not see the other man's weapon.
A shriek and a shock told Denoriel that his blade had connected and he drew and thrust, still without really seeing his opponent. An oath gave evidence of the accuracy of his strike, but his blade did not penetrate. He struck hard armor under the man's doublet and another terrible shock ran up his silver blade to his arm. Denoriel bit back his own scream and, completely blind with sickness, thrust again, lower, at the man's belly where he would not wear armor. The thrust did not connect, yet the man screamed again.
Through tear-filled eyes, to which vision was returning, Denoriel saw his opponent go down on one knee, body twisted to look behind. His sword was still up, guarding, but for that moment the man was nearly immobilized. Then a gleam of sunlight caught his moving blade and through blurred eyes Denoriel saw it. He stepped inside its reach, praying his silk tunic would protect him if he were hit, and thrust violently at the hand, not the sword.
One last shriek as the weapon dropped from the bleeding hand, the spell generating far more pain than the piercing blade. Then the attacker leapt to his feet and, limping badly, fled wide around Denoriel in the direction the other had taken. Denoriel sank to his knees on the muddy ground, gasping, cried out as his bare fingers touched the fallen sword.
It was pulled away. Denoriel's eyes widened; there must be another man. He tried to rise but could not; he could not even raise his sword. But his half blind eyes could see no man shape and no burning, killing stroke came. He heard the scrape of metal on the ground and the nausea induced by the continued nearness of the steel diminished.
"Here, quick, put on your hat."
FitzRoy's voice, breathless, anxious. Denoriel had not even realized he had lost the hat, and then he also realized that in his anxiety and haste, he had not invoked the illusions that hid his ears and the slit pupils of his eyes. He knew, with a sinking heart, that all disguise had failed, that his long hair, wildly disordered, must no longer conceal his ears. And the boy was so close, staring into his face, seeing his cat-pupilled eyes.
Despair all but overwhelmed him, but still Denoriel drew a gasping breath, trying to think of an explanation. Only FitzRoy showed no surprise or fear. His hands, cold and wet, thrust Denoriel's hat onto his head, cocked it at the right angle, adjusted the plume, and tenderly tucked the long ears into shelter under it.
"Do you know what I am?" Denoriel whispered.
He was holding back tears as he contemplated needing to bring the child to Elfhame Logres and subjecting him to the torture of having his memories destroyed. That was a dangerous thing, even with the best of the healers and a Magus Major working together. Too many memories might be lost. The child's mind could be damaged.
His vision had cleared and he saw FitzRoy's smile. "Of course," the boy said. "You're my fairy knight, my guardian. The Elf-Queen must have sent you to protect me. She's supposed to like little boys."
Denoriel nearly fainted with relief, clutching the boy in his arms for a long moment, indifferent to the wet from FitzRoy's clothing soaking into his own. Then he held the child at arms length and smiled broadly at the innocent face so near his own. Harry had found the perfect concealment. If the child said he had a fairy guardian, everyone would think it just a childish fancy. No one would argue that it was impossible or laugh at him so that he would try to defend his assertion with facts that might betray the truth. The adults who cared for him, particularly the nurse who told him fairy tales, would hide their smiles and nod. To be a fairy guardian was safe.
"I knew who you were the very first day when you knelt down to speak to me and kiss my hand," the boy continued, bright-eyed with happiness. "No one else ever did that; they just talked down at me, laughing inside when they called me 'Your Grace.' I saw your eyes. They aren't people eyes. Nurse told me about the fairies, only she calls them the Fair Folk, how they take care of children, how the fairy knights drive away nightmares and hobgoblins, and how sometimes a fairy knight will be guardian to a child if his Queen sends him—"
Mwynwen had been right to call him careless and to urge him always to wear a hat. Apparently he had forgotten to invoke his disguise the day he had first come with George Boleyn to meet Harry. And the nursery stories—a lucky accident . . . or Dannae was supporting him more openly than usual—were why the child had accepted him so easily, so quickly.
"Is there someone who is cruel to you, Harry?" Denoriel asked anxiously.
The boy considered Denoriel's question and looked a bit shamefaced. "No," he admitted. "Norfolk means well. He really does, even when he shouts and gives orders that spoil things." He sighed. "And Henry can't help being seven years older so he wins all the time. And I love Mary . . . even if she is a girl. But—but you came to me. You came to me when the others weren't near, so I knew you were my fairy knight in particular. Was it because of my father that you came?"
"You're quite right about that," Denoriel said, finally finding the strength to get to his feet. "I'm your fairy knight and I was sent by our Queen to watch over you." What a relief! He didn't even have to lie, which the child might have sensed. "I was sent because—" now what was he to say? "—because you needed me, and because of your royal blood." He winked, and FitzRoy smiled wanly back. The boy already knew about the privileges of rank, even in the sinister line; he found nothing unusual that the elven Queen should send one of her knights to guard the offspring of the mortal king. In his world, kings and queens, when they were not at war, exchanged such courtesies as a matter of course.
He started to reach for FitzRoy's hand and realized he was still clinging to his unsheathed sword. His vision was now back to normal and he saw the dark stains on the blade; he could not sheathe it as it was. He extended his arm and asked FitzRoy to find the kerchief in his sleeve so he could wipe the weapon. Instead the boy removed his own fine linen kerchief from his belt and held it out.
"Take mine. It's wet already." As he said the words, FitzRoy's eyes widened. "And I guess I do need watching over. That man," he said, his voice now tremulous and unsure, "he was going to drown me."
"What did he do?" Denoriel asked.
"He pretended to be interested in my boat—he called it una barca—and when he came close, he pushed me into the water. And he was trying to push my head under when you yelled. He kind of jerked around and I went lower and pulled free. He kept grabbing for me, but mostly he was watching the fight so it was easy to keep out of his way. And when I thought he was going to stand up and join the fight against you . . . I threw two handfuls of muck from the bottom of the pond into his face."
Denoriel burst out laughing. "Good for you, Harry!" Then he sobered. "I'm your fairy knight, true enough, and I am a good warrior, but I'm not all powerful. If you hadn't helped me . . . I would have been killed."
FitzRoy nodded wisely. "Because fairies can't stand cold iron, and those men's swords were iron. Nurse told me about that too, but I forget the name of the story. I remembered about the iron though, how iron burns fairies. That's why I dragged the swords away from you."
"Clever Harry! The swords were making me weak."
"I knew that. That was why I hit the man in the back of the knee with the mast of my boat. You're magic, I suppose, but you aren't God. Only God is all powerful." The boy sighed. "But God's a lot like my father. He's far away and He must be busy with more important things than me." His eyes brightened and he smiled again. "I guess that's why there's fairies and fairy knights."
Denoriel bent down and embraced the child quite fiercely. "Yes. That's why there's fairy knights, to make sure children are protected."
FitzRoy hugged him back. "When he pushed me, I was afraid, but I knew you'd come. I've wondered ever since you came why I was so lucky as to get a fairy to help me. Now I know. Except . . . I don't know. Why should he try to drown me?"
"You didn't know them?" Denoriel asked. And when FitzRoy shook his head said, "How did they get past the guards?"
"I'm not sure." The boy frowned. "I saw them come into the garden . . ." He hesitated and then said, "But you're right. I didn't hear them talk to the guards at the gate. I didn't think of that then because I was very annoyed with the men. I knew you wouldn't come if they were here. I know no one is supposed to know about fairy guardians, which is why you only come when I'm alone."
"That's true, but we're going to have to confess that we are special friends. You see, you are going away—"
FitzRoy clutched at Denoriel's hand. "I know. I'm to be lord lieutenant in the north. It won't matter, will it?" he asked fearfully. "If you're my fairy knight, and you have magic, you can come to me up north, too, can't you?"
"Yes, I can," Denoriel assured him, smiling. "But we agreed I'm not all powerful. I'm not all knowing, either. I'll need to see the place where you are living in the north so that we can arrange where to meet or so that I can get to your apartment. I won't have the excuse of coming with my friend Boleyn."
"Oh, yes." The boy nodded. "I can ask for you—not as if we've been friends all along, but because you saved me from those men. I can say I don't want to go to a new place if you can't come too."
"We can try that first," Denoriel agreed. "If it doesn't work . . . don't worry yourself, Harry. I will find a good reason to visit Yorkshire . . . wool, probably. And once I am there, it is only reasonable for me to come to call. But until I can find a way to you, be careful. Don't be alone."
"No, I—" FitzRoy began, only to be interrupted by a high girl-child's shriek, echoed by an older boy's shout.
Denoriel snatched FitzRoy up in his arms and set out for the sound, cursing himself for forgetting that, foiled of one victim, the men he had driven off FitzRoy might have decided to seize another child.