Mary Howard's shrieks redoubled when she saw Denoriel come tearing down the path to the pond, FitzRoy clutched under one arm and his bared sword in his hand. Her brother, Henry, bravely thrust her behind him and drew his small knife. Denoriel skidded to a halt.
He looked around wildly. No attackers. No one even in sight, although Denoriel's keen ears caught the sound of alarmed voices in the distance. He set FitzRoy down on his feet.
"Henry, Mary—be calm, at once!" he took an authoritative tone with them, assuming that they would react to it appropriately. And, in fact, they did, Mary stilling her cries, and peering doubtfully around her brother. "Enough. There were men here, who attacked FitzRoy. When you cried out, I thought the two of you were in danger, but you are not. All is well." He sheathed his sword.
"Someone tried to drown me," FitzRoy said, his voice holding excitement and pride now rather than fear.
"You mean you fell in the pond and don't want to get scolded for it," Henry said, turning his lips down in a pout, as soon as he got over his momentary fright. "Who'd want to drown you?"
"No, I was pushed. I—"
A rustling and thumping in a group of ornamental bushes off to Denoriel's right made him draw his sword again and gesture to the children to go out onto the lawn where the oncoming servants and guards could see them. The sound grew more desperate and the bushes quivered but no one emerged to attack. Denoriel approached cautiously, listening, then rushed around the bush only to stop and sheathe his sword. He had found the missing guards. At least they were not dead, and could verify his part of the tale!
Almost simultaneously the forefront of the wave of rescuers arrived, led by Norfolk's steward, a grizzled man in a fine suit of black.
"Here!" Denoriel called. "Gentleman, there has been much mischief and misadventure! Richmond's guards are here, bound and gagged."
Two more guards pushed through the gate. At the steward's gesture, one threatened Denoriel with his pike. FitzRoy tore free of someone attempting to hold him and rushed over, interposing himself between the pike and Denoriel.
"It's not Lord Denno's fault," he cried. "There were two men. One pushed me into the pond and Lord Denno came and saved me."
Denoriel held up his hands, placatingly. "Patience, Your Grace," he said to FitzRoy—because these were formal circumstances and the boy was duke of Richmond. "The . . . ah . . . steward has no way of knowing whether I was in league with the others and just pretended to be your friend." He turned his attention to the steward, drawing himself up. "His Grace has been attacked, and I came at his call to help; near the pond there are two swords and a poniard . . . and a fair amount of blood to show there really was a fight. Someone should look there. Also, I think this is a tale that should be told to His Grace of Norfolk. And these men should be released."
Eventually, but not without considerable argument—the steward indignant over a foreigner giving orders—the weapons near the pond were collected. Then a tactful message was sent to Norfolk and FitzRoy was taken to his rooms to get dry clothing—which he refused to do unless Denoriel went too. After another considerable delay while Norfolk finished his business with the Imperial ambassador and Mendoza was seen off, all three children, FitzRoy's two guards, Denoriel, the steward, and a guard from the main gate were assembled in the room in which Norfolk conducted business.
Denoriel retained his sword and was not bound because of FitzRoy's stubborn and, in the end, screaming defense. Later, when he knew Norfolk better, he would be surprised at FitzRoy's understanding of his uncle's temper, and grateful that the child was so perceptive as well as brave enough to risk the duke's anger. If Norfolk had seen him arrive bound and disarmed, the duke would have assumed him guilty, and once Norfolk assumed something only the king's command could change his mind. And Norfolk exploded when he heard the true cause of their request for audience, bellowing at the steward and everyone else that his business with Inigo de Mendoza had been trivial compared with an attempt on his ward's life.
When Norfolk calmed, it was Henry Howard who told his part of the tale first, how he and Mary had gone to summon FitzRoy to tea. "You know how he is, Father," the boy said, smiling rather fondly at FitzRoy. "When he starts sailing that boat of his on the pond, he seems to forget everything else."
Norfolk chuckled. "We'll have to get him appointed Lord High Admiral," he said.
Henry Howard frowned as if the mild jest did not please him, but did not respond overtly. He said, "Mary was first. She went through the gate, and then I realized there wasn't any guard and I started to call her and say that Harry must have gone back to the house—but she screamed, and when I rushed over to her she pointed and said she'd seen a foot under the bush. Then the bush shook, and I shouted, and the next thing we knew Lord Denno was pelting along the path carrying Harry in one arm and a sword in his other hand."
"Was Richmond struggling?" Norfolk asked.
"No, sir, not at all, and anyway, as soon as he saw us, Lord Denno put Harry down and sheathed his sword. Then Harry started to tell us about being pushed into the pond and Lord Denno saving him, and the bushes started to shake again. Lord Denno told us to go out on the lawn to the people who were running from the house and he went to look behind the bush."
"How long was he there, Henry?"
Henry Howard considered. "Scarcely a moment?" he said doubtfully. "He shouted almost at once that he had found the gate guards."
Norfolk looked at the steward and the guard who had followed him. "Could Lord Denno have tied up the guards in the time he was behind the bushes?"
"No, Your Grace," the steward said, reluctantly. It was clear that in his mind, this Lord Denno was a foreigner and therefore untrustworthy and likely to do unorthodox or even evil things. Nevertheless, he was an honest man, and could hardly deny the testament of his own eyes. "I could see him the whole time," the steward admitted. "He was standing up behind the bush. He never bent down at all, and he had his sword out in one hand. The guards were lying on the ground, bound and gagged. I don't see any way he could have done that."
Norfolk turned his eyes to FitzRoy's guards, who recoiled slightly at the expression upon the duke's face. Denoriel felt a little sorry for them; Norfolk was no easy master, and he did not accept excuses for failure. "And how, may I ask, did you get into that condition? Did either of you see Lord Denno today?"
"N-not till he found us, Your Grace," one man answered.
"I don't know how it happened," the other man said, his voice shaking. "I don't remember anything except standing by the gate. I'd been looking over the hedge, watching the boy . . . I mean His Grace of Richmond . . . getting ready to put that boat of his in the water. Then Dickson said to look, and I turned around and did, and saw a party coming up the long drive and then. . . . then . . . I don't remember anything."
The man sounded desperately frightened. It was entirely possible he was frightened of the punishment Norfolk would mete out for his dereliction of duty, but Denoriel did not think so. He suspected the man was fighting a deeper and more elemental fear, having looked into his own memory, and finding there—nothing.
Now, a blow to the head could cause such memory loss, but surely the men would not have been so easily taken unawares. Not with two of them there.
Denoriel extended his senses, "feeling" around the man, who was swallowing nervously. Perhaps . . . perhaps there was the faintest "stench" of controlling magic. His lips tightened with self-disgust.
Warrior was he? Today he had been unprepared for everything. Only Dannae's mercy had let him arrive before Harry was killed and they were all plunged into a nightmare of pain and terror from which they might never waken—all because he had forgotten to set the time to which he wanted to Gate. Worse, he had endangered the secret of Underhill by pure carelessness, by forgetting his disguise. Harry, the child he was supposed to protect, had saved him.
Now he was late again. If he had felt for magic when he first found the men, perhaps he could have sensed the spell clearly enough to identify the maker. Now he could not even be sure the guards had been felled by magic.
That seemed more and more likely, however, when Dickson's tale confirmed that of the first guard. Dickson had listened to the first man with a slight expression of contempt, and he started confidently enough, relating his watch over the lawns and road from which the garden in which Richmond played could be reached. He continued with the arrival of the visiting party, even mentioned recognizing the banner of Inigo de Mendoza, the Imperial ambassador, and thinking that only a Spaniard would bring half an army to ride thirty miles from London to Windsor . . . and then his voice faltered and he stared at the floor.
"Well?" Norfolk urged impatiently.
The man stared at him, cheeks blanching. "Then I heard Lady Mary scream, and I tried to get up." He began breathing shallowly, as the same fear crept into his voice and his eyes stared into space with an expression of disbelief. "And I was lying on the ground tied up and gagged. Then Lord Denno came around the bush with his sword in his hand and I kicked and squirmed, but I couldn't get loose, and then he called out that he'd found us."
It must be, Denoriel thought, that they had been bespelled. But if so, why were they bound and gagged?
Denoriel barely heard the sharp questions Norfolk addressed to the guards; he was thinking, hard.
If the two attackers had carried a spell that felled the guards so they could get into the garden and drown Harry, they would have wanted the spell to wear off naturally. They would assume the guards would not report themselves as having fallen asleep on duty. And after the boy had been found drowned, they surely would not admit that they could not remember what happened—instead, perhaps they would have made up some tale of fighting several foes and being overcome, and of course, whatever they fabricated would not have matched the descriptions of the true attackers. Or perhaps the bonds had only been intended as a temporary measure, to ensure that the murderers could do their work without interference, and the men would have been released as soon as the deed was done. Then they would have been left to awaken naturally, and to find FitzRoy—and it all would have been supposed to be a terrible accident.
But who would bespell them? The minions of Vidal Dhu? Would even Vidal Dhu give orders that a child should be drowned? Denoriel felt almost as chilled as when he touched the steel of the attackers' armor and swords. And with that thought he knew he had the evidence that he had not fought Unseleighe Sidhe. Those were mortal men with the weapons of mortal men. And that provided a kind of answer to why the guards were both bespelled and gagged and bound.
Because the mortal men did not trust the spell. They could have been given some artifact and told how to release the enchantment. Perhaps they had not been told how long the spell would last, or they did not believe what they were told. And the spell had not lasted very long. His fight with the attackers had seemed interminable, but truly it had taken less than a quarter of an hour. Perhaps an equal interval had been spent by the men themselves, finding the pond and attacking FitzRoy. And the guards were kicking and struggling by the time he had run to the gate in answer to Mary's scream. Less than half an hour.
Not a Sidhe spell then . . . or was it a spell cast by a magus who was not familiar with the mortal world? A moment's thought convinced Denoriel that was unlikely. Vidal Dhu, whatever else he was, was not a fool. He would not make that kind of mistake. Denoriel did not know whether he was more relieved or more horrified. He was pleased that not even a member of the Unseleighe Sidhe would empower anyone to kill a child, but to know that a mortal mage was involved . . . that was not at all good. He had not heard of such mages in—well, in fact, he had never heard of such mages, except as tales. He had assumed that mortals had lost their magic as they grew more "learned."
His attention was recalled by a discreet tug on his hand and he realized Norfolk was addressing him directly.
He riveted his attention on the duke's craggy face. Norfolk was frowning, but not, it seemed, over anything Denoriel was responsible for. "So, it seems that not only are you innocent of any attempt to harm Richmond, Lord Denno, but we all must be grateful for your defense of him."
Demoriel bowed, slightly, but Norfolk was not done with him.
"But what I do not understand, my lord, is how you came to be near the pond when the gate guard here says you did not enter Windsor through the main gate." Norfolk riveted him with a stern gaze that had likely cowed lesser men than Denoriel.
Confident in the renewal of his mortal disguise while Harry was changing his clothing, Denoriel met Norfolk's gaze squarely and said, "I came through the postern gate in the wall, Your Grace."
"Postern gate?" Norfolk looked confounded.
Denoriel pressed his advantage. "Yes. I had come across country, for the road was dusty from the passage of some party that had traversed it before me. As a consequence, I was riding alongside of the garden wall, when I came to the postern gate. It was open and I was sure that could not be right. I knew the garden with the pond was beyond that stretch of wall and that His Grace of Richmond often played with his boat in the pond—all the children joked about his fondness for it. And it seemed to me—"
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."