If Joseph Clayborne had not been well drilled in decent manners, he would literally have drooled over the goods that Lord Denno showed him in a locked back room of the warehouse in the alley off Thames Street. Bales of fur—lush silvery fox pelts, white ermine, sleek mink—bolts of rich brocades in every color gleaming and glinting with the gold and silver thread in the weavings, and separate packets wrapped in thick silk, which could itself be sold, that held ribbons and panels of delicate embroidery set with tiny pearls and precious stones.
Denno laughed. Joseph sighed. Even though it was the dead of night and Denoriel and Clayborne were alone in the back room with a locked door between them and the one guard standing near the outer door, Joseph made no mention of the fact that what he was seeing was impossible. Lord Denno had been gone only three days. There was nowhere, not even from his supposed sources in north Germany, France, and Spain that he could have shipped such goods in so short a time. It was another of the many mysteries of Lord Denno. It did make him curious though . . . if Lord Denno could somehow magically conjure all this, why did he not simply magic up gold and avoid all the tedium and risk of being a merchant-adventurer?
Perhaps he simply had some magical way of moving goods themselves. Surely that must be it. What was here would not fill a corner of a ship, so of course, for great cargoes, Lord Denno would still need his ships. Perhaps, as in the song about the Boys of Bedlam, Lord Denno could conjure a "horse of air."
Well, useless to speculate, and really, better not. Better just to pretend that he thought Lord Denno had all this hidden away somewhere, like a motley conjuror's false-bottomed box.
"May you live a thousand years, m'lord—as I understand they say when they mention the emperor in China," Joseph said, grinning. "I have more than half of this already sold, so much did I trust in you, but I cannot deny I spent a few uneasy nights wondering how I would explain selling what I did not have and leaving some very highborn ladies and gentlemen without proper trimmings for their new clothing."
"The dates for the funeral and coronation are now set?" Denoriel could not fathom these mortal ways of delaying such things until the poor corpse had to be buried in sealed coffins to avoid prostrating the bereaved with stench.
"Yes, m'lord. The funeral for the sixteenth as was proposed all along. There is to be much ceremony on the following day also. The young king is to be knighted and"—Joseph's lips twisted cynically—"those who have well served the kingdom will be rewarded. It is said that Hertford will have a dukedom and Dudley will be made an earl." He gestured toward the carefully laid-out goods. "I will hire extra men and attend to the distribution myself."
"All except these," Denoriel said, taking up four of the silver fox pelts and a tied bundle of the ermine. "These are for Lady Elizabeth and, hmmm," he also picked up several gleaming mink skins, "these, I think for Queen Catherine. I hope I am not taking what you have already promised?"
"Well, the ermine. Everyone was asking for ermine, but thank God I did not accept payment . . . except from Hertford's lady. I did not wish to annoy her. She is . . . ah . . ."
"Proud and spiteful," Denoriel said. That was an understatement. For someone whose husband was so recently jumped-up, she had the manner of one whose blood had come direct from Adam.
Joseph nodded. "Well, I doubt she will see Lady Elizabeth so she will not know the little lady is so well supplied. But I do not think that any of the royal ladies will be invited. From something in Lady Hertford's remarks to Lady Dorset—I cannot imagine why she thinks I become stone deaf the moment she does not address me directly—Hertford will be named Protector, and she does not take it well that Queen Catherine and Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth will still have precedence over her."
"Truly if I were only sure that Queen Catherine will have charge of Elizabeth, I would be happy enough that neither of them should come to Court—at least until the striving for political place is finished." He shook his head. This was a bad business all around, what with spite, posturing, political maneuvering both subtle and unsubtle, added to all the usual court intriguing.
"There are times," Joseph said, "when I am very happy to be no more than a common merchant. And times when I could wish you were not such a successful one." He sighed. "Go home, m'lord, and get what rest you can. You look tired. I will send the guard out for more men." He reached out and took a rough cloth from a shelf on the wall and wrapped the furs Denoriel had chosen in it. "How thieves discover where goods of special value are, I have no idea. Sometimes I think that they use the mice and rats as spies."
Denoriel laughed heartily over that, knowing that such creatures—or what looked like them—could be used that way by the Sidhe, but not to find furs or silks and jewels which could be too easily come by Underhill. Then he shook his head over Joseph's suggestion that he wait for the extra men to come and take one or two to escort him home.
"It would take a very desperate thief to be out this late on so cold a night. Certainly it is not likely that there would be a large group out just to get a cloak." He patted his sword hilt. "And one or two I do not fear."
Nor was there anything to fear as he made his way to Thames Street, along it the short way to Dowgate, and then north, across Watling to the narrow, curving way that led to Bucklersbury. What might have been dangerously dark to humans was twilight to Denoriel. In fact he saw nothing at all moving—it was bitterly cold, even for him—and felt no threat until he stopped to fumble for the keys to his own door.
As he held the large key poised, he thought he heard the click of a doorlatch, and he turned swiftly, the key now in his left hand, sword half drawn in his right. Perhaps a shadow moved in the deeper dark of the doorway across the road, but his own door opened before the threat, if there was one, could materialize. Light spilled out of the open doorway, and Cropper's voice spoke a cheerful welcome.
"Been watching for you, m'lord. Master Clayborne said he thought you'd meet him at the warehouse. Welcome home."
Denoriel walked in, glancing over his shoulder, but there was no movement now in the opposite doorway, not even a shifting of shadow. Cropper also looked around Denoriel's shoulder at the house across the street, but he didn't say anything, merely shut the door, took Denoriel's cloak, and set the package Denoriel had thrust under his left arm on the small table.
"I thought you went home to your wife and child at night, Cropper," Denoriel said.
"Yes, m'lord. In the usual way, I do." The massive footman nodded. He was a most ordinary-looking man—most footmen were large and strongly built—but there was something about him that reminded Denoriel of a mastiff. Not in looks, but in attitude, perhaps. Friendly, good with children, but if the master was threatened—it would not go well for the one doing the threatening. "But since Master Clayborne saw those men watching the house—and I thought we were followed when we went to bring the wine to Mistress Cecil—I been staying if Master Clayborne goes out. He don't want to leave the house all empty and I don't mind, m'lord. It's an extra shilling, which I can surely use. Kept the fire going in the parlor, m'lord, and started one in your bedroom when Master Clayborne said you might be coming home. What do you want done with the parcel, m'lord?"
For one moment, Denoriel could not remember what was in the parcel he had carried. Although Clayborne had remarked he looked tired, he had no idea just how tired his master was. Even in the power-rich atmosphere Underhill, it took enormous effort to correctly ken such intricate and elaborate items as furs and brocades. Denoriel looked blankly at Cropper, then shook his head and told Cropper he hadn't decided and that he would take the package up with him to his chamber.
This he did, and when he had the door closed safely behind him, he began to gesture at his clothing. His overstrained power channels burned and he cursed softly, stopped his attempt to remove his clothing by magic, and started to struggle out of his garments one by one. It took forever, but eventually the gown and doublet, the jacquet and shirt, the upperstocks and hose were in a pile on the floor. Then, Sidhe did not sleep, but Denoriel lay down on the thick featherbed, pulled over himself the down coverlet and went blank and empty.
He was roused by Clayborne's voice calling at the door and opened his eyes to dull and rosy light. Apparently he had been resting all of what remained of the night and nearly all the next day. From the look of the light it was now evening.
"Come," he called.
"I am sorry to disturb you, m'lord," Joseph said, "but there was a messenger from the queen. He brought a note and I was sure you would want to have it as soon as possible."
Denoriel levered himself up, sat against the pillows, and held out his hand. He wasted no time in breaking the seal and unfolding the letter, which was brief enough to take in in one glance.
After the suitable salutation, there were only a few lines. I have happy news and I have writ a letter to Lady Elizabeth explaining all. If you will come to Chelsea as soon as you may, and if you are willing to be my messenger, you may carry my letter to her.
"I must go to Chelsea Palace at once," he said.
"Can it not wait until morning, m'lord?" Joseph asked. "Chelsea is a long way and it is very cold. And I must speak to you about the sales from the warehouse from where I have just returned." Denoriel shook his head, repeating Chelsea, and Joseph sighed and turned toward the wardrobe, asking, "Court dress?"
Denoriel groaned. "Since I am going to the palace, I suppose so. A curse on the formality . . . Oh, send one of the men up to help me dress."
"Yes, m'lord. Will you have the midnight blue lined with vair or the maroon trimmed with sable?"
"Blue." Denoriel watched Joseph pull garments from the wardrobe and lay them on the foot of the bed.
"And I will have a sup and a bite ready for you," Joseph said. "You've had nothing since last night and though the queen might offer you refreshment, by the time you reach Chelsea it would likely be only a glass of warmed wine."
About to protest about the waste of time, Denoriel was forestalled by his own belly, which rumbled audibly at the notion of food. Both he and Clayborne laughed.
"Yes, all right," Denoriel said, getting out of bed. "I would hate to have my stomach inserting comments into the conversation if the queen should wish to talk."
As Joseph went out, Denoriel noticed that the heap of clothing he had left on the floor was gone, the room was warm, the fire burning brightly. Someone had come in to pick up the discarded garments and lay fresh logs on the fire. No doubt one of the Low Court Sidhe that acted as servants in the house. They could move silently enough not to disturb his rest, and he would have sensed Sidhe in the chamber and not felt the alarm that a human intrusion would cause.
He turned toward the clothes Joseph had set out on the bed and stared. They assembled themselves on his body. Since he was not creating anything, very little power was involved. Nonetheless a faint ache along the power channels warned him that he would need to be cautious about using magic for some time longer. When the servant came in, Denoriel set him to making the bed while he took the mink pelts from the package, leaving only the fox and ermine for Elizabeth.
"They are to be a gift," he told the Sidhe in the Elven tongue. "Use some pretty cloth and ribbon to wrap them. When you are done, bring the gift to me in the small dining parlor."
Although Miralys took no more than a quarter hour to carry Denoriel from Bucklersbury to Chelsea, he was very glad he had taken Clayborne's advice and had a meal. He was not, to his surprise, expected. Fortunately he had carried Catherine's letter with him and her seal opened the gate. Nonetheless it was at least another half hour before he settled Miralys in the stable, removed his package from his saddlebag, and got back to the house. And then, although the servant who greeted him did seem to expect him, he was not at once shown into Queen Catherine's parlor.
The servant showed him instead into a reception room, saying that the queen had an unexpected visitor and that he would need to wait until she was free. Denoriel made no protest; in the mortal world he was, after all, no more than a common merchant—if uncommonly rich—and this might be Court business. However, he was soon sorry he had not asked the servant at least to tell Queen Catherine that he had arrived because he was left to wait longer than he expected.
The full dark of a winter's night had closed in before Thomas Seymour walked into the reception room, strolled up to the chair in which Denoriel was sitting, and smiled condescendingly down at Denoriel.
"Queen Catherine will see you now," he said. "I told the servant to send you in."
So it was this popinjay who had been the cause of the delay—not business. Denoriel rose to his full height and in turn stared down at Seymour, who was a tall man among his fellows but still at least a half head shorter than the Sidhe. The smile on Seymour's face faded and he stepped back a pace. Denoriel smiled.
"Thank you, Sir Thomas," he said softly.
Seymour backed another pace, then stiffened as he realized what he had done. His mouth opened . . . and the servant came around him, looked up at him, and then beckoned to Denoriel, saying, "This way, my lord."
A moment later Denoriel had scooped up his package and was in the queen's private parlor where Catherine was standing up, her hands clasped before her and an anxious frown on her face. "Oh, my dear Lord Denno," she cried, as soon as the door closed behind him. "That stupid servant! I had no idea you had arrived. Sir Thomas and I were only playing a silly card game. Who could imagine the fool servant would not announce you?"
Sir Thomas, eh, Denoriel thought, suddenly remembering how the servant had looked up at Seymour before he asked Denoriel to follow him. I will see to you, you puffed up pile of . . . He bowed and smiled at Catherine.
"It does not matter, madam. Even if you had seen me at once, I could not have ridden to Enfield tonight. Aside from the dark and the cold, I would have arrived so late that I could not have seen Lady Elizabeth."
"Ridden to Enfield tonight? But I sent the message to your house before dinner! Why did it take so long to come to you?"
"I—"
About to tell Catherine that Seymour had paid her servant to delay the message until it seemed as if Denoriel were unwilling to go to Elizabeth, he swallowed the words. He did not know that was true, did not want to be caught in a lie, and, in addition, from the way she blushed whenever she said Seymour's name, she would be angry at Denoriel over the accusation, not at Sir Thomas over the crime.
Denoriel sighed and said, "I'm afraid the fault for that is mine. I was asleep all the day. I had just returned from a most exhausting journey to bring to England some goods I had stored in foreign warehouses." He smiled apologetically. "But I believe the effort was well worthwhile." He held out the gaily wrapped package. "Do you look, madam, and tell me you forgive my tardiness."
It was common enough for those who intended to ask favors to gift the giver of those favors. Catherine suspected that the favor she would be asked was to allow Lord Denno to visit Elizabeth. Since she had already done so while the girl was in her care, she was perfectly willing to agree. She did not stop to think that the situation was different. Elizabeth was now second in line for the throne and Catherine was now solely responsible for her, not a mere caretaker under her father's direction.
Thus she undid the rich ribbon and opened the shining cloth. She had expected that there would be several layers of the same cloth, which was a pleasant but not extravagant gift, and so she gasped when the mink pelts were exposed.
"Oh, Lord Denno," she sighed, lifting the furs and touching them gently to her cheek. "Oh, this is too much. I cannot . . ."
"Indeed, you can, madam. Let me assure you that these are only a small sample, a bare token. I was very lucky in my purchase and have sufficient reward in seeing your pleasure, and in hoping you will allow me to give a similar token to Lady Elizabeth . . ."
She laughed aloud and stepped aside to lay the furs carefully on a table, then turned to face him. "So, I am to be bribed to allow you to court Elizabeth—"
"No!" Denoriel exclaimed, eyes widening with shock. "No, madam. I am far too old . . ."
Catherine laughed again. "Oh, Lord Denno, no. I only meant to court her favor. I know you have no evil intent toward the child."
Did he not, Denoriel wondered. The way his heart leapt when the queen said he would court Elizabeth was . . . wrong. She was a child. Fourteen years old. But Denoriel knew that many mortal girls were married at fourteen. Sometimes it was a marriage in name only, but sometimes . . . There were very young mothers. But he had no need to fear that. Mortal and Sidhe could couple but not breed. He could feel the heat of color staining his cheeks and running up the long peaks of his ears. By God's grace Catherine could not see that!
Concerned at having distressed him, Catherine came forward and put her hand lightly on his arm. "So, I see that you suffer from servants as stupid as my own," she said, changing the subject, "and they had not sense enough to wake you when a message came. Truly, I am glad of that, for you still look somewhat worn."
"It is not so much that my servants are stupid but that they do not speak or understand English. And Clayborne, my man of business, was in the warehouse with my one English footman. The message was left for Clayborne. He woke me as soon as he arrived at the house, but it was almost evening."
"I see." Catherine smiled. "A coincidence of errors. When no one came to announce you, I thought that you were not able to ride to Enfield. I must admit was annoyed that you had not sent a message to that effect, but Sir Thomas offered to send his man with the letter."
Denoriel froze, then forced a smile. "Did you give him the letter?" If she had, Seymour would soon have lost it and maybe a little blood too.
Catherine laughed aloud. "A further coincidence of errors. I am afraid we were so absorbed in that silly game that we both forgot. See, the letter is there on my writing desk."
"Then no harm at all is done," Denoriel said. "I promise that Elizabeth will have it when she sits down to break her fast in the morning."
Now Catherine looked concerned, but not for Elizabeth. "There is no need for that. You would have to start before dawn. I know you said you slept almost the whole day, but you still look tired, Lord Denno, and as you said yourself, you are not a young man. It does not matter if Elizabeth receives my news a few hours later. I can send the letter to Sir Thomas—"
The queen was not a cruel woman, but to her a few hours of anxiety for Elizabeth were a minor thing. Denoriel could see, in his minds' eye, Elizabeth at her most anxious, see her pacing and wringing her hands as she was wont to do when distressed. A strange twisting pain, as if his heart were writhing, made Denoriel draw a sharp breath.
"No, madam, I beg you to let me take it. Children have little sense of time. To me an hour is brief indeed. I know whatever my pain, if it is only for an hour it will soon end. But to a child an hour can stretch into an infinity of misery."
Catherine shook her head. "You spoil her dreadfully."
"I spoiled Harry too . . . but not enough for his short time. To me, it seems that every moment Lady Elizabeth is unhappy is a year too long." He allowed his voice to falter. "Because . . . one never knows . . ."
Catherine sighed. "Well, if you are sure that the ride will not be too much for you . . . Yes, I will be glad to know that Elizabeth begins her day with happiness."
He took the letter quickly and kept his farewell so short it was hardly decent, excusing himself with the need to go early to bed in preparation of his early rising. Catherine was content with that and hurried him on his way. Miralys was waiting at the door for him. Denoriel mounted with a word of thanks. He hoped the ostler would believe that he had come for the horse and not raise an outcry about a stolen beast, but it was too cold to want to have walked to the stable.
Miralys held to a decorous pace on the road that led to the palace gate as he had when they had arrived. It was less likely that the guards would see him virtually disappear in the dark, but they might be puzzled if they did not hear the sound of shod hooves on the frozen-hard earth of the road.
The road turned sharply left to avoid a small building by a private wharf. They were now out of sight and sound of the palace. Denoriel said "Home," felt Miralys tense to leap ahead, and a sharp whirr went right by his face. He had jerked his head back an instant before the arrow passed, warned by the aura of sickening cold that preceded the iron head.
Denoriel flung himself out of the saddle, shouting "Cerdded! Rhedeg!" The violent order to Go! Run! would catapult Miralys into his full speed. Without the command the elvensteed might have taken a moment to be sure of what his partner wanted, and that moment might have been too long if an iron-headed arrow, already launched, should touch him. Denoriel was not concerned for himself. He was a much smaller target than Miralys and he could use the Don't-see-me spell and become totally invisible.
He knew he could have escaped by staying in the saddle, but he was so furious, so wildly enraged by the attack, which could have wounded or killed Miralys, that he intended to lesson the perpetrators so that they would never attack anyone again. That he knew Miralys was not the target, that the arrow had been aimed high, at him, made no difference to his rage. He was small; Miralys was large. Miralys had been endangered.
"Gone! The friggin' 'orse disappeared!"
Denoriel had landed in a crouch near the hedge that lined the far side of the road. His sword was out in his hand and, his head turned in the direction from which the arrow had come, he saw the man standing in the shadow of the small building. Had he been looking in that direction, he could have seen him before he loosed the arrow, but he had been looking at the road in case there were deep holes.
The shout that the horse had disappeared drew Denoriel's eyes to the side of the road on which he was. He saw another man, spent bow in hand. He must have shot an arrow too, although Denoriel had not been aware of it. For a moment the second man's remark made Denoriel think that the purpose of the attack had been to steal Miralys, but the next instant confirmed that he was the object.
"Shut yer maw!" The man near the building had run across the road. His voice was tense but low, apparently he feared that sounds would carry to the palace guards. " 'e fell off when t'orse jumped. Saw that. Where'd 'e land?"
" 'Ope 'e broke 'is neck, yellin' like that and scarin' t'orse. Good 'orse it were. Like t'ave it."
"Where'd 'e fall, you fool? Need to finish 'im. 'Nyhow, think 'is friggin' 'ighness 'ud let us keep t'orse?"
" 'Ood tell 'im?"
Denoriel watched them, mentally shaking his head, though he made no move that might alert his attackers. In a thin layer over his continued outrage at the threat to Miralys, he was almost amused by their foolishness. True, they believed he had fallen off and possibly been rendered unconscious, but if he had been stirring, their talk would have covered any sound he made.
"Shurrup!" the second man snarled. "Let's find 'im. We can talk about t'orse arter we slit 'is throat."
And then Denoriel made a mistake, engendered by his contempt. He strolled out into the middle of the road, which to him in the moonlight was as bright as day, and said, "I don't think I'd like that, and I certainly wouldn't like you to have my horse. I don't like being attacked—"
The men leapt apart, drawing swords and knives, and Denoriel realized that they were trained and practiced fighters despite their carelessness in making sure of their victim. He too drew his knife, watching the man on his left, which was usually a fighter's weaker side, advance. He was waving his sword in threat to attract Denoriel's attention; the one on his right backed away almost as if he had been surprised by Denoriel's remark and approach, and was about to run away.
Their contempt for someone they thought of as an effete dilettante saved Denoriel from his own error. The attacker advancing expected Denoriel to back away, right into the sword or knife of the second man. Instead, Denoriel leapt forward and beat aside the sword of the man advancing on him. It was not all gain. Denoriel gasped as the shock of close contact with steel ran up his sword into his hand. He was hardly in time to parry the knife stroke from the man's left hand. Another shock rocked him as steel blade met silver.
The pain and weakness of meeting steel reminded him that he could not afford to fence with these killers. Setting his teeth, he disengaged his weapon from the attacker's, drew back with elven swiftness, and plunged his sword forward again just to the left of the attacker's breastbone. The man screamed, his voice thin and high. Denoriel flung himself to his right, raising his knife and twisting as he tried to pull his sword from the man he had skewered.
The weapon came free just as a blow struck his shoulder from behind. Another thrill of pain and weakness passed through him from the nearness of the steel, but the heavy layers of clothing, the gown and doublet, jacquet and silk shirt, protected him from any direct touch. Still he shuddered and for a moment was physically unsure. Striving to find space to turn and face his second attacker, his foot caught against the spasming body and he fell forward crying out.
All he could do was to roll further right and bring up knife and sword. But the fall was lucky; the second man was near blind in the dark and the thrust aimed at the sound of Denoriel's cry pierced the fallen man, who screamed again. Shock at hearing his companion's shriek jerked the second attacker upright and half a step backward. Denoriel needed no more advantage. He leapt to his feet, now clear of the dying body. Nor did he wait for the second man's shock to abate or for him to decide whether to continue the fight or run.
He said, "You could not have mastered the horse anyway," stepped forward and ran him through the heart.
For a long moment Denoriel stood looking down at the second body, remembering how one of them had said " 'is 'ighness" wouldn't let them keep the horse. Then he knelt and wiped his sword carefully on the dead man's doublet. When it was clean, he sheathed it and used his knife to cut away the purse hanging from the belt. Briefly he ran his hands down the front of the doublet, shuddering a little as he deliberately wrinkled the cloth and blood slimed his fingers. There was no sound of rustling as might be made from a hidden paper or parchment.
Then Denoriel's head came up sharply and he could feel his long ears cup forward. Voices. Footsteps pounding fast along the road. In the quiet of the night, the palace guards must have heard the cries. Denoriel hurried to the first body, cut the purse and again felt around the doublet for any concealed letters or messages. The voices were closer.
Although it would do Lord Denno's reputation no harm to have fought off two street thugs, it would certainly do it no good to be found with the thugs' purses and blood on his hands. Denoriel thought of vanishing the stains or covering them with illusion and realized he was trembling with weariness. No, let the palace guards think what they would. To have had a killing so close should make them more alert. With a shrug, Denoriel melted into the shadows of the hedge and hurried away, silent as a wraith.
He was now alert for any sound or movement along the road, both ahead of him, which he could see as twilight, or on the open road, which was bright and clear. Now that he had almost been killed by a steel arrowhead and that two men were dead, of course there was nothing to be seen. When the road had curved again and hidden both sight and sound of the guards, Denoriel stepped across the dead grass of the verge and silently called for Miralys.