This Scepter'd Isle (26 page)

They were off, running. Denoriel was very glad they had not waited for any further explanation from him because he was running out of ideas. He sighed. He hoped he would not have to plant false memories in them—and he hadn't the faintest idea of how to do it—because they were good men. If he could not convince them that worse would follow any confession on their part of their failure to stay with FitzRoy all the time, they would certainly report themselves. But Denoriel did not want them replaced. Gerrit, Nyle, and Dickson were all truly fond of Harry; they told him stories, were willing to play games with him, and made their constant surveillance as pleasant as possible, whereas most of the other guards just stood about glowering.

Oh, sweet Lady Dannae, he had forgotten the shield! If they tried to touch Harry . . . Rhoslyn had gotten into the coach; the coachman whistled to his horses, cracked his whip; the vehicle began to roll forward almost on the heels of the guards. Denoriel hastily cast the Don't-see-me spell, raced around the coach to where he could see Harry, dropped Don't-see-me, and dissolved the shield the moment the coach passed.

Fortunately neither man had dared reach out to touch Harry and encountered the shield before he dissolved it. Denoriel himself arrived just in time to hear Harry greet the guards with genuine joy. The boy was clever enough not to ask what had happened to them, but he was only a child and his relief at seeing them made clear he had known something was wrong. Denoriel caught at Gerrit's arm and drew him a little back from Harry.

"Take the child back to the house and let him show Norfolk the ship. Don't say anything to Norfolk about what happened. No harm was actually done—I swear it—and the boy would be heartbroken if you and Nyle were punished or removed from caring for him."

The last sentence brought an even more anxious expression but no agreement. Denoriel continued desperately. "If you will just wait until your stint at guarding is over before reporting to Norfolk. The nun is truly gone and I do not believe will try to return, certainly not today. Richmond would be so upset if he heard Norfolk dismiss you or assign some harsh punishment."

"But we—we did not guard him. If you were not here, who knows what would have happened!"

"Nothing at all," Denoriel lied. But truly if the exchange with the simulacrum had been made, the guards would not have been aware that anything had happened. "The Holy Sister only has a temper, and an exaggerated idea of her own importance in the princess's service. She only told His Grace of Richmond of his half-sister's affection for him and that he must not agree to being a rival to Princess Mary. And then she would have given Richmond the ship. I happened to be here and saw the ship in the carriage so I took it out and gave it to the boy. She was angry at my presumption and ordered her coach and left."

"His Grace of Norfolk should know," the man said, weakly.

"Know what? That for a moment you were bedazzled by something you cannot explain and Richmond was out of your sight? No harm came to him. And Norfolk will not be happy to hear that Princess Mary—or her household—was involved."

Gerrit bit his lip.

"Only get Nyle to agree to wait until your day's duty is finished before you report to Norfolk," Denoriel urged.

By then he hoped to be able to return with Aleneil, who would be able to spin a memory for them that fit with what he had told Gerrit. The man nodded uncertainly and then, watching FitzRoy who was excitedly pointing out the beauties of his new toy to Nyle, he nodded more certainly. Nyle smiled at the boy, then turned toward his fellow guard.

"Gerrit."

"I'm ready."

"Lord Denno," Harry said. "I have to go back to the palace now."

"I know. If he's not too busy, show His Grace of Norfolk your new ship." He caught Harry's eyes, and held them for a moment, trying to impart more than he was saying aloud. "But maybe the less said the better about how you got it—except, of course, that it was Princess Mary's gift? Hmmm?"

He glanced at the two guards; saw FitzRoy's glance in turn; saw him look back, soberly. Bless the child! He was beginning to understand. "Maybe you shouldn't mention me or Gerrit or Nyle at all? Hmmm?"

Harry nodded; Denoriel sighed silently with relief. "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow. You remember I'm riding up into Yorkshire with you."

FitzRoy jumped up and down. He couldn't clap his hands because he was holding the ship. "Will you be riding the dapple horse? He's easier to see."

Despite the pain coming so close cost him, Denoriel could not resist walking up to the boy and bending down to kiss his hair. Harry had remembered not to use the name of Denoriel's elvensteed, so their third exchange of recognition would remain a secret between them.

"Dapple it is," he forced through swelling lips.

"Come along, Your Grace," Nyle urged. "Are you sure you don't want me to carry that ship for you?"

Denoriel waved and turned away as he heard FitzRoy say, "Oh, yes. You can carry it for me now." And he wondered as he walked into the stable whether that clever child had held the heavy ship all that time just so the guards would not wonder why he did not ask "Lord Denno" to hold his hand.

While the coach rolled away from Windsor Palace, Rhoslyn was so torn among grief, fury, and fear that at first her mind could not fix on anything. She cursed Denoriel, hardly able to believe he had appeared at Windsor so early. He had been watched from afar for weeks while she worked on the changeling, and although he was known to visit Windsor at frequent if irregular intervals, he
always
arrived in the afternoon, sometimes quite late afternoon. Had he known she was there? How had he known?

There was something, something she should remember, some sense of faint magic, but not mortal magic—no, this had the delicate feeling of Sidhe magic. When had she felt it? While she was bespelling Norfolk? Had there been a flash of white at the same time?

But she could not hold the thought. Instead, she wept, muffling her sobs in the veils of her habit, grieving over her poor little changeling, so sweet, so good. It was not fair. It was not fair. Denoriel had destroyed it—

Yet she had always known it had to die. Once in the mortal world there would not be power enough to sustain it. It would have wasted away in a few weeks or at the most a few months, and it would have been tormented by stupid, ignorant mortal physicians. They would have been trying to cure it, but nothing could cure it as the power she had used to build it faded away.

She shivered and wept harder, hating herself for the fate she had known was in store for the child she had created. And then, hiccupping with grief, she comforted herself with the thought that it had probably never known pain or fear. Her sleep spell was strong and Denoriel would have sucked out its poor little store of life while it still slept. At least he would not have waked it; Denoriel took no pleasure in fear or pain.

Damn him! Damn him! Why was he in the wrong place at the wrong time? Let him be accursed by the Great Evil.
Rhoslyn shivered again, now with fear. Wishing Denoriel to be in the hands of the Great Evil brought her own master to mind. Vidal Dhu would be
furious
. He would send her to the seventh plane of demons to be tortured for a thousand years.

No, Pasgen would not allow Vidal Dhu to do her real harm. But . . . she could not stop shivering . . . that would bring a confrontation between Pasgen and Vidal Dhu too soon, and she was in no condition to help her brother. She was depleted, depleted of some deep inner force by the strength she had expended to make her changeling. She had surface power enough, the power that one drank in from Underhill; she could cast sleep spells and obedience spells, but the deep, inner energy that was natural to her was fragile and worn.

She began to weep again for the false child's death, to curse Denoriel again, to swallow terror as she thought of Vidal Dhu's reaction to her failure, her thoughts going round and round from grief to rage to fear as the coach rumbled toward London. Somewhere in the back of her mind that other Rhoslyn, the one who had coldly cast the sleep spell on the simulacrum, who had come running to meet her with open arms, and carried him through the Gate to his eventual death, noted that this time, this little time, was all she would have to indulge herself. And she wept even harder for that other Rhoslyn who would all too soon choke off grief and tears.

Eventually Rhoslyn felt the coach slowing. She dried her tears, willed her eyes and nose and skin to show no sign of the weeping, and sat up straight. Here was where she must change places with the nun who had been sent to put the fear of God into FitzRoy if he dared think about replacing his legitimate sister. That so-called Bride of God had brought no pretty toy from a loving half-sister; if FitzRoy had truly encountered her, he would have been left in terror and tears. Rhoslyn hissed faintly between her teeth when she thought about the time, the effort, the elaborate planning that had been brought to naught by that demon-spawn Denoriel.

How had he known? Again the memory of a flash of white, a hint of Seleighe spirits . . . and then she knew. Air spirit! He had had an air spirit watching for her and had Gated to Windsor to intercept her attempt to take FitzRoy. Air spirit. Roslyn's teeth ground together. If she caught one, she would tear it to pieces with her bare hands and drink its agony with joy.

She drew back the leather curtain and peered out the window of the coach. Yes. This was the place. About halfway between Windsor and London, was a small inn and a large stable at which horses could be hired. Out beyond it, Pasgen had built a temporary Gate for her. Roslyn's jaw set in a new spurt of rage. Pasgen was no less depleted than she. A Gate was no easy thing to create and hold, but they had thought it would be necessary since she was to bring FitzRoy with her. She bit her lip. Now it was all for nothing.

The coach came to a halt so that the hired horses, which had made the second half of the journey to Windsor, could be exchanged for the those which had drawn it from London and were now fed and rested. Rhoslyn alighted from the coach supposedly to use the jakes, to refresh herself with a plate of bread and cold meat and a cup of ale while the harness was transferred from one set of horses to the other.

There were other travelers in the inn, but after a word and a coin offered to the landlord, Rhoslyn took her bread and meat and ale through the public room to a private one in the back. She closed the door behind her, set her hand on the latch and whispered two words. Satisfied that no one could enter, Rhoslyn set the food on the table and walked to a far corner of the room, which was unnaturally dark.

As she approached, the corner brightened. By the time she reached it, she could see a woman with oddly cropped hair, wearing nothing but an undershift, who sat with closed eyes, supported by the walls on either side of her. Rhoslyn sighed and stripped off the nun's habit she was wearing, which she replaced with the sober but elegant gown resting beside the woman on the bench.

When she was dressed, except for the final lacing of her gown, she gestured for the ensorcelled woman to rise, finish lacing her gown, and don the nun's garb. Then Rhoslyn gathered her will, took a deep breath, bit her lip, leaned forward, and put her hand on the woman's forehead. Fortunately the false memories she had to impart were simple: the nun had to remember herself requesting permission from Norfolk to speak to Richmond and give him a gift—it was a prayer-book, not a toy, full of admonitions—delivering the lecture she had already fixed in her mind while walking with the boy to the coach, handing over the gift, and leaving.

The nun would report her interview with FitzRoy to Maria de Salinas, Queen Catherine's favorite maid of monor. Maria would be sadly disappointed in what the nun said, as would the queen, because the nun would have to admit that FitzRoy had not reacted at all to her urging that he refuse any precedence over his sister. Rhoslyn had no sympathy to waste on them. It was largely Catherine's fault that she had so underestimated the threat FitzRoy was to Princess Mary's inheritance of the throne.

The queen had publicly professed herself shocked and disgusted when her husband began to heap honors on his bastard son. She had protested to Henry and been soothed by his assurances that he was merely providing the proper status and income for a child of royal blood. From then on Catherine refused to hear anything about FitzRoy, which she never failed to call him, ignoring the titles that had been bestowed upon him.

Rhoslyn, who had established herself as a dear friend and advisor to Maria de Salinas, had assumed Catherine understood her husband and had accepted the queen's attitude toward FitzRoy. Once Rhoslyn had learned different, she had set about rectifying the queen's deliberate blindness. She had conveyed to Maria de Salinas a strong anxiety about the possibility that FitzRoy would be preferred over Princess Mary. King Henry was very prone to telling soothing lies. Maria conveyed the anxiety to Queen Catherine, and pointed out that it was dangerous to keep ignoring the boy.

Catherine was too proud and too stubborn to reverse her disapproval and recognize FitzRoy, but Maria de Salinas, via Rhoslyn, had an answer to that. It would be most natural for ten-year-old Princess Mary, a lonely only child, to be curious about her half-brother and to wish to be in contact with him. It would be kind of the princess—and would probably please King Henry—if Mary were to send FitzRoy a gift before she and FitzRoy were farther apart. Mary had chosen a prayer-book; Maria de Salinas had chosen the prayers, which Mary had copied into it in her own neat hand. The child was already so steeped in the gloomy Christianity of her mother's Spanish priests that she saw nothing out of the ordinary about a book of prayers begging frantically for God's forgiveness for unspecified (but presumably heinous) sins being sent to a child of six.

The conveyor of the gift would be a nun. Rhoslyn skillfully discouraged the idea of sending a priest by hinting that male visitors might be suspect after the attack on FitzRoy by members of the Spanish ambassador's retinue. The nun would bring Princess Mary's gift, explain to FitzRoy that his sister loved him and make clear his duty to that sister was to refuse to usurp her place. If he agreed, the nun would shower blessings on him; if he insisted on being his father's heir, he would be accursed of God.