This Scepter'd Isle (54 page)

"It is true that Anne can occupy the king, and while she is with him, he will not repine. But you know and I know she cannot be there every moment. There are times when her presence at his side would not only be politically provocative but would strongly reinforce the scurrilous rumors that she is Henry's mistress." Denoriel listened with intense interest, for there was no one who was as skilled in the delicate movement of the court as Norfolk. "When the Lord of Misrule comes in, and the Mound opens on its surprise, and on a dozen or more significant moments during the celebrations, Henry will be alone. There will be no adoring face for him to look into . . ."

"Why not?" Denoriel asked.

All the men turned to look at him with shocked faces.

"There are proprieties that cannot be ignored," Wiltshire said. "Much as I would like Anne—"

"Not Lady Anne, my lord," Denoriel said, "the king's own dear son, who loves his father near to worship and can see no fault in him, who will look as adoring as any man could desire, and enjoy without criticism everything presented."

"God's grace," Norfolk breathed, "I had forgotten Richmond. How did you happen to think of him Lord Denno?"

Denoriel laughed. "Because His Grace of Richmond and I are very good friends. Wool. You remember the wool I needed for the carpets I wished to have made? Well, there are no carpets at the moment, but there are fine Holland woolens, and I still buy wool from the north. And what better and safer lodging could I have—at no cost, too—than a chamber at Sheriff Hutton? I have visited His Grace of Richmond at least twice a year and sometimes much more often since the boy went north."

"I had no idea," Norfolk said, not entirely pleased.

"There was some talk about bringing Richmond south after an attack on the cortege coming from Pontefract, but for some reason that was put off," Wiltshire remarked.

That vagueness about the cause of putting off Harry's return to court probably meant that Anne had opposed the idea. Denoriel was not certain whether it was because she wanted no rival for King Henry's attention or because she feared the boy might speak against her. Denoriel knew Harry would not do that. And the king must not be allowed to be lonely and unhappy. Anne might think it served her purpose by reminding him she would have been with him if she were his wife, but Denoriel wondered if the diminution of his pleasure might not make the king wonder whether his long pursuit of Anne was worthwhile.

Beside that, Harry would love a Christmas at court. He was nearly thirteen and growing restless. Although the hard strictures against his riding out had been relaxed, he was now at an age that wanted to see and experience new things. Several times he had asked Denoriel if they could not "take a little trip together," his eyes saying what his lips could not. And Denoriel had been sorely tempted to take the boy Underhill again. But encouraging his desire for Underhill was not healthy. This would be better, fixing his mind on the delights of his own mortal world.

"But do you not all think that Richmond will make a happy substitute for Mary?" Denoriel insisted. "He is not so musical . . . well, if he sings right now he will provide amusement of another sort. He will have his father in fits of laughter because his voice is breaking . . . but he adores the king and he has no objection at all to Lady Anne."

"What can he know about her?" Wiltshire asked harshly.

"What I told him," Denoriel said flatly. "That Lady Anne is a good and gracious lady, that the king loves her dearly, and that her only wish is to make King Henry happy and, if God wills, give him an heir to his throne."

"But if she gives the king an heir, that would exclude Richmond." Wiltshire looked skeptical.

"Yes, indeed, and nothing could make Richmond more happy than to be excluded from the succession forever," Denoriel countered. "I cannot speak for the future, of course, but right now, and indeed, for as long as I have known him, the very last thing he wants is to be king. He is a very good boy, my lords, but he does not love his book as well as he loves his horse and he regards the council sessions that he must attend as a form of penance—good for him but dull and painful. To him, kingship is only more, much more, of the same penance. I assure you that Richmond will welcome Lady Anne with goodwill and every courtesy he can devise. And you know, I am sure, that neither Catherine nor her daughter Mary have ever regarded him with favor."

Norfolk and Wiltshire looked at each other. "Should we broach this to the king?" Norfolk asked. "But what reason can we give that does not mention the absences at court?"

"A very simple reason, and a true one," Denoriel offered. "That the boy is near thirteen years of age, that he feels isolated and confined in the north. That he misses his father and greatly desires to show how much he worships and honors the king. That he yearns for adventure and new sights."

"Good enough," Norfolk said. "I doubt the king will object . . . if there is no opposition."

Wiltshire nodded. "I will speak to Anne. I will point out that the boy writes to his father frequently and that if he asks to come, Henry would not wish to refuse. So why not make a necessity into a gracious welcome . . ." He turned to George. "And since we are back to the Christmas festivities, the matter of the wine, or most of it, being settled, is there anything else you need from me?"

"A list of those suitable to be named Lord of Misrule, if there are men you would like to see so honored," George replied promptly. "I can use my own friends . . . well, some of them. The last thing we need is sly innuendo or coarse jests. But because of . . . of the lack the king may feel, we need some startling entertainments for times when he must be on the dais alone. I have in hand players for several masques and the usual tumblers and jugglers, but I would like something special."

"You need a conjuror," Denoriel said. "For when the Mound comes in, for example. If there were a great cloud of colored smoke when it opened and the duke of Richmond stepped out of that—"

"Magic?" Norfolk and Wiltshire exclaimed in chorus.

"Not real magic," Denoriel said, "mountebank tricks that the mountebank will himself expose for the amusement of the court. He could even allow some of the courtiers to use his devices and perform a trick themselves. Thus all the court can see no true witchcraft was involved."

"Do you know of such a conjuror?" George asked eagerly.

"Not here in London, no," Denoriel replied sadly. "I knew of one in Hungary, but he is long since fled . . . or dead. I thought you would know."

"No magician in London would admit he was a fake and show people his fakery. They all wish to be thought true wonder-workers." George looked disappointed. "How did you know this one you speak of was willing to expose his tricks?"

"Because he taught many of them to me," Denoriel said, smiling. "Since I know I have no more magic in me than my scullery maid—" That was true enough; Denoriel's scullery maid was a Low Court Elven maid with considerable power. "—and I could do the tricks as well as he, after some practice, I knew there was no true witchcraft in it."

"You can do magic tricks!" That was no question; it was a demand. George turned toward Denoriel, who slid back into the corner of the settle.

"That was long ago," Denoriel protested faintly. "I am long out of practice. I could not . . ."

"Oh yes you can," George said emphatically. "You will make an ideal Lord of Misrule. You have two months to practice, and I swear I will murder you if you try to refuse."

"Hmmm, yes," Norfolk said thoughtfully. "You are not English, but you can be trusted. I am not so sure that I would wish to trust any common conjurer with an open entrée into the court."

Denoriel swallowed hard so all the men could see his uneasiness—which was, of course, entirely feigned. "Very well, I will see what tricks I can muster and practice them, but I truly am not fit to be Lord of Misrule. I have no idea what to say . . ."

"Make no pother about that," George assured him buoyantly. "I will write out several speeches for you. You need only commit them to mind and say them entire or in parts when the Lord of Misrule must speak."

"And what do I wear?" Denoriel asked pathetically.

George Boleyn leapt to his feet and extended a hand to pull Denoriel out of his seat. He bowed quickly to his father and to Norfolk. Guessing his intention, Denoriel also bowed and caught up his cloak from the back of the settle.

"We will devise something, never you fear," George said as he hurried toward the door. "And you will be masked, you know, so you need not worry about your customers recognizing you and accusing you of magicking their accounts."

Although he continued to protest, Denoriel could not have been more satisfied with the outcome of the morning's meeting. Not only had he finally arranged for Harry to come to court, but he had arranged for his own attendance too. He would be able to watch over Harry, to protect him against any physical, mortal attack, and to counsel him about sycophants and flatterers who would try to take advantage of his good nature or those who might slyly hurt his feelings.

In fact, of all the Sidhe directly involved in the affairs of England, only Denoriel had been enjoying himself over the years between 1529 and 1531. True, Denoriel had to Gate back and forth between London and Sheriff Hutton, but all the Gates had the feel of Treowth about them now, and he soon shook off his anxiety. His confidence had been buoyed up too by the king's frantic efforts to find some path to a divorce; as long as Henry's intention to marry Anne remained fixed, Harry was no longer important.

The boy was a delight to him, growing, as he passed his twelfth year, into the fine stripling his childhood had promised. If he was no great scholar—his Latin was sadly rudimentary, his Greek nearly nonexistent—he could speak good French and his manners were exemplary. He had other skills, honed by Denoriel, mostly in private. He was a good swordsman, a superior horseman, a decent bowman for his age and size, and a remarkably fine shot with the strange gun he had brought from the Bazaar.

He was learning politics too, from Sir Edward and his other councilors, but Denoriel was not polishing his ability as a sportsman without purpose. The Sidhe had given some thought to what was to become of his beloved ward. Was Harry to be no more than another useless bored and idle popinjay of a courtier? And if he were that and the king never had a legitimate son, would he not be a danger to whoever held the throne? His Harry could not sink into obscurity because of the blood in his veins and the status of premier nobleman in the kingdom which King Henry had fixed upon him.

It would not do. To live safe from royal suspicion, Harry must become an honored and trusted agent of the Crown—preferably with his duties set outside England. With his calm and humorous disposition and his closeness to the throne, Denoriel could foresee for Harry a long life of satisfaction and usefulness as a diplomat. And for that his skill as a sportsman would be as important in many cases as his knowledge of politics.

Now Harry's suitability for that life seemed about to be tested. He must please his father, charm Anne Boleyn, and manage not to offend a flock of jealous courtiers looking for offense.

During the second week of November, Denoriel arrived in Sheriff Hutton carrying the duke of Norfolk's command that Richmond come to court for the Christmas celebrations. No one could be certain of the weather at that time of year, and plenty of time had been allowed for travel. Even so they were nearly late.

It rained two days out of three, and in many places the ditching and draining being half-done or totally neglected, the roads were foul pits of mud. To add to the difficulty, the law that roads be fifty feet wide was largely observed by ignoring it. In far too many places there was hardly twelve feet from verge to verge, and those verges—again contrary to law—were overgrown with bushes so that travelers were forced into the rutted and fetlock-deep mud in the center of the road.

The overgrown verges also left the travelers open to attack from outlaws hidden in the brush. The constant rain and aching cold—and the number and obvious armed strength of their party—saved them from that, but at some point in the journey, they knew they would not make London in time. FitzRoy and his guards and servants with Denoriel and Sir Edward simply left the baggage carts behind and made for London at the best speed of the saddle horses.

Denoriel did not dare express surprise or complaint since he was supposed to have traveled this way many times. To his relief and amusement, FitzRoy thought it great fun. He never seemed to mind being cold and wet, which Denoriel alleviated with a little spell for warmth as soon as he noticed his Harry shivering, and the boy positively delighted in the small, dark, dirty alehouses where they often had to stop for shelter when it became impossible to reach the elegant lodgings Norfolk had arranged. Harry slept on the floor without protest, stamped on roaches and other nameless creatures that tried to invade the bedding, and squashed lice with only a sigh.

That forbearance was doubtless partly inspired by the fact that in the mean hovels where there was no other entertainment and no one to tell tales to the court, Denoriel practiced his feats of legerdemain. Sir Edward was uneasy . . . until Denoriel rubbed Sir Edward's own hands with two different powders, and Sir Edward himself made smoke by clapping his hands together. It was nowhere near as dense or strongly colored as the smoke Lord Denno made, but that, Lord Denno said, was a matter of practice.

Entertainment aside, Denoriel mentioned to Harry that he would make a fine diplomat, as a great part of a diplomat's time seemed to be taken up in traveling—in the greatest discomfort—from place to place. The idea enchanted Harry, who had only recently regretfully given up the notion of being a merchant like Lord Denno. He had finally come to accept the fact that his being a merchant could never be permitted. A foreign lord was not important enough to disgrace his title by mercantile activity, but the premier duke of England could not so embarrass his good name.

By the time they reached London, no one would have guessed—except for the fine horses they rode—that Harry was the premier duke of England; they looked more like beggars come to town. All the changes of clothing they had been able to carry in their saddlebags were so mud-stained and filthy that it was impossible to tell Tolliver, the lowest of the grooms, from Harry himself.