This Scepter'd Isle (58 page)

Denoriel warned Dunstan and the guardsmen. He did not really think that Lord Henry would take a boy not yet thirteen to a whorehouse, but he suspected that Lord Henry would know where all the cock-fights, dog-fights, bear-baitings, and less-than-pure masques would be shown.

However, what Lord Henry offered the next day was on its surface harmless. He took FitzRoy to the tennis courts—where FitzRoy was soundly trounced, tennis not being a popular sport in the northern counties. Lord Henry's purpose was to reestablish his dominance over his richer and potentially more powerful "friend." Having dried their sweat, rested, and had an elegant nuncheon—nothing like the crude food available in the markets, which to speak the truth FitzRoy had enjoyed much more—Lord Henry suggested some bouts of fencing.

In pursuit of the purpose of bringing FitzRoy to abject admiration, that was a major mistake. Lord Henry had had good fencing masters, but they were always aware of the exalted rank of their student. Their corrections had been gentle, their exhortations to practice mild.

Denoriel had been more concerned that FitzRoy might find himself fighting for his life. There was nothing gentle at all in the slap and prod of his sword when FitzRoy failed to guard himself adequately. FitzRoy ended with painful bruises to urge him to greater skill. Denoriel was a brutal taskmaster, but FitzRoy had become, for his age and size, a remarkable swordsman.

He disarmed Lord Henry in five minutes in their first bout. The older boy laughed, putting it down to a freak accident. Still Lord Henry was more careful when they crossed swords again, displaying the most elaborate of his bows and flourishes. If they were supposed to engender fear or amazement, they failed. FitzRoy merely came forward and raised his sword to show he was ready. Bows and flourishes notwithstanding, Lord Henry's sword lay on the ground some feet away where FitzRoy had kicked it—as he had been taught to do—in only a little more time.

Lord Henry was glaring and red in the face; FitzRoy's sword, when he stepped back, was held carefully en garde across his chest—no threat but able to lash out in defense if necessary. The swordmaster hurried forward to pick up Lord Henry's weapon and hand it to him with a bow.

"Your Grace," he said, turning to FitzRoy and bowing again, "I have never seen the like in a boy your age. Would you do me the honor of giving me a match?"

FitzRoy grinned at him. "Only if you promise not to make me as black and blue as Lord Denno does. I may have to wear a costume during the twelve days of Christmas, and I do not want to need to explain my bruises over and over."

"Lord Denno, I gather, has taught you swordplay?"

"Yes." FitzRoy could not help but feel proud that he had been so good an example of his friend's tutoring. "Lord Denno, and the guardsmen, and sometimes Sir Edward, when he has time. I've fenced with Lord Percy too. I don't think he's as good as I am, but his reach is much greater so I seldom get a hit."

"Ah, let me show you how to come in under the reach of a taller man."

FitzRoy agreed eagerly and the swordmaster, as he had promised, taught him that trick and another, and tapped FitzRoy only lightly when he made a hit, but FitzRoy acknowledged each one punctiliously. And when the match was over, he bowed deeply and thanked the man—and did not fail to put a golden guinea in his hand.

Lord Henry watching rather sullenly from a bench at the side of the room, came forward as the servant was bringing their cloaks and said sourly that FitzRoy hadn't needed to reward the man quite that lavishly. "He gets paid, after all, for my lessons . . . which I now see were ill enough taught."

"Not at all, Henry. You know all the moves. You just don't make them quickly enough, probably because the swordmaster didn't think it wise to really thwack you the way Lord Denno thwacks me. When it hurts enough, you move faster."

"How dare he strike you! You're a duke, the first duke in the kingdom. He's nothing, just a rich merchant, likely he's not even really noble." Henry was so astonished that he let his indignation show clearly.

"He's my friend," FitzRoy said, stopping in the middle of the street. All trace of his usual good nature was gone from his face, and his voice was hard and cold enough to go ice-sliding on. "He's my dear, my beloved, friend, and he dares strike me because he does not want me to be a
dead
duke. Denno's saved my life more than once, but the older I get, the more freedom I have, the more afraid he is that he won't be with me the next time I'm attacked. He's trying to make me able to defend myself."

Dunstan, Ladbroke, and the two guards had closed in, providing further proof there was real danger.

Lord Henry swallowed. "I forgot," he said honestly remorseful, and shuddered slightly, remembering the attempt to drown FitzRoy. "Sorry, Harry, but it's just crazy that anyone should try to harm you now. The king is going to marry my cousin Anne, and she'll surely have a boy child. That will put you right out of the succession." He hesitated, studying FitzRoy's face. "Do you mind?"

FitzRoy shook his head vigorously as they commenced walking down the street again to where their horses had been stabled and explained, as he had explained to Anne, why he did not wish to be king, only leaving out his desire to be a diplomat. Since Lord Henry was equally desirous of avoiding dull responsibility, he truly understood. Thus, they were on better terms by the time they reached their destination some miles west of the city, and fortunately Lord Henry's third diversion, shooting at butts, did not reawaken any conflict.

FitzRoy was as good a shot as Lord Henry, but he pulled a much lighter bow so his arrows did not penetrate as far and sometimes even fell out of the target. The match was judged a draw, and Lord Henry had the pleasure of loftily promising FitzRoy that when he had his full growth they would be equal.

Since they had ridden out a mile or two past Westminster to try their archery and on their return had to thread their way through increasing traffic, Lord Henry had sufficient opportunity to measure FitzRoy's horsemanship. He judged correctly (although he did not acknowledge it), that FitzRoy had a superior seat and, lighter though he was, better control. Thus, as they neared Norfolk House he commented rather sourly that he wondered what his father had been talking about when he said the duke would need his help and instruction.

"Instruction in what? You can beat me with a sword or a bow and probably on the hunting field."

"Well, of course," FitzRoy said, opening his eyes wide. "What else have I had to do? Sword, bow, and riding are things one does in the country, so I've had lots more practice than you. But your father is quite right. There's lots of things I hope you'll teach me—to dance for one thing and how to talk and not
say
anything for another."

"To dance? Who's going to dance with a boy of twelve, even if he is the duke of Richmond?"

"Your cousin Anne, for one," FitzRoy began.

Lord Henry slapped his forehead with his open palm and let out a muted howl. "Right. Right. I forgot that too. Father told me and I swear, I clean put it out of my mind because you'll only have to learn one dance."

He dismounted in the court in silence, watching FitzRoy slide down from his saddle, then put a hand on the younger boy's shoulder and said, rather grimly, "As for talking without saying anything—" he sighed "—don't worry about it. Whatever you say or don't say, even if you stand mute as a stone, the ones who talk to you will decide what you mean, like it or not. We'll stick to the dancing. I
can
teach you that."

Norfolk and his family-party arrived in Greenwich several days before Christmas and hustled FitzRoy into a cold apartment at the very end of the east wing of the palace. To his surprise, by the afternoon of the second day after their arrival, he had Lord Henry to keep him company, and not a sullen Lord Henry who had been ordered to do an unpleasant duty but a Lord Henry who seemed to regard their chilly and under-furnished apartments as a haven.

That afternoon soon after he arrived in the apartment, Henry announced that they had better concentrate on dancing. He played for his pupil himself, saying that he wished to spare FitzRoy any embarrassment from strange watchers, and since FitzRoy was in complete agreement with that sentiment, he readily agreed. Although FitzRoy was aware that Lord Henry wanted to be "better" than FitzRoy himself, he also sensed that Henry was really rather fond of him, and would protect him from the scorn of others. Fortunately the swordplay that had made FitzRoy graceful and quick on his feet had also taught him to memorize movements and hand gestures, so Henry had an apt pupil. Still Henry's brow was creased with a frown and his mouth down-turned with dissatisfaction, even while it uttered praise.

"What's wrong, Henry?" FitzRoy asked, when Henry had said FitzRoy had the dance thoroughly mastered and started to turn away. "Am I so utterly hopeless? If I am, I'd better tell your father. I suspect it would be worse to embarrass Lady Anne by tripping over her or stepping on her feet than to change the plan. Maybe I had better go to my father at once and allow Lady Anne to come out of the Mound—"

"No!" Lord Henry exploded. "That would make everything much worse. And you're not hopeless. You do that dance as well as I could. Why do you say you're hopeless?"

"Because you've been frowning and shaking your head and looking like you've bitten into a sour apple all afternoon and it's gotten worse and worse."

"That's nothing to do with you, Harry." Lord Henry was silent a moment, and then added, "You don't know what it's like in the public rooms and at the public feasts."

"Why? What's the matter?" A thrill of apprehension ran down FitzRoy's back. "The king isn't sick, is he?"

"No, no. King Henry is very well. It's just . . . just . . ." His lips tightened and his jaw moved as his teeth clenched. Then he moved closer to FitzRoy and bent to speak in a murmur directly into his ear. "Everyone misses the queen."

"Everyone?"

Lord Henry nodded. "Even my father and I and Lord Wiltshire. . . ." He bit his lip. "It's like there's a big hole in the middle of the floor, and everyone walks around it without mentioning it . . . but it's
there
. She . . . she wasn't bright or gay or really part of the fun, but . . ."

"I see." FitzRoy nodded understanding. "That was why your father said I was supposed to come out of the Mound, so that my father would be surprised enough to forget everything else and have someone of his own family to be with him."

"Yes, well, I think it would have been better if you went to him as soon as you arrived, but Anne . . ." Lord Henry shook his head. "It's all of a muddle, I fear. Politics is only part of it. I want the king to have a male heir as much as anyone and, naturally, it would be greatly to my benefit if Anne were queen and brought him that heir, but just now there is such an atmosphere of discomfort . . ."

"Come into my rooms," FitzRoy said, "they're a little warmer and Dunstan managed to get me some really good wine. I know I won't be able to help, but I won't talk to anyone about what you say—I swear it—and talking might make you feel better."

Lord Henry sighed, looked for a moment as if he would refuse, and then said, "For this, my thanks. And maybe these are things you should hear."

He began by talking about Christmas at court, beginning with Queen Catherine's piety and her reluctant yielding to her husband's desire for pleasure. Thus in the court, the eve of Christmas had always been given over to religious celebration in which the king took enthusiastic part, but the next twelve days were for making merry and giving gifts—about which the king was even more enthusiastic. The queen never cared much for the Lords of Misrule and the coarse games they played, but she accepted the bawdy merrymaking as she had always accepted anything the king desired.

Now for the first time in over twenty years, the queen and her ladies were absent. That absence left an uncomfortable void, and one that Anne Boleyn could not fill. To put her in the queen's place would outrage many in the court. But there was a further danger for Anne, for to put her beside the king would also imply that she was "wife" in terms of consummation. And above all, that was an impression she must not give publicly.

They talked about it and FitzRoy explained what he was supposed to do when he came out of the Mound. Lord Henry hmm'd and bit his lip and finally advised that, regardless of Anne's feelings, FitzRoy had better go first to his father. "You can then beg him to let you dance with the worthiest, the fairest, and purest maiden in his court, and then you can go to Anne and ask her to dance."

FitzRoy looked admiringly at Lord Henry. "I' faith, I like that much better than what your father told me to say. It doesn't sound so made-up. I can make that sound as if I truly mean it. But do you think Lady Anne will be angry enough to refuse to dance with me?"

Lord Henry laughed. "After you've publicly called her worthiest, fairest, and purest? And with the king watching, filled with joy over being newly united with his son? Not likely."

FitzRoy, although none too happy about incurring Anne's anger and, perhaps, a lasting spite, agreed. He thought it wrong to ask Anne to dance before he greeted the father he had not seen for so many years. Still, he had little enough appetite for his evening meal and he slept restlessly, twice waking in a cold sweat from dreams of being pursued by angry harridans.

He woke late and sluggishly and, unhappy with his own company, asked Lord Henry to join him at breakfast. Neither of them had much to say. Henry finally suggested that FitzRoy practice his dancing one more time. They were so engaged when Dunstan brought in Lord Denno, who wanted to know at once the reason for such glum faces.

"If you can't dance, Harry, you can't." Lord Denno said, warmly. "Don't worry. I'll think of something."

"No, Lord Denno, he can dance," Lord Henry said. "At least he can do the one dance he'll need to do with Lady Anne, but—" and then, despite his earlier disparagement of Denno, the foreign merchant, possibly not even deserving of his notice, he blurted out his uneasiness over the feeling in the court and what he and FitzRoy had decided to do.