This Scepter'd Isle (24 page)

Rhoslyn, wide-wimpled and garbed in lustrous black—a nun of wealth and family—stood with her head modestly bowed while the duke of Norfolk waved away his servants and clerks and gestured for his guards to go out too. She read his expression easily enough and had a little struggle with herself to keep from smiling. She had asked to speak to him alone and a moment later saw him dismiss her as a threat. After all, what harm could one small nun do him?

But Rhoslyn only wanted privacy because she could not bespell a room full of people, and Norfolk's clerks, guards, and servants would see what she was doing to bind him. Bind him she must; she couldn't take the chance that he would refuse to allow her to take FitzRoy to the stable. It was an odd request; she should, of course, have brought the present to the house.

Actually she intended Norfolk no harm at all—at least no physical harm. After the changeling he believed to be his charge sickened and died, he would lose the profitable sinecure of being FitzRoy's guardian and he would certainly consider
that
harm, but it was nothing his clerks and servants and guards could have protected him from, so—

A twinge of magic, the briefest scent of Underhill, made Rhoslyn wince and glance around. If her information had been wrong and Denoriel was near . . . But the sense of intrusion, the flicker of white, was gone.

Startled by her sudden movement, Norfolk said, "Yes?"

She looked up and simpered. "Beg pardon, Your Grace. It was a little prick. A flea bite perhaps."

Her eyes held his. He moved a hand uncertainly and began to frown. "You are from the Princess Mary's household and need private speech with me?"

"It is no great matter, Your Grace. Because she is leaving very soon for Wales, the princess wished to send to her half-brother a little gift."

Rhoslyn's fingers made a gesture and Norfolk looked down to where they were now drawing invisible symbols on the table that stood between them. Norfolk's eyes were beginning to glaze but he was a strong-willed man and he had been disturbed by the idea that someone in Mary's household felt that secrecy was necessary to deliver a small gift.

"Why . . . Why . . ."

He meant to ask why news of a gift from the princess to Richmond need be kept secret, why he needed to dismiss even his guards, but the words clotted on his tongue and he did not remember what he had intended to ask.

"I would like to talk a while in private to His Grace of Richmond. I wish to show him the princess's gift and remind him of her prior claims, remind him that the will of God is more binding than the will of kings. We could sit for a few moments in my coach. His guards may, of course, accompany us. You will have to give an order that he be taken from the schoolroom to speak to me. I will wait for him in the entranceway, and I will bring him back to the entranceway."

Now Rhoslyn flicked her fingers up and Norfolk's eyes rose following them, their gazes locking together once more. Norfolk's expression became less wooden. He licked his lips and shook his head. She snapped her fingers softly and he blinked and rang the bell that stood on the table.

The door swung open. His guards stepped quickly into the room, hands on their sword hilts, but seeing their master and the nun in the same positions and perfectly calm, the guards merely took their places by the door and stood waiting. The duke's clerk followed them in. Norfolk crooked a finger at him and the clerk hurried forward.

"Go up to Master's Croke's apartment and tell him to send Richmond down to the entryway. His Grace of Richmond is permitted to go to the carriage house with this nun. She has a present for him in her coach."

The sharp anxiety for Richmond's safety that had made everyone in Windsor overcautious about him right after the attack had waned in the weeks that followed without any alarms, but enough remained to make the clerk ask doubtfully, "His Grace of Richmond is to go alone?"

"No, with his guards, of course," Norfolk said.

There had been a look of stress under the duke's bespelled calm that had made Rhoslyn tense, but the mention of the guards seemed to relieve that. Rhoslyn was grateful that she had remembered to permit the guards to accompany them. A single touch could make them walking sleepers, able to follow their young master but incapable of really seeing or doing anything.

Rhoslyn thanked the duke for his courtesy, curtsied, and followed the clerk out of the room. He turned left in the corridor and went toward the back of the building; Rhoslyn turned right and walked the short distance to the wide staircase that led down to the entrance hall. There she stopped, signaling the servant who waited to open the front doors that she was waiting for someone. The man stepped back, Rhoslyn turned to watch the stairway, holding her breath.

Vidal Dhu had commanded that they bring Henry FitzRoy to him, but he had no real interest in the child. It was she who had made the changeling, hair by hair, to be perfect, not only in face and form but close enough in mind so he could take up FitzRoy's place in the schoolroom, in his games with the other children, in his relationship with his nurse.

She had almost come to love that simulacrum. It had wrung her heart that the poor little thing must wither and die in the mortal world as the magic which fed and sustained him slowly faded and ebbed. Certainly she would not deliver his mortal model to the untender mercies of Vidal Dhu. It was enough that she was sacrificing her creation, that in the mortal world, Henry FitzRoy would die and be no rival to Princess Mary for the throne of England. Underhill, for her labor and her pain, Rhoslyn intended to keep the real Henry FitzRoy for herself.

Her eager waiting was not disappointed. Within a quarter hour, two tall guardsmen came down the stairs, one before and one behind a child whose features she knew better than her own. Her breath quickened with eagerness. For once, she would have a real reward, something she valued, in return for her labor in the service of Vidal Dhu. She would have a child, a child of her own!

Gasping with fear, Denoriel caught the changeling up in his arms and drew the cloak more completely around him so that he might appear to be a large and unwieldy bundle. He backed out of the coach, nudged the door closed with his shoulder, and stood for a moment, his heart pounding wildly. If whoever had brought the simulacrum came now . . . He could not fight with the child in his arms and a magical attack or defense . . . he had no idea what effect it would have on the changeling. Denoriel looked frantically around the carriage house for a place to hide what he held.

In the next instant he realized he could not hide the boy—no! the construct—here in the carriage house. Whoever had brought him—it—would feel its presence. Denoriel stared down at the bundle in his arms, feeling the warmth, the steady breathing, the relaxation that felt like trust. He knew that what he should do was draw the magic out of the—the
thing
and let it crumple to nothingness. His gorge rose and he swallowed hard, clutching the little boy closer in his arms.

He would bring it to Mwynwen. Perhaps she could save it, set a spell on it so that it could draw power from the rich flow Underhill. No! He dared not leave Windsor to carry this—this changeling Underhill. The black Sidhe, whoever it was, might seize Harry, might abduct him even if it could not leave the changeling behind. And there was the ship, too. What if the ship carried some spell that could make Harry docile or even do him harm? Where? Where could he hide this simulacrum that the magic in it would not call out to its creator?

Could Miralys take the boy to Mwynwen without him, bursting through the wall between the worlds right from the stable? What if the stable boys noticed the elvensteed's absence? And first he had to get to Miralys . . . Miralys. Miralys had a huge magic aura that, likely, would swallow up the magic presence of the changeling. And Miralys could protect the boy too. It would take a strong and determined Sidhe to get past the elvensteed.

Now he had to get to Miralys. He could not simply walk back into the stable with a large bundle in his arms. He would have to use the Don't-see-me spell, but he hated to deplete his magic when a confrontation with the black Sidhe was imminent. He glanced down at the simulacrum he held, knowing he could increase his own store of power greatly by sucking power out of the boy. Denoriel shuddered and cast the Don't-see-me spell. If he needed it, he would drink lightning. Crippling his magic was better than killing a child, even if it was a construct.

It was no trouble after that to walk through the stable to Miralys's stall. He laid the bundle down in the straw right under the small trough affixed to the wall to hold grain. He could see the straw flatten, but the bundle did not appear even when he withdrew his arms. He wondered if the spell on the changeling would break when he broke the spell on himself . . . if the sleep spell would break too . . . Would the child cry out? Would Miralys be able to keep him from running to the stable boys?

Biting his lips, Denoriel drew his knife, cut strips from a horse blanket, bound the child lightly, folded his kerchief and gagged him; then he drew straw over him. Poor child, how frightened he would be if he woke. Denoriel prayed the black Sidhe's sleep spell would hold and then bit his lip again. If it did, would that mean that the black Sidhe was stronger in magic and spell casting than he?

He turned to Miralys. "This is the changeling," he whispered. "It is . . . it is the image of Harry. I cannot harm it, but I cannot chance its being found and mistaken for Harry. Keep it safe for me, Miralys."

And there was a white kitten in the empty grain trough.

:With sour man: 
 

What? Denoriel thought, but he did not say it aloud. He searched his scattered wits for what the air spirit could mean. Then he remembered he had sent it to look for the black Sidhe. Sour man?

"Norfolk?"

:Big place. Many servants. Bespelled sour man . . . maybe. Nearly caught. Ran away: 
 

Denoriel swallowed hard. "Find Harry!"

He did not raise his voice above the whisper he had been using, but the force in it sent the air spirit out of the stable like a pebble from a slingshot. He stared after it until Miralys nudged him with his nose and then dropped his head to gently nose at the child. Denoriel wondered if the spell affected the elvensteed; he thought not, because Miralys had not seemed in the least surprised when he spoke, but, of course, the elvensteed could smell him . . . And then he uttered a soft sound of contempt for himself and rushed out of the stable and back to the carriage house.

Beside the coach door, Denoriel drew a long breath and dismissed the Don't-see-me spell. Imagine standing there in the stable and wondering about Miralys's abilities when the black Sidhe could have arrived and given Harry the ship! No, the kitten would have come to warn him. But that thought could not cover over the fact that he had been idling in the stable near Miralys because he was afraid!

Denoriel could feel his skin heat with embarrassment. He was no coward—he had raised his sword against both men and Sidhe—but he was aware of his weakness in the use of magic. What a young fool he had been to refuse the teaching offered by Magus Major Treowth and assume that his skill with a sword could answer all threats.

No matter. He would not let Harry be taken. He opened the coach door, stepped in, and took hold of the ship. The ambience of magic was very much diminished and what he felt from it had a flavor that Denoriel recognized. He breathed a sigh of relief. The ship was only radiating the residual magic of being a kenned object; that magic would fade steadily until the ship was only a real thing of wood and cloth and string.

Sure now the ship was harmless, Denoriel wondered why it had been left in the coach—and then felt like a fool again. The ship was the excuse to bring Harry here. Of course the black Sidhe would bring the child to the coach! That was where it expected to clothe the changeling in what Harry was now wearing, put a sleep spell on Harry, and cover him with the cloak. It would then send the changeling, now wearing Harry's clothing, out to Harry's guards, who must be bespelled not to notice the exchange, and drive out of the gates as innocent as an angel.

Would Harry also be bespelled? Denoriel's breath caught and then sighed out in relief. Not unless the child had for some reason shielded his cross. Denoriel felt a chill of apprehension, but the black Sidhe could not know the secret exchanges and Harry had never failed to use one before he put the cross into its pouch.

Denoriel picked up the ship and backed carefully out of the carriage, again shutting the door with his shoulder. Despite his suppressed anxiety, he had a wicked smile on his lips.
Just how angry will the black Sidhe be
, Denoriel wondered,
when he sees me coming out of the carriage house to present the ship to Harry
? Angry enough to be off balance and less able to throw spells? His smile disappeared. Angry enough to forget the need to keep the child safe and throw levin bolts about?

Rhoslyn would certainly have bespelled the child if she could have gotten close enough to FitzRoy to touch him, even right there in the entryway. She had carefully prepared a spell that induced a state of utter compliance. In its hold, a person could walk, possibly even answer a direct question, but be no more aware than one who slept and be perfectly obedient. All she had to do was touch the person she wanted to bespell and say, "
Fiat
."

Unfortunately for her, as the two guards and the boy reached the level floor of the entrance, the guards fanned out to either side, shepherding the boy safely between them.
Once caught, twice shy,
Rhoslyn thought, remembering the attack on FitzRoy, so she said nothing and nodded to the servant to open the doors.

To her chagrin, the taller of the two guards bowed slightly and gestured her ahead. However, perhaps it was just as well. If she had put the spell on them immediately, one might have stumbled going down the stair, or his posture or expression might have changed enough to alarm the two guards who stood outside the door. She followed patiently until the road that led to the stables and the carriage house curved out of sight of the front door. Then she stopped, turned, and curtsied.