The white kitten was in the grain trough when Denoriel reached Miralys's stall, and the straw was still mounded up slightly where he had covered the changeling's body.
:Out gate:
Denoriel nodded wearily, acknowledging the air spirit's report that Rhoslyn was gone. The bone-deep ache of exposure to cold iron was fading, but he felt cold and exhausted. His power channels were sore too, and he had not touched mortal-world power. He supposed it was from setting and releasing the Don't-see-me spell so often and from casting that strong shield around Harry. And his work had barely started.
"I don't think anything more will happen," he said in a low murmur to the air spirit, "but since this is the last full day Harry will be in Windsor, I'm not sure. If this is a good location for the Unseleighe for some reason, they may be desperate and try again to take him. You had better stay close to Harry, and come for me no matter where I am or what I am doing if another Sidhe enters Windsor."
:Done:
The little creature giggled happily and was gone. It had plainly enjoyed all the chasing and finding, but Denoriel hoped never to have another morning like this one. He slipped down to his knees and brushed the straw off the simulacrum.
The Don't-see-me spell had faded—Denoriel had not put much power into it because he expected to dismiss it shortly—and his breath caught at the likeness to Harry. Rhoslyn was a maker of rare skill. If it had not been for the aura of magic that imbued the child . . . construct . . . he would have been fooled. Denoriel shook his head, but then he reached out and smoothed back the little boy's hair.
What was he to do with this . . . this creature? He leaned closer, frowning. Surely the . . . the child's breathing was shorter and shallower than it had been, his little face paler? Denoriel's throat tightened. The spells! Could the sleep spell and his own Don't-see-me spell be drawing on the changeling's small store of power?
Denoriel snatched up the child, trembling with panic. But even as he was about to mount Miralys and tell him to breach the wall between the worlds, he realized he did not know what such violent transmission would do to the already fragile being he held in his arms. Would that be worse than another Don't-see-me spell? But the Don't-see-me spell would only be in effect for minutes.
Swallowing nervously, Denoriel cast it, and walked out of the stable, leading Miralys. He knew he looked awkward with one arm cocked across his chest as if he were carrying something—which, of course, he was—but he walked quickly, scowling, and none of the stable boys approached him.
Mounting was not easy, but Miralys helped, and then they were gone from the stable area and just rounding the curve that would take them to the front gate. And as soon as they were out of sight of the Windsor guards, Denoriel dismissed the Don't-see-me spell. He looked down into the child's face, which was surely paler and more pinched, and clutched the boy to him—but he didn't know how to send power into the child.
"Miralys," he breathed . . . and they were at the Gate to Elfhame Logres, and then Miralys stopped at Mwynwen's door.
Denoriel could not remember having decided what to do with FitzRoy's changeling, but Miralys was often wiser than he. This was obviously the best answer to the problem. He sent an anguished mental call to Mwynwen, and struggled out of the saddle. The door opened. Mwynwen stood in it, but there was no welcome in her face and little concern for what had forced that plea from him . . . until she saw the bundle in his arms.
"FitzRoy?" she gasped.
"No, his changeling. And it is dying, I think."
"Come in. Come in quickly."
The walls were all a soft and soothing white with moldings and borders of a pale, grayish blue that radiated calm. Denoriel had never paid much attention to this part of Mwynwen's home. Mostly he had come in through the garden to her private quarters and was not seeking calm but excitement and pleasure. If the effect had worked on him while he was ill, he did not remember it. Now he was grateful as the pain in his throat and chest eased and his bowels unknotted.
She led the way past two modest-sized reception rooms and a parlor to a cross corridor that had several closed doors. She turned left and went to the end of the corridor where she opened the last door. Denoriel's breath drew in with surprise. It was a small room, but the walls were painted with lively murals, scenes of childish gaiety—there were children rolling hoops, chasing each other, hiding behind bushes, playing with dogs and lambs.
The wall opposite the door held two large bay windows, each of which had a window seat that looked out—one onto a farmyard with ducks and geese, chickens and calves; the other onto a near meadow in which colts were at play. Against the right-hand wall was a small sofa, just large enough for a child and another person to sit side by side. Against the other was a small bed with a gay counterpane. In the center of the room was a table on which were blocks and some small figures.
Denoriel was stunned into silence. Magically cleaned and aired, how long had this room stood ready for the healing of a child?
"On the bed," Mwynwen ordered.
He laid the boy down, his arms loosing the child reluctantly. Mwynwen pushed past him, running her hands up and down from the simulacrum's head to his toes, whispering to herself, biting her lip and shaking her head. Denoriel stood back, wringing his hands in silent anxiety. He tried to think that what he felt was stupid; a changeling could not live long in any case. But all that line of reasoning accomplished was to bring back the pain in his chest and throat, the grinding in his belly, and tears to his eyes.
But then, Mwynwen drew a deep breath and laid her hands on the child's head. Now her voice rang out clear and Denoriel felt a tingling as some spell disintegrated and then a sort of rushing, as if a strong breeze blew past him, only the air did not move.
"Good morrow, sweetheart."
Denoriel blinked. He had never heard that tone in Mwynwen's voice, no matter how sweet, how intimate their caresses had been.
"Who are you?"
FitzRoy's voice. Denoriel swallowed hard.
"I am the lady with whom you are now to live, dearling."
Denoriel's lips parted to protest and then closed. Someone would have to watch over the changeling for signs of failing and if possible repair the fault. The best person to do that was Mwynwen. Aleneil could, but she was not principally a healer. And there was no need to ask if Mwynwen was willing; her eyes, her voice, the way she bent toward the child . . . construct . . . Denoriel recalled Aleneil's warning to him, but Mwynwen would know without telling. Even so, she would have fought him if he tried to take the changeling away.
"I am not to live with His Grace of Norfolk any longer?" The child looked worried and his voice was tremulous.
"You would not have done so in any case," Mwynwen said in a comfortable, matter-of-fact tone. "The move to Yorkshire changed all the plans. Do you know who you are, my love?"
"Of course. I am Henry FitzRoy, duke of Richmond and Somerset and earl of Nottingham."
"Oh, my," Mwynwen said, a smile in her voice. "That's rather a large mouthful isn't it? But since you are to live here with me, could we make it a bit shorter? Could I call you . . . Richey—short for Richmond?"
"I am not to be a duke any more?"
"Will you mind very much? Perhaps—"
"I won't mind at all," the changeling said. Suddenly his brow creased in a puzzled frown. "Someone was always telling me how I must act and . . . and . . . I suppose it was my guardian, but it was so hard to remember . . ."
"That's all done with. You don't need to remember any of it. Only remember that your name is Richey. Mwynwen is my name, and if you call me, I will always be there to help you. Now do you feel well enough to have some bread and milk?"
"Have I been ill?"
"No, love, not really. But you were taken on a long journey and that tired you. Are you still tired?"
The construct sat up. "Only a very little," he said. "But I don't feel like sleeping any more."
"No, indeed," Mwynwen agreed. "Come along with me now, Richey, and have a nice nuncheon."
Behind her back, Mwynwen made dismissive gestures at Denoriel. Again he felt like protesting and again swallowed the protest as he realized that Mwynwen didn't want Richey to see him. Likely she was afraid seeing him would wake some confused half-memories in Richey of what had happened since Rhoslyn brought him into the mortal world and Denoriel carried him back Underhill. So, very quietly, Denoriel backed away and stood quite still while Mwynwen maneuvered the little changeling out of the room. When they were gone, Denoriel made his way to the front door where he found Miralys waiting.
"Where now?" he mumbled to himself.
He leaned against the elvensteed, cold, empty, and exhausted, trying to dismiss his sense of loss and unable to decide whether the loss of Mwynwen or that of the changeling was the most painful. The elvensteed snorted gently, managing to convey a sense of disdain over folly. Denoriel sighed as he mounted, but his lips soon parted in silent laughter at himself.
How could the changeling have preferred him? It wasn't Harry. It had never seen him or known him. Even if the minds of the attackers had yielded images of him fighting them, Rhoslyn was unlikely to have transmitted those images to the changeling's mind. She would not want the simulacrum to feel any affection or dependence on him and the attackers would not have been aware of his relationship with Harry. And he wasn't as pretty as Mwynwen . . . even a six-year-old would notice that.
Was he piqued because Mwynwen had not been aware—or cared if she were aware—that he was hurt and depleted? Ridiculous when the changeling was in so much worse condition. No, he had to stop thinking of Richey only as Harry's simulacrum. They would grow in different directions now, no matter how long Richey lived. In a few months or a year—if Richey lived that long—they would not even look much alike, even though their features were similar, because life in the mortal world and Underhill was so different.
Harry's face would grow older faster with the need for wariness both physical and emotional. All stress would be absent in the bland, protected environment Mwynwen would provide for Richey, and the child . . . yes, child. Richey was a child, no matter how he had come to life. He would look young and innocent, probably for the whole short term of his existence. And how foolish it was to envy Mwynwen the care of him. He had Harry, and would have him for many years.
He was aware then of a shock of disorientation. If Miralys had not somehow held him to his saddle, he would have toppled to the ground. Which Gate, he wondered, and then did not need to wonder as Miralys came to a halt in front of Aleneil's cottage. Of course. He needed to tell Aleneil what had happened. His head was so thick right now; it felt as if it were stuffed with silk floss. Maybe she would have a better idea than he about what he should do next.
He managed to dismount and get to the door. It opened but Aleneil was not there. Denoriel knew he was always welcome in his sister's home and went through to the parlor where they usually talked. He felt a stirring in the air around him and understood that he could ask for food or drink and he would be served. He could not remember the last time he had eaten, but he wasn't hungry and just shook his head.
He sank into his favorite chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. His fingers traced the inlaid patterns of silky, cool mother-of-pearl and he felt calmer, but his thoughts still would not come clear. He kept seeing the tears on Rhoslyn's face. He had not known that she could cry. He wondered if she had put too much into the changeling. His eyes opened slowly and he stared across Aleneil's room. The walls were white but with the faintest rose tint, which made them warm and somehow cheerful. The ever-changing pictures were of sylvan scenes of exquisite beauty. His eyes closed again.
"You look as if you had been dragged backward through that precious Wild Hunt of yours. What have you been doing with yourself?"
Denoriel yawned and sat up, putting up a hand to rub the back of his neck, which was twisted. Elves did not sleep, but he must have been close to that state. Perhaps he was catching it from so much time spent in the mortal world. At least he felt better than he had when he arrived. He was not as cold or as empty, perhaps not as exhausted either, but he surely did not want to do anything yet.
"Preventing Rhoslyn from putting a changeling in Harry's place," he replied in answer to her question.
"A changeling!" Aleneil looked around as if she expected to see the construct lying about somewhere in her room.
Denoriel chuckled a little. "He was fading fast, poor little devil. I brought him to Mwynwen. She restored him and will keep him safe."
"Him?"
"She named him Richey, and I think she means to keep him alive as long as she can," he explained. "I can understand why. He is not like other constructs. He is truly a child. He talks and thinks and feels to a remarkable extent—if I had not known better, I would have mistaken him for FitzRoy. He knows who he is and has 'memories' of his earlier life. Rhoslyn intended him to pass for Harry without raising any doubts so that his death would be accepted as the end of any threat of a male to supplant Princess Mary as heir."
Aleneil looked troubled. "Was it wise to restore him? If Rhoslyn can snatch him back—"
He rubbed his chin uneasily. "She believes I killed him. She called me a murderer, and I did not contradict her. She . . . she wept."
"Oh, poor Rhoslyn," Aleneil sighed. "To make a changeling so real, she must have invested a huge amount of herself in the creature. Oh, dear. She would not have done that unless she felt it truly important that FitzRoy be removed from the world, and I suppose that means that she and Pasgen have seen the image of the future that we have. Tell me what happened."
So Denoriel described the entire morning to her, beginning with his summons to Windsor by the white kitten and ending with the scene in Mwynwen's house. That last made Aleneil's lips compress, but she said nothing, clearly feeling that Mwynwen was more than old enough to know how she should and should not bestow her time, energy, and heart.
All she said was, "I do not need to warn you to keep a close watch on FitzRoy. I am glad I was able to renew the spell on the air spirit only a little while ago. It will be attentive, especially because there was an attempt on the boy. And do not allow yourself to be distracted. The most likely device they will try is to attack some innocent and helpless member of the party traveling north. Do not go to rescue the innocent or you are likely to lose FitzRoy."
He nodded. "I had thought of that already. Fortunately Norfolk is not going with us. He is needed in London and may go to France on some diplomatic mission. Northumberland has gone ahead to be sure all is ready. Lord Dacre was supposed to accompany the cortege, but his gout is crippling and he has sent his brother Sir Christopher Fiennes. That one is not the most perceptive of men and Norfolk seems not to have warned him about preventing my closeness to the boy. I think there will be no trouble if I actually ride beside Harry. I know his guards will not object; they are aware of my skill with a sword."
Aleneil still looked concerned. "You will not be able to share his quarters at night."
"Yes I can, if I use the Don't-see-me spell." He sighed. "But it drains me, Aleneil, and Mwynwen warned me not to use mortal-world power . . . and I am tired."
She looked at him with concern. "I think you need to come back Underhill every night, once FitzRoy is settled in his bed. Surely his guards will be alert, and the air spirit will summon you."
"To where?" Denoriel asked, a touch bitterly. "There are no Gates between here and our destination, and I am not even certain which route they will take. Once Harry is established in Sheriff Hutton, I can ask Master Treowth to construct a Gate for me, but to build one each night . . ."
"No, that is too much to ask," she admitted. "And I cannot now see how you could return here every night. But instead of exhausting yourself, perhaps we should try another way. Surely a gold coin or two to whoever arranges quarters should make it possible for you to be lodged near the boy. If you are in the same building, you should be able to respond quickly enough to the air spirit to foil any attempt on him." She nibbled on her lips for a moment and then said, "Arrange for the guards to tell the servants of this Sir Christopher about how you rescued FitzRoy and have the boy ask for you to be near him."
He nodded; that was a much better idea than trying to lurk unnoticed in Harry's room. "I can do that. We will have to hope that Sir Christopher is less suspicious of a foreigner binding Harry's affection. Still, since I will have no baggage train—"
Aleneil looked aghast. "No baggage train? You cannot be serious, Denoriel. How can you travel from Windsor to Sheriff Hutton without a baggage train? Do you intend to wear the same clothing for a month or more?"
He waved dismissively. "Of course not. I have gold enough to pay for whatever needs I may have other than clothing, and I can make a new suit every day, or even two, if I must dress for dinner."
Aleneil sighed. "And precisely how do you intend to explain your wardrobe with no baggage train?"
Denoriel opened his mouth, then shut it, then said, "Oh."
Aleneil grinned and shook her head at him. "I will see to the making of five suits suitable for dress wear, three for daily riding and two for private comfortable wear after a day's riding, with suitable undergarments, hose, boots, and shoes. And each servant you bring with you will also need a change of livery. You will need a packhorse. No elvensteed is going to carry baggage."
They both giggled at the thought. Then Denoriel remembered that he had told Ladbroke and Shandy Dunstan to buy a packhorse for their clothing and a small tent in case there was no room in the cortege's lodging for servants. Perhaps his goods would fit on that horse. He shrugged. It was not important; he had gold, and packhorses were easy to come by.
There was again a stirring in the air and then a stirring around Denoriel. He assumed Aleneil's servants were taking his measure. He did not ask about the style. Aleneil herself dressed in the highest of courtly fashion copied from the mortal world. If she did not already know what a gentleman should wear, she would find out without trouble. And then Denoriel wondered again why she chose to wear such uncomfortable clothes—and promptly felt like a fool. Aleneil was a FarSeer. She must have some idea that there would be a need for her to have an identity in Henry VIII's court—or at least, among the ladies-in-waiting about the Queen—and was accustoming herself to the garments.
He was about to ask her about that when the servants were gone, but Aleneil forestalled his question by inviting him again to eat. Denoriel was surprised to find that he was feeling much better, and quite hungry, so he agreed.
But then, he began to wonder why she never spoke about what she was doing any more, and he realized at that moment that of late, Aleneil told him only what she thought he needed to know and nothing more. He took a sidelong glance at his sister, and it came to him with a feeling of shock that it was she, and not he, who had always been more involved in what he lumped under the general heading of "politics." As a FarSeer, of course, she would be—which meant that if anyone knew what all the repercussions of what he—and by extension, Pasgen and Rhoslyn—were doing, it would be Aleneil.
For a moment he was annoyed; and then it came to him that before he had begun to nursemaid Harry, he had not wanted to know about the sometimes delicate maneuverings between Under- and Overhill. He had been satisfied to go and fight wherever he was told or to hunt whoever was chosen as the quarry for the Wild Hunt. It was not fair to blame Aleneil for not telling him everything she knew, nor to think she was trying to conceal anything from him, yet now he wanted to know the very things he had wished to avoid before. Thus when they moved to Aleneil's dining room, he began diplomatically by asking why she had such a passion for uncomfortable Tudor clothes.
She demurred. "Well, they are very elegant, are they not?"
He snorted. "I think they're miserably uncomfortable. How can you bear that tight bodice? And that stupid corset flattens you. You could be a boy!"
"Not in this skirt," Aleneil said, laughing. "It takes long practice to learn how to move at all without tripping or catching one's heel in the hem or the train."
"For men it's that stupid gown! It's always in my way. Those huge padded shoulders and the sleeves that hang down behind . . . And the shirt and the doublet and the jacquette—"
He stopped speaking suddenly and a look of horror came over his face, just as a plate of food appeared in front of him. There was an indistinct sound, an agitated swirl, and the plate rose in the air and began rapidly to float away.
"Hi!" Denoriel called. "Where are you going with my dinner?"
Aleneil was laughing heartily. "It's the face you made. My poor servant thought you were horrified by the food."
"No, no. Put it back," Denoriel said, waving at the plate which was hanging uncertainly in the air. As it settled, he said to Aleneil. "When I was describing the clothes, I realized I would actually have to put them on and take them off during the trip instead of just calling them into existence on my body. I'll need to find out if Ladbroke or Dunstan can serve as a valet. If not, I'll have to see if Boleyn can recommend one."
"Boleyn?" Aleneil repeated, looking very interested.
"Yes, George Boleyn." Now was the time, Denoriel thought, to make clear to Aleneil that he wanted and needed to be alert to the politics and relationships in the mortal world. "George is the son of Sir Thomas Boleyn, who is one of King Henry's favorite diplomats. Sir Thomas gets sent all over Europe and was elevated to Viscount Rochford when Harry got all those titles."
Aleneil smiled at him. "So you do understand that just being a watchdog is not enough. My dear brother! I am extravagantly pleased with you!"
He laughed. "Oh, yes. A rich merchant would be interested in politics, so I must be. And of course, what happens between England, France, and Spain affects Harry."
"Good." Aleneil sighed. "I was worried about how to make you aware of problems around FitzRoy that don't seem to touch him now, but may in the future."
He sobered, seeing the worry in her eyes. "I could see that. I've managed to insinuate myself into George's group of friends—Francis Bryan, Thomas Wyatt, Francis Weston, Henry Norris . . . a couple of others. They are close to King Henry, play tennis with him, gamble with him, and could provide an introduction if I should ever need one." He knitted his brows when she showed some surprise at his comment. "I'm a Hungarian nobleman whose family were all killed by the Turks, but who's rich as Croesus because of a wide-flung trading empire the Turks couldn't touch. Didn't I tell you all this?"
She shook her head, and he could not imagine how he had failed to tell her of his plans. But then, he had been very angry at being sent to watch over a child. . . .
"I don't think you did," she admitted. "But your connection with George Boleyn is very, very convenient. I am also acquainted. Not with George himself but with his mother, who is Elizabeth Howard—"
He caught that name as one familiar to him. "Howard? Related to Norfolk?"
She nodded. He thought he saw approval in her glance. "His sister."
"Ahhh. What made you interested in the family?" So she was going into the mortal world on her own! Presumably she was in search of that elusive child who would bring the age of gold to the mortals.
"The women, of course," she said reprovingly. "The elder daughter, Mary, may still be the king's mistress, although he seems to be losing interest."
He raised an eyebrow. "And the likely mother of the red-haired babe?"
"I hope not!" she exclaimed. "The red-haired baby must be in the royal line with no doubt attached to its parentage. Mary is married to William Carey, and if she bears a red-haired child it will be acknowledged by Carey as his own. He has already acknowledged her first child—"
"The king's get?" he asked, a little crudely.
She shook her head. "I think not. The child was not fair, but dark. The boy was named Henry . . . but that might not mean anything; many children are named for the king, and Henry, who is starving for boy children, never acknowledged this one."
"I suppose because Mary does also lie with her husband, and he could not be sure." Denoriel speared what looked like a pink rosebud and conveyed it to his mouth. "Ah . . . this is excellent! I thought it would be sweet, but it is pungent and delicious."
"Smoked fish," Aleneil said, absently. "No, it is the second daughter in whom I am interested. She is very young now, just fifteen, and when it looked as if there might be war between England and France, she was called back from France where she had been one of Queen Claude's women."
Yet another woman grown. "Did she appear in a FarSeeing about the red-haired babe?"
Aleneil sighed in an exasperated way. "Nothing clear enough to make it worthwhile to warn you, and I am almost sure that the child is not yet born. But the red-haired babe is associated with a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman—a very clever woman . . . a woman who has the makings of a witch . . . which would make sense, given the power we sensed around the babe."
Perhaps the girl might be of interest after all. "And George Boleyn's youngest sister matches this description?"
"I think so, but I am not certain, although she does have the nail of a sixth finger on her left hand." He sensed Aleneil's discomfort; like many FarSeers, she was uneasy when she could not foresee the future clearly.
"Are you going to try to teach her magic?" he asked, with interest. Now that would be a fascinating prospect—especially if she chose to pit herself against Queen Catherine for the legitimate affections of the king.
"No!" On that point Aleneil was certain. "She would reject me utterly and probably report me to the nearest witch-hating priest she could find. She is terrified of her Talent and seeks only to deny it, but she uses it unconsciously . . . on men. She is already welcome at court and has attracted attention . . . of Wyatt for one."
"Wyatt is married," Denoriel pointed out.
Aleneil laughed. "It seems to matter as little to Henry's courtiers as it matters to us."
"Hmmm. If she is to be Henry's mistress and the mother of the red-haired babe, I had better see to it that Wyatt does not despoil her," he said, with just a touch of callousness. "We want no doubts about her to rise in the king's mind."
"That would be useful," Aleneil agreed—just as callously. She could, he reflected, be just as ruthless as anyone when it was mortals who were being discussed.
"Do you want me to try to meet her?" he asked, thinking it might be amusing to see the little fifteen-year-old coquette attempt to use her wiles on him.
"No, certainly not," his sister said firmly. "If she developed a taste for you, she might refuse King Henry's advances, and we don't want that to happen until we are sure who will be the mother of the red-haired child."
Denoriel was silent for a while, giving his attention to the many-flavored delicacies on his plate. When it was empty and had floated away, he looked at Aleneil, frowning.
"I don't like the fact that her Talent is so strong and untutored and that she is using it. That use could attract unwanted attention, and she would be defenseless against any attack on her, against any idea a dark Sidhe wished to implant in her."
"I am aware. I will try to protect her, but she is a very high-spirited girl and I doubt will accept a duenna, as a Spanish girl would." She made a moue of distaste, and added, "Her father and mother are too well aware of the advantages Mary brought them while she was the king's favorite. Now that Mary's allure seems to be fading, they do not wish to restrict Anne too much. If not King Henry, she is like to snare a powerful suitor."
He raised an eyebrow. "At least then we will not need to worry about an untutored witch being the mother of the red-haired babe."
Aleneil shrugged and shook her head. "Let us forget all this for now. The child's birth is some years in the future."
Denoriel smiled and the talk turned to small personal matters. After the meal, considerably refreshed, although with a new worry at the back of his mind, Denoriel Gated to his house in London. He arrived shortly after the white kitten had appeared on his shoulder and he had rushed off, but Ladbroke and Dunstan did not appear in the least surprised and neither mentioned the miraculous appearance of the white kitten. Having lived so long Underhill, they were well aware that the kitten was some spirit the Sidhe was using and that hours or even days might have passed for Denoriel between his previous departure and his seeming arrival only some quarter hour later.
To Denoriel's relief, Dunstan pronounced himself capable of attending to a gentleman's needs. Fortunately one of his masters Underhill had affected the highest mode of mortal dress. It was not quite as elaborate as that popular in the Tudor court, but Dunstan knew how to tie, hook, and button. Only, he pointed out that becoming Denoriel's valet would mean he must wear different clothing than he had bought for himself and that doing so would leave Ladbroke as the only groom.
"Get what clothing you need," Denoriel said to Dunstan, and, turning to Ladbroke, "Take on a boy. Pick one out of one of the workhouses, one who can ride. That should make the poor creature grateful enough to close his eyes to a few peculiarities of his master and to keep his mouth closed about them, too. You can hint, I suppose, that my disappearances and reappearances are owing to my business and I don't like that business discussed. And I won't be coming and going quite as much while we're on the road . . . no Gates."
Another thing that long residence Underhill had induced in Ladbroke and Dunstan was self-reliance and resourcefulness. Partly out of curiosity about what they would do, partly out of envy over the human ability to create new ways to deal with problems, Sidhe masters would often drop their human companions—adult ones, anyway—into difficult or dangerous situations and watch them squirm out. Not all survived.
Denoriel had had no human servants but was sufficiently familiar with the practice and with the evidence of what Dunstan and Ladbroke had already accomplished to be sure they would find a way to do anything he asked. He said only, "Some trunks with clothing for me will be Gated through from my sister in Avalon. See if it will fit on the packhorse—"
"Mule, m'lord," Ladbroke said. "Mules are better for carrying packs."
"Fine. If my trunks will overload the beast, get another. And set out for Windsor as early tomorrow morning as you possibly can. You can bed down in the inn in Windsor if they have room for that night; if not, you have your tent. I will meet you at the main gate of Windsor at dawn day after tomorrow. The cortege is due to leave at dawn."
"Will it, m'lord?" Dunstan looked surprised.
Denoriel grinned. "It won't, of course; probably won't leave until nine of the clock or even later. Still, we should be there—that is, by the principal gate to Windsor—so we can choose our places."
"Very good, m'lord," Dunstan nodded. "You'll be riding right by his young Grace's carriage or alongside his horse if he's allowed to ride. Where do you want me and Kip? Should we be together or spread out in the line of march?"
"You need to be as near as possible to where I am so you can see where I'm lodged." He considered his tactics, deciding that he would order his little force as if he expected attack at any point. "You'll also need to see where Ladbroke goes so you can run messages to him if it's necessary. As I said, I'll meet you at Windsor, but if that white kitten should come to you, follow it and be sure to carry your weapons . . . steel weapons, not silver."
"Steel, m'lord?" both men echoed in chorus.
He nodded grimly. "Yes. You'll have to set them aside when you actually serve me, Dunstan, but I am not as badly affected as some. Sword, poniard, bow. No armor, though, nor helms. Armor may be too much iron for me."
"Outfitted as you say. Day after tomorrow at dawn at the main gate to Windsor," Ladbroke repeated.
Denoriel smiled and clapped him on the back. "I know I can depend on you two."
"That you can, m'lord," Ladbroke replied. "Leave the journey to us, and keep your mind on seeing the boy stays safe."
"Oh, do believe me," Denoriel replied. "That is what is uppermost on my mind. . . ."