Lord Denno was a frequent enough visitor to Thomas Boleyn's London residence that he was shepherded into the lower parlor without question. There he loosened the rich, wine-red, sable-lined cloak he wore as he approached the settle and two chairs that flanked the fireplace. A huge fire roared on the hearth and its light blinded him so that he swung the cloak off his shoulders before he realized that the chair closest to the hearth was occupied.
"Good afternoon," he said, bowing slightly, and then more deeply as he recognized the duke of Norfolk and added, "Your Grace, what a pleasure to meet you again."
"Meet me again?" But the querulous tone only lasted until Denoriel had thrown back his hood and exposed his face. "Oh, Lord Denno. Yes it is a long time since we last met." He smiled suddenly. "That was when you delivered to me the fruit of that little speculation of ours into Turkey carpets. Hmmm." He came more erect in his chair and stared at Denoriel. "You haven't by any chance come to offer a similar speculation to Lord Wiltshire?"
Denoriel laughed heartily. "No, I am sorry to say. Truthfully it has been a bad time for carpets. I have lost my workshop. The people were all scattered by a new local conqueror. Until peace is made, there will be no carpets woven for me."
"A social call?" Norfolk's eyebrows went up.
Denoriel Smiled. "Yes and no. After our business is done, likely Lord Rochford and I will continue on to social pleasures, but I do have business with him. One of my ships is in from France and Lord Rochford has an interest in the cargo."
"Ah. You did not think I would be interested? Did I not say you would be welcome to me whenever—" He stopped when he realized Denoriel was shaking his head.
"It was Lord Rochford who came to me with an opportunity for investment," Denoriel said quickly. "He had wind of a cargo of fine wine from Bordeaux but could not hire a ship and was unable to take full advantage of the cargo because of a temporary embarrassment. I offered my ship Neptune and to cover any charges he could not meet, and we split the cargo between us. This morning I had news that Neptune had come to port, so I sent a message to George, who asked me to meet him here so he could ask his father if he wanted any wine."
"Bordeaux wine?" Norfolk's interest increased. "A good red?"
"Unfortunately I have not yet had a chance to taste it and will not for perhaps a week until it is transported to a stable place and allowed to rest." He smiled when he saw Norfolk's avid gaze. "However, if it is as good as George hopes, would you like some wine, Your Grace?"
"He can't have any," a strong voice said.
Denoriel turned to meet the eyes of Thomas Boleyn, earl of Ormonde and Wiltshire and, more importantly, father of Anne. He was a man of middle height, what could be seen of his hair under his flat velvet cap still dark. His eyes were large and dark also, like his daughter's, but his nose was stronger. Little could be seen of his chin under his beard, and that, unlike his hair was graying.
Nonetheless, Boleyn's shoulders under doublet and gown were still broad. He had been one of Henry's companions during his youth, before Henry's older brother Arthur had died. In those days, Henry's father had been desirous that his younger son be more interested in the pleasures of life than in politics, and Henry's companions had been chosen for their addiction to sport. Thus, Thomas Boleyn had been a champion jouster, a wrestler of note, and a bowman who took many prizes.
Since George was laughing as he walked beside his father and Wiltshire was grinning, Denoriel understood his remark to the duke of Norfolk was a joke. He bowed again to all three and shook his head.
"I beg you gentlemen, do not embroil me in a quarrel with His Grace of Norfolk, who has always been most gracious to me." He made a piteous face. "It is he whom you must convince about the wine, because if he asks it of me, I will give him what he desires."
"Oh, he will yield his share readily enough."
Wiltshire bowed to Norfolk, who had politely stood up to greet him. There was, of course, no need for Norfolk to rise. He still outranked Wiltshire, but Norfolk was not the kind to forget the benefits of being polite to the father of Anne Boleyn.
"Ah," Norfolk said, jocularly, "You know the wine is bad and wish to save me from wasting my money."
"Grace of God," George said. "I hope not! Aside from what it would cost me, it would never do to serve bad wine at the Christmas celebrations."
"Christmas? But that is two months—" Norfolk stopped speaking and nodded. "Yes, I remember. You are in charge of the entertainments. Two months is short enough for making those arrangements." Then he sighed. "I do not envy you."
"Why?" Wiltshire looked suddenly anxious. "Have you heard bad news?"
"No." Norfolk hesitated and then seemed to make a decision. "I hope you will not take this amiss, Wiltshire, and it is no reflection on Anne, but I have been troubled about Christmas. This will be the first for the king without Catherine and his daughter."
"And a fine relief it will be!" George snapped.
"For you. For Anne . . . yes. But for the king? Catherine was like an old shoe, ugly but comfortable." Norfolk was clearly not comfortable with this situation, though he was not about to protest it. "And the king is really very fond of Mary. He will miss her, her music, her adoration, her joy in being with him . . ."
"Anne will keep him busy," Wiltshire said, and then added, "Pardon me, gentlemen, let us all be seated and let me send for some refreshment."
Norfolk dropped back into the chair he had been sitting in, George and Denoriel took the settle, and Wiltshire seated himself in the second chair, after signaling to a servant to bring wine and cakes. When each had a filled glass in hand, Norfolk cleared his throat.
"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.
Obviously they could not present themselves at court in this condition—not that Denoriel knew where the court was. Nor could they spend too much time seeking shelter, as the short winter day was coming to a close. Denoriel would have taken the party to his house, except that he was sure Norfolk would disapprove of such familiarity without permission. The duke now seemed resigned to Lord Denno's relationship with Harry, but Denoriel did not want to take any advantage that might raise the duke's doubts again. He asked Sir Edward to lead them to Norfolk's London residence.
If Norfolk was not there, then Denoriel would offer the house on Bucklersbury. But the duke was at home—it was, for a change, pouring rain mixed with sleet, and he had cancelled several appointments. He came running down the stairway himself to greet his guests with cries of relief because they were already more than a week behind their estimated arrival and he had been worried. Relief soon mingled with horror when he learned they had no baggage and had no idea when it would arrive, if ever.
Servants were sent scurrying for changes of clothing, although the duke said, apologetically, that he did not think the servants would find anything to fit Lord Denno, who was so tall. Denoriel promptly eliminated that concern by reminding Norfolk that he had a home in London and would have no trouble changing his clothing.
He realized too late that being rid of him had been Norfolk's purpose, but he left forthwith. It would be worse to make excuses to stay than to leave Harry to his own devices. He couldn't be with the boy every moment; Harry would have to manage on his own. Later he learned he had missed the perfect confirmation of his idea that the boy would make a diplomat—if he lived.
Taking advantage of their condition, Norfolk sent his ward's servants off to be cleaned and reclothed. He summoned his own valet and dressers to his son's apartment, in which FitzRoy would temporarily be accommodated because it was warm while another apartment was prepared for him. FitzRoy was stripped and a bath brought up. When he was clean and wrapped in one of Henry's bedgowns, Norfolk invited him to sit down to a belated meal and himself joined him.
After commonplaces about the trip and FitzRoy's health and what he was currently studying, Norfolk got to what he really wanted to know and asked about Lord Denno.
"I' faith, we are good friends now," FitzRoy said. "Since I went to live in the north, Lord Denno has been coming several times a year to see about his wool—actually I think he may own the sheep from which it is sheared. He is very particular about the wool."
"Wool is sheared in the spring," Norfolk remarked. "Why would he need to come north several times a year?"
"I said he was particular. He comes to inspect the sheep in the summer and autumn, sometimes even in winter. Whenever he comes, he stays at Sheriff Hutton. He says it is because the accommodation is free, but I think he doesn't care a bit for that. He's very rich, you know. Very rich."
"Then I suppose he need not ask you for any favors." Harry was very good at reading nuances of expression. Norfolk was probing, and Harry was happy to give him an answer of which he would approve.
"What kind of favor could I do Lord Denno?" he asked, innocently. "He'll take nothing from me, unless it is a keepsake of some sort—one of my poems, or suchlike. I wish I could think of something. I'd do it quick enough. He's saved my life twice, you know, once at Windsor and once when something . . . a plague of tiny things like mice or rats gone quite mad, attacked my cortege when we were first going to Sheriff Hutton."
Norfolk frowned. "Lord Denno shouldn't remind you of that. It's enough to give you nightmares."
FitzRoy laughed. "Lord Denno has never mentioned either rescue—except to tell me that the men who attacked me in Windsor were dead. That was because I asked him directly whether they would try to hurt me again."
Norfolk was still frowning, but now it was in puzzlement. "Then what do you talk about when he comes to visit you? I assume he does spend some time with you when he comes to Sheriff Hutton."
"Talk? About wool and his accursed sheep." FitzRoy laughed again. "And about gardens. Lord Denno has a passion for flowers and plantings. Sometimes we talk about books. He likes Caesar and Herodotus. But mostly we fence or shoot at butts or ride out hunting." For a moment the boy's eyes grew misty, but all he said was, "He's a capital horseman, Lord Denno. And he tells me about the court. He admires the Lady Anne very much, I think, for making my father happy."
Nothing to fear there . . . yet, Norfolk thought, so when a servant came in with some of Lord Henry's outgrown clothing, Norfolk wished his charge a good and quiet night's sleep and left, presumably to allow the boy to try on the garments in private and then go to bed. Actually he made his way to the room assigned to Sir Edward to probe further.
First Norfolk thanked FitzRoy's master of the horse for bringing the boy safely to London. He received a smiling denial, a reference to the passionate devotion of FitzRoy's servants and guardsmen, and a laughing encomium of Lord Denno's ability to find some hovel or other to shelter in when all hope seemed lost.
That gave Norfolk his opening. "I had no idea that Lord Denno was such an intimate in Richmond's household," he said rather coldly. "Is that wise?"
"It used to worry me," Sir Edward admitted, "but in the beginning none of His Grace's councilors wished to add any more grief and anxiety to him. He was upset enough at losing his playmates, your son and daughter, and the familiar servants of Windsor. Lord Denno's presence did him much good."
"And he took advantage of that to enlarge the intimacy. Richmond will be a very rich and very powerful man when he comes of age." Norfolk came directly to the point. "So, what do you think Lord Denno wants?"
Sir Edward shrugged. "We all waited, of course, for the bill to be tendered . . . but there has been no bill. The man has never asked for anything—except his lodging and food—in all the years he has been coming to see His Grace."
There was another opening for information; Norfolk took it. "Then he does come to see Richmond, not to examine his sheep or his wool?"
"I think so," Sir Edward said thoughtfully. "No, I am sure so. Although he does go out and ride about the farms. He often takes His Grace of Richmond with him."
"Inspecting sheep farms?" Norfolk was not certain whether or not to be offended. It was not unheard of for a nobleman to take direct interest in his holdings, but it seemed very 'rustic' an occupation.
"I do not think it can do the duke any harm to know where wool, which is so much the wealth of England, comes from." Sir Edward sounded defensive.
"Perhaps not. But what does Lord Denno want that is precious enough for him to spend so much time with a child?" Norfolk did not understand this, and he did not like things he could not understand, "It isn't as it was at first, when it looked as if the king might name Richmond his heir. There's no chance of that now, and yet Denno pursues this relationship with the boy."
Sir Edward smiled at him. "Believe it or not, I will swear that it is just being with the boy himself that Lord Denno wants. I made some enquiries, Your Grace. Lord Denno does not need money. He could probably buy his bankers. He pays all tariffs and taxes promptly. He has never asked any of Richmond's councilors for any favor at all and has never been in any trouble with the law."
"So?" Norfolk persisted.
"So, I stand by what I said." Sir Edward smiled to soften the defiance. "I know Lord Denno has no one in the world to call his own. His own family is all dead, and I think because of the terrible pain that caused him he hesitates to marry and have children. I think what he wants from Richmond is . . . the feeling that he has someone. There is no doubt in my mind that he sincerely loves the little duke, that he would lay down his life for the boy."
"Hmmm. I like him myself, you know," Norfolk confessed. "It is only the thought of a foreigner having such a grip on someone as powerful as Richmond will be that makes me uneasy. And Richmond admits he would do Lord Denno any favor he could but that he cannot think of any—which means Denno has put nothing in his head." He still didn't understand it—and he wished devoutly that the foreigner would do or ask for something so that he would at least know where the man stood! Still—it all seemed harmless enough. "So, for now it seems safe to allow all the access to Lord Denno that Richmond desires."
"You relieve my mind," Sir Edward said. "Cheerful and pleasant as Richmond is, he has a will of his own—and when it is crossed he can be vicious and of long memory."
Now this was something that Norfolk understood. Richmond had his mother's sweet and biddable manner most of the time—but cross him, and it seemed, you got Great Harry in a rage. "Ah. And he will have the king's ear . . . So, the servants and guards . . . you say they are fond of him and he of them? I had no time to look at them—not that there would have been much I could see under the mud. Are they fitting to attend and guard the duke in Greenwich?"
Sir Edward nodded. "The guards are the same ones you yourself appointed in Windsor. They love that boy like a son. When he was lost, only his servants continued to search the forest in the dark, which no one else would do for fear of the terrible creatures that had attacked us. Nor did they fear they would be faulted. Everyone else had quit the field. They are devoted."
Devoted was precisely what Norfolk wanted. "Good enough. They know the ways of the court, too, having been royal guards. The others?"
"The grooms will be fine, although there are only two," Sir Edward replied. "They know horses and are quite capable of holding their own with other servitors. If the king offers Richmond more horses, he may need one or two more under-grooms, which will not be a problem. The valet . . . most interesting man. Although he is common born, his speech is fine, and I have never known him to be at a loss in any situation. When we ride, he wears a sword, and he can use it . . . I have seen him do so. His sense of style seems good, too, but as you know we have little occasion for full court dress at Sheriff Hutton or Pontefract. You might want to appoint an under-valet with knowledge of what will be needed."
"Good. Good." Norfolk's brow cleared. Whatever else was going on, Richmond was going to be presentable, it seemed. "As I said I do not wish to upset Richmond if it is not a dire necessity. I want him happy."
"I, too," Sir Edward said, smiling. "He is a wonderful boy, when he is not crossed—so good at heart, so true and loyal. One cannot help caring for him."
Satisfied, Norfolk rose and bid Sir Edward a good night. He had a good night himself, relieved that he would not need to come into conflict with Richmond about his friend and servants just before the boy was restored to his father. From what Sir Edward said, Richmond would not be easy to cow. Norfolk did not want the king to hear complaints about his son being deprived of trusted servants.
They were to be trusted, too, Norfolk thought with satisfaction when Richmond came down to breakfast, shepherded by his valet, who wore a remarkably long knife at the back of his belt, and two of his armed guards.
The boy was bright and wide-eyed, dressed sensibly for riding. Richmond said a polite good morning and then begged to be allowed to see a little of London before being sent to Greenwich. It had been raining so hard when they arrived, he complained, that he could see nothing.
Since Norfolk knew the king was at Hampton Court and would be engaged with the French and Imperial ambassadors, he was about to agree to allow Richmond to explore London when a page with very wide eyes entered and bowed and said, "Lady Anne Boleyn is come and asking for you, Your Grace."
Anne! At this hour of the morning? Norfolk rose, waving at FitzRoy to go on with his breakfast and went out with the page. Anne was waiting in the great withdrawing room, standing before the blazing fire, one hand raised to loosen the pin on her cloak. As he bowed, Norfolk noted that even that common gesture was invested with a kind of special grace.
"My lady, welcome. Please, let me take your cloak and seat yourself. Can I offer you some mulled wine?"
But Anne was not to be so easily pacified with courtesy and formality. "You can offer me some explanations, uncle. I have heard that Richmond has arrived and is your guest. Why?"
"My dear Anne," Norfolk said, "this was no secret plan of mine. It was discussed with your father and your brother over a month ago, and your father assured me that he would explain to you why we all felt it necessary that Richmond should come."
"So he did, but I—"
Anne stopped speaking abruptly in response to a timid scratch on the door. She looked furious, but Norfolk had already cried out, "Come," delighted that anyone else should bear the brunt of Anne's wrath.
The door opened little more than a crack, and FitzRoy peeped inside. "Please do forgive this intrusion," he said, "but I heard that Lady Anne was here. I am so desirous of meeting her. I was afraid she would leave without my having any chance to greet her."
Both adults stood staring at the opening too surprised to speak. Since there had been no rejection, FitzRoy took this as an invitation, opened the door wider, and poked in a smiling face.
"May I come in?"
"Yes," Anne said, recovering from her surprise, but not so far as to put on a cool manner. "Do, indeed, come in."
FitzRoy slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and made a handsome bow to Anne, murmuring, "Madame, I am very happy to meet you."
"Are you?" she asked, directly. Norfolk held his breath. What would the boy make of such rudeness?
"Yes, truly," FitzRoy replied earnestly, "For I have heard how happy you make my dear father, and anyone who brings him joy is very welcome to me, indeed."
Anne regarded him skeptically. "But if his joy is made complete, and God wills it, you may have a brother who will stand between you and the throne of England."
Norfolk drew in a sharp breath at the brutal directness, but FitzRoy only continued to smile, his eyes fixed in sweet innocence on Anne's face.
"I will pray with all my strength for that happy outcome," FitzRoy said. "Daily. Perhaps that is unkind, praying for a burden I myself fear to fall upon another, but I do not feel myself fit to carry that burden. And to give my father a legitimate prince would make him the happiest of men as well as the most blessed of kings."
Anne dropped the cloak she had removed but had been holding on to the chair nearest her and advanced over the broad-beamed, shining floor toward FitzRoy. She held out her hand, and the boy put his own into it without hesitation. She drew him with her back toward the fire. Norfolk backed away slowly and carefully so as not to draw any attention.
"Do you know what you are saying, Richmond?" Anne asked, gesturing him toward one end of a dark wood settle cushioned in crimson velvet and seating herself at the other end. There was a very faint smile on her lips, and she cocked her head in a charming look of doubt. "Or has someone been telling you what to say to me?"
FitzRoy sat and looked at her soberly. "No one even suggested that we might meet, madam, and no one has ever talked to me about you, aside from Lord Denno, who said you were a good, fair lady who has brought my father joy he has lacked in other company. But I do have ears—even if my councilors seem to think all children are deaf—and so I have heard them talking."
"About me?" Anne's voice was sharp and Norfolk held his breath.
"No, madam, about the king's concern for the succession," he said forthrightly—and correctly. "I have become aware that for me to come to the throne would cause strong protest, perhaps even war between those who favored me and those who favored Princess Mary."
Anne settled herself more comfortably against the cushions. "Ah, Princess Mary. She has no stain of bastard birth, so why should she not be her father's heir?"
"Because she is a woman," he replied on the instant. "Please do not frown at me, Lady Anne. I mean no shame on women in a general way nor do I support what my councilors call the salic law in France, but to secure the next generation on the throne, the princess must marry. Only a reigning prince or his heir would be a suitable husband, and having taken such a husband, who will rule England?"
"Who, indeed?" Anne replied, making a little moue of distaste. "We would likely be an Imperial province or a French one."
"And so my father seeks a legitimate son to rule after him to ensure the peace and independence of this realm." He hesitated, then smiled broadly and a little brashly at her. "And I think he has chosen a very pretty lady to furnish that heir."
The hard glare in Anne's black eyes had softened some minutes earlier and she smiled at the boy who looked hopefully at her. "So you would not feel deprived if I were to marry your father and give him a son?"
"Not at all," FitzRoy said heartily. His nose wrinkled. "There is nothing duller than listening to petitions or measuring complaints against the law. You know what I would really like?" His eyes brightened from their usual dull light brown to a sparkling hazel. "I would like to be the king's ambassador and go to Paris and Madrid and Venice and Rome. No one could have his majesty's interests or those of England more to heart than I—and I could travel and see new things."
Anne was chuckling softly now. Suspicious and self-centered as she was, even she could see the naked truth in a child's eyes. She knew that in the future this child might change his mind and grow to be a danger, but for now he would do her no harm, and he might do her good.
"Well, you may count on me, if I have the power, to forward your desire in every way I can," she said, magnanimously. "I have had great pleasure in meeting you, Your Grace. And I hope we may meet again."
She rose and the boy rose also, putting out his hand and saying, "Surely we will, Lady Anne. I look forward to it. And you will tell my father of my wishes? I look forward also to hearing from you what he will say."
"You will be able to ask him yourself," she said, reaching for her cloak.
"Of course. But I will have a better hope of a sympathetic hearing if my wish comes from you, my lady." He gave her a sly look, and Norfolk smothered a chuckle. If the boy was no scholar of books, he was certainly well-read in human nature.
She laughed and said, "Flatterer," but as Norfolk came forward to take the cloak from her hand and place it on her shoulders, he could see she was pleased, and then she bent and kissed FitzRoy's cheek and a notion came to him.
"Anne," Norfolk said, as he closed the door behind them and walked with her into the central hall where her two women waited, "I had a thought and I wonder if you would tell me what you think about it."
"Yes?" Anne Boleyn had come here angered, and had not expected to leave charmed and soothed. And by a little boy! In that, he was entirely like his father, who could charm the birds from the trees when he chose. Yet she could not doubt his sincerity; he might know how to charm, but he was not yet skilled enough to dissemble.
Her Uncle Norfolk, on the other hand . . .
The black eyes flashed. Anne knew her uncle wanted to see her married to the king to ensure his own future influence, but Norfolk never hesitated to use her at any time. She always needed to measure what he asked against what was best for her. This time, however, he seemed more thoughtful than sly.
"Richmond," he continued, "is, of course, very eager to see his father, but we have been racking our brains for a suitable 'surprise' to come out of the Mound this year. You remember that last year it was Princess Mary and those girls, all playing instruments. What if this year we make that surprise Richmond? Would that not remove any regret Henry might feel over Mary and her musical ladies?"
For a moment Anne stood quite still. She had been wavering pro and con a plan to come out of the Mound herself, although she knew that would arouse strong objections. She had wondered whether the new enemies she would make and the reinforcement of older angers would add up to an advantage or disadvantage toward binding Henry to her. Yet, dared she allow someone else to take that place, someone who could turn the moment against her?
Now she said, more to herself than to Norfolk, "Yes, I remember that, and that chosen gentlemen the king wished to honor came and took the ladies' instruments and then danced with them—Henry with Mary."
"So do you think the king would enjoy the surprise of having Richmond come out of the mound?" Norfolk persisted.
Anne raised her head slowly to look Norfolk right in the face. "Yes," she murmured. "It is a very good idea, but instead of Henry coming forward to welcome the boy, when he comes out, Richmond will have to say something suitable, and then choose me for a dance."
Norfolk had not expected that, and she could see from his expression that her suggestion was not welcome. Still, he must think that it was better than having Anne come out of the Mound herself, which he must have known she had been planning. "Done," he said, "only won't you look silly dancing with a child?"
She smiled up at him. "Oh, FitzRoy is quite tall enough, taking after his father as he does. That will suit me admirably."