Norfolk courteously saw Anne and her ladies to the door. He was well pleased when he returned to the breakfast parlor, to which Richmond had also returned, and he readily gave permission for the boy to see something of London. He was less pleased when, just as he was suggesting that FitzRoy rest for another day until his old friend, Norfolk's son, Lord Henry, could guide him, Lord Denno was announced.
Richmond's face settled into a decidedly mulish expression and he said, "I am no longer six years old, Your Grace. And I am in the best of health, capable of a full day's hard hunting without fatigue. I do not need another day's rest. I wish to start seeing London today."
Norfolk opened his mouth to order the boy to his room, and remembered that he was being addressed by the premier nobleman in the kingdom who would soon be clasped hard in the king's arms. He saw that to insist Richmond spend a day tapping his toes while he waited for his own son Henry would ensure Richmond would hate Henry on sight when he saw him again.
"Well . . . well . . . Let me think who would be suitable to guide you if you will not wait for my son," he said, temporizing.
"A guide is ready," Richmond said, his voice hard and uncompromising. "Lord Denno will show me everything. He lives in London, you know, and conducts his business from here."
"Lord Denno is not sufficient escort," Norfolk said, trying to sound reasonable and at least provide some buffer against the foreigner.
Richmond laughed, but not pleasantly. "I will lay odds that Lord Denno is a far better swordsman than Lord Henry, but that doesn't matter. Gerrit and Shaylor are on duty and will ride with us, and likely Dunstan and Ladbroke too." He spoke around a grim smile. "I am never unprotected, Your Grace, and—" He patted the sword Norfolk had not noticed he was wearing "—I am not unable to protect myself."
Which left Norfolk to curse himself for forgetting that Richmond was not six years old, was, indeed, entering that age which begets rebellion in the best-trained boy. Hastily he tried to retrieve Richmond's good opinion by offering fresh mounts. The young duke's good humor was instantly restored. He accepted Norfolk's offer with thanks, only remarking blandly that the horses might need another day's rest. They had carried riders, after all, while the riders merely sat in the saddle.
Whereupon, before Norfolk could reply, Richmond was on his feet, bowing, and in another instant out the door. No, Norfolk thought, he would not be easy to cow—say, instead, impossible. And Sir Edward was right. There would be no separating him from Denno or his servants, at least not until his confidence was won. Winning Richmond's confidence, Norfolk foresaw, signaling a servant and giving the order about the horses, would take time and very careful handling.
He would need to have a serious talk with Henry about dealing with Richmond. Or maybe he should keep the boys apart? Henry's temper . . . But surely he would understand that Richmond was far his superior in status and was at that touchy stage between childhood and manhood which needs to be treated with respect. Norfolk sighed. Henry wasn't out of that stage yet himself.
At least for today he need fear no disaster. Denno would protect Richmond and probably raise no political problems in one day. And the boy would be safe, Norfolk thought, as he came out of the breakfast parlor and saw that Richmond's two guardsmen were now planted firmly in front of the door of the small withdrawing room. They were talking to each other, but he saw that one pair of eyes had fixed on him and the other pair watched the front door.
A few moments earlier, a page had directed FitzRoy to the small withdrawing room. He had found Denoriel there staring thoughtfully into the fire. The Sidhe turned as he came forward, and smiled.
"I did it!" FitzRoy said, softly, but his eyes were bright with triumph. "I rolled right over Norfolk. He was going to send me to my room to play with my toys and wait until tomorrow for Henry to show me London."
Denoriel's high-arched brows rose even further. "Hmmm? I myself would prefer that you not see the parts of London Lord Henry might show you—at least, not until you are a few years older."
"I' faith?" FitzRoy giggled. "Maybe it would have been worth while to wait for him. You aren't likely to satisfy that curiosity."
"Not for a year or two more anyway." Denoriel grinned. "Did you remember to order the horses?"
"Norfolk is doing that—to coddle my temper after treating me like a child. Oh. I don't know whether he'll order a horse for you. Is Miralys—"
Denoriel laughed. "Miralys is just fine and would probably throw me off and jump up and down on me if I dared ride another horse."
FitzRoy sighed, but he could not say anything about Lady Aeron. Instead he asked where they would go, and Denoriel offered a number of destinations. "Actually I hadn't intended to use the horses today. I had thought of taking a boat on the river—but we can do that tomorrow."
"Will I be free tomorrow?" FitzRoy asked, quietly. "I thought I would see my father right away, but Norfolk says he's at Hampton Court busy with ambassadors."
FitzRoy looked down as he spoke, but Denoriel heard the hurt in his voice. "Do you want to lay odds that no one has told the king that you have arrived?"
He looked up, surprised. "But why not?"
"Of that, I cannot be sure," Denno said, not wishing to betray the plans that George Boleyn had bruited about, "Only that Norfolk would want to present you in a way that will redound to his credit and possibly would wish Lord Henry to accompany you into the king's presence. Also, remember, you have no clothes."
"Ah. Yes." FitzRoy sighed gustily. "Dunstan has summoned tailors. But would my father care about my clothes?"
Denoriel laughed. "Likely not, but Norfolk would. Who knows what purpose the courtiers would assign to his presenting you in his son's cast-offs."
FitzRoy blinked. "If every little thing can be made out to have meaning, I am not sure I am going to like being at court. I want to see my father, but . . ."
"Each day as it comes, Harry," Denoriel advised. "Take each day as it comes. Likely as not Norfolk has a perfectly innocent purpose—and one that may have nothing to do with you at all. Say, for example, that he does not want the king diverted from his meeting with the ambassadors."
"You always say one day at a time, and it's mostly you're right, but I still want to see my father." Somehow the boy sounded plaintive and imperious, all at the same time. "Could I insist that tomorrow a messenger be sent to him?"
Like father, like son, Denoriel thought. Harry had as little use for state duties as King Henry, who, he was sure, would be delighted to put the ambassadors off while he greeted his son. He shook his head.
"I don't know what to say about that, but surely you can wait until this afternoon, after we look at the city. I—"
The door opening interrupted him, and Gerrit put his head in to say that the horses were ready. He and Shaylor preceded FitzRoy out. Ladbroke was already mounted. Denoriel put FitzRoy up into the saddle of a fine-looking black and himself mounted Miralys. Shaylor mounted while Gerrit watched; then Gerrit mounted. Dunstan had excused himself, his oversight of the tailors currently more important, as he foresaw little threat to FitzRoy in Denoriel's company.
They rode north along the King Street to Charing Cross where they bent right into The Strand, on the way passing the grounds of York House, which had been Wolsey's and was now the king's. Denoriel told Harry that it seemed now to be Lady Anne's favorite place of residence and there was talk of the king enlarging it. Other large noblemen's houses—almost palaces really—could be seen through trees. The houses fronted on the river which actually made quicker and easier transportation to the city than horses.
FitzRoy showed no interest in those great houses until they passed Temple Bar and saw the buildings of the Temple. He drew rein as they came to the gate and asked Denoriel if the law students allowed visitors to see the tombs of William Marshall and his family. The request being readily agreed to by the porter as soon as he heard who was making it, they were escorted to the church where, in the west part, outside the choir they found the monuments.
After examining the tombs of William Marshall the elder, his son, also William, and the next brother, Gilbert, FitzRoy quietly shook his head. "It's very strange, isn't it? He was a great man and had a large family—five sons—and yet his house and name failed with that second generation."
"That's a grim thought," Denoriel said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder and steering him gently toward the door. "The younger William was certainly murdered and Gilbert probably was too—"
FitzRoy looked surprised. "Master Palsgrave never said anything about murder."
Denoriel didn't answer until he had distributed the proper largesse to those who had accompanied them and they were remounted. Then he said lightly, "Likely because the murders were the king's doing. The third Henry would take no prizes for virtue, although he was a great patron of the arts. He should have been an architect instead of a king. He did so love—"
"You sound as if you were there and knew him," FitzRoy said, laughing.
Denoriel laughed too, although he was shocked at the slip. It was too easy to talk to Harry; he must be careful. He said, "Our teachers are a bit fairer minded, not having any need to be wary of what a royal official might think if he heard a tutor declaring a past king a murderer."
"Pooh," FitzRoy responded. "Who cares about a king who's been dead over two hundred years. Still, it makes one think . . . Five sons and not a grandson with his name. And even the son of the eldest daughter was murdered. Are you sure it wasn't a curse?"
"Not of mine," Denoriel said lightly and picked up the pace so that they passed the remainder of Fleet Street quickly.
He noticed that FitzRoy was looking curiously at some of the shops, but he did not suggest stopping, because he was sure the greater market along Cheapside would be more interesting. Thus he turned north at Ludgate and east again on the narrow street that ran along the north side of St. Paul's church. The lane met another running north and south—south was the entrance to the church; north debouched into the market.
FitzRoy probably knew from the hubbub of sound when they reached the cross-lane that the market was to the north. He hesitated briefly, cast a rather guilty glance southward, because he must have suspected that the "proper" thing to do was to visit the cathedral, and then rode north. Where the lane entered Cheapside, the party perforce stopped because the street was thick with people.
Noblemen had considerable privilege. They could and sometimes did drive their horses right down the market, knocking people down and trampling unfortunates and goods. They seldom did it more than once, for none ever made it through the market without being liberally bedewed with rotten fruit and vegetables and well bruised by harder objects like pits launched by slingshot. A few had more violent accidents; staves had been known to be thrust between a horse's legs or a rotten melon to fall from above so that a beast was blinded and stumbled, throwing his rider.
Only very rarely was anyone brought to book for such crimes; there were too many people, too many shops and alleys into which any suspect might melt away and mingle with the crowd. And it was impossible, no matter how powerful the nobleman, to arrest hundreds of sober citizens of London. The commons and burgesses of London were not known for their docility—even to kings.
FitzRoy had been to markets before, but nothing in the mortal world—nor even Underhill which had been much larger but much less concentrated—had prepared him for Cheapside. "Is it always like this?" he shouted over the general hubbub.
"Yes," Denoriel shouted back. "We can go round if you want—"
"No, no," the boy said. "But I think we'd better dismount and go on foot. We'll never get the horses through. Ladbroke can go around leading the horses and we'll meet up again at—at the end of the market?"
He looked at Denoriel who nodded, slid down from Miralys and went back to Ladbroke, carefully handing him the reins which were not attached to much of anything.
"Go back down the street past St. Paul's, which will take you to Watling Street. You can come north again on Dow Gate to the lane that leads to Bucklersbury."
"I know it, m'lord. Shall I wait at your house?"
"Yes. I think we'll all be ready for a nuncheon, a chair, and a drink by the time we get to Threadneedle."
"Right you are, m'lord. I'll warn the servants that you'll be coming with a guest."
When he returned to them, FitzRoy and the two guards had also dismounted. Shaylor took the reins of all three horses and led them back down the street to where Ladbroke could arrange them so he could handle them. Gerrit was forging a way into the crowd with Denoriel and FitzRoy just behind him and, a moment later, Shaylor brought up the rear.
They moved slowly into the center of the street which, while crowded and made more hazardous by the peddlers carrying meat pies and hot buns and roast chicken on skewers and all manner of small goods like ribbons and laces in trays and baskets slung round their necks, was still less clotted with folk than the sides of the street. There the stalls of the merchants who had shops in the market displayed a variety of goods.
In front of each stall generally was a small crowd of unmoving people who were examining the merchandise. To try to make one's way through the customers brought cries of rage and threats or even blows, not only from those whom one necessarily displaced, but from the apprentices and occasional journeyman who were manning the stalls.
In any case FitzRoy was content to make his way a few steps at a time down the less-crowded center, the slow pace giving him plenty of time to stare right and left while the bulk of his guardsmen and Denoriel kept him from being battered. In short order—never mind having finished breakfast less than an hour past—he had eaten a meat pie, a sticky bun, and a chicken leg, which he pronounced the best he had ever had. The seller was long gone, or he would have bought the lot and carried them back with him to the great detriment of all their clothing.
Fortunately he was distracted from trying to go back and find the chicken-leg seller by a sweet metallic chiming. Twisting and rising on his toes to see, he grasped Denoriel's hand and tugged him toward a silversmith's counter. There he wriggled his way past two men who were considering a handsome silver bowl and seized on a round silver ball, slit open and chased into a design of baby animals, which held another much smaller silver ball. It was this which made the sweet chiming when shaken by the attached straight stem.
"A rattle?" Denoriel said faintly. "Were you deprived of rattles when you were a baby, Harry?"
FitzRoy laughed until he nearly doubled over and dropped the rattle. "Don't be silly, Denno," he chortled. "It's for Dickson's little girl. Didn't you know he had a new baby?"
"I didn't even know he was married," Denoriel said.
"To one of the baker's daughters." FitzRoy chuckled again. "I think her father threatened to bake him in the castle oven if he didn't marry her, since she was baking something in her own oven—"
"Harry!"
"Well, anyhow, he seems to be very happy now. Told me it was nice to come home to a clean bed and a willing wife."
Denoriel didn't know what kind of comment to make to that. He couldn't present a moral lecture; FitzRoy knew what he was. On the other hand he didn't want Norfolk or anyone else to claim the boy had come under an immoral influence. After all, because he was a foreigner, he would be the first to be blamed. He would have to speak to Harry about that, but not now. The boy attending the counter arrived at that moment.
FitzRoy asked the price of the rattle. The boy, who was perhaps a year or two older than FitzRoy looked at his clothes, at Denoriel's, at the two guardsmen, carefully watching the crowd and blocking access to the boy, and named a sum. FitzRoy laughed and named another, about one-third what the apprentice had suggested and added some pithy comments about not thinking him a lamb fit for fleecing.
The apprentice blinked in shock. Noblemen did not chaffer—although they were not above seeing something they wanted and sending a servant to bargain for it. That was the safest way to do business.
Dealing in person with a noble was chancy. One could ask a fair price and hope he or she would recognize that and pay without argument. But noblemen were suspicious and might demand a still lower price. One could ask too high a price and hope the customer would pay, being too ignorant—the mistake he had made with this boy—too proud, or too careless of money to care . . . and not vicious enough to complain to the alderman or guildmaster. But chaffer?
The apprentice's mouth opened and closed. He glanced at the older man, who was standing by, his face expressionless and his arms folded across his chest.
"You needn't look at him," FitzRoy said with a grin. "He'd give you that ridiculous price, but I won't, so either take my money or name a price you'd like better."
Spurred into action by the amusement in FitzRoy's voice, the apprentice took a chance of scorning FitzRoy's offer. He said he could see that FitzRoy wished to drive his master into beggary so that he and all the other members of the merchant's household would starve. He moaned and complained, inching down in his price, and FitzRoy pointed out imperceptible flaws in the rattle, complained of its tone, belittled it in every way he could.
In just over a quarter of an hour, with the participants flushed and invigorated, a price was agreed upon. FitzRoy pulled his purse out of the bosom of his doublet and paid. The rattle was carefully wrapped, a slip of cloth passed through the slits so it would not chime, and Gerrit put the packet into his gown, tied to his belt for security.
When they were clear of the shop, Denoriel asked, "Where did you learn that?" and gave in to the laughter that had been struggling for release.
"Mostly from Ladbroke. I often go with him when he buys for the stable. Sometimes from Dunstan and Bethy. They used to take me to the faires that came to buy me toys and some other things. Was it wrong, Denno?"
Denoriel laughed again. "Not when you are with me or just with your servants, but if you do that in Lord Henry's presence or George Boleyn's or most other noblemen, they will look down their noses at you for being common."
FitzRoy sighed. "I had a feeling from the apprentice's face that I was doing wrong. But it was so much fun, Denno. Much more fun than just paying and knowing I'd been cheated."
"Have your fun, my lad. I won't betray you"
Having surreptitiously squeezed Denoriel's hand, FitzRoy took full advantage of the permission given. He bought a handsome brooch and gold and silver embroidery thread for Mistress Bethany; he bought silver buckles for his guardsmen's shoes; he bought silk kerchiefs for the maids who served him in Pontefract and Sheriff Hutton; he bought a truly beautiful gold chain for Dunstan, a magnificent belt for Ladbroke, and a fine one with a silver buckle for Tolliver.
They had stopped for dinner midway. Shaylor had cleared a table at a cookshop for Denoriel and FitzRoy and they had eaten roast fowl, pork pasty, and beef stew and drunk mugs of ale sitting on rough wood benches at a splintery table in glorious vulgarity. The guardsmen ate standing even though FitzRoy invited them to sit with him and Denoriel. It was too hard to leap to one's feet and draw one's weapons, Gerrit explained, when one had one's legs under a table.
FitzRoy protested that an attack was extremely unlikely. Gerrit agreed, but, laughing, pointed out that life's way was seldom to afflict the prepared, but let a man put his legs under a table when he should be standing, and a riot would surely erupt.
Denoriel also laughed, but agreed, and the guardsmen ate on their feet, watching the crowd. But there was no attack. Nothing at all happened to spoil the day, and FitzRoy was shepherded to Denoriel's house where they all rested, drank more ale, and finally rode back to Norfolk's house exhausted but happy.
Shopping, however delightful, had not distracted FitzRoy from matters of more importance. The first words out of his mouth when they entered the withdrawing room where Norfolk awaited them had been to ask whether his father had sent a message. At that point, Norfolk had to confess that King Henry did not yet know his son had arrived. FitzRoy promptly demanded a message be sent, and Norfolk had to explain the plan to have FitzRoy come out of the "Fairy Mound" that was always presented by the first Lord of Misrule to the king.
Norfolk had not liked having Denoriel present when he explained, but Denoriel reminded him that he, Lord Denno, would be the Lord of Misrule that presented the Mound. When FitzRoy had reluctantly agreed to wait another five days to meet his father—after Denoriel had promised to take him to the East Chepe and the shops on London Bridge—he had asked for a refilling of his purse. Norfolk began a lecture on foolish expenditures, but had to acknowledge that FitzRoy had a good price for what he bought, and Denoriel completed his rout by offering to fund FitzRoy's future purchases.
Thus, the next day—Lord Henry still having not arrived—Denoriel took FitzRoy by boat to the foot of Gracechurch Street, from where it was an easy walk to the East Chepe. Another halcyon day passed, but Lord Henry was waiting for them, sour from a furious lecture by his father and irritable because FitzRoy had obviously had a wonderful time. He sneered at FitzRoy's "common" entertainment and promised to show him some gentleman's diversions the next day.
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."