Norfolk and his family-party arrived in Greenwich several days before Christmas and hustled FitzRoy into a cold apartment at the very end of the east wing of the palace. To his surprise, by the afternoon of the second day after their arrival, he had Lord Henry to keep him company, and not a sullen Lord Henry who had been ordered to do an unpleasant duty but a Lord Henry who seemed to regard their chilly and under-furnished apartments as a haven.
That afternoon soon after he arrived in the apartment, Henry announced that they had better concentrate on dancing. He played for his pupil himself, saying that he wished to spare FitzRoy any embarrassment from strange watchers, and since FitzRoy was in complete agreement with that sentiment, he readily agreed. Although FitzRoy was aware that Lord Henry wanted to be "better" than FitzRoy himself, he also sensed that Henry was really rather fond of him, and would protect him from the scorn of others. Fortunately the swordplay that had made FitzRoy graceful and quick on his feet had also taught him to memorize movements and hand gestures, so Henry had an apt pupil. Still Henry's brow was creased with a frown and his mouth down-turned with dissatisfaction, even while it uttered praise.
"What's wrong, Henry?" FitzRoy asked, when Henry had said FitzRoy had the dance thoroughly mastered and started to turn away. "Am I so utterly hopeless? If I am, I'd better tell your father. I suspect it would be worse to embarrass Lady Anne by tripping over her or stepping on her feet than to change the plan. Maybe I had better go to my father at once and allow Lady Anne to come out of the Mound—"
"No!" Lord Henry exploded. "That would make everything much worse. And you're not hopeless. You do that dance as well as I could. Why do you say you're hopeless?"
"Because you've been frowning and shaking your head and looking like you've bitten into a sour apple all afternoon and it's gotten worse and worse."
"That's nothing to do with you, Harry." Lord Henry was silent a moment, and then added, "You don't know what it's like in the public rooms and at the public feasts."
"Why? What's the matter?" A thrill of apprehension ran down FitzRoy's back. "The king isn't sick, is he?"
"No, no. King Henry is very well. It's just . . . just . . ." His lips tightened and his jaw moved as his teeth clenched. Then he moved closer to FitzRoy and bent to speak in a murmur directly into his ear. "Everyone misses the queen."
"Everyone?"
Lord Henry nodded. "Even my father and I and Lord Wiltshire. . . ." He bit his lip. "It's like there's a big hole in the middle of the floor, and everyone walks around it without mentioning it . . . but it's there. She . . . she wasn't bright or gay or really part of the fun, but . . ."
"I see." FitzRoy nodded understanding. "That was why your father said I was supposed to come out of the Mound, so that my father would be surprised enough to forget everything else and have someone of his own family to be with him."
"Yes, well, I think it would have been better if you went to him as soon as you arrived, but Anne . . ." Lord Henry shook his head. "It's all of a muddle, I fear. Politics is only part of it. I want the king to have a male heir as much as anyone and, naturally, it would be greatly to my benefit if Anne were queen and brought him that heir, but just now there is such an atmosphere of discomfort . . ."
"Come into my rooms," FitzRoy said, "they're a little warmer and Dunstan managed to get me some really good wine. I know I won't be able to help, but I won't talk to anyone about what you say—I swear it—and talking might make you feel better."
Lord Henry sighed, looked for a moment as if he would refuse, and then said, "For this, my thanks. And maybe these are things you should hear."
He began by talking about Christmas at court, beginning with Queen Catherine's piety and her reluctant yielding to her husband's desire for pleasure. Thus in the court, the eve of Christmas had always been given over to religious celebration in which the king took enthusiastic part, but the next twelve days were for making merry and giving gifts—about which the king was even more enthusiastic. The queen never cared much for the Lords of Misrule and the coarse games they played, but she accepted the bawdy merrymaking as she had always accepted anything the king desired.
Now for the first time in over twenty years, the queen and her ladies were absent. That absence left an uncomfortable void, and one that Anne Boleyn could not fill. To put her in the queen's place would outrage many in the court. But there was a further danger for Anne, for to put her beside the king would also imply that she was "wife" in terms of consummation. And above all, that was an impression she must not give publicly.
They talked about it and FitzRoy explained what he was supposed to do when he came out of the Mound. Lord Henry hmm'd and bit his lip and finally advised that, regardless of Anne's feelings, FitzRoy had better go first to his father. "You can then beg him to let you dance with the worthiest, the fairest, and purest maiden in his court, and then you can go to Anne and ask her to dance."
FitzRoy looked admiringly at Lord Henry. "I' faith, I like that much better than what your father told me to say. It doesn't sound so made-up. I can make that sound as if I truly mean it. But do you think Lady Anne will be angry enough to refuse to dance with me?"
Lord Henry laughed. "After you've publicly called her worthiest, fairest, and purest? And with the king watching, filled with joy over being newly united with his son? Not likely."
FitzRoy, although none too happy about incurring Anne's anger and, perhaps, a lasting spite, agreed. He thought it wrong to ask Anne to dance before he greeted the father he had not seen for so many years. Still, he had little enough appetite for his evening meal and he slept restlessly, twice waking in a cold sweat from dreams of being pursued by angry harridans.
He woke late and sluggishly and, unhappy with his own company, asked Lord Henry to join him at breakfast. Neither of them had much to say. Henry finally suggested that FitzRoy practice his dancing one more time. They were so engaged when Dunstan brought in Lord Denno, who wanted to know at once the reason for such glum faces.
"If you can't dance, Harry, you can't." Lord Denno said, warmly. "Don't worry. I'll think of something."
"No, Lord Denno, he can dance," Lord Henry said. "At least he can do the one dance he'll need to do with Lady Anne, but—" and then, despite his earlier disparagement of Denno, the foreign merchant, possibly not even deserving of his notice, he blurted out his uneasiness over the feeling in the court and what he and FitzRoy had decided to do.
Denoriel shook his head. "I am the last person to advise you. For one thing, I know little of the court, and for another, I've been far too busy to take the temper of the Lady Anne's feelings. But I should say, Lord Henry, that I would trust your instincts. If I were the king, no matter how fond I was of my lady, I would be hurt if my son ran to her instead of to me after our long separation. But put that aside. His Grace knows both choices. I am sure His Grace will know what to do when he actually steps out of the Mound. What I've come for is to show him the hall and the Mound and how the mechanism that opens it works."
He had instant and fervent acceptance of his offer and they all went down to the main floor and then trailed through the building to the Great Hall. This was closed with guards before the doors, but Denoriel led them to what looked like a stable off to the left. There were no horses within and the floor had been carefully cleaned. In the middle sat . . . FitzRoy gaped at what looked like a small grassy hill.
Lord Henry only gave it a single glance. He had seen it often before. Nonetheless, he followed eagerly when Lord Denno picked up a lantern, lit it, and then pulled at what looked like a small bush, which permitted him to lift away a panel through which they entered. There would be room for ten to fifteen people, FitzRoy thought, depending on how tightly they could be packed.
The curved ceiling and walls, which ran into each other, were painted dark blue on which appeared many silvery stars. Here and there hung light-green gauze curtains on which were painted trees with flowers at their roots.
Denoriel gestured to Nyle and Dickson to move right and left and directed them together to press down on the levers attached to the wall. When they did, a split appeared in the center of the Mound directly ahead and the walls slid back smoothly. Denoriel set the lantern down on the floor and beckoned everyone out, then told them to turn and look back.
FitzRoy gasped and tears stung his eyes. For a moment he felt as if he were looking out from the Gate at Elfhame Logres into the dim twilight in which one could make out only a distant vista of large trees, the ground carpeted with nearly colorless flowers. But he could not speak. Whatever it was that had touched him when he stood before King Oberon in Llachar Lle still bound him to silence.
Denoriel gripped his shoulder and explained that he would hold the place just before the central opening; Nyle and Dickson would work the levers and he would step out. There would be a loud bang and thick, colored smoke—the trick he had had Sir Edward copy, only the smoke would be thicker because he knew better how to work the trick. His eyes met Harry's and Harry nodded. He understood that true magic would thicken the smoke and enhance the color, but that did not matter.
FitzRoy was warned not to tear the gauze curtains, not to move until most of the smoke cleared, and not to fall down the steps, which were hidden in green cloth that had cut loops protruding from it so that it really looked like grass. The cloth also hid the wheels on which the Mound rolled. It would be pulled into the Great Hall by six royal guards dressed as wild men, their swords concealed in their fur robes.
Then Denoriel led them out, carefully closing the stable doors behind him. A guard stepped out of a small shelter and Denoriel nodded at him. The guards in front of the Great Hall, stepped aside for Denoriel, and he shepherded Lord Henry and FitzRoy and FitzRoy's ever-present personal guards into the chamber. All of them stopped just inside the doorway, staring first out and then upward and then around at the busy crowd rushing this way and that, carrying and dragging great bundles of greenery.
The hall was more than forty feet long and perhaps twenty-five wide and the arched and beamed ceiling soared up a full two floors. Large as the chamber was, it was well lit near the middle of the day by large glassed windows between the arches. And it would be as well lit after the dark of the short winter's day had fallen by the huge chandeliers that hung from every cross beam and the candelabra that were fixed to the walls.
Because of its height and width, it was not as noisy as one might expect from the activity. Men perched on high ladders attaching swathes of ivy and branches of pine and hemlock to the beams. Others hung precariously over the railings of the balcony that ran around the far end of the Hall over the dais, hanging bay and holm, more ivy and mistletoe, which would permit the king to steal a kiss or two from any maiden coming near.
"Your Grace," Denoriel said—apparently not for the first time from his tone of voice. "The Mound will be drawn forward to between that second pair of windows facing the dais. The king will be seated on a throne in the center. Lady Anne will be standing just to his right, at the foot of the dais."
"Yes. I was supposed to start toward the king and then, as if I caught sight of her and was irresistibly attracted, I was to turn aside and ask her to dance." He shook his head. "I won't do that—as if a pretty girl were enough to distract me from my father."
Although he had made up his mind and was not tempted to change it, FitzRoy was still uneasy about Lady Anne's reaction. He had gone to considerable trouble to make a good impression on her and had, he thought, succeeded. But it made no difference. It felt wrong to be turned aside from his king and his father to flatter a woman.
So the rest of the day passed and the next day was taken up with going to church and trying on clothing and costume. Still if FitzRoy had known the effort Lady Anne was putting into her appearance for that moment, he would have been even more uneasy.
On Christmas day, an hour before Lady Anne Boleyn went down to the Great Hall, Lady Lee and Lady Alana, both stood examining her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Lady Lee merely looked with fatuous fondness. Lady Alana nodded curtly, and Anne sighed softly.
She knew she was pushing the limit in her dress. Her hair was not hidden completely beneath cap-and-gable headdress. The band and headdress were there, but had been pushed back to sit on the crown of her head, exposing the rich mass of her hair, parted in the center, smooth and shining. The gable itself was sewn with pearls on two golden bands and raised up on a base of stiffened buckram. That was normal, and when it sat forward on the head it merely framed the face; pushed back as Anne had set it, it hinted at a crown.
Her gown was rich nearly to ostentation, saved only by the color, which was a quiet mulberry. It was the only thing that was quiet. The square neck was bordered by a thin band of gold lace set with tiny garnets. Around her neck was an elaborate necklace of cunningly worked gold interspersed with larger garnets and from the center hung down a pendant, also worked gold, set with three dark rubies. A longer chain of garnet-set gold made a wider circle around her neck, dipping into the front of her gown to lie on her breasts. Around the outside of the square neckline, on her shoulders, lay three more chains of gold, and from the center of the neckline hung a heavy gold pendant, a conjoined AB with another large ruby dropping below.
Alana nodded again. "In a general way, I would say it was too much, but for today, when it is very important for the king's attention to be riveted upon you—"
"You think the boy is a danger to me?" Anne asked.
Alana laughed softly, which softened her otherwise solemn expression. "Oh, no. Not at all. I think he will be helpful and will put Princess Mary completely out of his father's mind. But—everything is different this Christmas, so if the king should think of Lady Catherine, let his eyes come to you and tell him how rich a prize he has in exchange."
In so much Lady Alana seemed to have judged correctly. When Anne entered the Great Hall it was too crowded already for the king to see her at once, but she saw the uneasy movement in those who approached the dais and when she reached it herself she saw the petulant droop of her Henry's mouth. She knew how to deal with his petulance, but there was something else, a kind of sadness for something lost, in his small blue eyes. Anne swallowed a sharp remark and smiled and held out her hand.
She was relieved when she saw admiration replace petulance, and she stepped up onto the dais and leaned down to kiss his cheek. Then, laughing, she kissed his other cheek. He looked surprised. Anne was not often so demonstrative. Then she looked up above his head and seemed to count, and at last bent lower and kissed his lips, explaining that there were no less than three bunches of mistletoe over his head. "I must needs pay the sweet forfeit thrice, you see," she explained.
King Henry laughed, and seeing him pacified, the parade of courtiers began again. Before those pressing about him with good wishes could thin, trumpets sounded, the great doors were flung open, and Denoriel came through, flourishing a golden staff from the head of which came a sizzling noise and popping little stars of brilliance. He wore a tall pointed hat, all hung with arcane symbols and a black robe on which glittered more symbols. Then he pointed the staff at the doors; there were gasps of surprise and a few small cries of fear when everyone realized that the courtyard was no longer visible. Beyond the doors was nothing but blackness.
Another flourish of the staff. The blackness was gone and the Fairy Mound appeared, drawn by groaning and cavorting wild men, each of whom were followed by another in fantastic garb, cracking a whip. Behind the Mound, the doors closed. The staff pointed. In the balcony above the dais, musicians struck up a lively melody. Denoriel approached the throne, his magician's staff lowered so that its glowing knob trailed on the ground in submission.
As the Mound approached, Denoriel backed away from the king until he stood near the center. He swung the staff, striking the Mound with a resounding crash. A huge billow of smoke gushed from the broken head of his staff, enveloping him. Denoriel muttered the Don't-see-me spell and stepped quietly away. As the smoke dissipated, the Mound cracked open. Sighs and murmurs of astonishment passed through the crowd as they seemed to look into a moon-lit, tamed forest of great trees and pale flowers.
Before the falseness of that vision could become apparent, FitzRoy leapt out of the Mound with ten courtiers behind him. All wore leaf-green hose topped with tunics of various light and bright colors. The tunics, square-necked, worn over white shirts with high collars, came to mid-thigh and were double-sleeved, the undersleeve, tight to the arm, of the same leaf-green as the hose, the oversleeve wide and trailing with dagged hems.
FitzRoy paused and looked around; behind him the courtiers made a low, musical sound of awe and pointed. FitzRoy looked ahead at the dais and cried out, "Father!" and ran.
King Henry, who had been watching the performance with unalloyed pleasure, started at FitzRoy's voice. The boy had reached him and fallen to his knees before Henry could rise.
"Harry?" he said uncertainly.
FitzRoy looked up, tears marking his cheeks. "Yes, Your Majesty, Harry . . . your son."
The king pulled the boy up from his knees and into his arms. "Harry!" He bussed FitzRoy soundly on one cheek and then on the other, then pushed him a little away so he could look at him. "You have grown so much. I almost did not know you."
FitzRoy took the king's hand and kissed it without reply. What could he say? That it had been years since his father had tried to see him? He would sound resentful, and he was not, not really. Denno had told him over and over that the separation was more for his own safety than because of political problems.
"I was worried about you," the king added, frowning. "I knew when you started for London, and guessed about when you should have arrived but when I asked for you all my accursed councilors would tell me was that the roads were terrible and you were delayed."
"They were. I was." FitzRoy grinned. "But I have been here a few days. Everyone thought a day or two more or less would not matter if you could have a pleasant surprise for Christmas. Was it a pleasant surprise?"
King Henry kissed him and laughed. "I was surprised all right. That magician . . . My hair stood up when he smashed that scepter and the smoke rose. And then he vanished." He looked around. "Where is he?"
"It's all tricks," FitzRoy whispered into his father's ear. "He is a very nice man and later he'll show everyone how the tricks are done. If you will be good enough to grant me an audience, Your Majesty, I can tell you all about him. And I have so much more to tell you, but now—" FitzRoy straightened up and raised his voice "—now I wish to beg you to allow me to ask Lady Anne Boleyn, the most worthy, the loveliest, and the purest maiden in this company, to dance with me in your name."
The crowd had been hushed while FitzRoy clung to and talked with his father. Now his voice rang clear through the hall. The courtiers, who had followed him out of the Mound and had been standing in graceful poses, raised their arms, their trailing sleeves falling back to show bright contrasting linings. With raised arms, they circled twice on the floor before the Mound and then opened their circle and flowed toward where Lady Anne stood stiff and silent at the edge of the dais. They bowed. They made an aisle through which, having received his father's laughing permission, FitzRoy made his way to his partner.
He swept off his cap and flourished it as he bowed, its long, brightly colored plume sweeping the floor. For a moment he thought Anne would refuse him, but Henry, laughing still, begged that she would not refuse him, else he would be forced to die of shame, and she held out her hand. The musicians struck up just the tune Lord Henry had played. FitzRoy made a wide, slow circle in the space before the Mound, giving plenty of time for the watchers to bow to Anne.
They did the first figure of the dance alone, which gave FitzRoy time, when he and Anne came together, to apologize. "Lady Anne, I am so sorry," he said, "I know that I have spoiled what was planned, but when I saw my father—" Tears came to his eyes, and he blinked them away. "I have not seen him for so long! I was overpowered by my desire to greet him." Tears came to his eyes again as he begged her to forgive him.
She said she forgave him; whether her words had meaning or not, FitzRoy did not know . . . and did not much care. All he could think about was being with his father again, being with him in private to talk as a son did with his father.
The rest of the evening's revels—or as much of it as FitzRoy was permitted to attend—passed in a kind of hectic dream. He watched the dancers, listened to the musicians, even danced a bit more himself. He knew that he ate and drank, but could not recall the taste of anything. And long before the revels were over, Lord Henry was sent by Norfolk to take him back to his own chambers, where he dreamed that he was riding with his father through an elven forest.
Normally such a hope would have been doomed to disappointment, but in a fit of pique because some of his council were still resisting his claim to be supreme head of the English church, King Henry had put aside all business until Twelfth Night. His own slight uneasiness about what he was doing, made him reluctant to spend his time in religious reading or writing or disputation. Those two accustomed pursuits temporarily ended left a gap in his morning activities into which FitzRoy just fit.
His open joy at being with his father was very soothing to both of them. Henry asked questions and got answers that were very pleasing. FitzRoy was just the kind of boy that Henry liked—a hard rider in the hunting field, a good shot with a bow, and a serious student of the sword. The crown was set on the king's approval when FitzRoy admitted that he was no hand at tennis at all. They had not had a court in either Sheriff Hutton or Pontefract and his tutor had been reluctant, he admitted, to provide another distraction to his already reluctant scholar.
Although he was a fine scholar himself, Henry laughed heartily over his son's confession. He remembered being much less enamored of books and lessons when he, himself, had been the boy's age. Moreover the deprivation provided the king with the pleasure of introducing and instructing his son in one of his favorite games.
Again FitzRoy's practice in swordplay came to his aid. He was quick with eye and hand and soon mastered the correct moves. And again his age and incomplete growth saved him from winning against the older, more corpulent king. His aim was accurate enough, but he had not the strength to drive the ball far, so many of his strokes fell short of the net. He did not mind losing at all; the king praised him for learning so well, put the right reason on his failure . . . and had the joy of winning the game.
All in all FitzRoy spent a lot of time with his father over the twelve days, and when the question was raised about the boy traveling back north, the king quashed the suggestion at once. No traveling until the roads were dry and the weather settled, King Henry said. He had been frightened enough when his son had been so long in coming. He was taking no chances on losing him on the way back. The northern properties were in the capable hands of the councilors. Harry should stay with the court.
For a month or so, FitzRoy was very happy. As the king reluctantly returned to the business of ruling, FitzRoy saw less of him, but he did ride with his father on the almost daily hunts and was praised highly for his horsemanship. Also, King Henry found pleasure in an occasional game of tennis and a cozy chat while they cooled off and drank some ale, and Harry was often called to stand beside his father—with Anne on the other side—when courtiers were received.
FitzRoy got along well enough with Anne. He was deferential to her and showed that he enjoyed her presence and conversation. She was bright and witty, and even when he occasionally felt she had gone too far in making one of the courtiers the butt of her wit, he kept his disapproval from his face. She was less satisfied with his company, he was sure, but he knew it had nothing to do with him. She simply did not like anyone, even someone who approved of her, drawing away the king's attention.
Moreover, more of the courtiers than Anne had begun to notice the king's growing affection for his baseborn son. This man and that made excuses to talk to or ride with FitzRoy, and most of them had ideas they wished transmitted to the king. Now Lord Henry was very useful and helpful—when FitzRoy could reach him. Lord Henry had a group of friends and often went off with them to pursue private amusements. FitzRoy compromised by telling his father he had been approached by this man and that and repeating what they wanted. Mostly the king laughed, but it all made FitzRoy uncomfortable. He did not want to anger anyone, and yet, it seemed that no matter what he did, unless he was very careful, he would have to anger someone. That was the part of being a diplomat he had not sufficiently considered.
By the end of February, FitzRoy was heartily tired of the court and was aware that he had seen nothing of Denno. He wanted most sincerely to be back in the snow-heaped quiet of Sheriff Hutton or Pontefract talking quietly with Denno and drinking hot cider before a roaring fire, but he could not bring himself to tell his father he wanted to leave him.
Finally he caught Lord Henry, on a flying visit to court, who grinned and said, "Don't! Go tell Lady Anne. She wants to be rid of you as much as you want to be gone. She'll think of something."
When Anne agreed to receive him alone, he told her how tired he was of being at court. First she regarded him suspiciously and accused him of wanting to get her into trouble with the king. But after he had denied this vehemently, he could see that she was beginning to consider the benefits of his suggestion. Finally she said that she could not ask he be sent back to Sheriff Hutton, not over winter roads. That would sound as if she were hoping ill would befall him.
"And I don't," she said, stroking his cheek carelessly. "You are a very nice boy. I don't want any harm to come to you . . . but I would prefer it if I could talk to Henry more often without you right beside us."
"Could I have a house of my own, say, in London? If I weren't right here, so a page could run and fetch me . . ."
"A house of your own in London, close by nearly all of Henry's favorite places, even Whitehall?" Anne pursed her lips and then nodded. "That is no bad thought. Then no one could say I was trying to keep you apart." Slowly she smiled. "Well, why not? There are several residences right here in the city that are too small for the king himself. He uses them occasionally to house diplomats on short missions . . . Why not?"
FitzRoy returned to his apartments, feeling that he had truly won Anne Boleyn as an ally.
Anne watched the boy leave, feeling that for now, at least, she had truly won the king's bastard as an ally. And the longer this went on, the less likely it was that he would change his mind, or be won over to another faction. She was still troubled, however, that the king would suspect her of trying to be rid of the son who was giving him so much pleasure. She talked that over with her two intimates and Lady Alana who was usually silent on every subject except clothing, lifted her nothing face and smiled.
"His health, madam," she suggested in her soft voice. "Speak to the king of the boy's health. Surely it is not common for boys of twelve to be so constantly at court, to have so many late hours and so few times of quiet."
Lady Anne smiled; she was beginning to treasure her odd lady-in-waiting for more than her expert hand with costume. Lady Alana had a shrewd mind, and was often able to concoct a means by which Anne could get something she wanted while casting herself in the best possible light.
This particular suggestion would not only allow her to appear concerned about FitzRoy's health, it would allow her to appear maternal. . . .
The ploy was so successful—FitzRoy having caught on the first time his father asked him how he was feeling and admitted to some fatigue—that by the end of March the king had signed over to FitzRoy's possession Baynard's Castle, near the river south of St. Paul's. And, to FitzRoy's secret delight, not far at all from Denno's house on Bucklersbury.
He was so profoundly grateful when the king told him, that Henry, rather hurt, said, "Are you tired of my company so soon, Harry?"
Whereupon FitzRoy threw manners and protocol to the winds and threw his arms around his father's neck. "Of your company, Sire? Never! When I am with you, I am always at ease and happy. I never need to watch each word out of my mouth for fear I will say something someone will misunderstand or, even worse, take as a promise. I love you, father, but I am wearied and yet I cannot sleep, when I am pulled this way and that and importuned . . ."
The king returned the boy's hug and then patted him on the shoulder. "I understand all too well," he said, but he was still resentful, and added, "but I do not see what good living in a house apart from the court will do you."
"My servants can say I am not at home," FitzRoy answered promptly. "To any except your messengers and possibly Lord Henry, mostly I will be denied. If I am not at home to anybody, no one can be offended, and if they can't get in, they can't talk at me."
The king stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and burst into gales of laughter, and FitzRoy knew that all was well.