Baynard's Castle was actually no longer a castle. The stronghold of a twelfth century rebel lord, it had been razed to the ground and a handsome, commodious house built over its old cellars by the seventh Henry, the current Henry's father. However, what had been commodious in the previous century was cramped in terms of royal guesthouses now; embassies from one king to another had grown far more elaborate.
Henry's council thus felt it would be a good thing to get the expense of maintaining the house off the king's rolls, and it would do well enough for a ducal residence. There were much grander ones—some on the council owned them—but Richmond was not quite thirteen years old. He could add to Baynard's or build a grander house when he was a man.
Long before FitzRoy had been gifted with Baynard's Castle, the remainder of his servants and his baggage had finally made their way to Greenwich. There was no room for them with half the nobility of the kingdom squeezed into the area and no need for them either. Under-grooms and under-valets and a bevy of maids had been appointed from the overflow of such servants on the king's staff.
Norfolk had found FitzRoy's own people various lodgings in London, but they felt idle and lost and feared they would be dismissed. When Ladbroke and Dunstan arrived with the news that FitzRoy had a residence of his own, they were all overjoyed and hastened to move into the castle to make it ready. If Norfolk had intended to appoint a new staff for FitzRoy, he never had the chance.
By then FitzRoy himself would not have cared if Baynard's Castle was a hovel, and he fled to the cold, empty house only two days after the deed was delivered to him. He had barely escaped from going with the king to Hampton Court. Henry had said the house could not possibly be ready—and he was right—but FitzRoy was now desperate for a safe haven. Fortunately an encounter with an aggressive, opportunistic woman rescued him. She was importuning him with so much warmth to come and meet her daughter, that in his efforts to escape he had backed up right into the king's arms.
That was enough. King Henry knew he could not watch his son every minute and he had no intention of allowing twelve-year-old Harry to be trapped into any compromising situation—not with his own situation being so ambiguous. He gave permission for his son to depart the court. FitzRoy found only two rooms warm and furnished, his bedchamber and the kitchen. He did not care a bit and he wept with joy as he was folded into Mistress Bethany's arms and again when only half an hour later Denoriel, alerted by Ladbroke, appeared in the doorway.
"I thought I'd lost you," he sobbed, holding tight to the Sidhe. "I tried and tried to think of a way to invite you to come to me, but I never could. And when I asked for you outright, Norfolk said it was time to break our connection, that I had my father and you were no longer necessary. I was afraid you would think that, having been welcomed by the king, I no longer cared for you."
Denoriel laughed and hugged the boy hard. "No, no. What with all those under-grooms the king provided for you, Ladbroke had plenty of time to ride to London and let me know what was happening. Still, I missed you, Harry." He ruffled the boy's hair and laughed again. "But your father or his council could not have chosen a better place. Did you know there are deep cellars below the house, part of the old castle that was here?"
"Cellars?"
"Yes, my boy, and you are going to become an expert on wine, so no one will be surprised if you are occasionally met coming out of the cellar at odd times of day or evening. Nor will it be thought odd if a close friend, who buys wine for you, is seen coming and going from the cellar."
A Gate! FitzRoy thought. Denno's going to put a Gate right into my cellar. Will he take me Underhill again at night when no one will miss me? He could not say any part of his thoughts, but his rather dull brown eyes fairly glowed bright hazel, showing sparks of gold and green.
For two more weeks FitzRoy lived in a cheerful disorder, taking his meals in the kitchen and spending most of his time directing the placement of furniture sent by some deputy of the king's steward. Then, with his house clean and furnished, with every fireplace in the building flaming high, life returned to what FitzRoy considered normal. He was more comfortable, of course, able to sprawl on comfortable chairs in a withdrawing room and be warm away from the kitchen ovens or his down covered bed, but there were disadvantages too.
He was again dining in lonely splendor instead of having slapdash meals in the busy kitchen—until Masters Croke and Palsgrave returned from their leaves. FitzRoy sighed. He liked both Croke and Palsgrave; they were fond of him and did their best to make his lessons interesting, only their return meant that lessons began anew.
A small respite occurred when Sir Edward returned from his leave. At least that ended Master Croke's and Master Palsgrave's attempts to hold dinner-table conversations in Latin and introduced instead the subject of setting up FitzRoy's stable, which was enjoyable. Unfortunately, Sir Edward was too prone to defer to the tutors.
On the days when Lord Henry came, sometimes bringing a friend or two, there was further relief. Lord Henry would have none of Latin and little of court gossip too. He talked of the hunt and other sport. Some days Denno came too. It was amazing, FitzRoy thought with his experience at court behind him, how elegant Denno was. He made Sir Edward appear rough, Lord Henry look callow. Only the tutors, although not so elegantly clad, held up well by comparison.
Lessons or no lessons, FitzRoy was now happier than ever. He was summoned to court periodically so he did see his father, but living so near he only stayed for the event in which he was to take part. Anne was glad to see him for a day or two now and again. The king was pleased by their obvious ease with each other—his two dearest, he called them. The weather improved as April passed and May began, but no one suggested that FitzRoy should go back north, certainly not FitzRoy himself.
Time was set aside for his lessons—he could not avoid them and did not wish his father to hear he was so busy enjoying himself that he would not study. But he was enjoying himself; Lord Henry generally included him when he and his friends went to see a cockfight, or a bull- or bear-baiting, and Denno took him to the docks and showed him the wonder of strange people from distant lands and the cargoes their ships carried.
Truth was that, while May edged into June, FitzRoy was utterly indifferent to the open talk about the king marrying Lady Anne without the pope's permission. He had long accepted the idea; when he was pressed, he said so and added that his only interest in the matter was that Lady Anne made his father happy and likely would breed him a fine male heir.
There were other rumors, that after a period of coldness between England and France, the king was hoping to bring about a new rapprochement with King Francis—one that would include Francis's support for Henry's divorce from Catherine and remarriage to Lady Anne. The rumors increased with the growing weakness of Archbishop Warham, who opposed the king's statement of supremacy over the English Church and his divorce and remarriage unless sanctioned by the pope.
"So, what do your crystals say, Master Fagildo Otstargi? Do they agree with most of the court that the king will seize the Church and marry Mistress Anne as soon as Warham dies?"
There was some bitterness in Cromwell's mellifluous voice and the threat in his eyes to any other, who had not Pasgen's ability to reduce the man to a mindless puppet, would have been terrifying. Only Pasgen knew he dared not make a puppet of Cromwell. It was only by virtue of the man's knowledge of the king and court, of his devious mind and remarkable ability to manipulate people, that Pasgen was able to manage so much of what happened around King Henry without ever awakening a flicker of suspicion of occult influence.
Cromwell had been right and Pasgen wrong about how to save himself when Wolsey fell. Cromwell had been right about the result of trying to tax—no matter the tax was called an amicable grant—without Parliament. He had been right about a lot of things. It was galling to need to reason and wheedle, but Pasgen knew that if he did not succeed in getting Anne into Henry's bed so that the red-haired babe would be born a bastard, he was going to need Cromwell even more when they had to destroy Anne.
Unfortunately there were some things of which Cromwell was simply unaware. Because of subtle friction between Norfolk and Wiltshire on the one hand, and Cromwell on the other, for example, the duke and the earl did not always acquaint the still-common privy councilor with all their plans. They were glad enough to use him, but they did not consider him an equal. That was how that accursed bastard FitzRoy had been summoned to court before Pasgen could induce Cromwell to prevent the idea from being presented to the king.
So there FitzRoy was, as dutiful a son as any man could desire, healthy, strong—the ideal heir . . . except that he was not legitimate. His presence was a constant reminder to the king that he must not allow his desire to force Anne into his bed. And the stupid, mewling FitzRoy had Oberon's mark on him and could not simply be wiped away.
Pasgen restrained a sigh. Cromwell had been able to solve the problem of FitzRoy. When Pasgen pointed out that he must be got rid of and why and suggested that Cromwell order the boy back north, Cromwell had said flatly that his power did not yet reach so far. The king would never agree. What Cromwell had arranged through the council was for FitzRoy to be granted a house of his own right in London.
At least, Cromwell said, the boy was out of the court and not in his father's eye every hour. Pasgen agreed; the center of London had advantages for a boy just entering his salad years. All the taverns and arenas for sport would keep FitzRoy busy and introduce him to mortal vices. If FitzRoy took to gambling, drinking, and wenching, perhaps he would again be banished to the north.
Anyhow with that reminder of the cost of bastardy out of the king's way, Pasgen could again begin to direct Cromwell to making it worthwhile to Anne to yield up her virtue. Cromwell had been right again when he pointed out that ennobling and enriching her father and brother would not much influence her. It was time, Pasgen thought, to make grants to the witch herself. Surely when she was a noblewoman in her own right, not dependent on father or brother for her status, surely she would repay the king in the coin he desired.
A finger gesture had made certain that Cromwell was unaware of the long silence after his question concerning the marriage of Anne and Henry. Now Pasgen completed the gesture as he said, "My crystal shows Lady Anne wearing the mantle and coronet of a . . . of a nobleman."
Cromwell frowned. "You mean she was married to someone other than the king? I do not believe it!"
"No," Pasgen agreed. "I do not believe it either. And there is no man in my Vision. It is only of Lady Anne wearing a ermine-furred mantle and a coronet. Is it possible that the king could ennoble a woman in her own right? Is it possible?"
Cromwell's lips parted to say "no," but he did not utter the word. His brow furrowed. "The arrangements are all but made for a meeting between King Francis and King Henry at Calais and Boulogne. I know that the king plans to take Lady Anne with him and that she and Francis should meet. But would King Francis feel sufficiently honored to meet the mere daughter of an earl? Hmm. Perhaps I could whisper in the king's ear that it would be a compliment to King Francis if the lady had some title of her own to support her dignity."
Some weeks later Cromwell summoned Fagildo Otstargi again. He was very pleased with Master Otstargi. Far from being shocked by Cromwell's tentative suggestion that Lady Anne be raised to the nobility in her own right, the king had embraced his suggestion with enthusiasm. He complimented Cromwell on his clear perception of Anne's worth and said he would seek for a way to reward him.
By the end of July King Henry had found a suitable reward for his astute councilor. In addition to being master of the king's jewels, Cromwell was made keeper of the Hanaper of Chancery—a more powerful position. If Master Otstargi saw any more unlikely pictures in his crystals, Cromwell said, he should not hesitate to speak of them. Only that they would all soon go to France, Master Otstargi said, and that did not need a crystal to predict.
In August, Archbishop Warham died. The king was on progress and did not attend the funeral. The mourning in court was more like rejoicing among those who favored the king's remarriage. On September first, Henry met Anne in Windsor and conferred upon her the title of marquis (not marchioness because she held the title in her own right) and lands to the value of a thousand pounds a year to support her. Half the court believed that the creation and lands meant that Anne had yielded, but nothing in her behavior or the king's changed. Then toward the end of the month Henry demanded that all the queen's jewels be surrendered so Anne could wear them for Francis to see in France. It became apparent that whether or not Anne was warming the king's bed, Henry fully intended to marry her.
FitzRoy had turned thirteen in June. Denno gave him the most magnificent sword he had ever seen, made of a silver alloy that was harder than steel, its hilt ablaze with jewels. FitzRoy had no doubt that each and every one of the stones was invested with a spell, and despite the stones the hilt fit into his hand with a firmness that told him it would never slip, no matter if it were covered with sweat or blood.
Lord Henry gave him a handsome brooch, but more important to FitzRoy, Henry took him to one of the naughty masques in which the ladies—only they were not at all ladies—appeared in almost nothing. What more he introduced FitzRoy to FitzRoy kept to himself but Denoriel guessed and promptly countered by providing FitzRoy with a night in the company of a group of playful nymphs and dryads. The contrast with the drabs of London was enough, FitzRoy assured Denoriel, to keep him from becoming addicted to common whores.
In any case FitzRoy and Lord Henry, too, had little enough time to get into trouble. Almost as soon as the meeting with Francis was definitely arranged, the two young men were informed that they would attend the king. This would require serious study not only of the French degrees of nobility, but of the persons of the French court—and all of it had to be done in French. Utter fluency was required . . . and correct pronunciation too. Croke and Palsgrave were reinforced with a French duc from an impoverished but very old and honorable family.
There was scarcely time enough. By October tenth the court was at Dover; on the eleventh they took ship for France. When the meeting had first been discussed, there had been objections to the king crossing the narrow sea so near the evil storms of winter, but the crossing was perfect. In only four hours, King Henry was stepping ashore at Calais. It was only the third time in his life that Henry had been out of England, and Calais had mustered every adornment and entertainment it could find to welcome him and Anne.
FitzRoy and Lord Henry, fast friends now, were taking full advantage of what Calais offered. Knowing he would be far too busy to oversee his ward, Norfolk had commanded his son to see that the younger boy did not get into trouble. With Lord Henry's connivance, Denoriel had been added to FitzRoy's usual household as gentleman-usher. Over two thousand people had accompanied the king to France; no one was going to question the appropriateness of one more gentleman-usher.
By the nineteenth of October, King Francis had reached Boulogne; the very next day the kings set out for their well-planned meeting. Every move had been discussed and calculated, planned so that neither Henry or Francis should outdo the other.
No such considerations troubled Lord Henry or FitzRoy. They liked France. They liked the French. They were relieved that no one made fun of their accents and that they understood nearly everything that was said and could make the French nobles who were assigned to accompany them understand what they said. The five days the king spent in Boulogne were pure pleasure to them.
Neither cared that one part of Henry's plan had already failed. The only Frenchwoman of high enough birth willing to meet and greet Lady Anne was of such light virtue that Henry had to refuse. However, when Francis rode back to Calais with Henry, he personally greeted Anne with great warmth and was noted to have spent considerable time in her company, not only with Henry present but often enough with only her ladies and his gentlemen in attendance.
Francis genuinely liked Anne. Denoriel remarked to FitzRoy that she had probably done her cause more good with her witty conversation than Henry had with all his pomp and flattery. For whatever reason, before the meeting was over, Henry had assurances from Francis that he would use his uttermost influence to urge the pope to agree to the divorce.
The entire meeting had taken place in perfect weather. All the jousts and revels had escaped interruption by even a mild rainstorm; however, as soon as Francis parted from Henry at the edge of the English pale, the skies began to cloud and the wind began to rise. That night there was intense fog, and that fog lingered all the next day. Then the rain came pouring down and the wind drove behind it. Several ships that had set out for England were driven back on the French shore; one ship was lost.
Lord Henry and FitzRoy neither knew nor cared. With King Henry's permission, they had ridden south with King Francis, now part of the French king's court. Both young men, although FitzRoy was scarcely more than a boy, were to be trained and polished, fitted for their important roles in European society. Without even hinting about it, FitzRoy was taking his first steps toward his avowed aim of becoming a diplomat.
Denoriel was as amused and delighted as FitzRoy and Lord Henry. Miralys soon found an entrance to Elfhame Melusine and Denoriel went Underhill to pay his respects to King Huon and Queen Melusine. They were beautiful and powerful, both perfect representatives of High Court elven appearance, but not nearly so overwhelming as Oberon and Titania, and they were in greater accord with each other, which made for a more peaceful and happier court.
Aleneil was neither so satisfied nor so at ease. She and Lady Lee had fought a rearguard action to keep Anne out of Henry's bed, but they had failed. Twelve days of foul weather with nothing to do and nowhere to go had raised boredom to a peak. Twelve days of cramped quarters, which forced Anne and Henry into more proximity than they were accustomed to, which provided only their bedchambers for private talk at last overcame the barriers each had raised.
Anne had been accepted by the French king, and she knew he preferred her not only for personal but for political reasons, as she was not tied by blood to Spain and the emperor. She was reasonably sure Francis would make every effort he could to make the pope see reason. Moreover the king had gone so far—ennobling her, publicly giving her Catherine's jewels—not her personal jewels but the queen of England's jewels—bringing her with him to meet the king of France. She was sure that Henry would marry her. What a fool he would look if he tried to cast her off.
Henry also felt that political events were pushing the pope in his direction; Francis had offered to marry his second son to the pope's niece—a strong tie there. But even if Francis could not push the pope into agreeing to the divorce there was a lesser matter that he could forward. With Warham dead, an archbishop of Canterbury sympathetic to Henry's view that he, not the pope, ruled the Church of England was possible. And once that new archbishop was consecrated by the pope, Henry's marriage to Catherine could be reexamined by English clerics, in which case Henry was assured that the marriage would be declared null and void.
The king's party had finally managed to cross on the twelfth of November, although it was a horrible voyage of nearly a whole day and night. However, they arrived safely at Dover and rode back to London where there was a joyous thanksgiving in St. Paul's. Henry and Anne could each retire to their luxurious apartments to rest and think over what had occurred.
By then it was too late to preserve Anne's virginity, of course. Aleneil knew when Anne finally succumbed and knew too that the coupling had not been much of a pleasure from Anne's point of view. That, at least, Anne had sense enough to keep to herself, possibly even—as the soft-voiced Lady Alana advised as soon as she had a chance—had sense enough to cover with a false enthusiasm. In any case, Henry seemed happy enough and eager enough to seek more of the same even when there was no longer a forced propinquity.
By the middle of December, Anne was pregnant. That rumor flashed around the court like wildfire in a dry summer. Some said it was fed by Anne herself, or by her most intimate ladies, and Anne only laughed; she did not deny. On the twenty-fifth of January, in a very private ceremony, Anne and Henry were married. The marriage was kept secret for the time being, while Cranmer was proposed and, by the end of March, consecrated archbishop of Canterbury by the pope.
Only twelve days after receiving the pallium, Cranmer requested permission to examine the matter of the king's marriage and by the twenty-third of May Henry's marriage to Catherine was declared null and void, making his marriage to Anne valid and the child she was carrying legitimate. Six days after Cranmer's judgment was made public, Anne was crowned queen.
The coronation had been planned well in advance, of course. The archbishop considerately informed the king of each step in the examination of his marriage and an estimate of how long it would take. Thus it was possible to recall FitzRoy and Lord Henry from France in time to take part in the coronation. Denoriel had been about to slide away into obscurity as soon as his young companions were safe ashore, but to his dismay Norfolk was in the welcoming party.
Instead of a cold dismissal—which he was afraid would inspire an equally cold (or worse yet, a hot) rejoinder by FitzRoy—for at fourteen and with the experience of life in two sophisticated courts behind him, Harry was no one's boy any more—Norfolk seized upon him with expressions of delight.
"Lord Denno. Just the man I was hoping to see. I was going to ask Richmond whether he was still in touch with you—" those words caused a fleeting expression of dissatisfaction to flicker across Norfolk's face, but it was gone as soon as it came, and he continued "—so I could get your direction. I remember when you played King of Misrule the Christmas of '32. You are the man to create the spectacle we need to lead the water pageant for the queen's coronation."
Denoriel groaned aloud and without any pretense. "Your Grace, that was one small device to make a smoke. I am not a magician and the man from whom I learned the tricks is—"
"No matter. No matter. Then you made smoke. And I remember you made sparkles leap from the staff you carried. We need much the same—sparkles to fly from the torches of the wild men and flame to belch from the throat of a dragon. Come to me when you are returned to London so I can show you the boat that will carry the spectacle. You will, of course, let me know what help you will need."
Over the next two days as the party returned to London, Denoriel tried in vain to escape his fate. It was Lord Henry who saved his groats by introducing him to the producers of masques, who in turn led him to the artificers who created the spectacles for the masques. Fire-breathing dragons were all in a day's (or at least two weeks') work to them.
Since Denoriel could enhance the pitiful foot-long tongue of fire to several yards of brilliant pyrotechnic without even being near enough for the metal inside the mechanism to cause him discomfort, the show was a resounding success. His wild men waved their sparkling torches and their bellowing could be heard not only on the barges that followed his light wherry, but on both banks of the river. And the barges that followed, all fifty belonging to the great London guilds, were bright and glittering with bunting, gold foil, and silver bells.
They had four days of it, processions and pageants and people in the street. If there was no wild enthusiasm for Anne, there was no protest either. Free shows and free food were welcome on any account. It was, all in all, a much grander coronation than that of Catherine, and even more impressive than the celebration held for the visit of Charles V. To any observers, except perhaps the Imperial ambassador, it was clear that the king had had his way; Queen Anne had been crowned with the assent of the people.
Free of duty, after a few days' rest, FitzRoy and Lord Henry returned to France, but this time they knew they could not remain long. The queen was already big-bellied with the child she carried and it was said she would be delivered by the end of September. The ten weeks that the young men had were spent in a round of visits of farewell and hearty invitations to the friends they had made to come and visit them in England—FitzRoy at least had his own establishment in which to make them welcome.
FitzRoy also had a private reason for suspecting he would not soon return to France. He had become reacquainted with Lord Henry's younger sister Mary in Calais, where she had been one of Anne's ladies. And he had spent more time with her in London as they waited endlessly to rehearse their roles in the coronation events.
FitzRoy had found being with Mary very pleasant; he liked her soft voice and gentle manner and their ties as children made for easy conversation. She was pretty, too. Thus, when Norfolk had approached FitzRoy on whether he would be willing to have Mary to wife, he had asked for some days to think, had consulted Denno, and had agreed.
He understood that the marriage was primarily designed to declare publicly that he was no longer a possible choice for the throne. While there remained the possibility that his father would name him heir, marriages to French and Spanish princesses had been considered. To bind him to an English nobleman's daughter implied that he was no longer a bargaining chip.
A secondary purpose, which Denoriel pointed out, was to extend Norfolk's influence over him. The third duke of Norfolk was not particularly astute in his relations with people, but he had realized, Denoriel said, that he could no longer simply order FitzRoy to do anything. Harry had not only the king's ear but Lady Anne's as well. If Norfolk needed to direct Harry's behavior, it was easier to do so through a wife. FitzRoy had almost balked at that, but Denoriel laughed and said it was no bad thing, since messages could be transmitted both ways.
In general FitzRoy was not particularly enamored of the idea of being married—he was only fourteen years old and had been relishing his freedom—but he understood the political reasons. In addition he was as eager as his father, if not more eager, to see himself removed from the royal line.
As to the particular bride chosen for him, he was well enough pleased. He had seen most of the ladies of suitable birth, and Mary was the best of them.
Of course, no mortal woman could compare with the beauty of the elven ladies he had met Underhill. In truth, it was the elven ladies for whom he yearned, for whom, in dreams, his loins burned, of whom he thought when he needed to rouse his body. But he knew any hope of an elven lover was impossible. His life and his duty were here in the mortal world, and part of that duty was marriage to Mary.
It was not so terrible; actually it would be pleasant to have an agreeable constant companion in Baynard's castle to read with and talk with and play at cards with. FitzRoy said his good-byes in France and headed back to England cheerfully enough.
Lord Denno was waiting for him at Baynard's Castle and invited himself to dinner. They were alone, except for Sir Edward, who excused himself early to go out and notify some friends of his arrival.
"There is a plague among your wine casks," Denoriel said. "I will show you some surprising ways to amend it if you will come down into the cellars with me."
"With all my heart," FitzRoy replied, his eyes brightening. "Nothing is more of interest to me than learning more about my cellars."
In an arch behind one of the great tuns, the bricks were blurred by age and shadow and were quite solid—unless a Sidhe lord held one's hand. Then the shadow deepened to featureless black and if one's courage did not fail, one could step through. To Denoriel's eyes the black was not featureless. In it appeared a bright blue diamond with a round picture at each point. One was the silver trees and star mosaic of Elfhame Avalon Gate. That he chose.
Lady Aeron and Miralys were waiting. FitzRoy first bowed profoundly to the elvensteed and then threw his arms around her neck and kissed her muzzle. Denoriel suspected that Lady Aeron felt much the same affection for her rider; there was no need for her to have come. Miralys could have carried both of them the short distance to the great Mirror of the FarSeers.
Four ladies waited. FitzRoy slid down from Lady Aeron and bowed to each in turn. The eldest spoke to him.
"This is no new thing we are showing you, but a Vision that came to our youngest, the Lady Aleneil, more than eight of your years ago."
The lens rose and the first image that appeared was the face of the scowling red-haired babe. FitzRoy breathed "Henry" when he saw who held the child, but a sharp gesture silenced him and in the lens the different futures of the realm of Logres unfolded.
A breeze came up, seeming to blow away the pictures. It fluttered FitzRoy's hair so that the blue six-pointed star glittered and flashed on his forehead. Slowly the lens sank down again. Aleneil stepped forward.
She said to FitzRoy, "You understood?"
"That the red-haired child is linked to a golden future, yes. I understood that. And I understood, too, that without that child, misery and horror will overtake my country. What I do not understand is what this has to do with me."
Aleneil sighed. "Neither do we—except when I Looked at England without you in the future, it was all smoke and screaming and burning, and Elfhame Logres itself was empty, Llachar Lle a tumbled ruin."
"No!" FitzRoy exclaimed.
Denoriel put a hand on his shoulder. "That was what won you a fairy guardian. You soon became precious to me for yourself, Harry, but I was sent to you because we knew you could not be risked. For the sake of England and Logres, both in the mortal world and Underhill you had to grow to be a man."
"So that was why those men tried to kill me and over the years . . ." He looked from Denoriel to Aleneil. "I will do what I can, whatever I can. Indeed, my life would be a very small price to pay to save the beauty of Elfhame Logres and Llachar Lle. Just tell me what I must do."
"We do not know," Aleneil admitted. "That is the danger in FarSeeing. It often tells you just enough to drive you to act but does not show the right action. I hope that when you see the red-haired child, you will know."
"The babe that will be born to Queen Anne?"
Slowly Aleneil shook her head. "There has been no Vision but—but my heart says yes."
FitzRoy's heart said yes too, and he settled down to wait for Anne to deliver her child. Not, of course, that he was not occupied with other matters. Although there was no possibility of going north to take up his duties there, he began to take an interest in them and to read the reports of the councilors. Norfolk invited him to discuss his forthcoming wedding, telling him with a sour expression that final arrangements would be made only if the babe lived through the delivery and was healthy. If it died, FitzRoy would be restored to his old ambiguous position as possible heir.
Although FitzRoy was no more eager for being a married man than in the past, he infinitely preferred that state to possible heir. His attention fixed even more firmly on Anne and her offspring. Prodded by Denoriel, he sent messages and presents to Mary, but the truth was that he was he hardly thought of her. He was far more interested in the birth of Anne's child than in his own marriage.
Anne retired "to her chamber" as was the custom for women about to deliver at the end of August. Usually about six weeks were allowed before delivery, but Anne surprised everyone by giving birth—with surprising ease—to a baby girl on September seventh.
It was not only the king and court who were surprised by Anne's early delivery. Vidal Dhu had also been caught unprepared. He and Aurilia had had a difference of opinion about when to snatch the child. Vidal insisted on organizing a force to abduct the new-born baby during the excitement and confusion of the delivery. He insisted that Sidhe could be disguised as maids and midwives. These attendants often carried bundles of sheets, large covered bowls, and a variety of other cloths, boxes, and garments among which a changeling could be concealed and a mortal child carried away.
No long elaborate preparation would be necessary for this changeling. Newborns all looked pretty much alike, wrinkled and red with eyes swollen shut and near bald-headed. And it would not matter how long the changeling lived; many of the king's children had been dead within hours of their birth.
Aurilia continued to oppose the idea, pointing out that "at the time of delivery" was very uncertain. Exactly when the changeling had to be created was totally unknown; were they to make one every week until the lady went into labor? And how would they know what sex? That, the midwives and attendants would know for certain even as the child emerged from the womb.
Nor was replacing some of the attendants so easy as Prince Vidal implied. Yes, if the labor was very long, they would have time to detain and replace some of those assisting in the birth, but what if it were not?
So when Pasgen arrived with the news that Queen Anne was in labor before even the first changeling had been prepared, Vidal Dhu shrugged. Perhaps another chance to steal the child would present itself or they would simply wait until the queen was disgraced and the child discarded.
In fact the labor was not long. Even had the changeling been ready there would scarcely have been enough time to make the substitution of attendants. And the changeling would have been the wrong sex. Because of the strong influence the FarSeers had predicted the child would have, it was assumed it would be male . . . and it was not.
King Henry had excitedly summoned the greatest nobles who were available as soon as he heard that Anne was truly in labor. Among those able to answer the summons was FitzRoy. He as well as the king and the rest of the court were disappointed that Anne's child was female. All the soothsayers had predicted a boy.
However, as the powerful shrieks of a very strong, healthy, and enraged baby spilled out into the outer chamber where the most important members of the court waited to see the child, a quick recovery was made. The king was so relieved that his precious Anne had been spared and that the babe was alive and, very obviously, strong, that the sex became less important.
Anne had conceived quickly and would doubtless do so again; there was time enough. The next child would be a boy. So, when the chief nurse emerged with the wrapped child in her arms, Henry received her with good grace and held her up for all to see.
Forward in the crowd as befitted his status as first duke in the kingdom, FitzRoy looked up. Both mouth and eyes opened wide and he stared, utterly transfixed. He was seeing in life exactly the image from the great lens Underhill. A full head of brilliant red hair—far more hair than was usual for a newborn—crowned a little red face wearing a ferocious scowl. FitzRoy closed his mouth and swallowed hard. Lady Aleneil was absolutely right. He knew what he had to do.