FitzRoy needed to exert all his willpower to prevent himself from rushing out of the chamber. He was swept by the most violent need to go home at once to get the iron cross that had lain for years now among his most precious jewels. He needed to bring that cross and hang it around the neck of this most precious child. He could almost feel the powers of darkness gathering around her.
Naturally he did not dare rush away. He could imagine the ugly interpretation that would be put upon such behavior. The king would be appalled, and the entire court would say that he was angry because a girl—a legitimate girl—would replace him in the royal line. However, he had not spent a year in the French court where the English were regarded very suspiciously without learning how to control his expression. He stood still, smiling at the baby—actually, that was very easy—as long as the king displayed her.
That scowl. With a leaping heart FitzRoy realized it was not bad temper—although the child had been furious enough at her undignified expulsion from her mother's womb. Clearly she had a strong will of her own, but that scowl marked a characteristic far more important than that. This red-haired babe was already trying to see, trying to understand what was happening.
Then the king handed her back to her nurse, but still FitzRoy could not leave. He had to congratulate his father and say all the right things, that he was sorry the child had not been male as prophesied but that she was clearly a strong and healthy babe. A boy would follow. Henry nodded and smiled, clasped his son around the shoulders, smiled even more broadly when FitzRoy expressed his hopes for Anne's and the child's continued well-being. And still he could not leave. He had to show his smiling face, his true gladness about the child to all those assembled.
Dawn was breaking by the time FitzRoy left Greenwich. He had an apartment in the palace and could have stayed, but the iron cross was in Baynard's Castle. He had only one guard with him—the close watch that had been kept on him for so long was no longer necessary—but he had kept the four men in his service. They were by now utterly devoted and much more useful than silly pages. Now he told Gerrit to see if he could hire a boat to take them back to London.
"Never mind." Denoriel's voice came out of the shadows. "I've a boat at the water stairs. Tell me!"
"It is she!"
"She? She?"
"The red-haired babe. She. Yes. Oh, Denno, I could sense the greatness in her."
The Sidhe was silent as they made their way to the water stair and then down to where the boat waited. FitzRoy was too excited to notice that the boatmen were very odd-looking, and Denno led him to the stern of the small vessel and bade him sit.
"You are sure?" he asked FitzRoy intently. "You are sure this is the red-haired babe? Is there some way you can bring me to look at her?"
"Not at once, no. But sure? Of course I am sure. Why do you think I did not even stop to piss after waiting all those hours? I must get back to Baynard's Castle to get the iron cross for her. Do you not think whoever tried to seize me will try to seize her?"
Denoriel blinked at him. "Yes, of course, but . . . but what am I to do? You were a little boy and I could find reasons to be near you. How am I to protect a little girl?"
FitzRoy turned toward him, his face alight. "Do you remember that Lady Aleneil said I would know what part I had to play in the saving of Logres? She was right. It is true. I knew the moment I saw the child. My part is to do for her what you did for me. She is my sister. I am her older brother. She is an enchanting child. What more natural than that I should be enamored of her and wish to watch by her and, when she is a little older, play with her?"
A cold wash of fear passed over Denoriel. It was mad for a fourteen-year-old mortal boy to try to stand between Vidal Dhu and a child whom the dark Sidhe was determined to take. Danger . . . death lay that way. He leaned forward and took FitzRoy's hand.
"Harry, have a care to yourself, too. I . . . I feel you are right and that you, the only one who knows of the kind of enemies who threaten the child, the only one with status enough in the court to come close to her, must watch over her. But do not be so proud that you refuse me a part in your duties. There are helpers I can obtain for you and, if necessary, spells."
FitzRoy gripped Denoriel's hand. "Thank God for that, Denno. I know I will need all the help I can get."
"Indeed you will," Denoriel sighed, "and this I suspect will be no short task. She is a female. That means if Queen Anne bears a boy, he will come first in the succession. Even if she does not, there will be many who insist that the elder princess, Mary, should come first to the throne . . . and with Mary come the fires of Inquisition." He shuddered.
FitzRoy hardly heard him. The gentle rocking of the boat as they moved upriver was reminding him that he had no sleep at all the previous night and his eyes were beginning to close. He sighed and his head sagged back against the cushions of the seat in the stern. He still held Denno's hand, trying to think of a way to present the iron cross to those who cared for the baby. He knew that any gift he offered would be accepted, but the chances were that the iron cross would be relegated to the bottom of some chest and immediately forgotten. It was only iron, plain cold iron.
The trip downriver back to Greenwich the next day, with the cross where he could easily reach it in his sleeve, was much quicker than that the previous night upriver to London. It made no difference; he still had not thought of a way to arrange for the baby to wear the iron cross. Beside that, he had conceived the fear that the child had already been snatched. She was a princess and would have every attention, but no one but he could realize how precious, in how much danger she was.
He tried on three separate occasions that afternoon to get in to see the child. He would know at once if any exchange had been made, whereas her attendants might only think she was sickening, as several of the king's children had before. But he could not say that to anyone. Who would believe him? They would say he was mad.
Lady Margaret Bryan, who had been nurse to Princess Mary and was now appointed to care for the new princess, had come out to speak to him herself on his third visit. He smiled at her and asked eagerly, "I . . . is she well? Does she cry lustily? Is her color good?"
A dying changeling had no lusty voice; it made faint mewling sounds and its skin was like potter's clay, gray and moist. There was a moment of silence while Lady Bryan stared at him, and then FitzRoy blushed hotly, realizing that her gaze held a kind of horrified suspicion. Her charge was only a girl and had bumped him off the line of succession. Could he be hoping the same fate would overtake this child as those of Queen Catherine and the king?
Finally she said, "Those are very particular questions, Your Grace. How is it that you are so intent on the princess's health?"
FitzRoy swallowed and then, hurt and flustered, made everything worse. "I would not hurt her," he said. "I love her. I think she is the most adorable baby I have ever seen—"
Lady Bryan's lips thinned. "Yes? A quick-found love. And how many newborn babies have you seen, Your Grace?" She looked him up and down, sniffed, and turned away.
Appalled at what he had done, FitzRoy stood looking after her, biting his lip. He knew he would make things worse if he pursued her, and he nervously ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. A maid who had followed Lady Bryan through the hangings that separated the inner and outer chamber but had stopped near the entrance when she saw Lady Bryan engaged, uttered a small gasp.
FitzRoy jerked his eyes away from the spot where Lady Bryan had passed through the hangings and looked at the maid. He saw that she was carrying an armful of cloths that must be for diapering or swaddling. She would be one of the women who actually tended to the child physically and a hope rose in him.
"Should I know you?" he asked, beckoning to her.
She was of an age to have attended him when he was an infant. She might be one who was regularly employed in the king's household for such a purpose. If only it were so . . . he almost held his breath. She shook her head, but a little to his surprise, she came toward him, her eyes still fixed on his face.
"I do not know how you could, Your Grace," she said very softly. "I was a nursemaid to Her Grace the queen when she was an infant, and she remembered me and did me the great honor of offering me a place in Her Grace the princess's household."
Made uneasy by the woman's stare, still fixed on his forehead, FitzRoy raised a hand to pull his bangs down. He knew there must be some mark there that could not be discerned by mortals because when his hair became disarranged Underhill, everyone stared at him just as this woman was doing. To his astonishment, the maid put out one hand and caught at his wrist.
"Who are you?" she asked in a murmur.
"I am the duke of Richmond, the child's half-brother."
The maid nodded. "I heard Lady Bryan call you 'Your Grace' but I didn't know . . . It was true what you said to her? That you love the baby and would not hurt her?"
Her eyes did not meet his; they were fixed on his forehead. FitzRoy wondered what she saw there, but he would not ask her. He was cold as ice with fear. If she were Unseleighe Sidhe, he might be too late to save the princess. His free hand slipped into the sleeve of his gown and he gripped the cross. At least he would have some revenge.
"Yes, it is true. I love her. I would gladly give my life to protect her, but Lady Bryan suspects that I wish her harm because she is now the king's heir. It is not true. I fear for her and would offer her what little protection I have to give, this good-luck charm."
He pulled the cross from his sleeve and slapped it into the hand that still lightly touched his wrist. The maid started slightly, but did not cry out and instinctively closed her hand instead of flinging the cross away. Not Sidhe, then, FitzRoy thought. So how could she see whatever marked him? A witch?
She was looking down at the cross, then raised her eyes again to look at his forehead. "Iron," she breathed. "You want the babe to wear cold iron?"
FitzRoy nodded. He could not speak of anything pertaining to Underhill, which meant he could not warn against the Unseleighe Sidhe. And what if she were their agent? She could be a mortal enslaved to the Unseleighe. She would take his cross and throw it into the deepest, darkest privy she could find.
He almost snatched the cross back from her hand and then remembered what she had said about being Anne's nursemaid. And Anne, Denoriel had told him, was a witch herself—untrained and utterly rejecting of her Talent, but still a witch. The maid had swiftly secreted the cross within the bundle of cloths she carried. Now she curtsied and smiled at him.
"It will be done," she said. "And you are in time with it. The child is strong. She suckles well; the wet nurse complained of the grip of her jaws, young as she is. She is rosy and warm."
FitzRoy sighed with relief. "If you need anything or if you see anything that is alarming to you, send for me. I will be staying in Greenwich as long as the child is here, but my home is in Baynard's Castle in London, hard by the river Thames. I . . . I have friends who might help if there is a threat."
"My name is Blanche Parry," the maid said, "and if you want news of the child, you had better ask for me. Also you had better not come here again, at least not until there are other visitors, or Lady Bryan may mark you down as suspicious and unwelcome."
FitzRoy had been feeling better, not quite such a fool for giving away his precious cross, until that last sentence. His heart sank. Who knew what the maid was. He should have brought Denno—somehow he would have to arrange for Denno to see her, but he knew that would be very difficult.
He left Anne's apartment and went to find Denno near the stables where men came and went constantly. He told Denoriel his fears and suspicions, but did not receive the reproaches he expected. Instead Denno said, "Queen Anne's nursemaid, was she? Very interesting. No, I don't think she could be an Unseleighe slave. That would mean the Unseleighe FarSeers had Visions almost thirty years before ours and arranged to place one of their own in the Boleyn household. Unlikely. I'll ask Aleneil, but I don't think the FarSeeing works that way when it affects both the Seleighe and Unseleighe Courts. How come she spoke to you?"
"Because I pushed back my hair," FitzRoy said, his voice suddenly hard. "Denno, what did she see on my forehead?"
"She saw King Oberon's mark?" Denoriel whistled softly. "That is most unusual, most unexpected. She must be a strong witch, very Talented."
"You never told me there was something on my forehead."
The cold anger in FitzRoy's voice finally pierced Denoriel's concentration on the maid. "No, I didn't," he admitted. "I'm sorry, Harry. Because it was my fault, you see. That cross is so strong that it made my bones ache even when it was in its pouch. You were marked to protect you, so you wouldn't have to wear the cross any more. No one from . . . from anywhere would dare hurt you or try to abduct you. Then when the danger was past, I was so used to seeing the mark upon you that it simply never occurred to me to say anything about it."
Having been skillfully led away from the question of whether the mark was what also prevented him from speaking of Underhill, FitzRoy shook his head. He could never be angry with Denno for more than a few moments. He owed him too much, loved him too much.
"What is the mark?" he asked.
"A six-pointed star that glows bright blue."
FitzRoy's eyes widened; he sighed. "I guess I'm glad no one can see it but your people . . . and a witch or two."
"Witch, yes." Denoriel's mind returned to the problem of Blanche Parry. "Why would the Boleyns hire a witch—and strong as she is, it is likely she was known to be a witch—to be a nursery maid? And why would Anne send all the way to Hever for a nursery maid? Is it possible that odd things happened in the nursery when Anne was a baby? Did they need someone who would understand and could control the events? And was Anne afraid her child might exhibit her unwanted Talent and be thought unsuitable to rule? No, I don't think Mistress Parry is of the Unseleighe—but I will ask."
In fact FitzRoy did not need to wait until Denoriel's questions about Blanche Parry were answered. Only three days later, when he took part in the magnificent christening ceremony that named the child Elizabeth, he saw that the iron cross was pinned to the inside of the chrisom, the robe in which the child would be wrapped when she was taken from the baptismal font. More important, he saw Elizabeth herself, red-haired and rosy and with a pair of lungs that produced shrieks that made the church of the Grey Friars echo when the cold water struck her.
Now that the child was baptized and Anne was almost fully recovered, although she was still confined to her apartment because she had not yet been churched, visitors were encouraged. FitzRoy was among the first. Lady Bryan watched him suspiciously, but she soon softened toward him.
He spent hours by Elizabeth's cradle, just watching her. There was devotion on his face, gentleness when he cautiously touched the baby's down-soft cheek, and a marked quickness to come between the cradle and any person not in Elizabeth's own household that approached her. Anne noticed and laughed, complaining that her erstwhile friend was faithless and had abandoned her for a younger and more beautiful woman.
"Perhaps not more beautiful," FitzRoy temporized with a sigh and a laugh, "but I certainly have been ravished away. You are still the most witty and lovely lady of my acquaintance, but it is Elizabeth who has a tight grip on my heart."
"For shame," Anne said. "Are you not about to marry Lady Mary Howard? It is she who should hold your heart."
"Yes, and I love Mary dearly, for she is pretty and clever and sweet. I look forward to our marriage. Only—" his eyes drifted back to the cradle and the sleeping child within "—only Elizabeth must come first."
Actually Anne was rather shocked by FitzRoy's fixation on her child and she told Henry, who laughed heartily. "Our child is his salvation from a fate he could barely tolerate," the king said. "I remember how I felt when my poor brother Arthur sickened and then died. Harry has no taste for power . . . yet. Now he sincerely hopes for a boy to be my heir, but meanwhile he wants to make very sure that Elizabeth survives to stand between him and the throne."
His affection and well-meaning accepted at the highest levels, FitzRoy was free to spend as much time with Elizabeth as he liked. However for the next few weeks he did not have all that much free time. There was the matter of his marriage. He pleaded that Elizabeth's need was more important; Denoriel countered with the fact that all doubts had been put to rest about Blanche Parry. She was a strong witch, a white witch, and for a few weeks, she and the cold iron cross could protect the child.
Fired with the purpose that had consumed him with his first sight of the red-haired babe, FitzRoy protested. Denoriel lectured him on the need to make his bride happy. He and Mary were making a life union. For the sake of the long years they would spend together, he must show her that he cared for her. He reminded FitzRoy of the misery of Mary's own mother, who had separated from Norfolk largely because of his mistress, and pointed out that Mary might fear her own life would go the same way.
Partly out of liking, partly out of pity, FitzRoy pushed his obsession with Elizabeth aside and began to pay attention to his future wife. He found her warm and pleasant and was definitely looking forward to their union . . . only that was a grave disappointment. He and Mary were married quietly with no royal pomp or celebration . . . and then told that they were not to live together because they were too young to cohabit.
FitzRoy thought back to his year in France and laughed aloud rather raucously, but when he looked at Mary he saw that relief predominated over disappointment in her face. He realized that she was afraid, and took her hand. Looking into her eyes, he said he was sadly discontent, that he had been relishing the thought of her company, that he had envisioned quiet evenings where he would read to her as she embroidered or that she would play for him on the virginals and sing or they could play music together. They could go together to a masque or to a friend's house to dine and then talk about their experience when they returned home. He looked to Norfolk and said that if he promised there would be no more to their marriage than that until permission was given for more, could he not have Mary's company at Baynard's Castle?
"Next year, perhaps," Norfolk said firmly.
So FitzRoy hugged Mary and let her go and her father shepherded her away. However, once the immediate sense of deprivation was overcome, FitzRoy was glad of Norfolk's stricture. He was able to move to Greenwich—his father always welcomed his company and Anne did, too, now that she was safely married. Since he no longer needed to be with Mary—although Dunstan took on the duty of reminding him to send his wife trinkets and tokens; several times a week one of his guards carried to her a book, a pretty comb, a lace kerchief—he could watch the little princess become more awake and more aware day by day.
He was not the only one who watched her, of course. One at least of Catherine's children had lived six weeks before it died. But Elizabeth gave no cause for alarm. She continued to nurse greedily, and her shrieks when anything displeased her were evidence of her will and strength.
Anne was churched after six weeks, according to custom, but she kept Elizabeth by her another six weeks. At the end of that time the king began to grow impatient with the mother instinct that wanted to keep the child close. It was a girl; he and Anne had better set about making a boy. Elizabeth and her entourage of servants were moved to Hertford by the king's order.
FitzRoy followed, found lodging in the area, and continued his visits to his half-sister. She was old enough at three months to be tickled and made to laugh, to be gently swung back and forth in his arms and soothed when she was fretful. And now, well away from the king and queen, he brought his dear friend, the man who had thrice saved his life, to see the baby.
Lady Bryan was stiff with disapproval at that first meeting, but that did not last long. Denno was as much of a charmer as King Henry, although his use of that talent was never so selfish, and he regaled her with tales about FitzRoy's childhood. He glowed with love and Lady Bryan recognized a kindred spirit. Before he left, Denoriel had held Elizabeth in his arms under Lady Bryan's watchful but approving eye.
"She is, indeed, the red-haired babe of the FarSeeing," he said to FitzRoy as they rode back to the house FitzRoy had let two miles down the road. "I did not really doubt you, Harry. I just . . . I hoped you might be mistaken, merely enamored of a beautiful baby."
"Why?" FitzRoy asked sharply. "Is she not all that was promised? Is there not a spirit in her that can . . ."
"Yes! But she is female, Harry."
They entered the farmhouse, where FitzRoy shouted for a servant to bring mulled ale, and hurried into the parlor where two cushioned chairs stood before a large hearth holding a bright fire. The night air was cold at the end of November.
"So what if she is female," FitzRoy said, harking back to Denoriel's last remark. "Thank God there is no Salic law in this realm as there is in France. There is nothing to prevent her from taking the throne. And once she has it—"
"Yes, Harry, but taking the throne is the rub. Not only will any male child precede her but also her elder sister. And if Elizabeth does not yield there will be civil war. Perhaps it is from that rather than from the Inquisition that the burning and misery come." Denoriel rubbed his temple; arguing with Harry made his head ache. "But what I am trying to say, Harry, is that there will be no quick seating of Elizabeth on her father's throne as there would have been if she had been male. There will be long years of danger through which we must guard her if the bright future promised is to come."
"Long years," FitzRoy echoed, looking troubled. "But . . . but once she is a maiden, not a child, I will not be able to . . . to watch over her bed or be with her as constantly as I am now."
"We will cross that bridge when we come to it. There is always Aleneil, who can become an intimate, and likely we will be able to find a way for Blanche Parry to remain with Elizabeth." Denoriel nodded thoughtfully as he said that, and indeed, getting Aleneil placed in Elizabeth's household was indeed the best solution. "Our business is to give her enough protection now to ward off any attempt on her that neglect might encourage. For now your care and Blanche's will be enough. The real danger to her will be if Anne conceives soon and births a strong son."
"But why? Surely that will make her less important."
The mulled ale came and Denoriel was silent until both had tasted it and approved and the servant had withdrawn. Then Denoriel said, "The one who wants her does not want her for the power she will have over England. He wants her for her inventive mind and strong will. And he wants her while she is still very young so that she can be bred up to believe what they wish her to believe, to relish cruelty."
FitzRoy looked appalled. "It would be terrible to so pervert her bright spirit. What more can we do to protect her?"
"Fortunately right now I doubt we need to do more than not invite an attack by neglect of the precautions we are taking." He sighed as he said that; now his beloved Harry was safe—or safer—but at the moment when he should be able to breathe a little, now there was a new danger to a new child! "For the moment we have one advantage. There is a prohibition against harming or abducting anyone really close to King Henry. That was what protected Anne, and I think it will be of some protection to Elizabeth while she is heir to the throne. However, the less important she becomes to the king, the more danger that she will be taken."
"You said that before," Harry replied, looking confused, "But I still don't understand."
"Harry, say Elizabeth be taken and someone—say, Blanche—cries that the true child was replaced by a changeling and it was the changeling that died, not the true Elizabeth. That might be believed. King Henry is tired of dead children. Other men's children live, his die. He will want to believe the child's death was not his fault nor Anne's." He waited to see if Harry understood.
Knowing his father now, FitzRoy nodded.
"So, Henry will give order that a hunt be made for the source of the changeling. What would they look for?" He paused.
"Elves," FitzRoy said flatly.
"Exactly so," Denoriel agreed. "And even if they did not find me, nor Aleneil, the danger is not over. There are human sorcerers and some are strong, like Blanche Parry. If such a one should seek, he will find Gates like mine, and breaks in the mortal world through which those of Underhill can come and go. We are strong and we have magic, but we are few. Mortals . . . thousands, even hundreds of thousands all garbed in cold iron and carrying iron weapons. . . . We would be overwhelmed."
Queen Anne was pregnant again by February of 1534, and Denoriel's predictions seemed all too likely to come true. In April Blanche reported that she thought "something" was watching Elizabeth, something she could not see but that made a sour smell in her mind. She admitted it did not come close to the child—perhaps the cross always pinned to one garment or another was the reason—but it frightened her.
Denoriel brought her several amulets of Aleneil's devising that she could invoke with a word. Invoked, the spell would cover the baby and the crib. FitzRoy increased the frequency of his visits, and the next time Blanche sensed an intruder, FitzRoy was there, dandling the eight-month-old Elizabeth in his arms.
As usual the child was reaching eagerly toward the star on FitzRoy's forehead when suddenly her mouth twisted and she began to wail; almost in the same moment, Blanche cried out and pointed. Since he could see and sense nothing, FitzRoy could only clutch Elizabeth tighter and let the baby push the hair off his forehead while he stared in the direction the maid had pointed.
In a moment Elizabeth began to laugh again; simultaneously the maid sighed and said the noxious thing—whatever it was—was gone. FitzRoy stayed a little longer to make sure it would not return and then began to pray for Denoriel to come. There was some tie between them; FitzRoy did not know how it could work, but when he was really distressed and needed the Sidhe, mostly he soon arrived—as he did early that evening on a Miralys who, for once, looked tired. Ladbroke hurried the elvensteed off to the stable and FitzRoy hurried Denoriel into the house for a glass of wine in the parlor with the doors closed to everyone else.
"What am I to do?" FitzRoy asked after he had described what had happened. "Lady Bryan is most accommodating, but I cannot believe she would allow me to live in the house and sleep in the princess's chamber. And worse than that—" tears stood in his eyes "—I cannot see it or feel it. Even Elizabeth knew it was there. She—"
"The princess knew?" Denoriel breathed.
"She burst into loud wails the moment the maid cried out and pointed, and she began to laugh when it was gone." He was beginning to feel as weary as Denno looked. "Yes, and she constantly tries to touch my forehead. I am afraid she will disarrange my hair before the wrong person."
"You should not be holding her if a wrong person is in the chamber," Denoriel said, but absently, as if his mind were elsewhere, as indeed it was, because he added, "She is Talented, like her mother and her grandfather."
"But I am not!" FitzRoy exclaimed bitterly. "How can I protect her when I cannot see what I am to fight?"
Denoriel put his wine down on the polished table that stood against the wall and came forward to embrace FitzRoy. "It is hard for you, I know, but I promise you will be able to see anything you need to fight. This thing that came into the princess's chamber could do her no physical harm. It was most likely one of the minor creatures, which has no physical reality in the mortal world. I am sure it was sent only to spy, to carry back word of the defenses we maintain."
"But I think it was the mark on my forehead that sent it away," he protested, "and I cannot be with the child every hour of the day and night."
"I will obtain more amulets," Denno said firmly. "Blanche can invoke one each night. During the day, I think there is too much going on in Elizabeth's apartment to invite any secret attempt to steal the child."
However extra precautions were not necessary for long. In July Elizabeth became the sole heir to the throne again when Anne miscarried. Anne was devastated—and with good reason. The king did not take this loss well. He had accepted a daughter instead of a son because the child was strong and healthy and confirmed his belief in his virility.
That robust child, with her strong will and the voice to enforce it, with the fact that she had already survived two of the illnesses that often carried off weaker babes, ensured in the king's mind that the failures of Catherine's pregnancies were her fault. The fact that Anne conceived again so soon after Elizabeth's birth also soothed the terrible fears of inadequacy that had been aroused by the long periods between Catherine's conceptions and Catherine's inability to bear more than one child that lived.
Anne's miscarriage was a poisonous reminder of all those dead or too-early-born babies. Worse, it pointed the finger at him. That Catherine's children had not lived was as likely to be her fault as his, but when a second wife also dropped children too early . . .
Anne was not only grief-stricken but badly frightened. It took weeks for the soft-voiced Lady Alana to get through the queen's self-absorption and convince her that her safety lay in soothing the king, in convincing him it was no fault in his seed that brought the child too early, that she would conceive again . . . as soon as he was active in her bed. Henry was shaken, but Anne's magic did not fail completely. If he found it almost impossible to rouse himself to couple, he soon was finding pleasure in her company again.
Underhill, Vidal Dhu and Aurilia were again having discussions about when to move to seize Elizabeth. Although they had a plan for destroying Anne, they had been well pleased when she conceived so quickly and had done nothing at all to interfere. It was Elizabeth they wanted, not the queen of England. If Anne had a son who lived, the watch on the red-haired babe would be much reduced. It would be much easier to replace the child with a changeling. And when that changeling sickened and died, there would be some grief, but a living son would compensate.
Vidal Dhu, always impatient, felt they should take Elizabeth while Anne and the king were still grief-stricken. One more baby was dead and the king was wondering whether he would ever have a living child beside Mary—who was constantly sick and ailing. It would be no great surprise if the other baby died. No one would look for otherworld causes.
Except perhaps Oberon, Aurilia pointed out, and counseled patience. Anne would conceive again; she was so fertile that even the king's feeble seed could take hold. There was no great hurry. Elizabeth was not yet a year old, young enough to bend to their ways easily. Let Anne try again. If she was successful and bore a live and healthy boy, they could take Elizabeth as soon as the boy was well established. If this pregnancy failed, it would be very easy indeed to destroy Anne in such a way that Elizabeth would be totally cast off. No one would care whether she lived or died.
Reluctantly, because he did not enjoy waiting for something he wanted, and he wanted to start work on that child, but almost relieved, too, because he knew abducting Elizabeth was coming close to violating Oberon's orders, Vidal Dhu yielded to Aurilia's arguments. Later they quarreled over the agreement more than once, because it took almost a year before Anne conceived again. Elizabeth, with her strong will and quick mind, was getting beyond the stage when she would accept Caer Modrun as her natural home and the ways of the Unseleighe as the only right ways.
In that judgment, Vidal Dhu was correct. Elizabeth now walked and talked and knew her own mind very well indeed. Beyond that, she often said and did things that left Lady Bryan, who had nursed Mary and not seen such precocity, amazed.
Elizabeth had called FitzRoy "da" with her very first word. Everyone had laughed heartily and FitzRoy explained that he was not her "da" but her brother. Elizabeth could not say brother; her little face drew together in her well-recognized scowl and she said "da" again . . . at the top of her voice.
From time to time FitzRoy tried other names for himself, Henry, Harry, Richmond. "Da," said Elizabeth, fixing him with eyes that had changed from a baby's unformed blue to honey-brown but could flash brilliant yellow, like a lioness's.
He was relieved to learn that Elizabeth also called King Henry "da" when he visited, and so long as she did, he put the matter out of his mind. However, when she was nearly two and very articulate, speaking in full sentences that were nearly adult so that she could easily have called him brother or Richmond, he set out to tease her by telling her once again that she was a big girl now and should give him his proper name, reserving "da" for her father.
"I know the king is my father," she said, her eyes dark and quiet, "but you, you will always be 'da.' "