It did not seem as if Princess Elizabeth would have any need for a special "da" during the remainder of that year. Her second birthday was celebrated very happily, although her father and mother could not be present because they were together in Hampshire enjoying a particularly pleasant progress. It mattered little to Elizabeth who had around her all those to whom she was accustomed and held dear.
Lady Bryan who was sensitive to her charge's willful ways and was curbing them with gentle firmness had, as a reward for dutiful and unargumentative behavior over the previous week, invited a select party to celebrate with the household. Not only was FitzRoy (who would have come invited or not) summoned but Lord Denno and Lady Alana, too.
Lord Denno had become quite a favorite with Lady Bryan. She now knew his supposed background and understood his special relationship with the duke of Richmond. Considering his wealth and his discretion, she was willing to encourage his interest in Elizabeth, too.
Lady Alana was invited because Lady Bryan wanted her. She was the queen's lady who most frequently came with messages, gifts, and garments of all kinds, and she was not on duty during the summer progress. And, if Lady Bryan had information or a question she wanted addressed to the queen, Lady Alana was always successful in carrying the message.
Lady Bryan also liked Lady Alana for herself; she was particularly gentle and soft-spoken—but would stand no nonsense, as would the two besotted men, from a naughty two-year-old. Moreover Lady Alana was no court beauty; one could hardly remember her face from one visit to another. Her gowns, however, were utter perfection, not only in fabric and design but in suitability, and she was generous with her suggestions on how anyone else's gown could be improved.
Elizabeth's health remained good, and Lady Bryan should have been perfectly satisfied; however, in the autumn and beginning of winter there were incidents that alarmed her. Twice Elizabeth woke screaming from a dream of something horrible looming over her. The diaper-changer Blanche Parry had been kept on as general nursemaid because she had the queen's favor and Elizabeth was attached to her; she was the one who slept in Elizabeth's room and she woke and calmed the child.
Lady Bryan was sure it was nothing but a nightmare; still she had the room searched both times. There was nothing untoward in it. The guard suggested changing the position of the night candle, which might have cast a shadow where the child could see it. By the time that was done, Elizabeth was asleep again. But one afternoon she had another screaming fit and began to gag, holding her nose and weeping over the terrible, terrible odor.
Lady Bryan smelled nothing and was open-mouthed with surprise and fear that the child was sickening, but Blanche, who had been in the bedchamber, came running and shouted at Elizabeth to take out and hold up her cross. In a moment the child had calmed, saying the bad smell was gone.
Lady Bryan felt Elizabeth's head, asked nervously about her appetite, and then tried to forget the incident. However, she approved of Blanche's remedy. The cross was an excellent notion, she said; it was the right thing for Elizabeth to trust. In fact, she sent for the local priest and had him bless the cross.
She could have wished that Elizabeth had not chattered about her fright, but there was really no way to stop her. And, anyhow, she herself was not sorry that the tale brought FitzRoy to the house more often than ever.
But Lord Denno, came too, and that troubled her a little. FitzRoy was Elizabeth's brother and entitled to play with her and spoil her, but Lady Bryan was beginning to be concerned about Elizabeth's great affection for Lord Denno.
The child had wonderful times whenever Lord Denno visited. Her favorite game was playing pick-a-back—he was incredibly strong and would carry her about at considerable speed far longer than any other man. Another game made Lady Bryan so nervous that she had to put a stop to it. When Elizabeth rode Denno's shoulders, she would insist on clutching at the air over Denno's head. Lady Bryan was sure the child would be shaken loose and fall even though she insisted she was holding tight to Lord Denno's ears. That was ridiculous; there were no ears to be seen.
Another matter troubled Lady Bryan somewhat. She felt that neither man was as glad about Queen Anne's new pregnancy as he should have been. She could not help wondering if their passion for the princess would make them less loyal to a prince, should he be born.
Unfortunately the question was never to arise. The new year began with grief—at least for Lady Bryan. Catherine of Aragon died on the seventh of January. Having heard of how the king had celebrated in yellow garments of rejoicing and loud denunciations, Lady Bryan kept her few tears for private moments. She had learned to love Queen Catherine when she served as nurse to the Princess Mary.
The memory of Mary distracted Lady Bryan from grief for a moment. She smiled and sighed. Mary had been a sweet child. She sighed again and then laughed; Mary was nothing like the red-headed hellion she had to manage now. Mary had wanted to be good—and she had been, although it made her a little dull too—unlike Elizabeth who wanted first to be right, and then to have her way, and then to be good as a very poor third choice.
The sorrow over Queen Catherine had been private. But January continued with one disaster after another. On the evening of the twenty-fourth, a rider on a near-foundered horse came to give Lady Bryan the news that King Henry had had a terrible fall from a horse while jousting and lay unconscious, possibly near death.
Lady Bryan sat by Elizabeth's cradle herself all that night, swallowing and swallowing and wringing her hands. If the king died, by his decree and Parliament's vote, Elizabeth would be the next queen . . . if Mary's supporters did not begin a civil war or rush the indefensible house at Hatfield and kill the child.
By late morning the next day she was not alone. Richmond had arrived as soon as the news came to him. He was a skilled swordsman and he brought six more men armed and in armor. By the second night—after a somewhat less exhausted messenger arrived with the news that the king had regained consciousness but was still in great pain—Lord Denno arrived too.
How he could possibly have come so fast Lady Bryan did not know, but that was a thought that passed through her mind long after the event. At the time, she had been so glad to see him that she did not wonder. Later she was surprised also at the feeling of confidence he gave her. Then she was only glad that the constriction in her chest, the pounding of her heart in her throat was gone. She was so relieved, in fact, that she agreed to go to bed soon after he kissed her hand and assured her all would be well. She slept soundly, too.
"What now?" FitzRoy asked when Lady Bryan was gone, staring down at a sleeping Elizabeth and clenching and unclenching his hands.
"Now we wait," Denoriel said, flatly. He was at least as nervous as FitzRoy, but he had no intention of showing it.
"How long? Should I hire more men?" FitzRoy looked a little wild-eyed. "We cannot remain on guard forever. I am willing, but I am mortal and must sleep."
Denoriel embraced FitzRoy's shoulders and gave him a rough hug. "No more men, they would be useless. Your guards and Dunstan and Ladbroke are all warded against spells, specially those of sleep. The new men would be defenseless."
"Shall I set watches so the men can take some rest?" he persisted.
"I think what will happen will happen soon . . . tonight, I expect." Denoriel had had plenty of time to think out his plans as he sped to Hatfield. "Those who want Elizabeth know that they have only a short time to act, this night and possibly tomorrow, but I doubt they will act by daylight."
FitzRoy blinked. "Why?"
"Think, Harry," Denoriel urged. "If the king should die, royal guards will be sent to protect the new queen, dozens of them, all in steel and armed with steel. Even if Henry lingers but is like to die, the guards will come. And once the king is recovered, if he is recovered, Oberon's order again protects the king's heir."
FitzRoy nodded. "Very well. First we rid ourselves of any servant not quartered in the house, then we lock and bar each door. The shutters are already all closed to keep out the cold."
Denoriel glanced down into the cradle and smiled despite his anxiety. "Elizabeth is asleep and covered with a warding spell. I hope it will keep out the sense of evil that frightens her."
"I hope so too." FitzRoy smiled. "Although she yells so loud that she might frighten them off." He sobered very quickly and continued, "I think I will order that Ladbroke, Dunstan, Nyle, and Shaylor stay by the princess. They are armored in steel and armed with it. They will have Blanche to guard against magic and call for help if needed. Gerrit and Dickson can patrol the house. You and I—" FitzRoy patted his sword hilt and touched the strange metal gun, which for once he wore openly on his belt "—will hold the front door."
They could be overrun by a rush of Unseleighe creatures who were more resistant to cold iron, both knew, but Denoriel had alerted a number of the Sidhe who guarded against Unseleighe attack, and they assured him there had been no troubling of the lower planes. Denoriel himself felt that even Vidal Dhu would not dare bring a large force against the princess's house.
There was considerable local interest in the princess, and when the news of the king's accident spread, attentions fixed on Hatfield. It was expected that attempts would be made to conceal the king's death, if he should die. Thus, many watched to see if the queen would come to take her daughter or if any other large party arrived—such activity might well indicate that the king was dead.
The belief and the curiosity made Denoriel reasonably sure the Unseleighe would not dare bring an army of horrors, which would be sure to be seen by so many watchers. If the princess then sickened and died, the priests would take over for the king and begin to preach against the unholy.
Such guessing made Denoriel uncomfortable; disaster would follow if he were wrong. But he was not. He was right. The assault was signaled by an urgent knock on the door. Denoriel and FitzRoy hurried to the entrance of the first withdrawing room while the steward went to open the door.
The person revealed was mortal to Denoriel's witch sight and was wearing royal livery, so he did not rush forward. The steward backed away to give one whom he assumed to be a messenger room to enter—and in the next moment dropped to the floor. Before Denoriel could react, Pasgen followed the enslaved and corrupted mortal through the front door. FitzRoy, sword drawn, leapt to intercept the man, who was hurrying toward the stair that led up to Elizabeth's chamber.
Denoriel stepped forward to intercept Pasgen, who had clutched in one arm a dead thing that, aside from its red hair, hardly looked human. Behind Pasgen were two dark Sidhe, one of whom contemptuously raised a hand to cast either a spell or a levin bolt.
"No lightnings!" Pasgen snarled, and cast his own spell.
Denoriel did not even shake his head as the command to freeze rolled off his shield. Behind him, Denoriel heard a frightful squall. Pasgen uttered a violent obscenity and drew his sword, but he made no attempt to attack. Another spell hit Denoriel's shield, much weaker; Denoriel drew his own sword and was amazed to see that Pasgen was already retreating.
Pasgen was not the swordsman that Denoriel was, but he was not so inept as to need to flee before they were engaged. Then Pasgen suddenly ducked sideways and threw the thing he had been carrying directly at Denoriel. Instinctively, Denoriel jumped back out of the way. In the same instant, the corner of his eye caught the second dark Sidhe drawing his bow and an odd hissing sounded almost in his ear.
Denoriel thought that the hiss had been the elf-shot missing him and gasped with fear that the missile had been aimed at Harry. But before the thought had time to form, before he had a chance to turn his head and open himself to Pasgen's sword-thrust, the Sidhe with the bow had screamed, dropped to the ground, and went on screaming. The other Sidhe had disappeared.
Pasgen shouted some curse and slammed his sword into its sheath. Denoriel knew he should act—but he could not think what to do. He dared not turn away to see what had happened to Harry. To rush at Pasgen and run him through was simply not possible. Whatever he thought of his half-brother, Pasgen was his brother, blood-kin. He could defend himself against him, but he could not attack him.
Neither attack nor defense was necessary. Pasgen lifted the fallen, screaming Sidhe to his shoulder, raised a hand and pointed. Instinctively, Denoriel jumped back, gesturing for protection, but the spell was not directed at him. The door swung forward and slammed shut. Denoriel whirled around, unable—even if the closing door was an illusion and harm would befall him—to resist seeing if Harry had fallen.
No harm physical had come to FitzRoy. He was standing just behind Denoriel, his mouth fixed in a grimace of horror, his throat working as he swallowed and swallowed to ward off sickness. His right arm was extended, and in his hand was the weird gun he had insisted that Denoriel buy in the Bazaar of the Bizarre.
Denoriel turned to look at the door, but it was no illusion. It was solidly shut. He stepped forward and shot the heavy iron bolt, hissing as it burned his hand. Then he sheathed his sword and went to take Harry in his arms.
"He was ahead. I couldn't reach him with my sword. I yelled for him to stop. I couldn't . . . I couldn't let him reach Elizabeth, so . . . so I shot him. He . . . he made that terrible noise and . . . and then . . . he . . . he fell in on himself and he . . . he turned . . . he turned to dust." FitzRoy's eyes were staring with horror. "The . . . the bolt. It's lying there in the dust."
"Oh, what a fool Pasgen is," Denoriel muttered. He patted Harry's back. "He was very old, Harry. He would have been dust long ago, except for living . . . where he was living. Pasgen set a spell on him to keep him from . . . from going to what he should have been when he came here, and your iron bolt broke the spell."
The boy shuddered in his arms. "That . . . that won't happen to Dunstan or Ladbroke, will it?" His eyes were sick with dread.
Denoriel pushed FitzRoy back far enough so he could see his face. "No, of course not. They are both young men—at least no older than they look. That poor fellow must have been living centuries Underhill as a slave. We Seleighe Sidhe bring the children we save back to the mortal realms—if they wish it—as soon as they are grown. And if they do not wish to return, we never let them cross the wall between the worlds again." Then he realized just what FitzRoy had asked, and stared at him. "How did you know Dunstan and Ladbroke had been to my homeland?"
"Ladbroke knew about Miralys, and Dunstan . . . the way he just accepts a lot of the things you do." FitzRoy sighed. "The way you never try to hide anything from him." Then he shuddered again. "The baby is dead, isn't it?" Tears stood in his eyes.
"Baby?" Denoriel echoed, his glance leaping to the stairwell, but it was empty, Blanche and the guards keeping tight watch on Elizabeth; they had been instructed to ignore any noise or disturbance and they had obeyed.
FitzRoy had gently pulled free of Denoriel's hold and gone to kneel by a small, cold body.
"Don't," Denoriel said.
It was too late. FitzRoy had already turned the poor thing over and he gasped and snatched back his hand in horror. Denoriel ran into the eating parlor and came back with a tablecloth. There was nothing recognizable except the red hair. The features had already melted into a vague pudding of rotting flesh—pits for eyes, holes where the nose should be, and a sunken black hollow for a mouth. The limbs looked soft, boneless. Denoriel threw the cloth over the poor thing and wrapped it firmly.
"How could it rot so fast?" FitzRoy whispered, his voice shaking.
"Because it was never given life, only formed roughly." Denoriel pulled FitzRoy to his feet. "I'm sorry you had to see that, but it was never a living person, Harry. It was just molded out of the mist of one of the places you know. It was as if you made a clay horse, didn't fire it, and then left it out in the rain. Only enough power was used to hold the mist together, and when it drained away the form began to dissolve."
FitzRoy breathed deeply and raised his eyes from the wrapped bundle to meet Denoriel's gaze. "Will the Sidhe I shot fall apart too? God's Blood, how he screamed!"
Denoriel snorted. "No, he's just more used to hurting others than to being hurt. He'll go on howling until they get him to a healer who will soothe away the pain." Then Denoriel smiled. "You probably saved my life, Harry. If the elf-shot had hit me, I would have been badly injured if not killed."
FitzRoy was rapidly regaining his composure, far more quickly than Denoriel would have thought. "I was afraid of that. That's why I shot him. I had just almost vowed never to use the gun again when I saw what it did, but I couldn't let him shoot you, Denno."
"I'm glad you didn't. Elf-shot is not to be dismissed lightly. And I never thought about it because . . ." He shook his head. It was too unpleasant to admit aloud that he had counted on his brother not wishing to inflict any permanent damage on him . . . and been wrong. He forced a smile. "Don't worry too much. I just had forgotten to tell you what to do if I am hurt. All you need do is see that I'm loaded aboard Miralys. He'll make sure I don't fall off and will take me to a healer."
FitzRoy breathed out, a long, relieved sigh. "Miralys knows where to go?" He laughed shakily. "Of course he does."
A soft groan drew Denoriel's attention and he bent and scooped up the swaddled form. The steward was stirring. A gesture brought Harry's attention to the man.
"Pick up your bolt and scuffle that dust around, it's too man-shaped," Denoriel said. "I'm going to slip out and . . . and take care of this poor thing. And, for the sake of all the gods, don't dare mislay that gun. I had no idea it was going to be so effective. We may need it again."
For a time, however, that likelihood continued to recede. The next afternoon brought the news that the king was no longer in danger and would soon be recovered completely. That put off the need to be specially watchful—or at least, FitzRoy and Denoriel thought, until the spring when Anne's baby should be born . . .
And then tragedy struck again. Queen Anne miscarried of a boy child long enough in the womb to be identifiable but too unripe to be saved.
Early morning on the twenty-ninth of January, a message arrived summoning Fagildo Otstargi to attend on Privy Councilor Cromwell at once. The ugly manservant who had met Cromwell's messenger at the door took the message, nodded his head, and closed the door in the messenger's face. He went down into the cellar rather than up to the magician's bedchamber, and walked into a dark corner, from which he did not emerge.
Pasgen cursed fluently when he heard the alarm that heralded an arrival from the London Gate into the prison room below his house. He Gated into the room, took the message and read it, and cursed more fluently. The manservant cringed away, trembling. Pasgen hardly noticed, but he waved at the wall and the Gate to London reopened. The bound being sidled through, weeping with relief.
Barely a quarter hour later, Pasgen himself disguised and dressed as Fagildo Otstargi, stepped through the London gate, but to the terminus in his bedchamber rather than in the cellar. He came down the stairs, swinging a heavy furred cloak over his shoulder. A horse—not Torgan—was waiting, being walked up and down the street. Pasgen did not even glance at the manservant, who held the door open, plastered flat against the wall.
A few moments later, he was at Cromwell's door. A groom rushed out to take his horse, the door opened at once, before he knocked, and the house steward himself ushered him through the cold withdrawing rooms and into a small private chamber. There a bright fire burned in the hearth and Cromwell, wrapped in a furred robe, looked up at him with a tight, drawn expression and informed him that Anne had miscarried.
Pasgen's heart leapt up with relief. He had known that his attempt to abduct Elizabeth would fail, and he had protested about the half-formed changeling that Vidal had thrust upon him. If he had been successful in snatching the child and left that thing behind, even the most lack-witted would know it for a magical construct. Pasgen feared that King Oberon would kill him, or, worse, dismind him.
As the thought came to Pasgen, Vidal had smoothly offered to summon a selection of bogans to help him if he wanted them. Bogans! To add to the chance of exposure. Pasgen realized that inciting Oberon to fury was exactly what Vidal hoped for. As a spell worker Pasgen knew he was rapidly approaching Vidal's power, and even if Vidal did not guess that Pasgen was considering challenging him for control of Caer Mordwyn, Vidal wanted no rivals in power. If Oberon destroyed Pasgen it would be no insupportable loss to Vidal Dhu. In fact, Pasgen assumed Vidal hoped he could still control Rhoslyn, control her better with her support gone.
Pasgen was about to refuse flatly, but to his surprise Aurilia raised a finger and waggled it. It was a signal that if Vidal took Pasgen's refusal as a challenge, she would support Vidal. Pasgen knew that even with Rhoslyn to back him he would not survive a confrontation with both Vidal and Aurilia—and neither would Rhoslyn.
It was entirely possible, Pasgen had thought, that Aurilia also wanted him destroyed because she did not think she could control him as well or as easily as she controlled Vidal. So he would do as Vidal ordered; he would make the attempt, knowing he would fail.
It had been easy enough to make the decision, but the taste of defeat was no pleasant thing. And the shambles produced was worse than Pasgen had expected. One of the few mortals the Unseleighe could trust was dead beyond recall, one Sidhe very near death, one Sidhe that hated him with a terrible icy fury for seeing his cowardice exposed. Bitter in the mouth and bitter in the mind.
Pasgen had been soundly castigated for his ineffectuality, which did not improve his temper even though he had had no intention of succeeding. He had returned to his domain and brooded furiously. His mistakes were clear enough now. For one thing, he had misjudged Denoriel again. He suspected he had been right about the greatest force being concentrated right around the child—Pasgen ground his teeth—but he had no proof of that because he had never got past the front door.
There was the first mistake. He had expected his "heroic" half-brother to be vainglorious enough to confront him alone. His second error was to believe that Denoriel would count only on his swordsmanship; he had not expected his half-brother's shields to be so strong. The third mistake was still to think of FitzRoy as a child. Pasgen snarled silently. FitzRoy acted like a child, always playing with toys with the baby princess. But the weapon FitzRoy wielded was no childish toy.
Remembered rage tightened Pasgen's jaw, a happy accident so appropriate it was like an omen that events would now conspire to help him. The news of Anne's miscarriage might not be welcome to Cromwell, although Pasgen was not sure he could always read the man aright, but it was a soft consolation to Pasgen's ears and light to his eyes.
Now Aurilia could loose the toy she had so carefully prepared; Anne Boleyn would be destroyed, her daughter would be despised and abandoned, and Oberon would have no further interest in the child. It would even be possible that Denoriel and FitzRoy, realizing that she would never be queen, never bring in the age of puny mortal beauty and invention, would give over their ferocious protection of Elizabeth.
Thought is swift. Pasgen's grimace looked like shock while actually relief and conjecture had flashed through his mind. Now he need make no reply to Cromwell's announcement; he merely bowed stiffly.
"Why did you not warn me?" Cromwell snarled, his mellifluous voice for once harsh and uneven.
"Because there were ten futures in my glass—in three the king died; in three the queen bore a fine healthy son; in three more she lost the child; and in one she lost her head! Which of those did you want me to describe to you? On which do you think it would have been safe to plan?"
Cromwell hissed between his teeth. "Then you say you can be of no use to me?"
Pasgen shrugged. "I can look again in the glass. Now that we know only three of the futures I saw can apply, I can try to make sure which of those is most likely. Even so, what you do can take into consideration all three."
"And when will I know which way to direct my efforts?" Cromwell sounded desperate; well, he should. He had hitched his wagon to a star that fell, not once, but twice now. He had managed to survive Wolsey's fall; he must be scrambling to think of a way to survive Queen Anne's.
"A few days, a week, perhaps even two weeks—but there is no hurry. The king is still convalescing; the queen must be nearly insensible with sorrow and fear." Pasgen forced himself to sound soothing. "For now, only the most formal expressions of grief and regret need be dispatched. But in that one image . . . the one where the queen lost her head . . . there was another woman standing with the king."
"Jane Seymour," Cromwell said. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but a Seymour for all that."
"Nonetheless—" Pasgen moved closer so that he could murmur very softly into Cromwell's ear "—think on a way to suggest to the king that his second marriage was also accursed because he had a living wife."
Cromwell's jaw tightened. "That will be no easy thing without also touching on the king's assumption of supreme power over the English Church."
"No, no," Pasgen said. "Those two things are totally separate. That one led to the other, is irrelevant. Leave all matters of the Church aside. Now Catherine is dead. If no wife were alive, any new marriage would need no intervention by the Church. Such a marriage must be perfectly clean and holy and the children will be blessed."
Cromwell stared at Pasgen, his face expressionless. Somewhere within, however, Pasgen sensed a kind of satisfaction and was content. Although the mortal had worked assiduously to rid the king of his first marriage to make way for his second, that was largely to advance his own interest with the king. He had never really liked Anne or her family.
Possibly Cromwell blamed Queen Anne for his old master, Wolsey's, downfall. Likely there were political reasons, some possible rapprochement with Imperial interests and a drawing away from the French. Pasgen was not interested; he cared nothing for England. All he desired was the downfall of Anne so that he could abduct her child. So far Pasgen was satisfied. Whatever the reason, he believed Cromwell was ready to turn on Anne; that was all Pasgen cared about.
Both were silent for a moment. They had been talking treason, and for entirely different reasons both were uneasy. Pasgen bowed.
"When I have news, I will come again."
He took care that no one in Cromwell's house saw the grin that stretched his lips for a moment, but he was grinning again all the way back to his own residence, and still grinning when, Underhill, he summoned one of his dead-eyed servitors and gave him a message for Aurilia nic Morrigan.
"Dannae favors us," the servant repeated when allowed into Aurilia's presence. "The queen has miscarried. We can be rid of her and see her child discarded within six months."
Early in February Pasgen was directed to meet Aurilia in the pleasure gardens of Caer Mordwyn. There she handed him a small wriggling bundle, a very pretty little dog, a friendly, happy, little dog, wearing a handsome collar inscribed: My name is Purkoy, my mistress Queen Anne.
Pasgen took the dog but said, "Anne still has Oberon's protection. If the dog or the collar are bespelled to her hurt, we could be blamed."
Aurilia laughed. "I am not a fool. The collar is indeed bespelled, but no blame will attach to the Unseleighe Court even if it is detected. First, all the spells are beneficent. All support calm and good feeling—and, second, every one of them is a Seleighe spell."
"How did you come by Seleighe spells?"
Aurilia laughed again. "Some, bored with milk and honey and seeking a sharper flavor to life, come to us from the Seleighe Court. Such a one, disgusted as he was, remembered enough of the spells taught him to cast them onto the collar and to add a dampening spell so that only the person holding the dog will be affected. That dampening spell may also dull the queen's power over her husband."
The little dog's head turned from one speaker to the other, then he licked Pasgen's nose. Pasgen couldn't help smiling, and he was impressed with Aurilia's thoroughness. Vidal in his pride occasionally scoffed at Oberon's power. Aurilia never did, but still she was willing to try to circumvent that power by sly cleverness.
As if to prove that conclusion correct, Aurilia added, "But here—" she pressed into his hand a small gold stud "—is the final spell, another bit of protection. When you deliver the dog to a mortal, press this stud into his collar—but do not do it a moment before you are ready to leave. As soon as the spell is invoked—the collar will do that itself—Purkoy will sense and be terrified of all Sidhe. Thus, if there is a Bright Court spy near Anne, the dog will run and hide."
The spell was so effective that Cromwell, to whom Pasgen had been forced to hand the dog before he was ready, nearly lost the creature. Purkoy leapt from his arms and rushed, howling, to the farthest corner of the room.
"Some gift for the queen!" Cromwell snarled. "A dog that hates people."
"No," Pasgen said, raising his voice about the dog's howls. "Come away, leave it to itself for a few minutes. It was just frightened by you grabbing for it and my holding it back. I am sorry."
Fearful of driving the little dog completely mad, Pasgen did not wait for Cromwell's reply but bowed stiffly and walked out of the room. That did nothing to pacify Cromwell, who bustled after him. Seeing disaster for his support of the Boleyns—whom he didn't even like—looming over him, Cromwell was seeking someone to blame and was already furious with Master Otstargi.
He caught Pasgen in the corridor and dragged him into another withdrawing room. Slamming the door behind him, he began to berate his tame magician, complaining that when he really wanted advice Otstargi was missing.
Pasgen was so delighted at how well Aurilia's spell had worked, that he found it easy enough to keep his temper. He was pleased, too, at how dependent on him Cromwell had become because he was about to urge the man into a very dangerous game. And it was likely that he would play it.
For once Cromwell was not certain which way to jump or how. Anne was totally distraught, openly blaming her husband for her miscarriage because of his dalliance with Jane Seymour. Anne would take no advice of his. Henry was almost equally distraught. Instead of offering comfort to his wife for her loss, he had said to her only that she must put up with his behavior as her betters had done, and then added threateningly, "I see that God will not give me male children."
"Encourage that thought," Pasgen murmured, and then said more briskly, "I have brought better than advice. See that the queen gets Purkoy—that is the dog's name—and you will have time to think and plan. When she has the dog in her arms, the queen will grow calm and happy. She will talk of another conception and see no pitfalls in her path to it."
"And win back the king again so we will just begin all over?" Cromwell muttered under his breath.
"No, I think it has gone beyond that," Pasgen said, "but my readings are still not clear on whether the king will put her aside . . . or find a more permanent solution. Perhaps the dog should not come from you directly. But be sure she has received it and kept it."
"I think I may by accident have destroyed Queen Anne," Aleneil said to Denoriel.
Her skin, always fair, was now near transparent and the flesh beneath it seemed almost drained of blood. She had arrived in the dark, hidden in a deep-hooded cloak, and she was shaking so hard when Denoriel came out to meet her and help her dismount from Ystwyth that, without a word, he carried her inside. Now they were sitting side by side on the settle in the well-furnished parlor of Denoriel's London house.
Although it was April, the evenings were chill. A comfortable fire burned steadily in the hearth and candles cast a warm glow over the glimmering satin of "Lady Alana's" soft golden gown. Denoriel leaned forward and took his sister's hands in his own.
"How? What happened?"
"I killed her dog."
"You? You killed a dog? Oh, it was a construct? You have been saying for two months now that something was wrong with Anne, that she was not her usual self. How came you to miss a construct for so long?"
"Because it was not a construct." Aleneil swallowed and tears ran down her face. "It was only a very friendly, very silly, very sweet little dog."
"And you killed it? For what?"
"I did not kill it apurpose." Aleneil sighed deeply. "Lady Lee kept telling me about this adorable little dog the queen had, how when Francis Bryan had given it to her, it cured her grief over her loss. At first I paid little attention, but after a while I began to wonder because I had never seen this dog. Then I began to notice that the queen was very calm and that when something troubled her, she held her arm as if she were carrying something."
Denoriel lifted his brows. "Peculiar, but it is the calm that troubles me. From what Harry told me, calm is not a common state to Queen Anne."
"But she has been calm, yes, even happy, which seemed stranger and stranger because I do not believe the king has come back to her bed and Jane Seymour is more a favorite than ever. The only bright spot is that clearly the king finds her useful for some political purposes. He got the Imperial ambassador to bow to her and thus recognize her. If he can make the emperor recognize her, that will tacitly mean acceptance of Henry as supreme head of the Church. But—"
Her voice shook and Denoriel said, "Wait, love, you are whiter than milk. Let me get some wine for you."
Aleneil nodded and raised a hand to wipe away the tears. She sipped the wine when Denoriel had carried it to her and sighed. She went on to tell him of her growing suspicion about the dog and her growing doubts about Anne solacing herself for the lack of Henry's company with that of a number of gentlemen. She had even broken her usual silence to warn Anne that it was not wise in the king's absence to be closeted with this or that gentleman. But Anne had only laughed at her and pointed out that the gentleman most frequently with her was her own brother.
"And then this afternoon Anne complained to Cromwell about his giving up his rooms to the Seymours. The secretary was angry because it was by the king's order and he did not like it any better than she did. But he does not quarrel with her and turned on his heel just as I entered the room. He came toward the doorway, blocking my entrance. I just caught a glimpse of Anne, standing near the fire and clutching the little dog to her. I had to curtsey to Cromwell, but when he passed me, I began to walk toward the queen. I heard her call the dog's name reprovingly, then cry out in pain as the dog leapt from her arms."
Aleneil had finished the wine in her glass and Denoriel reached for the decanter on a side table and refilled it.
"When I reached her, the queen was rubbing her arm. I could see that the dog had torn her sleeve and scratched the arm beneath and I said I would get some salve for it, but the queen sent me instead to retrieve the dog, which had run into the next chamber. So I went to fetch it. The little thing was crouching in a corner as if I were going to eat it alive—" Her lips trembled and she bit them. "Oh, the poor thing. But I meant no harm. I spoke soft as I could and stretched out my open hand for it to smell and . . . and it leapt on a chair and out of the window rather than let me touch it."
"That is not possible, Aleneil," Denoriel said flatly.
"What do you mean not possible," Aleneil sobbed. "I saw it happen myself."
"Not that the thing did not happen, but that the dog, who everyone else said was sweet, friendly, and foolish, should jump out of a window to keep you from touching it. I have never known any animal—even the wild ones in the woods—to flee from you. They are more likely to run to you than to run away."
Aleneil put her wine glass down on the broad, flat arm of the settle and extracted her kerchief from her sleeve to wipe her eyes. Then she admitted what Denoriel said was true, that fortunately before she could rush to Anne and confess what had happened, another lady had entered the room and commiserated with her on the difficulty of catching a small agile dog.
Clearly the other lady believed the dog had darted by her and got away. And, of course, it should have . . . only that would have meant running closer to her, and apparently the dog could not do that. By then she had realized the oddity of the dog's behavior, and she slipped away to run outside before someone else found the body.
She wept again, remembering the limp, broken body of the little animal, but she swallowed back the tears and admitted to Denoriel that as soon as she actually touched it, she felt the spells in the collar.
"The dog was bespelled to run from Sidhe?"
"Yes," she sighed.
"Then you did not kill it," he said firmly. "Whoever put the collar on it killed it."
"Everyone said it was such a happy, pretty little thing." Aleneil sniffed and wiped away more tears.
"And a great comfort to its mistress," Denoriel said, his mouth set grimly, "inducing her to live in a fool's paradise. Well, now it is gone and Anne is awake again, can she—"
Aleneil shuddered. "No," she whispered. "That was why I first said I had destroyed the queen. It is as if all the terror and ill feeling and jealousy and spite that the spells in the collar held at bay are now pouring out."
Denoriel stared into nothing for a moment and then said, "I'll need to tell Harry to double his watch on Elizabeth who, fortunately, is in Greenwich now. Do you feel well enough for me to accompany you back to the queen?"
Aleneil sighed. "I am not going back. I am dismissed. She blames me for Purkoy's death, which is fair enough, although I did not intend it. And there is nothing more I can do for her." Aleneil looked at her brother with wide sorrowing eyes. "To FarSee is useless. I Saw three paths and I, intending only the best, have driven the queen down the one that leads to the headsman's block."