Pasgen never did tame the red mist, but his attempts diverted him so completely from mortal affairs that when, months later, Vidal summoned him (Pasgen was relieved that the summons came through the empty house) he did not associate the summons with affairs in the mortal world. He had already sent word to Vidal that the Lady Elizabeth was of no account, but that he was watching her nevertheless, and he had heard nothing.
Vidal did demand that he and Rhoslyn attend the court periodically, and his purpose was clear—to prove himself superior to the twins. This seemed like just another such summons.
In one way the summons were useful because they marked the progress of Vidal's and Aurelia's continued recovery, and gave Pasgen a useful way to gauge their abilities without actually testing them. At first the stinging insects and tangling ribbons that Vidal had cast at him and Rhoslyn could be brushed away with a thought.
Pasgen had to remember to wince—and to remind Rhoslyn to wince—as if they had been startled, so that the court, in particular the other Sidhe, would think that the spells had missed them apurpose. The idea was to leave the others with the impression that Vidal was strong enough that the mere threat of punishment was enough to bring Pasgen to heel.
At the last summoning, however, the thought had not been enough to deflect the spell completely. Rhoslyn had been touched by a stinging spark, had hissed with rage, and lifted a hand to send it back three-fold. Pasgen had barely been in time to stop her because he had noticed that Aurelia was no longer sitting beside Vidal like a stuffed toy. She still did not move or speak, but there was now a gleam in her eyes that hinted some, at least, of the force of that spell had come from her.
Another matter to consider. If Vidal and Aurelia had learned how to blend their power as he and Rhoslyn could, that might be trouble. Such blended power could be too much to counter even for him if they both continued to gain strength, and it would surely be dangerous for Rhoslyn if she were alone.
Of course there was a little matter of personalities; neither Vidal nor Aurelia was of a sharing kind . . . but still, now that they were regaining their strength, it behooved him more than ever to attend the court and measure just how strong they had become.
He met Rhoslyn at the empty house—which was not really empty, just empty of them. It was quite an elegant place, modeled on a Roman domus of the classical period. The only break in its outer facade of pure white marble was a single door, guarded by a bronze gate and a burly construct. The door opened into a narrow hallway through which one could see a handsome atrium. The square area, open to the sky and centered on a pool where golden fish swam amid exquisite water lilies, was paved in marble veined with blue and green.
On the opposite side of the atrium, the door to the tablinium stood open. Unlike the tablinium of a true Roman domus, this one did not hold any bed. There were several low tables accompanied by large cushions and three-legged stools, and the opposite wall was a huge window containing a door that opened into the back garden.
Wings to either side of the tablinium held doors opening into rooms furnished as bedchambers. Occasionally those rooms had been occupied by guests, and the sitting rooms and libraries opposite—on the same side as the entrance—had been used as well, and bore the faint traces of the auras of those who had passed through the doors. Not enough to identify anyone, but enough to show that the house was not merely a show place. But the main purpose of the house was so that Vidal or anyone else who wished to communicate with Pasgen or Rhoslyn would have a place to send messages.
The almost mindless constructs that accepted such messages for Pasgen (male) and Rhoslyn (female) had no other function than to be bound mentally to far more intelligent servants in Pasgen's and Rhoslyn's private domains. The bonds were one-way and any touch on them shattered them immediately.
The other purpose of the empty house was that Torgen and Talog were stabled there, and beyond the stable was a park where the not-horses could graze if they chose (although they preferred to hunt and eat flesh, as if they were descended from the ancient dire-wolves) and where at least a dozen Gates were sited. Every Gate had termini at Caer Mordwyn and all three of the great markets. None could be used to reach Pasgen's or Rhoslyn's domains. The two empty places for patterning were sometimes spelled for a guest's convenience; otherwise they remained blank.
Rhoslyn sighed when she saw Pasgen coming toward her on the garden path. "If you hadn't insisted I come, I would have sent a message with an excuse," she said testily.
"I might need you," Pasgen replied, and then, in response to her wide-eyed expression of surprise, added, "It occurred to me, unpleasantly, that Vidal has grown stronger each time he called a court, and the last time his spell was strong enough that I could not divert it without counterspelling. And then I noticed that Aurelia was watching more keenly than she has watched anything since they reappeared."
"You think it was her spell?"
"Her spell?" Pasgen looked blank and then blinked. "I had not thought of that at all, but you could be right, of course. She has looked so much like an image rather than a creature with life and sense that I never thought of it. But she was strong before whatever happened at Hatfield. What I thought was that out of need they had learned to join."
"Join," Rhoslyn repeated, and shivered. "That would be bad."
"Yes, but good or bad we must know what to expect."
To that, Rhoslyn only nodded and looked ahead to where the servants, alerted by feeling the presence of their masters, were leading the not-horses. Rhoslyn mounted Talog without difficulty. Pasgen had more trouble. He had not ridden Torgen at all in the two years he had been ill, and he did not ride very often now because he spent so much time in his workrooms. Even when he was out hunting mists in the Unformed lands, he often did not take Torgen because he only needed to go a few feet from the Gate.
Once the not-horses were under control, Rhoslyn and Pasgen went to the nearest Gate—a fantastic structure designed to look like a gaping mouth with far too many fanged teeth—which was large enough for the two not-horses abreast. They thought of Caer Mordwyn, Pasgen set the Gate spell in motion, and they rode into the fanged mouth, and instantly out of a shadowy structure that might have been a bit of dead woodland with great trunks, stripped of bark, leaning against one another, or a very large and rather ruinous barn. It was not enough of one or the other to be readily identified, but the first thing that sprang to mind was that the work of creating it was second-rate and sloppy.
Pasgen snorted and even Rhoslyn looked dissatisfied. Despite their differences about what was beautiful, neither tolerated shabby or careless work. However, neither spoke. This was Vidal's domain and the careless, unfinished-looking surroundings might house prying eyes and listening ears. Certainly the Gate that at one time had terminated very near the castle, now had released them at what looked like the border of the domain.
"The horses will have a nice run," Pasgen said.
"That was what I hoped. I have been away and Talog needs exercise."
Rhoslyn grinned and picked up the pace so that they arrived at the black gate of the palace at a near gallop. Indeed, they were coming so fast that Pasgen had to circle Torgen before he could slow him enough to pass through. And that left the not-horse in such a fury that he savaged the first servant who came to take him, leaving the long, thin newtlike thing mewling, with its face torn open and its bowels oozing onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.
"Tsk," Rhoslyn said, gesturing first at the servant, who dissipated into mist, and then at Torgen, who ceased from plunging to the end of the rein that Pasgen had dropped and appeared fixed immovably to the ground. "That will be enough temper for one day, I think."
Both not-horses now allowed themselves to be led away and Pasgen and Rhoslyn joined the gathering throng of dark Sidhe, boggles, bane-sidhe, red-caps, trolls, ogres, phookas, and other creatures who were mounting the black marble stair to the entrance of Caer Mordwyn. Faintly a cry came from beyond the great open doors. The twins glanced at each other.
"Shields?" Rhoslyn murmured.
"Ready," Pasgen replied.
Inside, the unrelieved black of the external palace was brightened, if not much lightened, by red marble veined with gold. The floors, too, had golden lines snaking curvaceously across their width. Rhoslyn frowned, not recalling whether the floor had always been so enhanced, just as a rather small ogre tripped over one of those curving lines, fell to the ground and began to shriek as something in the floor rose up to pierce him.
Whatever it was did not hold him long, for a moment later the ogre jumped up, wailing. The experience had not been fatal—seemingly Vidal did not wish to diminish his court further, perhaps because he had finally realized that during his illness many had slipped out of his control and not returned. However, the little ogre seemed shrunken in size and could only stagger forward with a stain of dark blood trailing from his belly. Pasgen's and Rhoslyn's glance met; doubtless this was a new way for Vidal to suck power from his subjects.
Pasgen's hand closed on Rhoslyn's arm and she felt the tingle of a shield sliding over her. It was just as well, in being careful to avoid another trap on the floor they came too close to one of the pillars, which lashed out at them with red ribbons that had been invisible against the red marble. The ribbons shriveled on touching Pasgen's shield, but others were not so fortunate. The twins heard grunts and cries from those both before and behind.
As they took their places in the front row of the throne room, Pasgen sighed. Vidal was growing stronger. He looked alert and mildly dissatisfied over someone or something that had not yet arrived. Aurelia, beside him, was actually smiling. Pasgen pushed a little more power into the shield and tried to watch all around him for the next attack without seeming to do so.
Thus Pasgen was taken completely by surprise when Vidal said, "I visited the FarSeers' tower a few days ago. Tell me, Lord Pasgen, why my FarSeers are still having Visions of the reign of Elizabeth. Why has she not been removed, one way or another as I ordered?"
Pasgen almost asked "Who?" as he had asked the first time Vidal had mentioned Elizabeth, but recalled himself in time. He shrugged, gestured indifference.
"I have not forgotten nor intended to disobey your command, Prince Vidal. I have merely been trying to be rid of the girl in a way that cannot be traced to the Unseleighe. Although she has been declared illegitimate, she is still part of the royal family, and Oberon—"
"Oberon is not the ruler of this court!" Vidal roared.
Pasgen shrugged again. "No, but since there is no hurry about being rid of the child, why chance enraging the High King?"
"Oh?" Vidal glowered down at him dangerously. "And how do you know there is no hurry to be rid of Elizabeth? You have not been near the FarSeers' tower."
"The matter is clear without FarSeeing," Pasgen retorted. "Whatever the FarSeers envision for the future, the girl is of no importance now, and as the young prince grows and thrives she becomes steadily less important. At this time she still has guards and a household, but those have been reduced greatly over the years, and it is most likely that when the prince comes to the throne and is betrothed or even wedded, she will become more of a nuisance than an asset. I thought it well worthwhile to wait until she is left unattended most of the time. Then an 'accident' could be easily arranged at a time when no one is likely to question being rid of an inconvenient burden."
"Not unreasonable, my lord," Aurelia said, shocking Pasgen as she spoke. Her hand rose uncertainly toward her temple and then dropped. "I can see no reason to call Oberon's attention to us."
Pasgen hid his surprise as best he could, but he would have been less surprised, and certainly less dismayed, if one of Vidal's statues stood up and spoke the same words. So. Aurelia was back in her right mind. How long had she been feigning feeble-mindedness? What had she noticed?
Vidal snorted, but said to Pasgen, "Very well, but see that the accident is arranged in no long time." He then turned his eyes to Rhoslyn and asked, "And what have you to tell me of your charge?"
Rhoslyn sighed, her relief obvious. "Lady Mary goes on much as before. She worships by the old rite as much as she can in secret. She has asked the Imperial ambassador, Chapuyus, to obtain a secret pardon from the pope for her for having accepted her father as supreme head of the English Church and for going to worship where his rites were used. There can be no doubt that if she comes to the throne, she will restore the pope, the old rites, the opportunity for abuses such as the indulgences, and everything as it was in her mother's lifetime, and all those who oppose this restoration of the old ways will pay for their obstinacy."
Aurelia frowned and asked, "And the people? Will they gladly set aside the reformed religion? If they are willing and eager for the restoration of Catholicism she will have no need to call in the Inquisition."
"She will," Rhoslyn said firmly. "The common folk are mostly just confused, and the older people, at least, are uneasy with this change in what they have always believed, but the younger folk have taken to the new reforms with zeal. And many are very glad to be free of paying what they call 'Peter's pence' and will resist its restoration. Even among the high families that may think with nostalgia of the days when the supreme head of the Church was far away rather than in their laps, most do not want to turn back again. They have profited by the dissolution of the monasteries and convents. They have all gladly taken lands that once belonged to the Church. If the old religion is restored and the monasteries and convents are reestablished, Mary might try to force those families to disgorge what they so greedily swallowed. And there are those who sincerely believe that the old religion was corrupt and that the path to salvation lies in faith rather than good works. True, there may be some who will welcome the return of the old ways, both high and low, but by no means all. No, no. There will be enough resistance."
Vidal nodded sharply, but Aurelia frowned. "We need the power that Mary's Inquisition will bring us. What of the boy who stands between her and the throne?"
Even Vidal shrank slightly away at those words. "No!" he exclaimed, before either Pasgen or Rhoslyn could say anything. "Beseech instead for Edward's health, because if aught befalls that child there will be such investigations into his fate as will uncover the intrusion of a mote of dust—both from King Henry and from King Oberon. Besides, it will be well for us if Edward comes to the throne."
"As well as if Mary rules?"
Vidal pursed his lips and his eyes slid sideways to Aurelia, but he only said, "Different, yet Edward's reign will provide us with power. There will be much misery and no few confiscations and executions. And Mary herself will be watched, which will further embitter her, and make her more apt to the hand of the Inquisition when she comes to power." He pointed at Rhoslyn. "You are specially commanded to take care that no harm comes to Mary. I will not interfere with the prince, since he will serve us well, but Mary is to be guarded carefully and kept in reserve."
"Yes, I agree." There was now a slightly rough timbre to Aurelia's voice; it was no longer as smooth and sweet and poisonous as poppy syrup. "But for how long, my lord? For how long? Mary is mortal, not Sidhe. She is already over twenty years of age and she is sickly—"
"True. True. Which is why–" Vidal turned and pinned Pasgen with his gaze "—I want Elizabeth gone."
"Elizabeth is not the first problem," Rhoslyn said quickly. "Nor even the second nor the third. Mary is very worried because her father is seeking a new bride, and he is seeking a bride among the nations that cleave to the reformed religion. If the king produces another son, Mary's chance of coming to the throne could almost vanish."
She was not certain why Pasgen was reluctant to deal with Elizabeth, but she had sensed her brother's tension. What she suspected was that he could not bear to harm a child, and she resolved immediately to do all she could to help him. A new wife for the king was a good distraction. But Vidal merely shrugged. It was Aurelia who leaned forward with interest.
"A new wife?" She smiled slowly and for a moment she was again almost the vital, glowing creature she had been before whatever had happened to her at Hatfield. "I can take care of that! Just be sure to let me know when the lady is due to arrive and bring me something that belongs to the king."
"You will not bespell the king," Vidal snarled, fear greasing his pallid skin with a sheen of sweat.
"No," Aurelia agreed. "I will cast a spell that repels the king, a spell that will make him hate whoever carries the spell, but the king himself will not be bespelled."
"Ah." Vidal sat back, satisfied. He waved at Rhoslyn and Pasgen. "You are both to bring me news from the mortal world, and that is to be your prime business." He waved again, dismissal this time. "You may go, both of you. My further business does not concern you."
For a moment Pasgen was so paralyzed with rage he just froze in place. Then Rhoslyn took his arm and tugged at it. With a harsh, indrawn breath Pasgen erupted forward toward Vidal's throne. Vidal half raised a hand. The air tingled with leashed magic. Rhoslyn pulled urgently on her brother's arm, meanwhile casting a silencing spell on him. He almost pulled away. Rhoslyn hissed, "Shields," and dragged him into the aisle. By the time he had reinforced the shields and broken the silencing spell they had reached the outer door, and he no longer needed to be silenced.
He breathed out an angry puff of air and said, "I suppose that was very effective in making me seem afraid of Vidal so I should thank you."
"Yes, you should." Rhoslyn laughed. "You were going to destroy all our careful work for the last half year just because Vidal dismissed you publicly. And what is so funny is that you don't want to be involved in whatever business he has with the ogres, and hags, and boggles, and bane-sidhes, do you?"
Pasgen sighed, then also laughed. "No, you are right, I don't. But I don't favor being virtually banished to the mortal world as a news gatherer. Rhoslyn, I have no interest at all in the mortal world any longer. I have found such wonders here, Underhill."
"Yes, I know." Rhoslyn sent out a mental call to the servants to bring their not-horses. "But you would have even less time, much less, if you found yourself again ruler of the Unseleighe. Give Vidal what he wants and then pretend to go traveling or something."
Pasgen seized Torgen's reins from a trembling servant who showed bloody bite marks. He struck the not-horse a tremendous blow on the forehead and mounted, pulling back on the double reins to raise a barbed wheel from the bar across the mouth to stab the upper palate if the creature lunged.
"Now that," Pasgen said, easing the reins as Rhoslyn mounted, "is a very good idea."
He was somewhat surprised at Rhoslyn's easy agreement to "giving Vidal what he wants" which meant Elizabeth's death. Part of his reluctance to harm the child was his fear that Rhoslyn would be seriously angry, would cut him off. He rather resented his need for her approval but did recognize it. In the past they had competed more than cooperated, but the shared problem of their mother had brought them closer, and when Oberon had forced him to whip the Unseleighe Court into order, he had become completely estranged from the other dark Sidhe. Now—well, he was interested only in his researches into power and did not often seek companionship, but he needed some contact with fellow beings and only Rhoslyn and his mother would respond.
Had Rhoslyn known how Pasgen interpreted her remark, she would have been horrified. She had not been thinking about Elizabeth at all when she said Pasgen should satisfy Vidal. It seemed to her that it was Vidal's order to bring news from the mortal world that had infuriated Pasgen and on their way to the Gate, she pointed out that she could easily take over much of the information-gathering. Also he had already established a persona that would permit him to learn what was necessary with very little effort on his part.
To Pasgen it seemed as if she had simply dismissed Elizabeth from her mind and gone on to a subject she considered more important. He was aware, if not entirely approving, of Rhoslyn's fascination with the mortal world.
"You are quite right," he said. "I was thinking myself that it was time to bring Fagildo Otstargi back from his foreign sojourns and reinsinuate him into court life."
Unfortunately it was already past time. A treaty for the marriage of King Henry and Anne of Cleves was engineered by Thomas Cromwell in October, and the bride arrived in England on New Year's Day 1540.
Pasgen had delayed his "return" to avoid involvement in whatever Aurelia did, but Rhoslyn, who actually introduced Aurelia into Lady Mary's entourage told him that her act was so smooth and innocent no suspicion could possibly have attached to her.
Most of the crowd of ladies who greeted Anne presented her with some small gift of welcome. Aurelia's was a tiny, exquisite scent bottle to be worn on a belt or a bracelet or a necklace. Several of the other ladies handled it and admired it, and Anne attached it to her belt at once. Rhoslyn herself was only minimally aware of a faint aura of distaste, but the king's face changed drastically from willing expectation to dire disappointment as soon as he approached his bride. It could be seen by all that he hated her on sight.
Likely Aurelia's mischief was only the final catastrophe among Cromwell's failures, although once Pasgen began to study current politics in England he realized there were many causes for the minister's fall. All in all he was glad he had not "arrived" yet. Cromwell might have appealed to his old advisor for help, and there would have been nothing Pasgen could do to help him. Pasgen might have arranged for Henry's distaste for Anne to fade, but that would not have saved Cromwell and would have infuriated Aurelia.
Despite FitzRoy's suggestion, Denoriel made no attempt to approach the duke of Norfolk for several months. In that time he assured himself that there were no Unseleighe influences near Elizabeth. He managed to get into every room in Hatfield—using the Don't-see-me spell—to investigate the portions of the palace that were closed off, and he also made excuses and efforts to speak to every person of her household, even the lowest of the servants.
None had the taint of the Unseleighe and he found no lingering echoes of imps or other unsavory creatures either inside the palace or in the grounds; he had been particularly careful in the garden. Finally he had Aleneil bind one of the air spirits to remain near Elizabeth and watch for any shadow of the Dark Court. The one place where Denoriel detected a faint Unseleighe presence was his own house in London, where a strong whiff of imp hit him one day when he opened his clothes press.
He no longer wore any of the clothes. It was far easier for him to create the garments on his body Underhill than to go to the trouble of actually putting on small clothes, hose, slops, shirt, doublet, sleeves, gown, and all the other oddments required. While he had guarded Harry, he had had friends who came to visit him and it was often necessary for him to change his clothing in their presence if they were going to some dinner or other entertainment. At present he had no such visitors and only kept the garments in the wardrobe for verisimilitude.
Scenting imp, he summoned his servants—Low Court Sidhe who were supposed to have come with him from Hungary and hardly spoke English—and bade them remove and examine every garment for malign spells or substances. Nothing was found. Puzzled, Denoriel cleansed the wardrobe and bade his servants destroy everything in it and order new clothing from his tailor, who had his measurements. He bid one dryad to choose colors and fabrics for three suits, a satyr to make three other choices, a nymph to select sleeves and adornments. :Tell the tailor,: he said to them, :that the clothes I had left here were out of fashion because I had been gone so long.:
He then Gated hastily to Hatfield, which he entered cloaked in the Don't-see-me spell, and rushed through the rooms and out into the garden. He could find no trace of any Unseleighe intrusion, and grew more puzzled by the moment. What could an imp want in his clothes press? Nothing occurred to him, and he could only assume that the imp had been foiled in whatever it intended by an intrusion by one of his servants.
Having satisfied himself that Elizabeth was safe, he knew he should simply go away. However, since he was already at Hatfield, he yielded to temptation, mounting Miralys just out of sight of Hatfield and riding in for a visit. He received the punishment he deserved in the tepid welcome proffered. Elizabeth and Blanche walked to the garden with him but hardly tried to mask their conviction that he was only finding an excuse when he asked if they had been disturbed by any uncanny presence, while the air spirit was offended by the idea it had been lax in its attention.
Even Kat Champernowne was somewhat less welcoming than usual, commenting that he was a rather more frequent visitor than she expected. Beside that, Elizabeth irritated him further, after he had said farewell, by stopping him from leaving to demand, in a low but angry voice, the response to her letter to Harry.
"I cannot make the ship sail faster," Denoriel snapped. "And if it founders, it will be some months before I know and can send Harry a message to write again."
"Liar," she breathed, so low he almost could not hear. "He is dead."
"What would it profit me to lie to you?" Denoriel grated between his teeth. "I could have said in the beginning that I did not know where he was."
"But that would have gained you less credit with me."
"Credit with you?" Denoriel almost howled, at the last moment bringing his voice down to an outraged whisper so it would not echo past the garden and into the audience chamber. "Why should I want to have credit with you, you noxious brat?"
She laughed aloud at his exasperation, but her eyes were sharp and so bright that Denoriel blinked. "No one else would dare call me a noxious brat," she said. "I am the king's daughter."
"And I called the Duke of Richmond 'Harry' even though he was the king's son, although I admit I never called him a noxious brat—but that was because he did not deserve it."
However, this time Elizabeth did not, as she so often did after driving him into a temper, smile and beg him to come again soon. Her eyes darkened and she looked down.
"True enough, my Da was too sweet-tempered to be a noxious brat . . . but I am not, and I do not want to see you again until you have his letter. You said months—months have passed. I have enquired how long a voyage to the Indies takes. Yours is overlong." Whereupon she turned on her heel and walked through the gate toward the door of the palace.
Denoriel fought down a strong desire to run after her, although whether to wring her neck or to take her in his arms and comfort her, he did not know. He told himself that if he did not return for several weeks, it would serve her right. She was safe enough with the air spirit and Blanche to watch for Unseleighe intrusion and her guardsmen (who Denoriel had determined had taken her to their hearts as they had taken Harry), to watch for human dangers.
He swore as he walked toward the stable where Miralys waited that he would not be coerced into giving her Harry's letter, which had been waiting in his London house for some weeks, but he sighed as he swore, fearing he would not keep the vow. Ridiculous as it was, because most of the time they were together they only quarreled, he missed her terribly if more than a few days passed between visits.
Elizabeth was so clever, so acute, that she was drawing him into a real interest in political events in England. She said the most outrageous things, betraying a political cynicism that should have been far beyond a child of eight. But few things were beyond her; she was frighteningly precocious. Then again, she had to be. If she were not, she would have been in far more danger.
Nor was Elizabeth only clever in English politics. She was making him into a student of classical times. There, of course, he had a strong advantage because he could learn from Aleneil's fellow FarSeer Rhonwen, who had lived in the glory of Greece and Rome, what had happened and how close they had come to living what they wrote. Thus, the discussions he and Elizabeth had about Greek philosophy and Roman virtue were quite exciting, as he tried to communicate Rhonwen's revelations without exposing how he obtained the information.
Perhaps, he thought, he should just yield, Gate back to Hatfield and give her the letter. He could tell Mistress Champernowne that he had forgotten his gloves and remembered before he was too far to return. Then he was quite annoyed with himself. If he gave her the letter at once, she would know he had been holding it.
He Gated to the London house where he came up from the cellar into the kitchen. The servants hardly glanced at him as he passed them, then he came out into the garden and to the small stable where Miralys, already divested of harness, snorted at him. But he knew he would have to give Elizabeth the letter soon, so he returned to the house, went to his little-used office, and extracted the letter from the locked letter press on his desk. There, biting his lip, he perused it once again. It was signed only "Da" and it mostly was a proof that Harry was who he claimed to be by reminiscing about incidents that only Henry FitzRoy could have known.
It was not a perfect device because neither Denoriel nor Harry was certain what a child of not-quite-three would have been able to remember. It was, however, the best they could do. At least, if the letter were discovered, it would not betray the existence of Underhill. It should be meaningless or at worst be assumed to be from one of Anne Boleyn's friends because it related to incidents that took place mostly before the queen was beheaded.
Denoriel had barely begun to reworry that subject when a tap on the door made him slide the letter into the letter press again and call "Come." He knew the tap. It was both polite and brisk and always heralded his mortal man of business, Joseph Clayborne.
"I am glad to catch you momentarily at home, my lord," Clayborne said dryly. "I have seen so little of you since you arrived back in England, that I can only hope you are aware that the king is likely to rid himself of his bride."
Denoriel sighed. He had been reprimanded . . . again . . . for neglecting his business. He and Joseph had had this mild confrontation before. He had explained—at some length—that he had hired Joseph just so that he would not need to worry about his business. Joseph invariably replied that this was a path to disaster by putting strong temptation into an underling's hands without adequate supervision. Lord Denno, Joseph insisted, should know about his business.
Smiling, Denoriel said, "In fact—good afternoon, Joseph—I am aware."
Master Clayborne frowned slightly, acknowledging the subtle rebuke, then sighed, equally slightly, and said, "Good afternoon, my lord. I am sorry if I offended by not greeting you, but I have this fear you are going to slip away from me before I say what I must."
Denoriel laughed and leaned back in his high-backed chair, gesturing Clayborne to take one of the stools on the other side of the table. "Justified, Joseph, justified." The temptation to return to Hatfield washed through him again like a warm wave, but he rose above it and continued blandly, "However, this afternoon I am at your disposal. I would have sought you out myself in a little while."
Clayborne's lips did not twitch, but his eyebrows did. Denoriel grinned.
"No, really," he said. "Tentatively, I have accomplished my first goals. I have, I believe, fixed my interest with Lady Elizabeth and reestablished certain friendships in the country. Now I hope soon to make friends at court."
Clayborne's eyes brightened and he sat up straighter, laying the papers he had carried into the room on the table. "Lady Elizabeth, not the prince?"
"At Prince Edward's present age, it would be a waste of my time and, I suspect, at any time in the future there will be so many seeking the prince's attention that a foreigner like me would receive scant welcome. Lady Elizabeth is easier of access, she remembers me kindly from when she was a babe—a very remarkable child is Lady Elizabeth—she trusts me, and I learn from her governess, Mistress Champernowne, that when the prince is past any danger of taking a childish illness from her, she will be sent to live with him."
"Ah!" Clayborne sounded satisfied and smiled, his tight-lipped accolade of approval. "Access through the back door, as it were. Will the prince like her?"
"I am sure he will be utterly enchanted—as I have been, I am afraid. I will have to arrange for you to meet Lady Elizabeth."
"I would like that, but unfortunately Lady Elizabeth has almost no intercourse with the court at present and there is bound to be some disruption of trade if King Henry sets Anne of Cleves aside." Clayborne shook his head sadly. "Cromwell is lost, I fear, and I can only hope that his fall does not damage the contracts we have made with the Flemish. France and the Empire seem to be at odds again, but it is always useful, my lord, to know how the wind is blowing before it is strong enough to blow us over. If it were possible for you to—ah—renew your friendship with the king's friends . . ."
Denoriel nodded. "That should not be too difficult. I have some books of Italian poetry that should serve as a good reintroduction to Wyatt. But he will only give me court gossip. I think I will need a patron among the older and higher nobility."
"Perfect, my lord, but I do not think you should try to approach the Seymours." Clayborne pursed his lips in thought. "The Earl of Hertford does not like foreigners and is of too serious a disposition—he would not be very sympathetic to a friend of Wyatt's, and his brother . . . I do not know what to tell you, my lord. Thomas Seymour would likely welcome you and your full purse warmly enough, but he is said to use 'friends' and then cast them aside. He is . . . ambitious, my lord."
"It is fortunate that I only seek to make a profit." Denoriel smiled without much mirth, then said, "My cousin, Lady Alana, thought I should try the Duke of Norfolk."
"Lady Alana, is a clever woman . . . wise, too, which attributes sometimes do not go together." After a moment, Clayborne nodded. "The duke of Norfolk, yes. He is not as powerful as he used to be, but he may well be again if the king's interest in Catherine Howard continues to grow."
"Then I had better move quickly. I am sure he will remember me and I recall he was greatly taken with some Turkey carpets I gave him." Denoriel laughed briefly. "He displayed them as a kind of 'payment' for the gift and if I remember correctly we sold quite a few. Hmmm. What do we have in the warehouse that might interest him?"
"I remember the Turkey carpets. Unfortunately we have no rugs at present. However, I do have some Flemish tapestries."
Denoriel would not much have cared if all the warehouse had was Irish wolfhounds or solid gold fool's-bells, so long as the objects served as a proper gift for the duke. "The tapestries will do. Even if Norfolk does not want them, they will be excuse enough for me to request an audience. And I can say I do not have carpets but could obtain them."
"Can you?"
The question was bland, but Denoriel cursed himself for stupidity. Joseph Clayborne had to be clever to manage what at first had seemed to be and now was indeed growing into a complex trading network. Yet Joseph had never seemed to see that Denoriel's servants were rather strange and that his master's arrivals and departures were very peculiar. Denoriel was careful that Miralys was in the stable when Lord Denno arrived, but it was rare that anyone ever saw the horse come down the street with Lord Denno on its back. And the excuse of being a wine fancier must be growing very thin. All too often Lord Denno came up from the cellar without ever having been seen going down into it.
Actually, Denoriel was certain that Joseph knew there was something uncanny about the household and he was certain that Joseph had watched and considered and probably decided there was nothing evil about it. Denoriel wished he could tell Joseph the truth; the business would be even more profitable if he could satisfy strange requests very quickly, without having to pretend that the goods had been shipped from a distant port.
Could he do that, Denoriel wondered, and trust to Joseph's loyalty never to speak of it? Of course, it was forbidden and Oberon would have his hide if Joseph spoke out of turn, but what proof would Joseph have? Surely anyone he told would think him mad. Was that enough protection? Or could Joseph be bespelled not to disclose his master's conversation? He would have to ask Aleneil.
"Yes, I can," Denoriel said in answer to Joseph's question about whether he could procure rugs for the Duke of Norfolk. He smiled. "And someday I might tell you how I can manage such a thing, but for now we had better stick to the Flemish tapestries. I will write to Norfolk later. I see you have come armed with documents. Tell me about those for which you need my approval. And I pledge you that I will do my best to pay close attention."