A month earlier, when the king was first so ill that his ministers despaired of his life, Wriothesley sat across the handsome table from the man he believed to be his tame magician. He wrung his hands.
"What will become of this nation?" he moaned. Thin veils of smoke wafted in and out of the light coming from the lone mullioned window.
Vidal was worried himself, because he was not at all sure he would be able to keep the conflict between Scotland and England alive, especially not if King Henry died. Cardinal Beaton had been murdered in May, and without his fanatical resolve to resist any rapprochement with the English, and without Henry's equally fanatical resolve to subdue the Scots, Vidal was afraid that peace would be made. For the present, the hunt for Beaton's killers and the violent resistance of the Calvinists (who had brought about Beaton's death) against the Catholic government was causing sufficient trouble to keep the Unseleighe well satisfied. But that could not last forever.
"Its government will change," Vidal said impatiently; he needed to be alone to think out how to keep strife alive, if not against the Scots—why then, a civil war in England would do as well. He wanted to be rid of this importunate mortal so that he could lay other plans. "You, however, are fortunate in being where you can know what is happening and perhaps in some small measure direct it."
"It will be very difficult . . . and dangerous, too," Wriothesley said, looking pale and drawn. "Paget and I have almost no support in the council. We tried—we even induced Denny to present our case because he is not of our persuasion but is far less extreme than Hertford—to have Bishop Gardiner restored to the Regency Council. The king would not hear of it."
Vidal curbed his impatience. "Cannot the principal secretary add a line to the will?"
"God's Grace, no!" Wriothesley exploded. "The whole council was present when the will was read. And Hertford, Paget, and Sir William Herbert were with the king when the fair copy was signed at the top and the bottom. It was witnessed by the officers of the household, sealed with the king's signet, and handed to Hertford." Wriothesley snorted. "Add a line indeed!"
"Then I suggest you pray hard for the king's recovery, which will give you more time to assemble supporters," Vidal replied shortly, already weary of this fool who could not arrange matters properly.
"Does your glass say nothing of this, of an event of such monumental importance?" Wriothesley said, despairingly.
Vidal frowned. The man had a point. If he was what he was pretending to be, how could he not be able to ForeSee the king's end? He shook his head slowly. "It shows nothing of the king's death or of a ruling council. Hmmm. Perhaps, deceived by how ill the king seemed, I was looking too closely in time. I will try to see further into the future."
"Please," Wriothesley said, "do so. With all speed."
Vidal stood up, frowning—which allowed him to look down on Wriothesley. "Speed is not a word compatible with the workings of the ancient secrets, my lord," he replied portentously. "Nevertheless, I will attempt to pierce the veils of time on your behalf. But I do require privacy—"
That was enough (at last!) to make Sir Thomas take his leave.
Having rid himself of his client, Vidal Gated right from Otstargi's house to Caer Mordwyn. However, his efforts to force his FarSeers to a more certain prediction about the king's life resulted only in their exhaustion and collapse. All Vidal learned was that Henry would not die in the next two weeks but would be dead before spring.
Vidal left the FarSeers, some weeping, some unconscious, cursing everything and everyone as he made his way to his private quarters for allowing Pasgen and Rhoslyn to slip out of his absolute control. They could have made sense of the FarSeers' mouthings, he told himself, but Pasgen was gone and Rhoslyn was nothing without him.
Vidal knew he needed new plans, more options. The king was not yet dead, but by the time that happened, he must have decided what to do.
If all else failed, could he goad Rhoslyn into bespelling Mary into a try for the throne? But in the next moment, he discarded the plan. It was one that risked much—too much. If that ploy failed, Mary would be lost and Elizabeth would be the next heir to the boy. Elizabeth . . . Vidal licked his lips. He had forgotten all about Elizabeth.
Now Vidal cast himself into the most favored, deeply cushioned chair in his apartment. With one hand idly caressing the black leather, he pondered the situation. One thing he was sure of without any prediction was that there would be a desperate scrambling for place and power when the king did die. A second thing he was sure of was that Wriothesley was a frail reed to lean on for information or influence.
He needed several things: a way to reach Elizabeth so he could decide whether to try again to take her or just arrange for her to die; he needed also a tool of strength and daring who would have some influence on the regency government; and finally he needed the information that would make the first two needs possible of fulfillment.
First, and above all else, he needed information. With King Henry at death's door, there was no one with power enough to launch or even cry for an assault on Underhill, even if absolute evidence that all would believe was held before the foolish mortal noses.
Vidal smiled. He could do quite as he pleased . . . so long as no strong trail of magic led back to him for the High King to follow.
The smile turned into a grimace. That accursed Oberon would hunt down anyone who bespelled the king's council or household just for his pride's sake, because he had ordered it not be done.
But servants . . .
Servants! Vidal ground his teeth. That idiot Aurelia and her need for revenge! She had cost him dearly; he needed her competence now, and her quick wits, and he had neither. Now she was almost back to forgetting her own name and was useless to him.
However, there was a crumb to be salvaged out of her idiocy. Her attempt had proved that Oberon was not going to avenge attacks on the servants of royalty. Yes. That would permit him to put a Sidhe right into the royal household—
In fact, he decided, he would replace a body servant to the king. Whoever looked at a servant? So long as the service was satisfactory—oh, perhaps the servant's immediate supervisor might, but that minor point was easily taken care of with a befuddlement spell.
Now that was a plan with no drawbacks. A few commands, a spell or two, and he would have news as soon as Henry died.
Then there was Elizabeth to consider.
Vidal tensed in his comfortable chair. The satisfaction he had felt when he decided he would be able to place a Sidhe in Henry's very bedroom disappeared. No Sidhe could infiltrate Elizabeth's household. The girl could see through illusion, as Aurelia's misadventure proved, and her maid could sense Sidhe.
Very well, then, to get to Elizabeth he must have a minion in the household of someone who would visit her.
Ah. Vidal relaxed again against his cushions. Her brother, the little king-to-be. Until very recently they had lived together and it had been impossible to place a Sidhe in his household either—but of late, they had been separated. The separation was likely to hold, at least until Henry died, so Elizabeth would not be in the way when Edward was pronounced king.
However, the boy was said to be very much attached to her. It was possible he would be allowed to visit her to assuage his grief when he heard of his father's death. And a servant, a long-familiar and faithful body servant, could suggest a visit if the boy did not think of it himself. Yes, that would be ideal; Elizabeth would not look for a Sidhe planted among her brother's men.
As to the tool who could influence the council, Vidal had an idea, although he was not yet ready to move on it. He remembered Wriothesley complaining about Hertford's brother, Thomas Seymour. A wild young man and dangerously ambitious, Wriothesley said, but he acknowledged that Seymour was extraordinarily handsome and appealing to women and well liked among many of the courtiers too.
Yes. Seymour must fall into the toils of Fagildo Otstargi . . . but that was for after Henry died and the council was ruling England.
Meanwhile, Vidal thought over the dark Sidhe who were the least likely to betray him, and the most able to withstand the cold iron in the mortal world. When he had fixed on those two best suited to his purpose, he sent imps to summon them.
They came with commendable alacrity, and he was so pleased by this that he did not even keep them waiting. Instead, he had them brought before him immediately. As the two of them, garbed quite soberly in black velvet and scarlet satin, stood before him in attitudes of servility, he lounged on his dais and explained what they would need to do.
They were agreeable, even eager, and suggested at once that they kill the servants whose places they would take. Knowing how his minions would react once the reality of their situation hit home, Vidal had to point out that then they would need actually to perform the servants' duties, and remain in the mortal world all the time lest the servant be missed.
The underlings were not pleased to hear that, but Vidal suggested another expedient.
"You will merely take the place of these servants temporarily. In that way the servants themselves can perform the actual labor. You would not know, after all, just what all those duties are—some might include a great deal of handling of cold iron, for instance."
After some objection, and a little growling over the loss of the exhalation of pain and life force they would have gained by killing, the dark Sidhe agreed.
"It will be simple enough to control them," Vidal said. "You have magic enough for that, I suppose. There will be no difficulty in replacing their memories. No new memories need be grafted into their minds; all they would remember was that they had gone about their usual tasks in their usual way."
Agreement was reached. The servants would be accosted in their own rooms and their memories tapped; then they would be rendered unconscious and concealed, unless they were needed to perform some task that the Sidhe could not or would not undertake themselves. The Sidhe wearing the servant's features and clothes would attend on the king or the prince just long enough to be sure of what was happening. As soon as the king died, an imp must be dispatched to tell Vidal. Then the mortal who had served the king could be put back in place, and that Sidhe return.
The Sidhe attached to the prince need do nothing until a visit to Lady Elizabeth was arranged. Then he must prepare the slow-acting poison that so closely mimicked consumption and form it into a thorn. When they visited Elizabeth, he must be in the group that accompanied the prince, even if he needed to kill and replace another gentleman on the road.
Vidal considered for a moment and then added the fact that the Sidhe should throw a bolt to numb the girl's mind as soon as he could focus on her. Otherwise she would recognize him as Other and might cry out—although she was accustomed to having Sidhe about her and might not react with fear.
As soon as she was subdued, he must find an excuse to pass by her and stab the thorn into her. As reward if he were successful, Vidal would not only give him a domain of his own but he was free to take anything of value that he wanted from the prince or anyone else.
And the Sidhe in the king's household was also free to help himself as he wished as soon as the king died.
Only the king did not die. He hung on the brink the entire first week of January then slowly began to mend. Vidal sighed with exasperation. By the sixteenth of January, Henry was again well enough to receive ambassadors.
Vidal had had enough. In Scotland the first furious reactions to Beaton's death were fading and the government was gaining control. Vidal had to find a new tool who would resist England and arouse the animosity of the reformists if he wanted the misery of that nation to continue. He made sure that the Sidhe he had left to watch the king and encompass Elizabeth's death still understood their duties and were bound to them, then he left for Scotland.
Coincidentally Denoriel was also away from London. When the king had first fallen ill in the beginning of January, he had hurried to Elizabeth at Enfield, which was conveniently only ten miles east of London. This permitted him to ride Miralys, who could cover the distance in a few minutes if necessary, and saved him from the effort of creating Gates.
Enfield was convenient in other ways. There was a huge chase for hunting and gardens with formal beds, archways, trellises and arbors for climbing vines—although they were not of much use in winter weather—and there was also a chapel that had dark corners, where a frightened girl could be cuddled and reassured: corners dark enough, that if any footstep was heard, or Blanche coughed a warning, there was no possibility of the sort of mischance that had befallen them over Harry's first visit.
That first week of January, Denoriel simply found an empty room in the palace and made himself as comfortable as he could when he was not actually with Elizabeth. He expected to be summoned by the air spirit any moment after she had news of Henry's death and he was forced to use the Don't-see-me spell more than he liked.
By the eleventh or twelfth of January, Denoriel was feeling dangerously empty, and Henry still would not die. When it seemed as if the king had recovered as much as he was likely to—which meant he might die in two days or live another six months—Aleneil insisted Denoriel go Underhill to restore himself.
Since Lady Alana would remain with Elizabeth and could send for him if he were needed, Denoriel left word at his house in London and sent special messages to particular friends to say he would be away until the end of the month. He would actually have returned sooner because he now found the affairs of the mortal world much more interesting than balls and celebrations Underhill, but Harry came to visit him to relate a most curious circumstance.
Elidir and Mechain had found their wandering Unformed land. It was now, as they suspected, nearer to Unseleighe domains than those of the Seleighe; still they had not been able to resist slipping quietly in and examining the mists. Could the mists be sentient enough to help those who praised them and resist manipulation by others?
While they were composing themselves to think kindly of the mists rather than setting their minds to commanding, they noticed that instead of an aimless shifting and flowing, thin tentacles were approaching them as if they were curious. That was odd, but they never discovered whether the behavior had meaning, because a tall Sidhe, who looked something like Denoriel had before his hair had turned to white, stepped out of the mist and asked them what they were doing there.
"Pasgen," Denoriel said, identifying the mysterious Sidhe without difficulty. "Odd. I never knew him to be a creator, except of Gates. It was always Rhoslyn who made things. I wonder what he was doing there. I hope he was not building a simulacrum to replace Elizabeth!"
"I don't think so," Harry said, looking worried nonetheless. "I think Elidir or Mechain would have felt efforts at creation in the mists. I will ask them more specifically; I'm sorry now it didn't occur to me, but at the time I didn't think of Pasgen's interest in Elizabeth."
Denoriel frowned. "Rhoslyn swears he has none. That he is engaged in his own researches—but I am not at all sure that we can take her word. Did he say anything else to your friends?"
"I don't think they gave him the chance. Elidir says that they could feel his power, and Mechain said that she saw the mist sort of lining up behind him as if it were making ready to rush forward and engulf them. Anyway, they said they were sorry to intrude and just stepped back through the Gate. But here's another funny thing. Both said they didn't sense any threat from the Sidhe. It was only that they were near an Unseleighe domain that made them cautious."
Denoriel heaved out a sigh. "I think I liked it better when I knew Pasgen and Rhoslyn to be dedicated enemies. Now I hardly know whether to greet them as potential allies, to ignore them, or to attack them." He sighed again. "If you think Elidir and Mechain would be willing to take me, I would like to go to that Unformed land myself and confront Pasgen."
Mechain and Elidir were perfectly willing, but they had some trouble focusing the Gate. In the end, they found the way, but no one was there, and the mists were not at all friendly. They did not produce anything dangerous or attack, but they resisted blandishment and actively fought command. After some effort to leave a message for Pasgen, Denoriel threw up his hands. He was full charged with power and becoming anxious about what had happened in the World Above in his absence.
In the late morning of 30 January at Enfield Palace, Elizabeth was complaining to Kat Champernowne that the place was like a tomb. It was too cold and nasty to go riding and even her Lord Denno had not been next or nigh her for over a week. She was just about to ask Kat whether it would be thought ill of if she wrote to Denno, when a message came from the gate that Lord Hereford had brought Prince Edward to see his sister.
Elizabeth jumped to her feet, her face glowing with pleasure, crying, "Edward! How wonderful. Oh, Kat, am I fine enough? Is my hair neat? Will he be able to stay, do you think? Does this mean we are to be together again?"
"It cannot do harm if you spend a moment tidying your hair and washing your hands, which have ink on two fingers," Kat said, without any of the enthusiasm she generally displayed when the prince paid a call.
Elizabeth was so excited that she did not notice that Kat's voice sounded strained and she rose uneasily to her feet. Her eyes met Blanche's over Elizabeth's head, but the nurse's expression was no help. And when Elizabeth returned a few minutes later, Kat was standing and watching the door. Elizabeth did not see her wringing her hands.
What Elizabeth did see as soon as the door opened, was four men in the prince's livery enter the room, look around to make sure there was no threat in it to the prince, and step aside, two right and two left of the door.
Only—one of the men was not mortal; at the distance Elizabeth could not see the pupils of his eyes, but she could see plainly that the round human ears were a shadowy superposition over long, elven points.
The Sidhe turned to look at her . . . and Elizabeth went cold with fear, touched her ear and muttered, "Minnau ymbil!"
Even as she felt what she imagined as a clear, flexible sheet close around the vague, glowing presence she imagined to be her heart and soul, a blow struck it. Elizabeth blinked, and saw the mortal near the Sidhe look at him with a slight frown as he staggered and gasped. Then she saw no more because Edward was through the door and running toward her with his hands outstretched.
"Elizabeth!" he cried. "I am going to London, but my uncle Hertford was so kind as to say we could stop and visit you."
Elizabeth embraced her brother fondly and kissed his cheek. "I am so glad to see you Edward," she said, but she had seen that Hertford, who was following his nephew, was not smiling.
Anxiously, she kissed Edward again, this time on the forehead, afraid the child was fevered. But his skin was cool and dry and his eyes were bright—and that was a stupid idea anyway. If Edward was ill, the physicians would come to him; his uncle would not make him ride to London on such a nasty January day. And why should Edward go to London?
Elizabeth knew that her father had been very ill in the beginning of January, but she had been quite satisfied with the reports of his recovery. Henry had been ill many times in the past three years, especially after he had returned from the war in France, but each time he had recovered. Now her grip on Edward tightened convulsively and she looked up at Lord Hertford, who was staring down at them with his lips in a tight, thin line.
"Father?" she whispered. "Is he ill again?"
"No," Edward said cheerfully. "I am going to London to be created Prince of Wales . . ."
"No, Your Majesty," Hertford said, in a voice heavy with portent, and tones that made Edward look up, eyes wide. "You are going to London to be crowned king. I deeply grieve to have to tell you, but your father, King Henry, the eighth of that name, died two days ago. The king is dead," he added, gravely, "And may God protect and save Your Majesty, Edward, my king."
The arm with which Elizabeth was holding Edward slipped away, and the boy turned to look at his uncle. "No," he whispered. "Not Papa. No."
There was no comfort to be had from Hertford's unhappy face and he turned to Elizabeth who was white, with staring eyes, and burst into tears. She did so too, clutching him in her arms. But even as she bent her head over her brother, she saw the men who had been at the door coming toward them.
The Sidhe was shaking his head and staggering slightly. Elizabeth began to tremble with fear. He had cast a spell at her that had been cast back at him when it touched her mental shield. But God only knew what he would do when he reached her. Elizabeth cast the spell for her physical shield. She felt it fold around her, covering her head and shoulders and her back, but where she gripped Edward to her, it felt thin and light.
As all the adults in the room moved toward the weeping children, Elizabeth felt a light blow on her shoulder. A long-fingered hand slid over her shield and sank down through the weaker part of the shield onto Edward's shoulder. The hand patted Edward consolingly and then withdrew. Amid her sobs, Elizabeth sighed with relief. The Sidhe must be a guard for Edward, as Rosamund Scot was a guard for Lady Mary. And then she heard Kat Champernowne sobbing aloud and the full impact of her loss, which had been delayed by her fear and confusion, hit her.
Her father was dead! Whatever she had ever feared or doubted about King Henry, Elizabeth had known surely and with perfect confidence that so long as she was in his favor, he would never permit anyone else to harm her. Or Edward. Now they were naked to the world. Elizabeth wailed aloud.
On arrival at his house in London, Denoriel found that two full weeks had passed and he had, indeed, arrived toward the end of the month. It was the twenty-ninth of January. Joseph Clayborne had attended to all the business correspondence and made excuses for any invitations while he was away, but there were several notes with future invitations.
Denoriel looked through them quickly, saying, "No. No. Yes. Yes, very gladly, thank you. No. No, but very sorry, please try again. Yes. No. Ah!"
"Ah?" Joseph Clayborne was amused.
"This is very interesting," Denoriel said. "Very interesting, indeed. It is an invitation to attend church with Sir Anthony Denny and his family tomorrow. You do not need to answer this. I will simply go and present myself with an apology to say I was away until late today."
Denoriel was pleased. This invitation was a step up in Denoriel's relationship with Sir Anthony. They had been friendly for over two years in the casual way of men and Denoriel had met Sir Anthony's wife on several formal occasions, but to be invited to a family party was a higher degree of intimacy than Sir Anthony had hitherto offered.
Thus Denoriel was very puzzled when he was turned away from Sir Anthony Denny's door on Sunday morning, January 30. The footman offered no excuse, only said that no one was at home. Somewhat nonplused, Denoriel left a note saying how sorry he was to be deprived of the family's company and asking if he had somehow offended. He did not at first associate the empty house with public affairs.
Since he was out, dressed in clothing suitable for church, and he had nothing else to do, he went to church. He did not mind; he always found attending the service a rather amusing experience. The music, although primitive compared to elven music, was very interesting and had the attraction of being full of spirit and very original, and the sermon was so ridiculous that he had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from laughing aloud.
In church he was hailed by a fellow merchant, who asked heartily where Denoriel had been and when he admitted, most mendaciously, that he had been in France, invited Denoriel to come home with him to dinner. Having nothing better to do, Denoriel closed with this offer. It was a good meal and the merchant's wife saved him from needing to prevaricate about doing business with France by asking him question after question about Lady Elizabeth.
Nothing delighted Denoriel more than talking about Elizabeth and the merchant was hardly less interested than his wife, so it was nearly dusk when he returned to his house. The footman, who Joseph had hired, told him as he entered that there was a message waiting for him from Sir Anthony Denny.
The note said no more than that Denny was sorry he had forgotten to inform Lord Denno that Lady Denny and the children had needed to go to the country. If Lord Denno would forgive him and stop at his house for a glass of wine, Denny would explain more fully.
Needless to say Denoriel hurried to Sir Anthony's house where a servant led him to the smaller withdrawing room. Sir Anthony rose from his chair by the fire and came forward with a hand outstretched. Denoriel was shocked by his pallor, dark-ringed eyes, and unshaven cheeks.
"My dear Sir Anthony," he said softly, coming forward and taking the hand extended to him, "I can see that something is very wrong. If I can be of any help, please tell me at once how."
"You are a good friend, Lord Denno. I have heard it from a number of people . . . including Norfolk . . . and it is true."
"Norfolk," Denoriel repeated unhappily. "He would not accept any help. He said he had been an obedient servant all his life and if the king wanted his life also, he would still be obedient."
"Norfolk is alive," Denny said, flatly. "It is the king who is dead."
Denoriel just stood and stared and then finally managed to blurt out, "When? Just today? There are no bells. The city is quiet."
Denny sighed. "No, His Majesty died two days ago, in the dawn of the twenty-seventh. I suppose it is safe to tell you now. It will be announced tomorrow morning. I hope I have done no wrong in agreeing . . . in supporting the Earl of Hertford . . ."
"I am sure you did what you believed to be right and best," Denoriel said. "But if it can do no harm for me to know—and I will swear on the souls of my murdered family that I will never speak a word of what passes between us here unless you give me leave to speak—I would wish to understand what happened."
Denny did not answer at first, just gestured for Denoriel to take the chair opposite the one he had been using. When Denoriel had seated himself, Denny, still silent, rang for a servant and asked for wine and cakes. While he waited, he paced the room.
Denoriel set a little spell of calm and confidence and trust in his path. He stopped when he had walked into it and nodded, just as the servant came in. When the bottles and glasses and tray of sweetmeats had been set on a small table and the door closed behind the servant, Denny poured two glasses of wine, brought one to Denoriel, and seated himself.
"You know that I am—was—the First Gentleman of the Privy Chamber," he began, "and thus I have—had been with the king as he grew weaker and weaker. About midday on the 27th I saw that he could not survive but that he did not yet understand his danger. I—I have—had been with His Majesty for many years. I loved him; I loved him, though many feared him, and I think I understood him better than many a man of greater rank. I could not bear to think that he could die without confession and absolution . . . so I told him he was dying and asked if he desired spiritual consolation."
Denoriel could do nothing more than say, "That was a brave and generous act, Sir Anthony."
A very faint smile touched Denny's lips and he sighed and sipped his wine. "I was aware," he said. "I knew that men had died for mentioning the possibility of the king's death. But . . . but he knew that I would never betray him and never tell him what was not true, and he asked for Archbishop Cranmer. I sent to Croyden as soon as the king had fallen asleep, but by the time Cranmer came, His Majesty could no longer speak. Still, he nodded to Cranmer's questions and the archbishop gave him absolution."
"There is nothing in this for which to blame yourself, Sir Anthony," Denoriel said, finishing the wine in his glass and rising to refill it. "That you are sorry to lose a master you loved, I understand, but you seem troubled beyond that."
"I am, indeed. When I left the room to send for Cranmer I also spoke to the Earl of Hertford and William Paget and told them that . . . that the king could not live out the next day." He hesitated, put his wineglass aside, and put one hand to the side of his face, torn with conflicting emotions. "The realm was about to lose its head!" he exclaimed. "Someone had to seize the rudder and steer the ship."
"I agree," Denoriel said, soothingly. "King Henry had been a very strong king. The council had mostly followed his orders. The shock of His Majesty's death could well have unbalanced the councilors so that they could not agree on how to act and chaos could have erupted."
Sir Anthony gave a long sigh. "So you see it the same way? Yes, but somehow . . . when I saw those two, Paget and Hertford, pacing the dimly lit corridor outside of the king's apartment and making plans . . . It seemed so cold-blooded."
Now Denoriel refilled Sir Anthony's glass and put it in his hand. He took a long swallow.
"And I was just as cold-blooded, I fear," Denny continued. "I sent away the physicians and everyone else beside Cranmer." His voice failed and was hoarse and clogged when he spoke again. "And when at last the king no longer breathed, I went out and summoned Hertford and Paget and I agreed when they decided that the king's death should not be announced immediately."
But Denoriel nodded. Cold-blooded? Hardly. Cold-blooded actions would have entailed moving to enrich himself while Henry's body was still cooling. There was a whole kingdom to think of—and within that kingdom, one small boy who needed to be protected before anyone else learned what had come to pass. One small boy—and perhaps, one not-so-small girl?
"You fear to have done wrong, but I do not think you did. It was only because I presented myself at the offices of our family's business with plans for what cargoes to take and a schedule for trading that the business survived. Do you think my heart did not weep tears of blood? That I did not wake in the night with tears on my cheeks? I still grieve. To grieve . . . one cannot help that. But grief is for the dead—and for those who are not dead, there must be action."
Denny nodded. "But it was . . . is . . . very hard. Still, there was much to be done if chaos was to be avoided. The first thing was to protect the new king. It was decided that Hertford would go to Edward—now King Edward—and bring the child back to Whitehall Palace. Only when the new king was safe in his uncle's hands, would the late king's death be announced."
"Hertford is best," Denoriel said firmly. "I know somewhat of the man; he is strong, certain of will, and there is nothing that anyone can say touching his honor. Once Edward is secured, no one would dare a rising against Hertford's military ability. The army is accustomed to his command. He is the boy's uncle and I have seen that he is fond of Edward when he visited and I happened to be visiting Lady Elizabeth."
Suddenly Denoriel swallowed and his heart leapt into his throat. When would Edward be told that Henry was dead? And would they tell Elizabeth? He barely prevented himself from leaping to his feet and rushing out to go to Enfield. For a few more minutes he continued to listen while Sir Anthony explained how and why the Earl of Hertford would be named Lord Protector and rule in Edward's name. It seemed reasonable enough to Denoriel, but he didn't care. He needed to go to Elizabeth.
A whispered spell as he lifted his glass to drain it and Sir Anthony slumped over, sound asleep. Denoriel leapt up in time to catch his glass and place it safely on the table, and a second spell ensured that when he woke, he would recall Lord Denno listening, agreeing with all he had said and done, offering him commiseration, and then leaving after several assurances and expressions of condolence. Then he slipped out of the house. Miralys was at the door waiting for him.