"I don't like it," Denoriel said to Aleneil, who was curled up in a corner of his settle.
She was looking out of the huge window into a garden bordered by a lawn that ended in a tangled forest. She knew there was no garden and certainly no lawn, that likely beyond the window was one of the walls of the palace of Llachar Lle, but she was fascinated by the illusion, which was just a trifle different each time she saw it. She was not certain whether Denoriel simply changed the illusion almost every day or whether he had discovered a way to make the illusion alter itself. His studies with Treowth and Gilfaethwy were truly bearing fruit.
"Something smells of Unseleighe," Denoriel said when his sister did not respond to his first remark.
Aleneil shifted her gaze from the illusion to her brother. "I know you cannot keep the air spirit near Elizabeth when she is at court, but she has pretty well proven she has Sight. Has she complained about an Unseleighe intrusion? Has Blanche? And you get reports from Dunstan and Ladbroke and both tell you the child is happy. Has anything suspicious or dangerous happened?"
"No," Denoriel admitted. "But I feel . . . Am I to dismiss what I feel?"
"Usually I would say no. In this case . . ." Aleneil shook her head. "Denoriel, you are jealous of her joy in company other than yours."
"No!" Denoriel protested. "She is only eight years old. You talk as if we were lovers."
Aleneil sighed. "I don't mean you are jealous of her in that way. She may be but a child, but in many, many ways she has the intellect of an adult, and you do crave her company and resent being deprived of it."
"That is true." Denoriel also sighed but then grinned. "I really do miss being thrown into a rage every other time we speak. It is so stimulating." Then the grin faded into grimness and he shook his head. "Trust me, Aleneil—this is true danger that I sense. And there is something else, nothing to do with the Unseleighe. Norfolk is not as happy or confident about his niece's success as he should be. He is uneasy, like a man waiting for a blow to fall, and I fear that somewhat is amiss in that direction."
His sister's brows knit. "Are you sure? Is it not possible that the king's mood is sufficient reason for his disquiet? Henry has grown more and more . . ." she shrugged " . . . absolute. He hardly looks to his ministers for advice."
"True, but I am sure that Norfolk's anxiety has to do with Catherine." He frowned; he did not like the new queen, for she seemed to him as heedless as a flower sprite. "The girl is very shallow and very greedy, and I wonder how long she can be content with her lot."
Aleneil laughed. "Well, the king did not marry her for the power of her mind."
Denoriel laughed too, but uncertainly. "No. Anne Boleyn seems to have cured him of that." He sighed. "There is not a thing on which I can put a finger, except the knowledge that Elizabeth is so much in the queen's company puts me on edge. Why? Why would a light-headed and light-hearted young woman seek out the company of a child of eight?"
"They are cousins, and there are mortals, particularly female mortals, who simply love children and take the greatest pleasure in their company," his sister ventured.
Denoriel snorted gently. "But I do not believe Catherine Howard is one of those. In fact, she has not petitioned the king to bring Edward to court, and I think she could win more of the king's favor by coddling the heir. No, it sits like a lump in my breast that she wants Elizabeth for some purpose."
Aleneil just stared at him for a moment, but then she nodded her head slowly. "That has the ring of truth, but the purpose—ah—has no weight to it. It is as if she wanted the child to hold a skein of thread while she wound it." Her brows knitted while she thought. "Do you not think it is out of pure boredom? You know that the king intended to go on progress to Dover as soon as the worst of the winter was over, but then he fell ill and the royal party was confined to Hampton Court."
"Yes, and from what Dunstan told me, Henry's temper is so awful that anyone who could fled the court." Denoriel sighed. "Perhaps you are right, love. Since company is so thin and it is by her word that Elizabeth goes or stays, it is indeed possible that Catherine has kept the child by her for amusement. Elizabeth is a right minx and can make her company laugh, and it is true enough that when Henry is in a temper, laughter is hard to come by."
But even as he said the words, he knew they were nothing but a thin illusion over the truth—a truth he could not yet see.
The conversation between Denoriel and Aleneil took place in February, and still the king and queen lingered at Hampton Court. However, in March Elizabeth had returned safely enough to Hunsdon Palace some weeks before Henry and his queen were to begin an extended tour through his kingdom. At last, Denoriel was able to see Elizabeth and speak with her—and perhaps, probe at the truth for himself.
"And has being virtually a prisoner at Hampton Court for months finally cured you of your craving for the court and courtiers?" Denoriel asked as he and Elizabeth, warmly wrapped in heavy cloaks, walked in the formal garden, still mostly leafless in early March of 1541.
"Not at all," Elizabeth said. "My father was ill and we had to be quiet—no leaping about and singing loudly, so there were no masques or plays or even much music—but we were merry enough in the queen's chambers. One of the king's gentlemen, Thomas Culpepper, was often with us and he knew all sorts of games, with cards and with marked bones. How we all laughed when he lost most of the forfeits."
"Forfeits?" Denoriel said sharply. "You were gambling?"
Elizabeth looked at him sidelong, her thin, sensitive lips drawn back as if she were either displeased . . . or hiding laughter. "Only for comfits, or occasionally kisses."
A slight chill ran up Denoriel's back. "And who was winning these kisses?" he asked.
"Mostly me," Elizabeth said, giggling.
The cold sensation along Denoriel's spine increased. Elizabeth was clever and precocious, but whatever the game, what were the chances that an eight-year-old would often win against two adults? Unless they wanted her to win, or unless their minds were so busy with other matters that they played very badly indeed.
Unaware of his anxiety, Elizabeth continued blithely, "Culpepper said he had no money and the queen said she was afraid to be accused of corrupting the king's daughter if she gave me too many sweets. But I like being kissed. The queen gives gentle, tickley kisses, and Master Culpepper kneels down and formally kisses my hand—like an ambassador."
At least the man had sense enough not to taste the lips of the king's daughter, Denoriel thought, feeling somewhat better. He had swallowed a violent flash of rage at the notion that the queen might be trying to fix Elizabeth's affection on her favorite. Apparently that was not true. Even Catherine was not fool enough to believe her influence with the king would be enough to give Culpepper a royal wife. But Denoriel was still very uneasy. Something unhealthy had been going on. Were the queen and a gentleman alone with no better chaperone than an eight-year-old child?
And just who thought that an eight-year-old was a sufficient chaperone?
"Did no one else join the play?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, most times. Lady Rochefort and an old friend of the queen's, Francis Dereham. Lady Rochefort was mostly the one who walked with me to my apartment when the queen decided it was time for me to go to bed, but she never seemed to be much interested in the games, except the few times they played for money, and then I was sent away earlier."
They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Elizabeth said, "What, no lecture on the sins and dangers of gambling? I do enjoy play, you know."
Denoriel laughed to cover his unease. "Not from me. Especially not if you win. The important thing to remember when gambling is to stop at once when you begin to lose. Who has been lecturing you about gambling?"
She made a face. "Kat. A brother or nephew or some such came to grief over gambling debts. And Dunstan . . . well, he doesn't lecture me, of course, but he was not happy about my being so much in the queen's company without any servants of my own." She hesitated and then looked up, meeting Denoriel's eyes fully with a too-knowing glance—which was not usual for her. "But there was nothing and no one there that should not be. And I have my cross."
She knew. She was all but saying in words that she knew he was no ordinary man, and that sometimes other strange beings and creatures appeared near her. That she did not say it in words said even more. Her self-possession was remarkable, even unnatural in so young a child. But Harry, not as clever as Elizabeth, had also been very self-possessed.
Also her life must have taught her to hold her tongue. It is not every child whose mother is murdered by her father and whose father is as powerful as a god in her little world—far too powerful to be questioned or criticized. Even a child might learn to think before she spoke and how not to speak at all of many things.
Denoriel took her hand and squeezed it gently, although dull pain ran up his arm. "Good. See that you wear it always, even when you sleep."
She smiled at him, and Denoriel was both relieved and annoyed. She was still testing him every time they met. In a way that was good, but it left a kind of sore place in him that her heart did not leap with recognition of his true identity as his did when he saw her. Aleneil said she did "recognize" him, but that the caution bred in her by her mother's fate and that of others, made her distrust her own instincts and demanded that she make sure.
When he had come to visit after Pasgen's attack on her, she had at first refused to go into the garden with him, even though he had brought her Harry's letter. She had not even allowed him to hand her the letter, but made him give it to Blanche, who carried it to her. And she had dismissed him immediately, although she did ask him to return the next day, promising she would provide Mistress Champernowne a reason for his second swift departure and early return.
The letter had not had all the effect Denoriel had hoped either. She had agreed to walk in the garden with him that day, but Nyle and Ladbroke followed not far behind, each armed with a steel-tipped crossbow. And she had said, eyes dark and averted, that the letter sounded as if it had been written by her Da, but . . . but . . . But Denoriel himself knew most of the incidents mentioned. He could have told someone and had the letter written. Why, she had asked, was it so important to him that she believe Richmond was still alive?
It was not important to him, he had told her. He knew his Harry was alive and well . . . and very happy, too. He was at peace with his knowledge. She needed to believe it so she could again be sure that there was someone alive who loved her with a perfectly pure affection, untouched by employment or hope of favor or even expectation of future good for others. And she needed to know it so that she would believe that Denoriel had not lied to her.
"But you do lie to me," she had said softly.
"No!" Denoriel had protested. "I never lie to you. I . . . I do not tell you all the truth because . . . because it is forbidden to me to tell you." And he raised a hand and ran a finger up to the peak of his ear. Elizabeth's eyes followed his finger as if they saw what it rested on. "But I do not lie," he continued, "and I swear, not on your God but on mine, that Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond, Duke of Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, is alive and well."
She had walked in silence for a time, then reached into her deep-belled sleeve and brought out a much-folded sheet, solidly sealed. "Here is my reply to Da's letter." When she looked up at him this time, her eyes had brightened with hopeful gleams of gold. "But I need to see him. I really need to see him—"
"He cannot come," Denoriel interrupted. "Please, Lady Elizabeth, not only is he far away, but he would be in danger if he returned to England . . . and his return might place you in danger also."
The bright eyes misted over for a moment and then her thin lips firmed to a hard line. "A picture then. Ask Da to have a picture painted of him so that I will have something. Surely it is possible, no matter how far away he is, to find a painter who will do a portrait."
"Oh, it will be easy enough to find a painter who could do a portrait, but how will you explain a portrait of a . . . such a portrait?"
"A portrait of a dead man?" she whispered.
"No, a live man, but most carefully hidden."
"Ah." Her eyes brightened again and then for a moment followed the edge of his ear to its point at the crown of his head—an ear that should be invisible to mortal eyes. "Why then, instead of a portrait let the picture be of a fanciful place with people in it so that the face might be pure imagination, a picture of a land of myth and fancy, wherein dreams may walk."
As if his memory of that meeting in the past summer, before Elizabeth had been called to court by the queen, had somehow been transferred to Elizabeth, who in the present was walking beside him without any guards, she wiggled a hand out of her snugly wrapped cloak and took his hand—starting a wave of pain up his arm—and asked, "When will you bring me the picture that you promised?"
"Now, do not begin that," he said. "When the ship comes, it will come. It could not turn around the day it arrived and start back. Harry has to find an artist and the picture has to be painted. And if the ship has gone to other ports, the picture must wait until it returns . . . I will bring it to you as soon as it comes—unless you are at court again—and I beg you will not plague out my life until I have it."
She blinked at him owlishly. "Nonsense. If I suffer, why should you not suffer too?"
"Elizabeth!" he exclaimed. "What sort of Christian charity is that?"
"What do you care? You aren't a Christian." A moment later she burst out into giggles. "Oh, your face, Lord Denno. I wish I had a glass to show you your face. But it is the fate of those who court royalty to be the butt of their moods."
He frowned at her ferociously. And here was another attribute, not so pleasant, that she had learned from her father. "And you are not royalty! Do not put on dangerous airs. Nor do I court you for my profit."
"Then why do you court me?"
"Because I adore you, you noxious little brat!"
"Do you?"
She stopped in the path and swung around to take his other hand. Her eyes were bright gold, and the joy and tenderness in her expression rewarded him for much frustration and the pain that was creeping up both arms and beginning to permeate his whole body. She saw his struggle not to stiffen or lean away, let go of his hands, and stepped back.
She looked down at the ground. "I wish you could hug me," she murmured. "You used to hug Da. I know you did."
"I wish I could too, Lady Elizabeth, but it is not the cold iron that stops me. I could bear it long enough for a hug. It is because you are a girl, and Harry was a boy."
She sniffed. "What harm can a hug do? I have seen men hug women. My father hugs me sometimes."
"Yes, your father may, and perhaps your brother will hug you when you and he combine your households. As for other men and women . . . ah . . . I will explain that when you are somewhat older."
"Surely every hug is not a prelude to coupling."
Denoriel felt color rise in his face. Eight years old. What could she know about coupling? Well, perhaps she had seen cows or horses or the dogs on the estate.
"No, of course not," he said, starting along the path again. "However . . . never mind. I will explain some other day. But I spoke of your brother and that reminded me. Have you heard when you are supposed join him and do you know whether it will be at Hertford Palace or at Enfield?"
Her gaze intensified as she thought. "I think at Hertford because it is larger than Enfield. I think Mary is supposed to be with us there, and perhaps my father and Catherine will stop on their way north. Why do you want to know?"
"Because, as I said, I am enamored of you, you noxious brat, and I need to find a convenient small house to buy or rent nearby to where you live." They had begun walking again, and he looked down at her soberly. "You know that I will not be able to visit you so freely once you and Edward are lodged together. He is the heir, and is closely guarded and every stranger will be closely scrutinized. I am not likely to be an acceptable visitor to the prince—a foreigner and although I was a prince in my own country, I am now a merchant and have no claim to nobility in England. I will need a special appointment each time I come, and Kat might be blamed for encouraging our friendship."
Elizabeth pulled her cloak more tightly around her, shivering slightly, perhaps from the chill breeze. "Does that mean I will not see you again until Edward and I are parted—which will happen a few times a year, I think?"
Denoriel chuckled a bit self-consciously. "That is what should happen. You will be doubly and triply guarded and Blanche and Mistress Champernowne will be with you, so you will be safe—"
"Even from—" Elizabeth made the gesture of a long, pointed ear alongside her own head.
"I believe so. I hope so. Things happened in Hatfield when you were a babe that made that place perhaps a bit vulnerable. But Hertford . . . Harry was never in Hertford Palace." He nodded decisively. "You have your cross and Blanche has her own weapons, and I think you should start to carry a steel knife—ask Dunstan or Ladbroke for one. Ask them for a bodkin; many ladies carry them, I believe. However, I will be near enough for Dunstan or Ladbroke or Tolliver to fetch me."
She looked up at him directly again. "Would you fight for me as I heard you fought for Da?"
"To the death, my lady." He stopped and bowed, face grim, then grinned and added, "And to make doubly sure you are safe and also to be sure that my blood is properly boiled at intervals, I will arrange to meet you and ride with you, whenever the prince does not accompany you, if you ride out."
She smiled and reached for his hand again, but walked nearly at arm's length so the iron cross hardly caused him a twinge. "I love to ride," she said, "and Edward is not much more than a baby, so I think I can beg for more vigorous exercise than he could take once or twice a week. If my own people accompany me—my guards think you almost one of the family—no one will know or care. We will make do."
A good plan, Denoriel thought. What she said was likely true. Since no one but Blanche knew of Pasgen's attack on her, no one feared for her safety.
However, in actuality they had plenty of time for more elaborate planning. By the end of April it was certain Elizabeth would join Edward in Hertford, and in the first week in May Denoriel delivered to her—as an aid, he said, to furnishing her new apartment—a portrait of a young man with a look of her father.
Elizabeth stared at the image in silence for some time. The young man was dressed in clothing a good three hundred years out of date, a short, close fitting tunic with narrow sleeves over long hose, cross gartered to the knee. The tunic was open over a white shirt tied in a bow at the neck, and his hair was long, sweeping his shoulders and held back by a narrow golden band set just above a brilliant blue star emblazoned on his forehead. At his feet was a small creature that might have been a cat, except for the furry wings on its back, and behind him was a unicorn, silver-blue, with black eyes and a silver mane, a tail like a lion's, the beard of a goat, and cloven hooves.
"Oh," Elizabeth sighed, "I did remember. But he is much thinner and, and he looks older."
Denoriel laughed. "He is older, nearly five years older and that makes a big difference. You would find he is taller too; a halfling has grown into a man. And he is thinner because . . . because he was very ill. That long trip he took saved his life, but he was very ill when he left England, which is why so many think he is dead. But he is not."
She nodded absently, still gazing into the picture, as if trying to communicate with its subject. "I am glad the picture is not too large. I can keep it with me, perhaps have a stand made for it for my bedchamber. Thank you, Lord Denno."
Her eyes searched his face, but he could tell her no more and she sighed and went away. On his next visit he told her he had rented a hunting lodge in the forest less than a mile from the main road into Hertford Castle, and Elizabeth surreptitiously, when Kat and Lady Alana were busy discussing necessary additions to Lady Elizabeth's wardrobe if she was to dine with Edward, kissed his cheek.
The king, however, was not yet ready to leave on his progress. He claimed to be still recovering, but Denoriel learned that negotiations were taking place to arrange a meeting between Henry and King James of Scotland. Henry hoped to wean Scotland away from its long alliance with France. Considerable private negotiation was also taking place between Mistress Champernowne and Sir William Sidney, Edward's chamberlain, about how the two households would arrange for and pay their private dependents.
Sir William bade Mistress Champernowne dismiss the guards; the prince's men, he said, could take over securing Lady Elizabeth's safety. Thereby he could save the cost of four men's stipend and food and drink allowance and yearly suits and shoes. They were combining to save the king money.
Elizabeth was horrified; she flew into a most unchildlike rage, absolutely forbidding the dismissal of men who had carried her about, told her tales, and allowed her—with discretion—to play with their weapons. Mistress Champernowne wrung her hands and wept.
The next thing, Elizabeth said furiously to Denoriel, who arrived later in the day, was that Sir William would want Kat to dismiss Ladbroke and Tolliver and have the prince's grooms care for her horses.
"On no account should you allow the guards or grooms to be dismissed," Denoriel said to Mistress Champernowne, who was sitting in the audience chamber with them because it was raining. "What does that fool think you will do when the households separate, as they are bound to do from time to time? Are you to hire new people? People you do not know whether you can trust?"
"I do not know what I can do," Kat quavered. "I fear the exchequer will send our allowances to Sir William. How am I to pay—"
"If the money is all that is troubling you," Denoriel said, smiling with relief that the difficulty was so easy to solve, "Let it trouble you no longer. Tell Sir William that you will not dismiss old, trusted servants and you will make shift to support them. I will provide any funds you need."
"I cannot accept so much, Lord Denno," Mistress Champernowne said. "That one time when you gave me fifty sovereigns I was so shocked . . . and I . . . Elizabeth needed new gowns. She grows, you know. But to accept more, and for I do not know how long . . . would that not be wrong?"
Denoriel blinked. He had never given Kat any money, fearing it would make her even more improvident than she already was. It must have been Pasgen, thinking that Kat would need a bribe to allow him to walk alone with Elizabeth.
"Would it be wrong, Lord Denno?" Elizabeth asked, looking from Kat to Denoriel. "I really, really do not want to part with Gerrit, Nyle, Shaylor, and Dickson, and I would almost give up my new gowns to keep Ladbroke and Tolliver. If Kat took the money, would it obligate me to you? Would you expect favor in return?"
"And what favor do you think you can extend to me, you repellent child? Almost would give up your new gowns!" Denoriel was not teasing her this time; she had gotten some appalling manners, and it was time someone delivered a set-down to her. "What a selfish brat you are! And just what would your men do if they were dismissed? How would they support themselves while they tried to find other positions? They have served you well and faithfully, never complaining when your household was stinted and their wages came late! I swear, I should turn you over my knee and lesson you. Do you think it would be too much favor granted me if you said 'Thank you'?"
Mistress Champernowne drew a sharp breath. Elizabeth did not generally take kindly to harsh criticism. She could be corrected, but it was needful to do it tactfully.
However, Elizabeth only shook her head, her eyes dark and her thin lips in a straight line. "It is not selfishness, Lord Denno. At least, not only selfishness. I admit, I would like some new gowns, for I love handsome dress, but I must make a show in my brother's household. He is very young and if his people see me shabby, they will not value me as I may need to be valued." She put out a hand and barely touched Denoriel's arm. "I do thank you."
Denoriel laid his hand over hers and sighed, deflated. "You are quite right, my lady. I am saddened that, young as you are, you need to think of such matters."
"It is sad," Mistress Champernowne said, "but I have explained to her that there will be much more coming and going of court officers in the prince's household than there has ever been in hers. Yet those who come to see the prince may well ask to see Lady Elizabeth, who is the king's daughter. And, indeed, she must consider that some day Edward will be king and must think well of her. She must have the gowns, but perhaps there is somewhere else I can save. I am appalled at needing to take so much from you."
He waved her objections aside. "Do not give it a thought. You need feel no guilt. I am rich. I am alone. I have no one else, since Harry does not need my help any longer. And these were my Harry's sworn men, before they were Elizabeth's."
"Harry?" Kat asked, looking confused.
"A friend. He has other sources of income now," Denoriel said with a glance at Elizabeth and then quickly, to divert Kat's mind from the fact that he had not really answered her question, he added, "Oh, and be sure that the prince's people do not try to sell off Elizabeth's horses—or appropriate them for themselves—and have her share the prince's. Her horses were specially chosen by Ladbroke. They are the best."
"We must make some concessions or Sir William will become suspicious. He might suggest that if we can manage on so much less, our separate stipend should be reduced." Kat looked worried, for the king's clerks were always seeking ways of diminishing the drains on his purse.
"Fine," Elizabeth said. "Agree to share servants, like cooks and cleaners. You can even offer to give up that fool groom of the chamber and the footmen. Only Dunstan must be kept, and he will not mind if you give him a lesser title."
"True enough," Kat sighed. "I do not know what I would do without Dunstan."
So the agreements were made with Sir William, but May passed and June also without any order to Elizabeth to move. Finally on July first Henry and Catherine left for the north. To save time they no longer planned a stop at Hertford. Nonetheless Elizabeth and Edward joined households shortly thereafter. Edward was thrilled to have a sister who gave him all of her attention and treated him with great respect.
Elizabeth was as happy as she could be. She now had a living doll—and a very clever one, too—that she could hug, fuss over, and encourage. She did not mother him the way that Mary had tried to mother her; perhaps because a great deal of Mary's "mothering" consisted of "no" to this and "no" to that, and "oh, my dear sister, you must not!" She happily oversaw his earliest lessons in recognizing letters and helped his baby hand steady his first pen to form the great E, the first letter of his name. She adored court formalities and behaved with a gravitas fitting a dame of forty when court officers or ambassadors came to meet her. And she rode out with her own four guardsmen and two grooms for exercise, returning with glowing eyes and rosy cheeks, at least twice a week.
Through Sir Thomas Wriothesley, Pasgen had almost daily news of the king's progress. Henry and Catherine made their way to York, where they were supposed to meet with King James of Scotland. That hope was doomed to disappointment, but otherwise the progress was very successful for Henry. As he passed through Ampthill into Lincolnshire and rode through that part of the country where the Pilgrimage of Grace had taken fastest hold, repentant subjects rushed to demonstrate their loyalty and made their submission on their knees. The clergy, too, came with professions of fervent loyalty and rich presents.
Other pleasant news buoyed the king's spirits. The fortifications at Hull were satisfactory, and at Pomfret at the end of August, he heard from his emissary to Edinburgh that King James was agreeable to meet him. Safe-conducts were prepared for those who would attend the Scottish king and Henry proceeded to York, arriving about mid-September.
In York, however, the king met with disappointment. James had not yet arrived nor sent any message giving a date for his arrival. After waiting until the end of the month, Henry learned that Cardinal Beaton had discovered the scheme for the kings to meet and prevented James, who was under his thumb, from going to York.
The return journey was considerably faster than the progress north, but the king and queen arrived at Hampton Court at the end of October in good spirits. In fact, Wriothesley reported with satisfaction, Henry intended to offer special prayers on All Saints Day "for the good life he led and trusted to lead" with his jewel of a wife.
"The bubble is about to burst," Pasgen said to Rhoslyn as they stood near the entry of a new Unformed land and contemplated a patch of mist that was behaving in a most peculiar manner.
Rhoslyn watched the self-adherent thing coil around itself and directed a gentle shaft of will at it, urging an opening out, a flattening.
"What bubble?" she asked.
"King Henry's bubble of happy marriage. He is about to discover that Queen Catherine was a whore before her marriage and managed to be faithful to him for perhaps a month before she went back to being a whore." Pasgen's voice was not full of the satisfaction that Rhoslyn would have expected.
The mist, rather than respond to Rhoslyn's will, had coiled up tighter and then lashed out at her. Pasgen pulled her back, raised a hand, and was about to direct a violent spell of dissolution at it.
"No, don't," she said, and cast a containment around it, whereupon it seemed to go wild, battering at the invisible force that restrained it. Smiling slightly in a "there, serves you right" way, she turned back to Pasgen. "I thought you intended that the king learn what Catherine is, but you don't seem very happy about it."
"Yes, it is what I intended, but it is happening too soon. I wanted Elizabeth to be summoned back to court when the king and queen returned so that she would actually be involved in the queen's disgrace. Unfortunately, my tool is a bit like your mist there, sidling up to me to get my advice but then acting on his own." Pasgen frowned. "One would think that after giving him ample proof of my power, he would pay more heed to it."
Rhoslyn began to move farther into the Unformed land, gesturing at the containment spell so that it would follow her, bringing along its prisoner. Pasgen continued at her side, occasionally reaching out to swipe at a thicker patch of mist with a wide-mouthed bottle he could seal.
"But he does want your advice?" she asked.
"On everything. I swear he asks how often he should breathe in and out. However, he is not quite as busy as Woolsey and Cromwell were, so he often takes time to think over what I have told him and suggested to him, and about half the time he finds variations he prefers."
Rhoslyn turned to her brother with a frown of her own. "You should lesson him sharply or do away with him and find a more malleable tool."
Pasgen sighed. "Not so easy. He is co-secretary to the king, a position in which he knows everything that is taking place, and I have worked on his mind so that I can extract anything from it and know whatever he knows. It would take me half a year to create the same kind of facility with another man's mind. Also—" Pasgen uttered a somewhat embarrassed laugh. "About half the time the variations on my suggestions that he uses produce better results than my own suggestions would have. He knows a great deal more about the politics of the court than I do."
"But in this case?" Rhoslyn prompted, still frowning.
Pasgen shrugged one shoulder. "Soon after the king and queen set out on the progress, I arranged for a man called Lascelles to confess to Wriothesley that his sister had been in the household of the duchess of Norfolk, where the girl Catherine Howard had been raised. That sister, being urged to ask for a position as maid of honor since she knew the queen, replied that she knew the queen all too well and had no intention of serving her and perhaps being ruined, if she had not changed her ways."
"Changed what ways?"
"Whoring," Pasgen replied flatly. "The girl is as promiscuous as a maenad. It was not hard to find someone willing and ready to tell the truth. Lascelles not only named two gentleman who had been intimate with young Catherine—her music teacher and her cousin, Francis Dereham—but described in some detail exactly what had taken place. Naturally Wriothesley came rushing to me, crying that he would resign his position, that it was impossible for him to go to the king with such a tale."
"Well, I wouldn't either." Rhoslyn laughed. "The king really is likely to behead the messenger who brings him that piece of news. Mary is so disgusted with his fulsome praise of that 'empty-headed little nothing' that she has refused flatly to make any further overtures to her. I did not press the point since Catherine only sent a rather cold note the last time Elizabeth carried a letter and a gift."
Pasgen smiled, finally. "That use worked perfectly, since it drew Elizabeth to the queen's attention and she called her to court and made a pet of her. I had hoped the same would happen when the queen returned from the progress and that Elizabeth would be implicated in the queen's adultery."
Rhoslyn breathed in sharply and Pasgen raised a hand to stem her angry remark.
"Elizabeth would not be punished with the queen or like the queen. Elizabeth is barely eight years old; however, she might well be considered soiled, considering that her mother was executed for adultery. It is a pity there are no convents now, for she might have been sent to one. But certainly she would have been banished to some remote manor and written out of the succession. That would solve my problem with Vidal. I think poor Elizabeth might actually lead a happier and fuller life if the weight of being third in the succession was removed."
"Possibly." Rhoslyn smiled at him but shrugged. "However, according to Mary the child already sees herself as queen. Certainly she bears herself most imperiously! She is like Henry, writ small!"
Pasgen turned his attentions to the pale-colored mists all about them. "That may mean stronger measures will need to be taken, but for now I am willing to wait and see. When I saw that Wriothesley was too terrified to go to the king himself, I pointed out that the queen's behavior was certainly a sin against God and suggested that he send the man Lascelles to Archbishop Cranmer."
"Now that was clever," Rhoslyn said, admiringly. "If I remember right, you told me that Wriothesley is of a conservative persuasion and favors the old rite. I know that Mary sends to him if she needs information or help. If so, Wriothesley will be delighted to get Cranmer, who is definitely of the reformed religion, into trouble with the king."
"And Cranmer, who really believes in the reformed faith, has been afraid that the queen's orthodox opinions would lead the king back to Catholicism."
Pasgen actually smiled; if there was one thing that made getting involved with the mortals worthwhile, it was being able to sow mischief among them. Had it not been for his ferreting out of information, his bribes, and his well-placed hints, Catherine Howard's amours might have gone on for years undiscovered. And it would not only be Catherine's neck that would feel the edge of a blade when everything had shaken out.
"So," Pasgen continued, "although Cranmer was also afraid, he brought the news to those members of the council that were in London. They launched an investigation and found so much evidence of the queen's promiscuity that they did not dare try to bury the evidence. Wriothesley believes that Cranmer will somehow make sure the king learns of his wife's adultery very soon."
Rhoslyn stood up a little straighter, and briefly lost interest in her captive mist. "When? I would like to be with Mary when the news breaks."
"Within the week."
Rhoslyn nodded and temporarily dismissed the mortal world from her mind as she gathered together the roiling mist of the Unformed land to create from it two more servants for Pasgen. One of his constructs had simply disintegrated; that happened from time to time when too much demand had been made on the contained power. The other had been eaten by the red mist he insisted on playing with—the thought made Roslyn look back at her spell of containment and the oddly behaving patch of stuff she had imprisoned. Pasgen was looking at it too.
She would give it to him, she thought. He had been ready to destroy it for threatening her, but once she had contained it, he had become curious. She smiled faintly as two large billows of the swirling mist first separated from the generalized fog and then began to thicken and swirl together as fingers of her power worked them like a woman spinning thread. Two at once was not easy, but she was very familiar with the pattern Pasgen desired and they were forming well. As soon as she had sealed the new servants to Pasgen's will, she would send a mortal servant to request permission to pay her respects to Lady Mary. There was this about the mortal world that was very exciting: things happened quickly there.
Lady Mary was delighted to grant permission to her dear Rosamund Scot to attend her, especially as Mistress Rosamund not only supported herself but often gave her lady welcome presents. Like Elizabeth's, Mary's household was often caught short. She told Mistress Rosamund to make her curtsey at Hampton Court because she intended to be there to welcome her father home. Rhoslyn hastened to agree and she with Mary and the ladies who attended her were present when the king gave thanks for the good life he led with his wife.
Mary sighed that at least Catherine was a good Catholic, but the very next day she told Rosamund Scot that the king was in a terrible rage. Accusations had been made against his wife that he could not believe.
Rosamund Scot proceeded to tell Lady Mary what the accusations were, and to give her enough details to make her sure that the accusations were true. Horrified, Mary retreated to one of her own castles. Wisely, she put as much distance between herself and scandal as possible.
The next installment came to Pasgen from Wriothesley. To clear the queen's name of such dreadful calumny, Henry had ordered his ministers to investigate in the deepest secrecy. Pasgen warned Wriothesley not to allow himself to hope she was innocent or he would be lost himself.
One minister rushed off to London to examine Cranmer's informant, but Lascelles did not falter and said that there were more people than only his sister who would testify to Catherine's ill behavior while she was a ward of the duchess of Norfolk.
Mannock, Catherine's music master, and Dereham were arrested and privately examined by Wriothesley. His trust and dependence on Master Otstargi was only confirmed. Wriothesley himself would have preferred if the gentlemen claimed Lascelles to be a liar and denied their guilt, but knowing how indiscreet they had been, they confessed readily. They pointed out that their association with Catherine had been long before she became queen and was thus not treason. To hope for escape was foolish; when the king learned the truth, he would take his revenge upon every possible target.
Wriothesley felt that Dereham, who was Catherine's cousin, was hiding something, but he did not press the man. Remembering Otstargi's advice, he did not release him from prison either.
Henry was overwhelmed by the evidence presented and dispatched several ministers together with Archbishop Cranmer to question the queen. Wriothesley, wiping sweat from his brow although Otstargi's parlor was not particularly warm, thanked God that he had not been required to accompany them. The queen had had hysterics, but when quieted by Cranmer's promise of forgiveness, confessed to her premarital guilt. Likely the king would divorce her, Wriothesley said.
Pasgen shook his head. "You must not hope for so easy a solution. The queen is guilty of worse, and she has involved others in her crime."
"Others?"
"Certainly Lady Rochefort, very possibly the Lady Elizabeth."
"That is not possible! Lady Elizabeth is a child, only just turned eight years old."
Pasgen shrugged. "My glass shows her as witness of the queen's friendship with certain gentlemen. The queen may well have thought that having the king's daughter with her would be a protection—as proof that she would not misbehave before a child. You know there will be conflicting testimony from the queen's women. Yet things may have passed that a child would see and speak of without understanding, things you and the examiners of the queen's ladies can use."
Wriothesley looked uncomfortable, but Pasgen knew that when his own hide was at stake, he would not hesitate to implicate, much less question, a child. "You say you know Queen Catherine guilty and that there is no hope her guilt will not be proven?"
Pasgen nodded gravely. "That is what I read when I look at her future."
Wriothesley sighed deeply. "I would have saved her if I could. The king's mood—except for that time when he was sick—has been so mild since they married. And this queen was no wild-eyed reformer pressing him to strip more and more from the Church. But it would not do for me to close my eyes to what is plain to all others."
"No, it would not." Pasgen leaned forward to underscore his words, gazing at Wriothesley intently. "And if, for example, during those 'innocent' games played with the Lady Elizabeth in attendance, the queen sent the child away before the gentlemen left, and no one thought to ask that question . . . It is my advice that you mention to the king the fact that the Lady Elizabeth may have been used by the queen before someone else speaks of it. Offer to question the child gently so that she will not suspect the reason or suspect what use may be made of her tales."
Wriothesley was silent, biting his lips gently for a moment. Then he said, "I have had occasion to speak with Lady Elizabeth in the past. She may be only eight, but she is very clever. I am not at all sure she will not guess my purpose and be silent or even lie. She loves the queen."
"Oh, I can assure you she will tell you the truth and all the truth." Pasgen smiled.
"You can?" Wriothesley looked skeptical.
Interesting, Pasgen thought. The child must be remarkable indeed, if a grown man did not think he could have the truth out of her. "You will ask her to swear on the Bible, will you not?" Pasgen asked.
Wriothesley nodded. "Yes, of course. But—"
Pasgen interrupted. "You will bring with you a Bible with a tooled and bejeweled binding. One of those jewels will be an amulet that will force the truth from the child."
"I had no idea you could prepare such a device!" Wriothesley's eyes gleamed with interest.
Pasgen shook his head. "With good reason," he said giving his lips a wry twist. "Because I cannot. I was not idle in the years I traveled. Some new things I learned, but I was also able to purchase artifacts from magicians with skills other than mine. This amulet was one of the things I found, but its use is limited. The truth spell can be used only once. Then its force will be expended, so keep it covered until you ask Elizabeth to swear to tell the truth."
"I will be careful," Wriothesley said fervently, his expression a mix of disappointment that the amulet had only one use, and relief that there was such a thing that could have the truth out of someone. "But how can the amulet be set into the cover of the Bible if it cannot be touched by anyone?"
Pasgen shrugged. "There are many ways. The wearing of gloves when setting it into the cover is the simplest. But I will deal with that. When you are ready to leave London to question the Lady Elizabeth, I will give you the book and cover all prepared."
"The book must be a Bible," Wriothesley warned. "Lady Elizabeth is very likely to open it and look through for some verse she thinks will help."
"Oh, yes," Pasgen assured him. "Should it be in Latin or English?"
"Latin!" Wriothesley snapped, rising from his chair. "A Bible in English is an abomination."
On those words, to which Pasgen replied only with a low laugh, he rang for a servant who came and saw Wriothesley out. When he was sure he was alone, Pasgen opened a drawer in the table and withdrew a large book in a beautiful binding. The leather was intricately tooled into a lacelike design as a border. The face of the binding was worked into a large cross decorated with Celtic knots, which was gilded. At the ends of each of the arms was a small gold plaque bearing the symbols of the evangelists. And set into the center of the cross was what might have been a large bloodstone, almost black until it caught a gleam of light, which lit in the stone thin, crawling veins of red.
Pasgen did not touch the stone. He had tested it on a mortal servant, who had died by his own hand a week later. The spell was designed not to work immediately—that would have raised suspicions against Wriothesley, and Pasgen still found him useful.
It did not hold a truth spell, but it did not matter much whether Elizabeth told the truth or not, since she would not live long enough for her testimony to be used.