This Scepter'd Isle (73 page)

It was very, very strange to see yourself sitting in a chair while you were standing elsewhere, FitzRoy thought, but even the amazement he felt began to slip away from him. The strength that the woman's touch had given him was ebbing swiftly and sun or no sun it was chilly to be standing naked in the garden.

FitzRoy wavered on his feet and looked around for someone or something to hold on to. He did not need to look far. Dunstan was on one side of him and Ladbroke on the other. They had peculiar expressions, broad smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes as they lifted him up onto Lady Aeron's back.

His feet feebly sought stirrups. He knew it was insane for a man in his condition to try to ride a horse, but to be on Lady Aeron's back again was like a foretaste of heaven. He was perfectly willing to die trying to ride her. Besides, something warm and soft was around him, and he hardly felt it when Lady Aeron leapt straight upward into seeming nothingness.
Gate,
he thought, as he felt the strange shivering chill, but there was no Gate at St. James's palace. . . .

And then he remembered that Denno had once told him that the elvensteeds didn't need a Gate. And it must be true because Lady Aeron was down without a jar on a lawn like velvet approaching a house that seemed to flower from the land around it, and by the door . . . 

"Denno," FitzRoy gasped, beginning to weep. "Denno. I thought you were dead. They told me you were healing but I didn't believe them. I couldn't believe you wouldn't come to me when I was dying."

Lady Aeron had stopped and Denoriel ran forward to reach up so that FitzRoy fell off into his arms.

"Harry," Denoriel breathed, trying weakly to hold his dearest friend up.

Then the invisible arms of a healer's servants, always alert for those needing help, caught at FitzRoy, and Denoriel had only to walk beside him, staggering slightly. Inside the house, FitzRoy was laid in a bed and a silken coverlet floated over him.

"I'm nearly well, Harry," Denoriel said, grinning like a fool with joy, "but don't tell Mwynwen that I came out to meet you or she'll burn off my ears. She told me not to."

FitzRoy touched his face. "I'm so glad to be with you Denno, so glad. And to have seen Lady Aeron again. I don't mind dying now."

"You won't die, Harry," Denoriel said, laughing softly. "Mwynwen said you wouldn't, and no one dares die when she says they'll get well. You'll be hunting on Lady Aeron's back before there's snow in the mortal world."

And so it was.

But, on the twenty-second of July, in the Palace of St. James a changeling, who had lived his life as Richey, peacefully died as Henry FitzRoy, earl of Nottingham, duke of Somerset, and duke of Richmond. FitzRoy's father was not there—King Henry was on progress, showing his new wife, Jane Seymour to the country. However Richey, who had never known the king as his father, did not care. Nothing hurt; power did not force its burning way in to galvanize his aching body; his "mother's" terrible grief no longer tore at his heart.

Nonetheless he was never alone and was tenderly cared for by three of FitzRoy's faithful servants—Mistress Bethany, Shandy Dunstan, and Kip Ladbroke. The men showed no horror over his disintegrating body—the woman never saw it, for she had been bespelled to see only her duke's wasting form. All talked gently to him when he was not too tired to listen. That morning a priest came; Richey pretended to listen because that was what Denno's Harry would have done, but he wept when the priest was gone because he had lived all his life in "heaven" and had no desire to return, only to be at peace. Afterward, in the outer chamber four silent guardsmen kept the young man they believed to be Henry FitzRoy safe from further intrusion—until nothing could intrude on him ever again.

"You know you'll never be able to go back, Harry," Denoriel said, and glanced uneasily at his companion.

They were sitting in the back garden of Mwynwen's house with Lady Aeron and Miralys grazing in the near distance. News had come the previous day about Richey's death and his strange funeral. They had heard that the duke of Norfolk, placed in charge of the funeral arrangements, had been ordered to wrap the body in lead and have it hidden in a farmer's wagon. It had been carried in secret to Thetford and buried quietly in the Cluniac priory there.

They had not spoken about the consequences of Richey's death then, but had concentrated on trying to console Mwynwen. She had wept bitterly for a while, knowing the reason for the lead wrapping and the secrecy, but when the worst of her grief and horror had passed, she had taken FitzRoy's hand in hers and kissed his cheek and called him Richey's gift.

Denoriel had breathed a sigh of relief. He had been much afraid that when Richey died she would begin to resent Harry and not put forth her greatest effort to save him—and then he had been ashamed of himself. Mwynwen had loved Richey, but she was a dedicated healer.

In the week between Harry's arrival and Richey's death Mwynwen had struggled constantly to draw the poison of the elf-shot from FitzRoy's body. Fortunately what FitzRoy had absorbed was only an exhalation loosed by the mild pressure of the blow of the bolt. Had the elf-shot really touched him, she could not have saved him.

Even so, he would need to live with her so she could continue to draw out the poison as it slowly leached from his flesh and bone. At least he no longer coughed and he could breathe easily. He was still skeletally thin, but that would soon be amended by the meals Mwynwen's servants stuffed down his throat at frequent intervals.

"Yes, I know," FitzRoy said in answer to Denoriel's warning that his own world was closed to him forever. "You know I always wanted to live Underhill. Why should I repine when I've got my wish?"

"It's very dull Underhill," Denoriel warned.

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the house where Mwynwen was seeing another patient and then looked across the garden at Lady Aeron. "Not to me," he said. "Besides, I've had enough excitement to last me for a good long while." Then he said sadly. "I'll miss Elizabeth and she'll miss me, but I would soon have become a danger to her—the first duke in the realm and the king's bastard to boot, how long do you think I would have been permitted free access to the princess who had been declared a bastard?"

Denoriel frowned. "I suppose that's true. In any case, you need not worry about her safety. Vidal Dhu is still hanging between life and death and Aurilia has not the sense of an infant. Both may recover, but it will be a long time, much longer than my full restoration. Aleneil will soon be established as a maid of honor to Elizabeth and Blanche has an air spirit to serve as messenger when Aleneil is not on duty."

FitzRoy was silent for a moment, but then suddenly he grinned broadly. "I will lay odds that Elizabeth will be a lot more trouble than I ever was."

Denoriel groaned softly, but he was grinning too. "Do not remind me, Harry. I cannot stop thinking of the color of her hair . . . and that scowl . . . My heart nearly fails me."

FitzRoy laughed, and the healer's garden was filled with the sound of unfettered joy. "She's more than a match for any mortal ever born, Denno, and that includes my father, I wager! No matter what he
says,
there will never be any doubt in anyone's mind that she's Great Harry's child. Not to him, and not to anyone else in or out of England."

"Nor Underhill, either," Denoriel sighed. "I fear it's myself that will be needing protection from her, and not her enemies, before she's much older."

"Believe it, my friend," FitzRoy said, grinning. "Oh, truly believe it!"

Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond, died on the twenty-second of July, in the Palace of St. James, exactly as described in our story. And, as we described, for some unknown reason, though the official cause of death was stated as "consumption," his body was wrapped in lead and buried with almost obscene haste and in great secrecy. Henry VIII, his father, was enraged when he learned of how his son's body had been treated, and that he had not been told of the death until after the burial.

No one knows why FitzRoy was treated in this odd fashion, though there has been a great deal of speculation by hundreds of scholars over the years.

With the exception of the Sidhe and some underlings, all of the characters we have used in this book were real, historical personages. We have, however, for the benefit of modern readers, kept their language "modern" and kept "forsoothly" speech to a minimum. And we have done our best to work entirely within the framework of actual history.

This includes baby Elizabeth's amazing precociousness; she was, indeed, speaking in whole, nearly adult sentences by the age of two. One almost does begin to believe in Sidhe. . . .