profusion," Denoriel said smoothly, referring to his fabricated history, which made him an exile from Hungary, now under the heel of the Turks.
That claim made reasonable his occasional lapses from English manners, his occasional ignorance of current court gossip, and his faint accent. His English was totally fluent, marked only by the lilting intonation of the speaker of Elven.
"Well, if I can tear you away, we should get back. It will be a long ride."
Surreptitiously, as George Boleyn turned away, Denoriel hugged FitzRoy, then took his hand.
"Are you coming, Denno?" Boleyn called back.
"I must see the child to his guards first," Denoriel said, suiting his stride to the boy's.
"They can see him from here," Boleyn said impatiently.
"But I took him from them, and he is my responsibility until I return him," Denoriel said, and then added, "Tell the servants to call for our horses, George. I will be with you before they arrive."
Boleyn sighed as he turned to walk back to the palace, but he said no more. Denoriel continued his unhurried way to the guards, FitzRoy's little warm hand in his. He knew that Boleyn and his circle of friends considered Lord Denno's sense of honor far too exact to be reasonable, but it was a useful crotchet and, Denoriel thought, might serve him well in the future if he needed to do anything questionable.
Denoriel was, by Miralys's response to his sent thought, as good as his word. He left FitzRoy with his guards with another brief hug and many thanks for showing him this private garden, then set off for the front of the house. He did lengthen his stride to what was comfortable for him, but did not hurry unduly; Miralys would see to it that the horses arrived only after he himself did, by creating enough mischief to keep the stable-hands more than occupied.
Boleyn