ONCE UPON A ROSE

                  by
           JUDITH O'BRIEN

Published by: POCKET BOOKS, 1230
Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY





Copyright 1996 by Judith O'Brien












       BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

       POCKET BOOKS ROMANCE

  "Time-travel romance--romance of any genre
--doesn't come any better. ..."
    --Publishers Weekly

  For every woman there waits a perfect love
... even across four hundred years of time

  Judith O'Brien is the author of two
previous highly acclaimed time-travel
romances, Rhapsody in Time and Ashton's
Bride. She also joined authors Jude
Deveraux and Judith Mcationaught with a delightful
tale titled "Five Golden Rings" in the
holiday story collection, A Gift of
Love. Judith O'Brien lives in
Brooklyn, New York, with her young son, and
she is currently working on her next novel for
Pocket Books.

  Judith O'Brien writes "exciting and
thoroughly enjoyable time-travel romance," raves
Harriet Klausner in Affaire de
Coeur. Her books are "Magical!
Harmonious! Dazzling!" says Maria C.
Ferrer of Romantic Times. With sparkling
wit and delicious sensuality, her stories
capture the eternal appeal of love. Now, in
her newest book, she sends a country miss
to court--but in true O'Brien fashion, the
"country" is pure Nashville and the court is
Henry VIII'S!

  "I walked into a maze and got lost on the
path to love." Rocketing country-western star
Deanie Bailey suspected if she put what
happened to her in a song, she'd earn another
Grammy--or be locked up as a lunatic.
She had been shooting a music video in England
on the grounds of Hampton Court Palace when
she ducked into the castle's famous maze for a
moment of solace. But there would be no quiet
interlude as the ground vibrated, the air
glimmered, and there, with a sword drawn and pointed
at her, was the most devastatingly handsome man she
had ever seen. From his fancy shirt and black
velvet doublet, Deanie figured he was just
another of the overblown Shakespearean actors whose
classical sensibilities she'd had to deal with
on the set. But she figured wrong by a mile and
four hundred years. Christopher "Kit"
Neville, duke of Hamilton, was an
attendant to the king. Some irresistible force had
brought Deanie into his life and to a bygone era
to change the future, fall madly in love, and
stand by her man against treachery and time itself with all the
spunky strength of a country girl's heart!























  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or
locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.




















  Huge thank-yous to my agent, Meg
Ruley, my editor, Linda Marrow, and
associate editor, Kate Collins. You
guys have been great!



















     This book is for Radney Foster,
     who has more editorial sense than a
        country music star ought to.
     Not only did he answer my often
       inane and frequently repeated
         questions with a patience bordering
        on sainthood, but he left
        me laughing in the process.
     Thanks, Radney, for your friendship.








        ONCE UPON A ROSE

              Chapter 1

  There was a soft breeze swirling at her
slippered feet, the wind gently snapping the
thick velvet hem across her slender ankles.
It was early spring, yet a crisp winter chill
lingered. The afternoon sun was slowly sapping the bite
from the damp air, paving the way for a glorious
day, a welcome respite from England's frigid
rains.
  She adjusted herself on the ancient stone bench,
trying to ignore the cold of the seat as it snaked
across her too-straight back. Her gown, many
layered and sumptuous, glinted in the sun, riots
of gold encircling the blue velvet neckline.
The sleeves, capped tightly over her
shoulders, fanned into generous folds of gold
brocade, intricate designs studded with
freshwater pearls. At her delicate wrists
were fine linen gathers, edged in gold thread.
  In her hands was an inlaid lute, which she
strummed with an absentminded grace. Yet it was
her face, petite under a peaked headdress, that
was most arresting.
  Black lashes fluttered over her liquid
brown eyes, casting a shadowy fringe over cheeks
of creamy perfection. Her nose, small without
being winsome, managed to indicate a genteel
dignity, and her lips--full and moistened by a
swift caress of her tongue--hovered on the edge
of a smile. For all her grave beauty, there was
a wisp of humor as fine and silky as the stray
tendril of chestnut hair that had somehow escaped
the confines of the rigid angular headpiece and now
rested tentatively against her smooth neck.
  A rustling in the dense shrubbery caught her
attention, and her hand paused above the lute strings.
  A gentleman emerged from a small break in the
bushes, wearing a maroon doublet the color of fine
claret. The ruffles of his white shirt skimmed
the lines of his clean-shaven jaw. His hair was a
pallid red, matched by red eyebrows and pale
eyes. He bowed low to the seated lady, a sword
jutting behind him as his legs crossed in courtly
greeting.
  "Milady." His voice was full, a startling
contrast to his undecided features. "Your lord
has returned."
  The woman on the bench was about
to respond, her lips parted to reveal brilliant
white teeth, when another voice pierced the air.
  "Cut!" snapped the director.
  He turned to the young cameraman to make sure
he had stopped shooting. Then he focused his
full wrath on the actor in the claret-colored
doublet. "For God's sake, Stan, you can do
better than that."
  Stan straightened, his face at once haughty
and defensive. "My name is Stanley." His
tone was impeccably modulated. "I am a
Shakspearian thespian, sir. I am not
accustomed to appearing in ..." He closed his
eyes as if seeking the inner strength to find
composure, stammering to continue.
  "That's all right, honey," the woman with the lute
prodded, grinning as she waved her hand. "You just
aren't used to being in music videos, are you?"
  The man nodded, his ruff bobbing with every swallow.
  "Well Stan, let me tell you"--she stood
up, placing the lute against the leg of the stone bench
--"I'm not used to England, not one bit. So I
guess you could say we're even, okay?" Her
voice was a soothing lilt, unmistakably
Southern, yet filled with gentle, honeyed warmth.
  The actor relaxed a little and gratefully
shook the hand she offered. "Miss Bailey," he
said, his voice again full and deep enough to reach the
last row in any theater. "I must tell you how much
I enjoy your music. Your compositions are
unique, no matter which artist performs them. I
usually don't care for--well ... I usually
listen to music of a more classical nature. But
Miss Bailey--"
  "Please call me Deanie." She shrugged
in her easy manner.
  "Yes, well--Miss Deanie, I believe
you have a real gift. As I said, I usually
don't listen to, uh ..."
  "Country music?" she offered, raising her
dark eyebrows as she watched the actor grope for
words.
  "No, I don't. I usually find it too
..."
  "Twangy?" Her voice was unable to conceal a
bubble of laughter, and the actor smiled and nodded.
Even with the thick Nashville accent, there was a
richness to the way she spoke, how she rounded the
vowels and hardened the consonants, that was
undeniably appealing.
  Before the actor and Deanie could exchange any
more words, the director was beside them, cracking a
riding crop against his flattened palm. A
middle-aged man with a thickening waist and thinning
hair, he shot the Shakespearean actor what
he hoped was a withering glance.
  "You, Stan, may pick up your check for the
day's work. You may also tell the other spear
carriers to go home, or back to your castle,
wherever you guys hang out."
  Stan gave no indication he had heard the
director. Instead, he raised Deanie's
fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her hand
as he executed a bow of serene poise.
  "You are a most gracious lady, and I can
only but wish that--"
  The director's eyes flickered up from the
clipboard a production assistant was holding
before him. "Stan, just beat it. Vamoose. Get
outta here."
  The actor straightened and, after a curt nod,
walked over to collect his paycheck with whatever
dignity he could muster.
  "Now Nathan," Deanie muttered, shaking her
head, "that wasn't nice, not one bit." She
glanced around her. "Hey, where did my
cigarettes go?"
  "You shouldn't smoke," Nathan responded.
"It will ruin your voice. This is your big chance,
kiddo. Reba dropped out, and the record label
is allowing you to drop in. This isn't just a
once-in-a-lifetime chance. It's a
once-in-a-million-lifetimes chance."
  "I know, Nathan," she replied softly.
"I've been dreaming of a chance like this ever since I
was a little kid. You know," she continued, as her
voice took on a whimsical lilt, "this is
sort of like an old movie, A Star Is
Born or 42nd Street or whatever.
I've paid my dues. All those years of writing
songs for other people. Now I'm getting a chance."
  The director ignored her. "And about that
actor, Deanie. You don't know what these
Brits can be like." The director signed the
paper with a decided flourish, then looked at
Deanie, tapping the riding crop against the side of
his jodhpurs. He had never been within a hundred
yards of a horse in his life, yet he always
directed his videos in Prussian equestrian
regalia. That way he could imagine he was
Erich von Stroheim directing Greed, instead
of Nathan Burns directing another music
video.
  "These Shakespearean actors all want to be
the next Olivier," he continued, eyeing Deanie
with avunuclar wisdom. "You've never been
to England before?" In truth, the director had never
been to England either, but he would rather be forced to ride a
horse than admit the fact.
  "Nope." Deanie sighed, stretching her arms
over her head. The costume was more than
uncomfortable; it was torture, especially for a
woman who usually lived in jeans and sneakers.
  The headdress alone was uniquely painful.
To Deanie's eyes it looked like a small
toolshed, with angled sides just like a Tennessee
birdhouse. The rims were studded with cut-glass
stones that were supposed to resemble rubies, but up
close one could see the glue swirls and the little
pencil marks made by the person who'd decorated
the thing. In theory it was supposed to make Deanie
look like the member of a midsixteenth-century
court. Instead, she felt like a second-rate
showgirl with a barn on her head. She had even
decorated the sides of the headdress with the words
"See Rock City" in masking tape, but
nobody thought it was funny.
  "What's the name of this place again?" Deanie
yawned as she asked the question.
  "England." The director looked off toward a
white trailer parked in the distance.
  "I know that, Nathan," she said, grinning. "I
mean, what's the name of this house, or whatever it
is."
  "Oh. Hampton Court Palace. It was the
home of Henry VIII." He swished the riding
crop in the air like a sword. "Where do you
suppose Bucky Lee has disappeared to?
We're losing the light." He squinted into the
sun, using his hands--the crop jutting
into Deanie's face--to frame an imaginary
scene.
  Deanie brushed away the crop, glancing at
the trailer and the magnificent plum-colored
palace beyond. Bucky Lee Denton. If she
never heard that man's name again, it would be way too
soon.
  A cigarette would be perfect right about now.
  She reached behind her, adjusting the Velcro
fastenings on her gown. Bucky Lee
Denton. Who the hell was he to keep the whole
crew waiting? They had spent the day preparing the
scene, stalling with the British actors, shooting
footage that would never be used out of sheer
boredom. All the while, Bucky Lee
Denton, the newest sensation to come out of
Nashville, was cloistered in his extra-wide
trailer, sending his assistants out for more hair
spray and diet cola.
  Several months earlier a well-known music
critic had dubbed Bucky Lee the "Denton
Disease." Outraged, the country music community
had rallied around Denton like a circle of
covered wagons.
  And then, one by one, they got to know him. His
backstage temper tantrums and a particularly
ugly run-in with a department-store Santa made
front-page news, along with his scathing comments
about other country music artists.
  Unfortunately, Bucky Lee Denton's
records were selling faster than waxed lightning.
He was impossible to ignore, and even more
impossible to like.
  It was Bucky Lee Denton who had insisted
this video be shot in England. He claimed it was
his artistic vision of the song, a gentle pastoral
English setting. But Deanie knew the only
vision Bucky Lee had was of the long-limbed
teenage supermodel he was following all over
Europe like a lovesick puppy. And since
Bucky Lee Denton was basically paying the
electric bill over at Era Records, the
executives were bumping heads in frantic
efforts to make him happy. Even if it was at the
expense of Deanie Bailey.
  "Is he ready yet?" asked a bored but
stunningly beautiful woman wearing a spandex
leotard and a conical damsel-in-distress
headpiece. The orange chiffon scarf attached
to the tip of the cone flapped in the breeze like an
airport wind sock.
  The director smiled warmly. It had been his
idea to pepper the video with Tudor Babes--
or TB'S, as everyone on the set now called
them. "It's Monica, right?"
  Tudor Babe shifted on her spike heels
and threw a swift glance at Deanie. "Yeah,
I'm Monica," she confirmed testily. "How
come she gets to wear a dress?" A manicured
thumb was aimed at Deanie.
  "Ah. Because, my dear, she wrote the song and
will perform it with Bucky Lee. She's the female
element to our touching duet." The riding crop
twitched with pleasure as Nathan Burns took
a step toward the TB.
  Deanie let out an exasperated sigh and shook
her head. If the director's pattern was
to remain consistent, the TB would soon be
upgraded to a serving wench. The serving wench scene
was scheduled to be shot the next day, with Deanie and
Bucky Lee lip-synching while being fed peeled
grapes. That is, if Bucky Lee could get his
hair--or, more accurately, his hair weave--under
control.
  It was her song. She'd written the lyrics
and the melody, a simple love song. But
Bucky Lee had ruined everything. From the moment
her manager had told her the good news--that
Bucky Lee Denton wanted to record her
song--the tune had left her hands, spiraling out
of control until it reached this absurd point. The
budget for this video was a tightly guarded
secret, but it was generally acknowledged to make the
Michael Jackson Thriller video seem like
vacation slides.
  At least she was allowed to be a part of this
project. The last few times one of her songs
had been made into a video, she had been
firmly relegated to the sidelines, watching with
clenched fists as other performers mouthed her words
to her tunes.
  There was a sudden commotion in the direction of the
white trailer, and Deanie bit her lip,
wondering if Bucky Lee was about to make an
appearance. The director stopped tracing his
crop along the outside of Monica's shapely
leg and stared at the trailer. An expectant
hush descended over the cast and crew. Coffee
stirrers were stilled in foam cups. Scattered
conversations were halted midsentence. Even the birds
stopped their chirping. All eyes were on the
trailer.
  The door swung open with a vigorous punch, and
out stepped Bucky Lee Denton.
  From the top step of his trailer he surveyed the
scene, master of all before him. His stance of comfortable
arrogance proclaimed his confidence. He alone was
the reason they were all gathered in England, why the
cast and crew had been flown in from Los
Angeles and New York and
Nashville. In his trademark red T-shirt and
black cowboy hat, he was in total command.
  But all Deanie could see was a rather short guy
in an oversized hat, looking more like Deputy
Dawg than a real cowboy. In one of the more
unfortunate instances of timing that seemed
to dominate and shape Wilma Dean Bailey's
life, she began to giggle. In the vast silence
of the sloping lawn, her voice carried as if
amplified a million times. Before she could get
herself under control, Bucky Lee Denton's
furious glare settled on her, and he cocked his
head slightly.
  That did it. All she could think of was the old
RCA emblem depicting "His Master's
Voice," a spotted dog listening to a
gramophone, head cocked exactly as was
Bucky Lee's cowboy-hatted head. Deanie
didn't just giggle, she didn't just laugh.
Wilma Dean Bailey, in that gentle English
backdrop, howled. Once she began she was
incapable of stopping, and the laughter tumbled from her,
speeding beyond her control.
  She looked down at her feet, trying to curb
her hilarity, taking deep breaths, but her feet
reminded her of his cowboy boots and the five-inch
lifts he tucked into the soles. So she tried
to concentrate on her fingers, but that merely caused
her to recall Bucky Lee's one attempt
to play the guitar and the sour chords that rang from his
prop instrument between takes.
  Through her tears she could see the horrified
glances of the crew members Ping-Ponging between
Deanie and Bucky Lee. Then she heard a
terrible, now-familiar sound: the slamming of a
trailer door. This time it left the aluminum
steps rattling, and a potted mum spilled off the
top landing. Everyone knew exactly what that
meant: Bucky Lee Denton would not make
another appearance until the next day. If at
all.
  Suddenly it wasn't so funny anymore.
She wiped under her eyes, where tears had dampened
her mascara to the consistency of molten asphalt,
and assumed the most contrite expression she could
manage.
  "Goddammit, Deanie!" bellowed the
director. "How the hell could you do that?"
  All eyes were now fixed on Deanie in her
rayon Tudor gown with Velcro
fastenings and plastic-seed pearls and birdhouse
headdress. She swallowed. "I'm sorry,"
she whispered, her voice raspy with laughter and
guilt.
  No one responded. As the cast wandered off
to collect their paychecks and the crew went through the
motions of striking the set for the day, Deanie knew
she was once again the victim of her lifelong
curse.
  Bad timing.

  Wilma Dean Bailey's very existence was a
virtual synonym for rotten timing. For instance,
the name "Wilma Dean" was a bit of quixotic
whimsey on her mother's part. As groping
teenagers, Lorna Dune and Dickie
Bailey made an early exit from the film
Splendor in the Grass to get married. By the
standards of Winslow, Kentucky, they had
demonstrated tremendous restraint.
  Ten months later their daughter was born, and
Lorna named the dark-haired infant "Wilma
Dean," after the character portrayed by Natalie
Wood in the movie.
  It wasn't until several years later, when
the film was finally aired on television, that
Lorna saw the entire movie. Much to her
openmouthed shock, the Wilma Dean in the movie
suffers a nervous breakdown and ends up in a
mental institution.
  But it was too late to change Deanie's name.
The precocious tot was already scribbling it on every
wall and overdue bill she could get a crayon
on. Lorna was, of course, concerned about the
eventual psychological ramifications of naming
a child after a suicidal heroine, so she kept her
daughter away from any and all Natalie Wood
films, including Miracle on 34th
Street and Scu.a Hoo! Scu.a Hay!
Besides, Lorna rationalized, the Deanie in
Splendor in the Grass ends up okay.
Warren Beatty marries another woman. So
what?
  About this time Lorna made another unfortunate
discovery. Her husband, Dickie Bailey, whose
all-night revels with fellow good ol' boys had
earned him a slew of randy nicknames, finally
decided he was not cut out for marriage and
fatherhood. Within a week he was gone. Lorna
never did find out what had happened to her
ex-husband. Their contact ceased with the signing of the
final divorce papers.
  Years later she saw an "Oprah" show on
bigamists. One guest, an overweight shoe
salesman sporting a limp string tie and
exaggerated sideburns, looked suspiciously
like Dickie Bailey, but Lorna could never be
sure.
  With steel determination and hard work, Lorna
managed to scrape together enough money to leave their
rural Kentucky home for Nashville. All
she wanted was a chance to begin afresh, to raise her
daughter away from the back-handed whispers of
Winslow. Even worse were the pitying stares of other
women, the mutters of "Poor Lorna, can't
hold on to a man." She'd had enough.
  In Nashville she found a job as a
truck-stop waitress. The hours were grueling but
the tips were usually good, and Lorna found
happiness in the anonymity of the place. Even the
regulars only passed through twice a month. It
was well worth the occasional painful pinch from an
amorous trucker.
  Little Wilma Dean, meanwhile, grew from a
giggling child to a woman of startling beauty. By the time
her daughter reached high school, Lorna,
alarmed by the way the customers would grin at her
daughter while dripping grits in the lap of their
jeans, had banished her from the truckstop.
  The irony that her daughter bore an uncanny
resemblance to Natalie Wood was not lost on
Lorna.
  "Why, ain't she the spitting image of that gal
from Rebel Without a Cause?" gasped a
beefy trucker with a paper napkin tucked into his
red flannel shirt.
  "Who?" inquired a doe-eyed Deanie as her
mother shoved her through the restaurant door.
  "Never mind," spat Lorna, glaring at the
customer.
  No one was really surprised when Deanie was
elected homecoming queen her senior year in
high school. Although she was, in the buffered words
of a guidance counselor, "no student," Deanie
was easily the most popular girl in her class.
Not only was she the best cheerleader for the state's
worst football team, she was also the president
of the choral society and had the lead part in the
school's production of Annie Get Your
Gun.
  What did surprise folks was the freak
hailstorm that hit Nashville the day of the
homecoming parade, tearing the corrugated roof
off the gym and ending all hopes of Deanie receiving
the ceremonial five-and-dime crown. Graduation
came and went with all the pomp and celebration of a
used-tire sale. Once again, bad timing and
Wilma Dean Bailey were inexorably linked.
  With her diploma in hand, Deanie began
searching for a job, only to discover that businesses were
less than thrilled at the prospect of hiring
an uncrowned homecoming queen who could carry a
tune. By the end of the summer, Deanie had finally
found a job. Like her mother, Deanie became a
waitress. Only Deanie, as if to prove her
independence, worked at a Krispy Kream
doughnut shop.
  A crucial revelation hit Deanie that first
fall after high school. She felt something vital
was missing from her life, an emptiness that left
her feeling incomplete. After ticking off the
possibilities on her fingers, she realized that
what was lacking was music.
  For as long as she could remember, she had been
involved in chorus classes or school-based
musicals. As her interest in music grew, her
voice, always pleasant, mellowed into a rich
instrument of unexpected depth. When she sang,
she wasn't just Deanie Bailey; she could
imagine being anyone in the world. For her, music was
magic. Her voice alone had never let her
down; it was the one thing she could always count on.
  Lorna, noticing her daughter's interest yet
not quite understanding it, even gave her a guitar from the
Sears catalog for her sixteenth birthday, and
Deanie became good enough to accompany the chorus and
strum along at school assemblies.
  Deanie, who had lived a life free from the
shackles of ambition, suddenly knew what she
wanted to become. With the tenacity of a spawning
salmon, Deanie set about becoming the next
Patsy Cline.
  She told no one at the Krispy Kream about
her aspiration, only her mother and a friend from high
school who had become a receptionist at a new
company, Era Records. Her mother treated her
announcement as seriously as she had taken
previous proclaimations from her daughter.
  When Deanie was eight, she decided she
wanted to be a princess. "Fine,
dear," a weary Lorna mumbled.
  When she was eleven, she wanted to become an
Olympic figure skater. "Very good, honey,"
Lorna replied.
  Now Deanie wanted to become a country singer,
and Lorna patted her daughter's head and asked
her to bring home two dozen assorted doughnuts
as a treat for the other truck-stop waitresses.
  About that time, Deanie realized that just mouthing other
people's songs was no longer enough. Although she could put
tremulous emotion behind most tunes, it was really
just musical play-acting. It didn't feel
absolutely right.
  Most country songs didn't fit her
personality, as she couldn't identify with the raw
emotions. Sure, she had faced rough times with her
mom, but they had faced them together. Never had she
been truly frightened or threatened or depressed.
Since she'd never had a dog, she had never even
experienced a dog's death, nor his running away
or chewing a favorite slipper. She'd never
once owned a pickup truck.
  Above all, she had never been in love. As a
whole, the life experiences of Wilma Dean
Bailey were not the stuff of great songs.
  But that didn't stop Deanie. Her first efforts
were laughably awful, about wayward men and forgiving
women. She borrowed from her mother's life, but it
didn't ring true. Then she tried lyrics about
Paris and grand romances, two more adventures she
had yet to experience, although "gay Paree" did
rhyme rather nicely with "his dungarees."
  One evening, while soaking her throbbing feet in
a tub of Epsom salts, she heard a radio
interview with a country songwriter.
  "You have to write what you know, what you're
familiar with, what touches your heart," the writer
stated. "Otherwise you won't believe it and, more
important, other people won't believe it."
  Without bothering to dry her feet, Deanie
hopped out of the tub and grabbed her guitar. In about
an hour she had written a song about a former
beauty queen working in a doughnut shop. Even after
playing and replaying the song into a tape
recorder, she felt an unfamiliar thrill
rush through her.
  "This is it," she marveled aloud. "This is how
it's done."
  After that, songs came easily and quickly,
usually when she was at work, cleaning the
coffee machine or waiting for a customer to decide
between the chocolate frosteds or the sugar-coated
bismarks. Although she still had to experience the fodder
of most country songs, Deanie had discovered she
possessed a unique ability to convey lyrics.
Phrases would come to her, snatches of offhanded
comments. The speaker would leave, toting the white
pastry bag, forgetting all about the conversation
overheard by the eager young woman behind the counter.
  By keeping her mouth shut and her ears open at
work, she heard enough from the customers and the other
waitresses to fill a dozen lifetimes of
country songs. Everyone had a story to tell, and
Deanie added her own words and imagination to spin their
tales.
  She became a voracious reader of country
music publications, and for the first time she regretted
not taking her school years more seriously. There was
so much she didn't understand about the business,
phrases that meant nothing to her but seemed to be of
great importance to those in the music industry.
  She never came to work without a tape of her
latest composition in the pocket of her apron,
on the off chance that someone might want to hear her
songs. One afternoon two long-haired men came
to her counter discussing a recording session.
Deanie was awestruck by their easy music
banter.
  "I write songs," she blurted.
  The other waitresses rolled their eyes at
Deanie, and she felt a furious blush creep
up from the neckline of her starched gingham uniform.
  One of the men raised a graying eyebrow. "Oh
yeah?" He crooked a finger, and she leaned over
the counter. "I'll give you some advice,
doll," he whispered.
  He then offered a suggestion that was nothing more than
a very Southern variation of the age-old casting couch.
Deanie was stunned, certain that she had not heard the
man correctly.
  In a voice loud enough to be heard across the shop,
he repeated his lewd proposition. Her eyes
held his as she reached behind for a fresh pot of
coffee, smiled at him, and poured the scalding
brew over his hand that rested on the counter.
  The man howled in pain, but Deanie maintained
an expression of serenity and informed him that
refills were on the house.
  As he ran to the bathroom, muttering oaths and
shaking his hand in the air--a futile
attempt to cool it off--his companion
grimaced apologetically and took one of her
tapes. He promised to get back to her within a
week with an honest appraisal of her work.
  As the first week stretched on into the second and
third and still she'd had no word, she realized it was
useless. She had no way to contact him anyway,
since she didn't even know his name. She chalked
it up to experience, but the exquisitely close
brush with the music world had made her more determined
than ever.
  Then her friend, the record-company
receptionist, convinced a low-rung executive
to grant Deanie a five-minute interview.
She called in sick at the Krispy Kream,
terrified at the prospect of crossing the
threshold of Era Records smelling like a
glazed doughnut.
  Dazzled by the feel of plush, unstained carpet
under her feet, awed by the glossy photographs
of stars and near-stars lining the hallway, Deanie
followed her friend to the executive's tiny,
windowless office.
  He was young but prematurely bald, which gave
him an aura of intelligence he did not
deserve. He listened politely to her tape,
cutting each song off after fifteen seconds.
Finally he leaned back in his vinyl swivel
chair, his fingertips steepled together in a
practiced gesture.
  "Well well, Jeanie ..." he began.
  "Deanie," she corrected, with the most
submissive smile she could manage.
  "Deanie? Oh, well," he frowned before
clearing his throat. "Where are you presently
employed?"
  She swallowed before answering. "At the
Krispy Kream."
  "Ah. I see. Well, Jeanie, I
suggest you hold onto that job and keep on
working--" He was interrupted by the bleep of his
telephone and gave her a dismissive nod. She
snatched up her tape and left as quickly as
possible, her cheeks burning with anger and
humiliation.
  Three weeks later, as she was closing up the
shop, she heard a car radio blaring from the parking
lot. It was the new single from Vic Jenkens, the
country crooner with matinee-idol looks and a
smooth-as-molasses voice. Deanie
paused, a wet, coffee-stained rag clutched in
her hand as she wiped down the counter.
  Vic Jenkens was singing her song.
  The rag flopped to the linoleum floor. She
blinked, dumbfounded at hearing the words she'd
penned while sitting on her own bed coming from a car
radio. From Vic Jenkens's voice--her words
set to her tune created on her Sears
guitar.
  The car either closed its door or left the
parking lot, she never knew. All she was sure
of was that her song had faded, leaving her under the
humming fluorescent lights of the empty
Krispy Kream.
  How did it happen? Her mind whirled as she
stumbled into the parking lot, her sweater askew, her
white-soled shoes crunching the gravel. Her
hands trembled as she fumbled for her car keys,
numbly recalling that they were in her apron
pocket.
  Her apron pocket. Then it came back
to her: The song Vic Jenkens had recorded was
on the tape she had given those Music Row
guys, the friend of the man she had spilled coffee
on. They had stolen her song.
  Her first thought was to call up a radio station--
any radio station--and proclaim herself to be the
composer of the new Vic Jenkens hit. Clearly
someone had laid claim to the song, or she would have
heard from his manager or the record company. She
had devoured enough fan magazines to have a vague
idea how those things worked.
  But it would have been absurd, a ranting
Krispy Kream waitress calling a radio
station at midnight announcing that Vic Jenkens
had stolen her song. Unwelcome images
flooded into her mind, of people who claimed to have been
kidnapped by aliens or of diehard Elvis
sighters. She suddenly envisioned herself being
interviewed on television, in her Krispy
Kream gingham and ruffled apron, the mandatory
hairnet glimmering under the TV lights, trays
of doughnuts stacked behind her. She would look like a
crazy woman.
  With no proof to offer, no evidence other than
her word against theirs, Deanie would be better off
claiming to be Bigfoot's love child. By the time
she climbed into her bed, she was convinced she had
best let the whole thing go. This was an important
lesson, she muttered to the foam pillow.
Never again would she be so stupid. Never again would she
be so trusting.
  By the next morning she was feeling better, even
a little pleased. The song had been good enough for those
guys to steal. Deanie decided she must be on the
right track.
  Within three weeks, the song was hailed as the
most brilliant of Vic Jenkens's career. It
was everywhere, not only blasting from car windows, but at
the mall and in the Krispy Kream and on
television. Everyone seemed to be humming
Deanie's tune. Even at the Piggly
Wiggly, the damn song wafted over the poultry
case.
  Just when Deanie thought she would explode, the
impossible happened: Vic Jenkens himself
strolled into the Krispy Kream.
  Deanie and the other waitresses knew something was
up when his "people," vicious-looking men with walkie
talkies and professional sneers, entered ahead
of the star. Then came the photographers, giddy as
prom queens with cold duck, clicking away as
Vic Jenkens opened the clearly marked Krispy
Kream door and feigned an expression of
surprise.
  Something about the absurdity of the situation struck
Deanie as riotously funny. She began
to giggle, squinting against the flashing lights,
ignoring the hush of the other waitresses and the
surly glares from Jenkens's people.
  Vic Jenkens immediately spun to face her,
cool fury evident in his eyes. Deanie
swallowed, a smile still on her face. He was
much better looking in real life than in print.
  "What you laughing at, girl?" His voice was
deep, and although he was not speaking above a
conversational tone, it silenced the whole store.
  She cleared her throat and pointed to herself, her
eyes questioning and innocent.
  Jenkens's expression softened, and he rubbed a
hand over his carefully whisker-roughened jaw, his
gaze raking Deanie with undisguised enjoyment.
The star liked what he was seeing.
  "What were you laughing at?" This time there was a
hint of amusement in his voice.
  "Oh, um ..." She shifted in her sensible
shoes and patted her hair under the hairnet.
"It's just that you looked so surprised by those
guys," she said, motioning to the photographers.
"And, well, I mean ... this was more
planned than most weddings I've been to."
  At once he grinned, an engaging,
soul-melting and practiced smile. Deanie,
beaming, returned the smile.
  And so began one of Nashville's and eventually
--thanks to supermarket tabloid coverage--the
nation's favorite oddball romances. Vic
Jenkens took the adorable waitress out to dinner
that evening, and from then on they were a couple. Vic
Jenkens, that newly reinstated good ol' boy, and
his salt-of-the-earth woman became a
publicist's dream.
  And Vic discovered an untapped resource of
songs. On their first date she explained the story
of how she'd written his current hit. Instead of
laughing, he actually believed her, and he called
his manager right then from his car phone. Deanie was not
only paid for the song but was told she'd receive
royalties if Vic ever recorded another of
her tunes. She sent him more tapes the next
day, and by the time he went back on the road, her
songs were included in his concerts.
  Wilma Dean Bailey had finally made it in
Nashville, but not at all the way she had
envisioned it. It was stardust, yes. But it was
secondhand stardust, shrugged from the broad and
well-connected shoulders of Vic Jenkens.
  Soon into the relationship Deanie felt a
vague uneasiness growing in the pit of her
stomach. She did not want to depend on a man
--any man--for her identity. People were kind to her
now, strangers smiled, but it was for all the wrong
reasons. She had seen firsthand what dependence on
a man could cost a woman. Every time she needed a
reminder, a swift glance at her rail-thin,
overworked mother usually did the trick. Somehow,
Deanie would emerge from Vic's ever-looming
shadow.
  She held on to her Krispy Kream job, in
spite of her growing bank account. As other
waitresses came and went, Deanie remained,
pouring coffee and selling doughnuts to Vic's
fans who waited in the shop in vain hopes that their
star would visit. He never did. But the
prospect of seeing him kept crullers and
jelly-filleds moving faster than a brakeless
truck down a mountain.
  The romance, such as it was, suited Vic's
agenda perfectly, stilling rumors that he had
gone Hollywood and left the real South
behind. With Deanie occasionally on his fringed arm, the
press could cluck approvingly at his success,
give his records more airplay, make his
videos even more appealing. Who could begrudge such
a nice guy?
  He was shrewd enough to keep in constant touch with
Deanie, even when his touring schedule took him
across the country. Sometimes he asked her to play
her new songs over the telephone. Other times
he would have his manager shuttle her most recent
tape to his hotel on the road. The manager
even made sure she had plenty of top-quality
recording cassettes to use on the new machine
Vic had given her for her twentieth birthday.
  "It's like giving a baseball bat
to Grandma," Lorna muttered after Deanie showed
her the new equipment.
  "What?" Deanie snapped.
  "You know what I mean. The gift is for himself,
baby. He's giving himself a bunch of songs for the
price of one fancy-looking machine. That's
all."
  Deanie tried to ignore her mother's comment, but
at night, after late conversations with Vic,
Lorna's words came back to her. Every time she
decided to break away on her own, he would come
back with flowers and a hang-dog expression. She
couldn't stand the thought of making anyone unhappy.
  Theirs was a curious relationship. Deanie never
did get over feeling like an outsider, as if some
secret joke were being shared by all of Vic's
friends, and she was never told the punch line.
  She tried to talk herself into falling in love with
Vic, but the best she could manage was a detached
admiration for his singing voice. She did fall in
love with the way he wrapped his voice around her
songs, wringing from them all the emotion she had ever
managed to instill. And she was truly flattered that
he was showing her so much attention. Yet something
wasn't quite right.
  Through reading the music industry trade
publications, she knew that most labels were
favoring singers who performed their own material. The
days of the singer as a mere interpreter of another
writer's songs seemed to be fading; the hot stars
all wrote their own stuff. She could sometimes see
greedy appreciation of her work in Vic's
bluer-than-blue eyes, and he would nod in
subdued acknowledgment. But he never came right out
and praised her. He always seemed to be
doing her a favor by even listening to her meager
efforts, much less recording her songs.
  Vic also suggested she smoke cigarettes
to calm her nerves, to sooth her growing
suspicions of his motives. He assured her
that most of the truly successful Nashville names
were two-pack-a-day smokers, and that nonsmokers
were even considered outsiders. Against her better
judgment and to keep his nagging at bay, she began
to smoke. Only after she had become hooked did
she realize he'd probably harbored an
unconscious--or perhaps even conscious--desire
to see her voice ruined. She was never able
to completely quit, but she did manage to cut
down to a few precious cigarettes a day.
  Deanie was not stupid. After the initial
enchantment of dating a star dwindled into a dull
routine, she realized how he had been using her.
  It had taken one brief conversation to point her
toward reality.
  On one of the increasingly rare evenings they spent
together, she decided to make a clean break. The
speech was beautifully set in her mind.
  After a candlelight dinner, he turned his eyes
toward her--the same eyes that had been used so
effectively in his last video. He told her,
with wrenching honesty, how much music meant to him,
how his granddaddy Jenkens had taught him to play
the guitar and sing, how they used to huddle together and
listen as their voices blended with the crackling hum
of summer cicadas. His granddaddy was gone now,
he said, his voice rife with emotion. He'd
give his last Grammy to speak but one more time
to his granddaddy, to thank him for the miraculous
gift of music.
  She reached up and touched his face, and he
smiled.
  Wilma Dean Bailey did not tell Vic
Jenkens what was on her mind that night. He had
shown her a side she'd never seen, had never
imagined existed. He was vulnerable. He needed
her.
  Two days later she was brushing her teeth. The
television was on in her bedroom, the cheerful
postdawn sounds of "Good Morning America"
filtering through the din of running water. Then she
heard another voice, familiar, cajoling. In
a daze, she stepped into the bedroom, still blotting
toothpaste foam from her mouth.
  There, hunched in a chair across from
Joan Lunden, was Vic Jenkens. She had
almost forgotten about this interview, the reason he had
caught the red-eye to New York the night before.
  "It was my great granddaddy Jenkens ..." His
voice broke, and he turned his soulful eyes
on Joan Lunden, who was on the verge of tears
herself.
  Vic hadn't been talking to her the other night,
opening up and trusting her with fragile emotions.
Vic Jenkens had been rehearsing.
  It was suddenly all clear to her: how he had
been wooing not Deanie but her songs, how he had
managed to keep her ability so well hidden from
everyone but his manager.
  With a new determination, Deanie made two
vows to herself. One, she would never allow her work
to be performed by another artist unless she
specifically approved. And two, she would never,
ever, trust another man.

  It had taken her seven years to get this chance,
to sing one of her own songs with a hot star like Bucky
Lee Denton. Only her mother knew what the
journey had cost, how agonizing some of the
decisions had been along the way. She was still
virtually unknown to the public, to all but the few
who would slavishly read song credits, or watch
the songwriters awkwardly accepting awards at
some of the televised ceremonies.
  Deanie Bailey was unknown but, she hoped, not
for long. She had waited for this moment, worked and
sweated and lost sleep and prayed to be given a
single opportunity to prove herself.
  A momentary rush of fear had jolted through her
when she first learned that Bucky Lee would sing the
duet with her, but she managed to push it aside.
As her mother bid her a tearful goodbye at the
airport, Deanie thought of all she was leaving
behind, all that lay ahead.
  Nothing could stand in the way of her dreams now.
Except for Bucky Lee Denton.

              Chapter 2

  If there was one invaluable lesson Deanie had
learned during her years of songwriting success in
the country music industry, it was when to make herself
scarce. As the irritated, jet-lagged, and
exhausted crew struck the video set, Deanie
grabbed a bottle of Coke and a
package of dry-roasted peanuts and slinked
surreptitiously into the background.
  Not that it was easy to slink anywhere in her
costume. It was stiff, uncomfortable, and about the
ugliest thing Deanie had laid eyes on since
her mother picked out the dress for her first Country
Music Association Award ceremony. The
headdress felt like a vise on her temples.
She would have gladly removed it, but the damn thing
was held on with so many pins and clips it would have
taken Houdini to unbolt it. As it was, she
didn't want to risk the ire of the costume
director, who had spent the past three hours
sewing rhinestones onto a velvet doublet that
Bucky Lee Denton now refused to wear.
  They were losing the light anyway. Even if a
miracle occurred and Bucky Lee emerged from his
trailer ready to work, the sun was sinking, as if it
too wished no further association with Deanie or
the video.
  Deanie tried to smile at a trio of departing
Tudor Babes, but they managed to avoid her
gaze. Wisely, she decided not to bum a
cigarette from a large man in overalls wielding
a hammer.
  Funny, she mused. Even in England,
Nashville's male-dominated network was in
full force. Everyone was mad at her, not
Bucky Lee, who was the real cause of the
aggravation. She had established herself as a solid
songwriter, an up-and-coming performer, yet all
it took was one flash-in-the-pan guy like Bucky
Lee Denton to make her feel about as welcome
as a hornets' nest at a picnic.
  The grounds of the palace were lovely, although she
preferred a less-clipped, more haphazard look
to a garden. The flower beds were subdued, as if
daring a stray bloom to rear its undesirable
head. Every flower was in its assigned place, every
shrub carefully pruned into submission, the
approved rounded shape. It was beautiful in an
artificial, plastic fashion.
  The ninety-pence guidebook she had flipped
through during one of the interminable breaks highlighted the
garden and told the illustrious history of the
grounds. The age and splendor of the palace at
Hampton Court was mind-boggling to Deanie, who
paced across the lawn, eyes glued to the booklet,
still clutching the Coke bottle.
  Gripping the guidebook between her
teeth, she funneled the peanuts into the bottle,
an old Southern trick. No matter what she
was doing, whatever her state of mind, the sight of
cola bubbling to a head with salty peanuts could
always make her feel immeasurably better, like
a bouquet during a snowstorm. The best part
came last, when she could eat the sweet, soggy
peanuts at the bottom of the bottle. Pure
bliss.
  Finally she glanced up and took an unbroken
look at the grounds, at the palace in the distance.
An odd feeling flowed over her, a sense of
historical smallness in the face of such
grandeur. This was the very soil tilled by the feet of
monarchs and cardinals before anyone had ever heard of
Nashville or Tennessee, when the United
States was still the uncharted wilds of America.
Had one of Henry VIII'S wives ever stood
on the exact spot, the same eerie glow of the
setting sun making the horizon a pastel
smudge?
  With another sip of soda, slightly salty
now, she looked about the grounds, barely aware of the
roar of a jet circling overhead. This was a timeless
moment, far removed from the pettiness of a video
schedule. She felt very alone, a faraway sense
of isolation from the rest of her world.
  "It's a rather romantic place, is it not?"
  Deanie turned to see a dapper gentleman of
about fifty, glancing in the same direction she
was. "I apologize," he added hastily.
"I did not mean to startle you."
  "Heck, you didn't startle me." She
smiled.
  "I live close by, you see," he
returned the smile. He was English, of
course, with a neatly trimmed beard peppered with
gray. "I saw all the commotion, the trailers and
lorries and show people. I do love having a look
at the workings of a film." He slipped his hands
into the well-worn pockets of his tweed jacket.
"I saw them film Anne of the Thousand Days
years ago, with Richard Burton."
  "That must have been neat." Deanie's eyes
widened in interest. "What did he look like?"
  "He was rather plain, actually. But his wife at
the time was Elizabeth Taylor, and she was
spectacular. She watched him, and everyone else
watched her."
  The man suddenly jumped. "Do forgive
me. My manners have been appalling." He
extended a bony hand. "My name is Neville
Williamson, and I'm afraid I'm a
somewhat pathetic example of British
hospitality. I do hope my fellow countrymen
have demonstrated better style."
  "Nice to meet you. I'm Deanie
Bailey."
  "Pleasure," he responded crisply.
"Are you enjoying your visit so far? I suppose
it's hardly a holiday to be working."
  "To tell you the truth, Mr.
Williamson--"
  "Neville, please."
  "Neville, then. Well, it's just beautiful
here. All we've done so far is wait around, but
I'll tell you, this sure is a pretty place
to wait around in."
  He laughed. "It is indeed. My parents
fell in love here, in fact."
  "Really?"
  "Really. She had been engaged to another
pilot, a chap in the Royal Air Force during
the war. Well, he was missing and presumed dead.
My father was a close friend of the missing pilot, and
he decided to comfort his poor fianc@ee. Next
thing they knew, they were in love--a grand passion,
it seems. They waited a year to get married, and
I was born right before the war ended. So you see, this
has always been one of my family's favorite
spots."
  "And the other man never did show up?" Deanie
swept a strand of hair from her forehead.
  "Sadly, no. But they named me after him. My
first name is his surname, you see. He was an only
son, and they wanted the name to continue."
  Deanie whistled through her teeth. "I love your
phrase, "a grand passion." That would sure
make a dandy song. Could I use it?"
  "Excuse me?" He seemed genuinely
perplexed.
  "I write songs, and that story would make a
terrific song. Would your parents mind if I
use it?"
  "No--well I mean, they're gone now. It
wouldn't hurt anyone, and it might be rather nice to have
their story immortalized in song."
  "A grand passion," she repeated, testing the
sound. "It sure is a great story. I just hope
I can do it justice."
  "Well, I must be off," he said after a few
comfortable moments. "My wife makes a splendid
tea every afternoon at this time. If I'm late, she
eats all my favorite scones herself. Beastly
woman." It was said with such affection that Deanie
realized it was Neville himself who was anxious
to get to his tea.
  "It was wonderful meeting you," she said, waving
goodbye.
  "The pleasure was mine." Before he left he
paused. "It just came to me! Who you resemble, that
is. At first I thought you looked rather like Miss
Taylor, when she was here watching Richard
Burton. But it just occurred to me that you bear a
spectacular resemblance to Natalie Wood.
Have you ever been told that?"
  Deanie winked. "Once or twice. But I
thank you."
  She smiled, and he gave a brisk wave before
walking away. He sure was a nice old guy,
she thought.
  Alone once more, she returned her attention
to the guidebook, increasingly aware of her vast
ignorance. She had felt strangely compelled
to write her name in the booklet, a gesture of
ownership she rarely bothered with. This was her book.
The thought of someone else walking away with it
bothered her somehow.
  Scanning the pages, she bit her lip as she
came across unfamiliar phrases such as "barber
surgeon" and "liturgical reformation" and terms
she could only guess were Latin. It was the same
feeling she'd had when she first read the show business
trade papers so many years earlier. There was a
realm of knowledge she never imagined existed. A whole
universe had prevailed happily without her.
  Something in the guidebook caught her eye,
tearing her away from her musings. It was a stark
black-and-white photograph of a massive
hedge. Leaning closer into the book, hastily
reaching up to push her tilting headdress back
into place, Deanie read about a miraculous
maze on the grounds, one so ornate that people were lost
in it for hours. It warned tourists to avoid the
maze if they had theater tickets that evening.
  Deanie grinned. The warning may have been
tongue-in-cheek, but the effect on her was
instantaneous. She didn't just have theater
tickets for that evening; she was to appear at
Wembley Stadium to sing the duet with
Bucky Lee Denton during his concert. Her
manager would have a fit, while Nathan Burns,
who was filming the concert for an upcoming video,
would pull out what little hair was remaining on his
head. To enter the maze at this hour would be more than
irresponsible. It would be sheer folly, a career
risk few stars would even contemplate.
  It was absolutely irresistible.
  According to the map, Deanie was within yards of the
maze, and as she walked in what she hoped was the
right direction, she continued to scan the booklet.
The maze was almost as old as the palace itself, the
guidebook cooed. It had been created for
Henry VIII'S second wife, Anne
Boleyn, to remind her of the maze at her
childhood home of Hever Castle. It had
taken decades for the hedges to become truly
inaccessible, and by that time both Anne and Henry had
returned to dust.
  Deanie peered over the guidebook, and at
once she spotted the maze. Its rusty
turnstile was chained, with a hand-lettered sign propped
on top of the lock with a single word: "Closed."
  How could it be closed?
  With a swift glance over one shoulder to assure
herself she was alone, she squeezed between the edge of the
metal turnstile and the rough hedge. Luckily,
she had spent her childhood gaining free access
to amusement parks and fairs, and her slender
build could still wiggle through small spaces.
  The inside of the maze was something of a
disappointment, although Deanie wasn't sure what
she had been expecting. There were corridors of
shrubbery, green and twisting, jutting off in
unexpected directions. She wandered the maze,
pausing to touch the knotty, gnarled branches.
They were thick and coarse, roughened by centuries of
rain and sunshine and snow.
  Suddenly Deanie stopped, unable to walk any
farther. The sun was about to set, and she glanced about
at the incandescent last light, the final golden
explosion before the day became dusk.
  Something was wrong.
  She held out her hand to steady herself, grasping a
hoary shrub, ignoring the slivers of wood and
bark that cut into her skin. The booklet fell
to her feet, and she gasped for breath, momentarily
blinded by the sun reflecting off the soda
bottle. It hit the bottle at odd, sharp
angles, glinting blue, so vibrant she
was forced to close her eyes.
  One thought penetrated her consciousness:
earthquake. Who else but Wilma Dean
Bailey would get caught in a British
earthquake?
  The vibration became more intense now, a deep
baritone rumbling that seemed to ripple the very
ground, defying the solid feel of the earth. Her
whole arm began to shake violently, just her arm,
unable to release the soda bottle. In the midst
of the quake she opened her eyes and heard a
hissing noise, like droplets of water on a
hot frying pan. The rest of her cola
evaporated, and the peanuts hopped at the bottom
of the bottle like Mexican jumping beans.
  There was one final roar, a terrible, almost
human scream. White-blue lines bounced off
the cola bottle, enveloping her in a pulsating
prism. Then all was silent.
  Her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and the
soda bottle, suddenly hot to the touch, came
crashing to the ground. A small puff of dirt
rose as it landed without shattering. Her hands were
trembling, and she instinctively clutched her
throat, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart,
every beat ringing in her ears.
  She took a few deep breaths, trying to get
her terror under control. And when she found her
voice, it wasn't to scream but to laugh at herself.
She slumped against a bush, its tender branches
giving way under the weight of her back. Her
eyes darted to the bottle, and she reached over
gingerly to pick it up.
  The peanuts were blackened and smoking.
  Deanie inhaled the scent of the burned peanuts,
as if proving to herself they were really scorched. She
hadn't imagined it, whatever had just happened.
  "I must have been hit by lightning," she marveled
aloud, her voice tense and high pitched.
  She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned
back against the comforting embrace of the shrub. There was
something wrong, something that didn't seem right. What
could it be ...
  The bush.
  Her eyes flew open and she spun around,
ignoring the headdress as it drooped forward.
Instead of a mammoth, ancient shrub, there was a
young hedge, only just reaching over her head. Its
branches were slender and smooth, its buds full
and pale green.
  All of the bushes were new. Everywhere she
looked, she saw fresh young plants and could
smell the unmistakable scent of soil mingled with
manure.
  "How now, art thou foe or friend of the king's?"
  Deanie gasped, startled by the sudden intrusion.
She hadn't heard anyone approach. Her first
thought was of the kindly Mr. Williamson. Perhaps
he had returned to take her to tea. Perhaps he
had come to see if she was badly shaken in the
earthquake. She turned in the direction of the
rich, masculine voice.
  It was not Mr. Williamson.
  She was stunned by what she saw. It wasn't that
he was inordinately tall, or bulging with
muscles. The man before her had a magnetic
presence, an aura that jolted her every bit as much
as his unexpected voice.
  He was an actor, of course. An extra in
the video, judging from the costume he wore.
Unlike Stanley and the other Shakespearean
actors, this guy's outfit was less
flamboyant: just a black velvet doublet and
hose with a full white shirt underneath. At his
left side was an elegant scabbard, black as
the doublet, with the ornately carved hilt of a fake
sword just visible under the folds of his costume.
There were no gaudy paste-jewels, no fancy
gold thread. But his stockings seemed a little
baggy.
  Deanie breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.
"Hey," she said, her voice still betraying
uncertainty. "That was some earthquake. Did
Nathan send you to fetch me? You're one of the
actors, right? I think you can collect your
paycheck."
  The man, his gaze steady, drew the sword.
  "How now? Be thou a friend of the king's?" His
manner was terse, and his teeth, very white, remained
clenched as he spoke.
  "Me? Heck no. I'm a little young to have known
the King personally, although I've seen some of his
later stuff. You know, the Vegas recordings,
when he wore those white jumpsuits and aviator
sunglasses."
  Now that her initial fear had vanished, she was
able to properly appraise the actor, and she
decided he had most certainly picked the right
profession.
  He stood about six feet tall, perhaps
a little less, but his bearing seemed to voraciously
consume the surrounding space. His hair was close
to Deanie's in color and thickness, a rich
mahogany. There was a decided curl to it, and the
ends rested lightly against his expansive
shoulders.
  Yet it was his face, more specifically his
eyes, that gripped her attention. They were a
strange shade of hazel, dark brown circling the
irises, and they seemed to see through her, with a sharp
intelligence that made Deanie feel
uncomfortable.
  His face was lean, almost gaunt, with hollows in
the cheeks and a very slight cleft in his chin. His
forehead, high and smooth, was free of the creases that
were at the corners of his eyes and bracketed his
mouth.
  His mouth. Even as he spoke, she pulled her
gaze from his eyes to his mouth, a mesmerizing
study in contrasts. The upper lip was rather thin, but the
lower lip was full and generous, hinting at a hidden
sensuality that his brusque manner so
effectively masked.
  He had spoken, and she realized she hadn't
heard a word he said. She cleared her throat.
"Excuse me?"
  A look of irritation passed over his
features. "Canst thou not hear? I quoth, how
now--"
  "Brown cow?" she replied.
  His eyebrows, unexpectedly lush on a
face so free of any other excess, rose
slightly, briefly marring the smooth forehead with
lines. His sword was still pointed at her, but he
seemed to have forgotten it.
  Deanie reached out and pushed the sword away.
The moment she touched the blade, the flesh on her
palm exploded in pain.
  "Hey, what are you doing!" she cried,
withdrawing her hand as tears flooded her eyes.
"Y'all aren't supposed to use real swords."
Her voice broke as she examined the gash,
several inches long and bleeding freely.
  From the corner of her eye Deanie saw him
make a sweeping motion with his arm and heard the
metallic sound of the sword slipping into its sheath,
an exasperated sigh escaping his mouth. He
stepped toward her and tenderly cupped her wounded
hand in his.
  The last thing on her mind was her hand as
she felt his warm breath on her cheek. "Doth
thou know not of weaponry?" Now his voice was soft,
as if soothing a frightened child.
  Deanie stared at his hand, surprised at how
such rough, callused fingers could bring such comfort. His
scent tingled her senses, musky and spicy,
unlike any bottled fragrance.
  "Your aftershave," she whispered. "It sure
isn't Brut."
  He turned his eyes to hers. Even in the
encroaching darkness, they were even more extraordinary
than from a distance. She could see the distinct
flecks of sea green and sable brown.
  "I apologize, my lady, if thou doth
think me a brute."
  With that he ripped the left cuff of his shirt,
several inches of snowy-white fabric that extended
from the close black velvet sleeve, and
fashioned a makeshift bandage.
  "Awe," Deanie said, smiling, "you didn't
have to go and wreck your costume." He made no
notice of her comment, intent on tying the bandage
over her palm. "You know," Deanie added,
uncomfortable with the silence and his nearness, "that's a
dandy outfit."
  His eyes flashed to hers, and she sniffed once,
the tears evaporated. "I mean, it's sort of
like one Wynonna has." She caught herself. "I
mean, not that you look like a girl, nothing like that.
It's just the black velvet and the white, well, you
know ..." Her voice trailed off and he stepped
back, as if seeing her for the first time.
  Deanie licked her lips, her mouth suddenly
gone dry. "Why do you speak all backwards like?
I mean, stuff like "from where art thou" and all
that?"
  There was a small pause before he spoke again.
"From where art thou?" he repeated.
  She closed her eyes, trying to form a reply.
At last she took a deep breath and opened them.
"Nashville from am I," she answered
triumphantly.
  For the first time he smiled at her, an
expression that transformed his entire face. The
hollows of his cheeks became elongated
dimples, and the lines around his eyes crinkled.
Instead of looking menacing, although admittedly
attractive, he was accessible and easy.
Deanie felt a strange, roller-coaster tumble
in her stomach.
  He reached for her soda bottle and examined
it, the grin still on his handsome face.
"Nashville," he repeated, although from his lips the
word sounded exotic and foreign. He was so close
that she could see the separate strands of his hair,
some very dark and coarse, others burnished golden
by the sun, and a very few gray. Only up close
were the gray hairs visible.
  His eyes met hers. "Tell me again of your
king." This time his voice was expressionless, and his
thumb traced over some writing on the glass. It
was the copyright label and the date the product had
been bottled.
  "Well, he's dead, of course."
  That caused a reaction. The man stiffened, as
if not believing her.
  "Hey, are you all right?" The smile faded from
Deanie's face as she realized he seemed to be
ill. A sheen of perspiration formed on his forehead,
reflecting the fading light, and Deanie touched his
arm.
  He jumped, as if surprised she was still there.
With admirable aplomb he recovered and pushed his
palm over his forehead, absentmindedly wiping the
perspiration on the shoulder of his doublet.
  "Please, tell me again of your king's ...
glasses." He seemed to struggle for the words.
  "Those ugly aviator things?"
  "Aviator," he breathed. "Aviator."
  She was about to suggest they go to the medical van,
the emergency vehicle insurance companies demand
be present at all location shoots. But before she
could speak, she heard the sound of men's voices
shouting into the night, footsteps crunching on the
gravel.
  The actor seemed to snap out of his daze. He
turned to face her, his expression once again
clear and direct.
  "I am Christopher Neville, duke of
Hamilton," he rasped. The intensity in his
eyes, his searing gaze, prompted Deanie to step
back, but he gripped her upper arm painfully,
pulling her closer. "You are my cousin.
Remember that. You are my cousin, and you are from--"
  "Hey, let me go!"
  "You are my cousin," he repeated more
emphatically. For a moment he seemed to be thinking
out loud. "I must somehow explain your speech."
A flicker of amusement laced his words as he
pronounced, "You have just arrived from
Wales."
  "You're crazy," she gasped, genuinely
alarmed.
  Instead of becoming enraged, or at least
insulted, she saw his teeth flash white, a
smile in the darkness.
  "No." She could hear the delighted
satisfaction in his voice. He grabbed the cola
bottle and lobbed it into the bushes, where it would be out
of sight. "You, my dear, are addled. Your
family has just sent you here in hopes of finding you
a husband, and you will remain with me at Court
until--"
  "You just littered," she snapped accusingly.
"Do you know what the fine for littering a landmark
is?"
  "Hamilton! Art thou within?" The call came
from just beyond the shrubs.
  "What is it with you people?" Deanie asked. "This
backwards talk is driving me nuts."
  Christopher Neville, duke of
Hamilton, stared at her face for a moment, not
answering. With a thumb, he gently tilted her
face toward him. "Art thou painted?"
  "Huh?"
  "Thy face. Be that paint?" He lifted the
remaining cuff on his other sleeve and, without
waiting for a reply, scrubbed her face.
  "Hamilton!" This time the cry was more insistent.
  "Aye, within." he responded, removing the
last traces of mascara and lipstick from her
face.
  Deanie, who had been too stunned
to respond, was suddenly infuriated.
  "Hey, you!" she shouted to the unseen voices.
"There's a nut job in here--one of those damned
actors Nathan hired. Get me out of here!"
  There were muffled sounds of men conferring, and then, in
the final light of dusk, Wilma Dean
Bailey came face-to-face with the rest of the
mad acting troupe. The man in front was older
than the rest, perhaps in his fifties or sixties,
and he carried what looked like an overgrown
baseball bat. Again, there was some sort of
shuffling as a new person entered the maze with a
similar bat, but this one was on fire.
  "Someone, quick!" Deanie cried. "Get the
extinguisher!"
  But all they did was light the old guy's
bat. At that point she realized these were
torches, like at a pep rally. Even in the
flickering darkness, the men saw her blush
furiously.
  "Gentlemen," said Christopher Neville in
a voice smooth enough to announce a game show.
"May it please you, this is my dear cousin."
  Deanie waved a weak greeting, still mortified
by her gaffe. How was she to know they actually meant
to carry flaming sticks?
  "Hey," she said. "I'm Deanie
Bailey."
  The older man with the torch held it to her face,
and she flinched, but she had the good grace not to back
away. The poor guy was probably a fan.
  "Dean of the Bailey?" His voice was
incredulous. She could see him more clearly now, and
he sure was an ugly old coot. His teeth were
yellowed or missing altogether, and his eyes were beady and
black, peering suspiciously over a large, thin
nose. Even though he was lacking in the looks
department, he wore a lavish, fur-lined robe
and a strange dark velvet hat. All of the men were
dressed in garish costumes, and someone--Deanie
wasn't sure who--needed a bath. Badly.
  "My cousin," Christopher repeated, smiling,
"hath but just arrived from Wales." He then turned
to the old man with the torch. "Cousin, may I
introduce Thomas Howard, third duke of
Norfolk."
  "Hey, Tom." Deanie smiled.
Christopher Neville winced.
  "Nay, coz," again he was speaking with his teeth
clenched. "His name be not--"
  But Deanie tried to soothe the old guy herself.
"Oh, sorry. Howard, is it?" Another
strained silence. "Howie?"
  The pressure on her arm, where Christopher
Neville was twisting her, caused her last words
to dissolve into a howl of pain.
  "My cousin hath of late been ill with the brain
fever," Neville said quickly. At that the men
stepped back. "Thank the Almighty, in His
Magnificence my cousin hath been spared, but the
plague hath left her mind simple and
childlike."
  The men exchanged glances while Deanie held
her tongue. This Christopher Neville seemed
to think it was important to play this little game.
She wondered if they were dangerously--even
criminally--insane. Like everyone in the
industry, Deanie knew the mental toll a
life in show business could exact, especially a
failed life in show business. From the smell of the
actors, they were none too successful. She was
wary, but she felt sorry for them and decided
to play along. Given a choice between the aromatic
actors with yellow teeth and the dashingly insane
Christopher Neville, she would stick with
Neville.
  "Hamilton," the older man said at last.
"The king doth require your company at his board.
There is to be music this eventide, for His
Majesty doth wish to forget the Cleves union.
Wilt though come, sir?" There was something to his
speech, a cruel inflection, that made Deanie
scoot even closer to Neville.
  "Yeah. I come anon." He rubbed her back
briefly, and with all the strangeness that had just
transpired, Deanie felt a rush of
gratitude. "Cousin?" He crooked a powerful
arm in her direction. After only a slight
hesitation, she slipped her arm through his.
  Thomas Howard's shifting eyes fixed on the
bloody cloth wrapped around her hand. "A
mishap, dear cousin?" He accentuated the last
word.
  "Ah, yeah," Neville answered, without
missing a beat. "My dear cousin, overjoyed by the
meadows, so gentle from the Welsh rocks, rode
my mare this noon without her gloves. Her tender
hands, I fear, were bitten by the reins."
  "Right," she mumbled.
  They were exiting the maze, but there were no
turnstiles or painted signs to proclaim it
"closed." Gone were the camera reflectors and the
trailers; every piece of video equipment had
vanished, along with the parking lot and the highway that
had snaked beyond the maze. There were no London
lights in the distance, illuminating the horizon.
  Even in the moonlight, she could see nothing but
the eerily lit palace. The serpentine chimneys
that had earlier been free-standing, their buildings
long gone, were now attached to the palace, odd
brick spirals spewing black smoke. The
palace looked like a sprawling medieval
village, roofs at haphazard levels,
gargoyles perched atop one of the slate flats.
Some rooms were dark, others glowed with what could
only be torch- or candlelight, flickering
softly in the blackness.
  Beyond the palace were hills and scrubby trees,
and on a distant rise she could see the ghost of a
cottage with a thatched roof.
  The grass beneath her feet was lumpy and uneven,
not the smooth, mechanically cut lawn she had
walked over earlier. Her slippered foot
stepped into something soft, and she realized the grounds
were covered in animal droppings. Clumps of
earth were tossed everywhere, as if a pack of grazing
cattle or sheep had spent the past season
frolicking on the lawn.
  Christopher Neville held her tightly as
she felt herself sway. Into her ear, so softly
only she alone could hear, he whispered,
"Welcome to 1540, sweet cousin."

              Chapter 3

  Deanie had lost the power of speech. Even had
she been able to muster a voice above a squeak,
there was nothing for her to say, no words that could
possibly convey the magnitude of what had
happened.
  Christopher Neville was not insane. Deanie
knew he had spoken the truth. Somehow, in
defiance of every bit of rationality, and mocking the
established laws of physics, she had just been
thrown back to the year 1540.
  It wasn't just the appearance of the men or the way
they spoke. Nor was it the landscape details--
the chopped-up lawn and the young bushes in the maze
and the vanished parking lot--that convinced her.
  Instead it was something indefinable, an elusive
quality to the very air surrounding her, that told her
she was more than four centuries from home. The
atmosphere was thick, an almost suffocating
heaviness when she breathed.
  She stared straight ahead at the reddish brick
palace they were approaching, her sense of smell
assaulted by dozens of odors she had never before
experienced. There was a pungent fragrance wafting
from the chimneys, sticky-sweet and smoky, with the
bitter stench of singed hair. Another scent, like that
of damp animals, seemed to emanate from the men
with Thomas Howard, and she realized it was their
clothing. The furs and woolens reeked
atrociously in the murky closeness of the evening.
  Christopher Neville was speaking to her, his
voice low and intimate. The harsh angles of his
face lent him an almost savage
countenance, yet his tone conveyed nothing but kindness.
"You may call me Kit, which is the name used
by those who know me best, including the king. You must
know of my history, or 'twill arouse
suspicions most vile. Canst thou hear me?"
  Deanie turned to him, and something in her
expression caused him to halt, pulling her to an
abrupt stop. Without taking his extraordinary
eyes from hers, he called to the other men.
  "Gentlemen, please convey to His Majesty
my eagerness to share his board, yet my gentle
cousin is most overwrought at appearing before her
most gracious king. 'Twill take but a moment
to allay her fears."
  There was a murmuring of assent, and the men shuffled
off, their broad-toed slippers crunching on the
pebbled walk.
  Christopher led her along a vine-covered
wall to a bench set in an alcove. Deanie
vaguely remembered the stone bench, weathered
by pollution-drenched rains and smoothed by centuries
of use, covered with the open cosmetic bag of the
makeup artist hired by Nathan. Now it was new,
the edges of the stone sharp, the floral design of the
legs clear and fresh.
  Her knees gave way just as he eased her
onto the bench, and a powerful hand steadied her at the
small of her back. Settling beside her, his
heavily muscled thigh resting against her trembling
knee, he watched her eyes, brown and large.
  In dim profile, he took in her
features: the small nose and softly sculpted
cheekbones, eyelashes so thick they cast a
shadow even in the faint light from the palace. A
strand of shoulder-length hair, dark silk with a
gentle wave, fell against her throat, and he
resisted the urge to brush it with his fingertips. She
seemed too delicate, too fragile to be of
this world, a gossamer angel from above.
  "How the hell did this happen?" she hissed,
at once shattering his fantasy. His mouth
betrayed the barest of smiles, a flicker of
amusement at the ferocity of her voice.
  "Oh, this is funny, is it?" There was a sharp
anger reflected in her eyes. Gone was the lost,
doelike bewilderment of a few moments earlier.
"I have a show to do, Mr. Kit--which, by the way,
is the most sissified name I've heard since
Johnny Cash sang about a boy named Sue--
and, well, this is not funny. Not one
bit." Her voice began to waver from defiance
to uncertainty, and she swallowed. "Oh," she
said, a tiny cry. "Oh ... how?"
  With a roughened index finger, he tilted her face
toward him, and he could see for the first time the
sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her
nose.
  "I know not," he said at last, and as her eyes
narrowed in irritation, he repeated himself. "I do
not know."
  For a long moment she remained very still, then her
shoulders slumped and her hands fell into her lap.
"Oh," she said again. The bluster had once again
vanished from her voice.
  Christopher Neville glanced down at her.
She seemed achingly vulnerable. Deliberately,
with slow, gentle movements, he wrapped a hand
over one of her small, cold fists.
  "There is something about this maze," he said
calmly. "It hath ... has ... properties,
I understand not. I believe it to be magical,
supernatural."
  "In other words," and there was a small smile
in her voice, "you know not."
  "Aye." He chuckled, a warm, resonant
sound.
  She suddenly straightened. "You don't seem
surprised. Have other people come through there?"
  From the palace came strains of music: the
full tones of a hide-covered drum,
high-pitched flutes, and a richly timbred
lute. Laughter pierced the music, and the sounds of
metal clanking on a stone floor. Somewhere within
the brick walls, a dog barked.
  Kit stood up and offered his arm. "The king
awaits." His strong features tightened into an
enigmatic smile. Deanie secured the bandage
on her hand and rose to her feet. He took her
hand and placed it on his forearm. She clung to him,
leaning close to his body. For the time being,
Christopher Neville, duke of Hamilton,
was literally her only friend on earth.

  The great hall was gleaming under the torches and
candles big around as small trees. The uneven
light cast looming shadows, leaving the corners
dark while the center of the room glowed with fiery
warmth. There were long planks covered with
golden-hued pitchers and round loaves of bread.
Food was being heaped generously onto rough
trenchers and more elegant bowls and plates by young
boys barely out of childhood, all bobbing and
serving with humble efficency.
  In spite of the fires and torches, it was damp
in the hall, a bone-chilling dankness that seemed
to permeate every square inch of the vast room. The very
walls, of stone and wood, radiated chilled
moisture. It was more comfortable outside than within.
  Men and women swathed in richly colored
fabrics were seated at the trestle tables, hoisting
goblets dripping with wine or ale, laughing
riotously among themselves. Above the din, in a loft
jutting high over the hall, were musicians
clothed in green-and-white tunics, playing song
after song without rest.
  It was a scene of organized chaos: great
joints of meat and more dainty platters being raised
over hatted and elaborately dressed heads,
dogs roaming the hall at will, grateful to receive
bones tossed by smiling gentlemen. One woman with
very black teeth threw back her head and laughed
raucously, while her companion flicked some
sort of dried fruit into her mouth. Another man
speared a piece of bread with a small jeweled
dagger, using the weapon as a fork.
  Deanie tried to flee, but Kit held her
firmly, propelling her toward a raised dais
where the most enormous man she had ever seen was
pounding his fist on the table. Everything about him was
oversized and exaggerated, as if he had been
inflated to make everyone else seem trivial
by comparison.
  Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk, was
at the large man's right, speaking furiously, his
lips moving with frenzied speed. The big man
seemed to ignore Norfolk, intent as he was on
making the most noise possible by slamming his
jewel-covered hand on the table. His clothing,
sumptuous beyond anything Deanie could imagine, was
studded with gems and gold brocade, adorning a
burgundy doublet slashed in a geometric
pattern so that the white of his underblouse could gleam
through. Upon his head was a round hat, feathered at the
brim, with clusters of pearls that quivered as he
roared approval at a twirling dancer.
  The man's face was extraordinary, covered
with a brilliant close-cropped red beard, and a
surprisingly small mouth under the fleshy nose.
His eyes, beneath thin reddish brows, were tiny and
heavy lidded, fringed by lashes so fair they
seemed nonexistent. Draped behind him was a
massive tapestry depicting a joust and a
galloping herd of unicorns, and on the table was
another tapestry, but Deanie could not identify the
pattern. The raised table was the only one in the
hall with any covering; the rest were bare wood.
  Kit was speaking to her, his voice low. With the
commotion surrounding them, she missed most of his
words. He was giving her some information on his
background: that he had risen from the rank of
squire to duke in less than ten years, that he
had become a favorite jousting partner of the king's.
He also enjoyed the royal sport of tennis and
often joined the king in the music salon.
  Deanie nodded, watching as a dignified
gentleman bowed to the large man, snapped out a
massive square of linen, and tied it biblike
around the man's neck.
  She began to giggle as they paused, her arm still
looped through his. "It's like all-you-can-eat night
at the Sizzler's," she whispered to Kit, who
only frowned in response.
  "Hold your tongue, Mistress Deanie,"
he warned. "Should the king require speech of thee,
be brief. Say nothing above the barest of
revelations."
  Deanie again nodded her understanding, staring in
amazement as the large man lifted what appeared
to be the entire leg of some animal to his face,
and he launched into the joint with tiny yellowed teeth
and pulled off an enormous mouthful of flesh.
There was a smattering of applause and he grinned,
chewing openmouthed, dribbling slightly in his gusto.
  The large man, Deanie realized, her stomach
doing a queasy flip, was King Henry VIII.
This was not some dinner-theater production or an
elaborately presented theme park. This was the
real thing, complete with flea-bitten dogs and
wine-soaked rushes on the floor.
  They had reached the dais, and Kit seated them
at one end of the tapestry-covered board.
Immediately, young serving boys appeared, clanking
metal plates and pouring thick wine
into ornately carved goblets.
  She watched the glint of light bounce off her
goblet for a moment, trying to overcome a sudden
urge to become ill. The odors, overpowering in the
garden, were oppressive in the moist warmth of the
hall. Everywhere she turned her head, new and
evil fragrances threatened her unsteady
stomach. Each dish carried its own spicy or
pungent or greasy smell. The serving boys,
some with food-spattered clothing, leaned close enough
for her to distinguish the pastry bearers from the meat
bearers by their stench alone.
  Deanie decided to breathe through her mouth, but even
that offered little relief. She peeked into her goblet.
Red wine, heavy and sweet, rose to the brim,
swirls of sediment floating on the surface.
  "I hate to be difficult," she said, leaning
toward Kit's ear and conscious of his leg pressed
against hers on the bench, "but may I please have some
water?"
  "No," he replied, and he returned the
greeting of a red-nosed man in a funny blue
cap.
  "No?"
  "Cousin, the water is unsafe in England,"
he said at last, as if repeating the most obvious
of facts. "Be it from the Thames or from a
well, 'tis most foul and carries disease. Use
it only for bathing, and then at your own peril."
  "Oh," she murmured. "That explains why
everyone smells so ..." She stopped as Kit
grinned, the hollows in his cheeks again becoming
elongated dimples. "Not you, of course," she
added hastily. "Everyone else is a little, eh,
well ..."
  "Overripe?" he suggested.
  She returned the smile, her nausea
forgotten, and was struck by a sudden, irrational
desire to touch his face, to feel the cleft of his
chin or trace the contour of his face. Was his skin
smooth or scratchy where a shadow of whiskers
made it vaguely darker? Then she looked
into his eyes, the strange pale irises rimmed
by black, the ebony lashes. The smile
gradually faded from his face as he met her own
unwavering gaze.
  "Why are you being so nice to me?" Her voice
sounded as tremulous as her knees felt.
  At once his eyes slid from hers, and he cast
his eyes downward. In profile his features were
sharp, his nose almost hawklike. The effect was
one of unmistakable masculinity. He didn't
answer for a moment. Then he spoke: "Because I
know how it feels to be an outsider."
  Although his accent was still thick with the strange
British intonations, his words were almost normal
to her ears.
  "Kit! Hath thou no greeting for thy blessed
sovereign?" The king's voice boomed over the
dais. At once Kit stood up, his
simply-cut doublet contrasting favorably with the
gaudy fur- and feather-trimmed clothing of the other
men. He bowed at the waist, then turned
to Deanie.
  "Rise, cousin," he whispered, lifting
Deanie to her feet. Mechanically, she followed
him to the king. Kit bowed again, one arm folded
by his side, the other outstretched before him.
Deanie did the same.
  There was a muffled silence in the hall. All
eyes were focused on her.
  Suddenly the large man exploded with laughter.
"Excellent, mistress!" he shouted, clapping
his greasy hands. "Thou art most adept in the art
of mimicry. Why, my fool Will Somers shall be
in peril of losing his position!"
  Everyone in the hall applauded and laughed with the
king, although Deanie couldn't see what was so
funny. Kit was fighting back a smile, and he
cupped his hand under her elbow.
  "If it doth please Your Majesty, this is
my cousin, Mistress Deanie, newly arrived
from Wales."
  The King nodded. Without warning he stood up,
leaned over the board, and kissed her squarely on
the lips. He tasted of oily wine, his beard
well lubricated with flecks of animal fat.
She was about to wipe her mouth, but Kit, as if
sensing her intent, gripped her hand.
  "Forgive my poor cousin," he said. "She
is but a weak woman, and Your Majesty's great
honor doth render her mute." He shot her a
warning glance, and Deanie bristled.
  "Hey, I can so talk--"
  Kit yanked her hand, and she was silenced.
"Your Majesty," he continued, "if thou doth
permit me, I will speak plainly. My cousin
hath but recently been taken with a brain fever,
and--"
  The king backed away, a look of horror
passing over his swollen features as he wiped his
mouth with the back of a beefy, bejeweled hand. "A
brain fever?"
  "You may be of good ease, Your Majesty. The
fever 'twas not of a virulent sort. Indeed, it
cometh from a mighty blow to her head."
  "Ah! Very well, my good fellow
Kit." Relief was evident in his piggy black
eyes. Again he grinned a greasy smile,
hungry and lascivious. Deanie squirmed under
his slow perusal, acutely aware of the cheapness of
her clothes, the false luster of the plastic seed
pearls, the itchy Velcro fastenings.
  The king, a massive bib still tucked into the
neck of his doublet, strode around the dais, stopping
in front of Kit and Deanie. His colossal
legs, large as tree trunks and covered with
gold-colored hose, were planted solidly
apart, arms akimbo, in a stance of entrenched power.
Suddenly he clamped Kit on the back with such
force it would cause most men to stumble. Kit stood
as firm as his sovereign.
  "Doth she desire a position at court?"
  Kit pulled Deanie closer to his side.
"'Twood be an honor of which she dares not dream,
Your Highness. I would be forever in your debt."
  "Excellent! 'Tis done then." The king
laughed once more, his eyes raking her with obvious
pleasure. "She be not right in the head, faithful
Kit? Excellent! She shall favor the court with
her grace and attend on the Flanders Mare.
Ha! At last these royal eyes will have their fill
of womanly beauty."
  An unreadable expression passed over
Kit's features hard and almost defiant. In
an instant, he was smiling again at the king, and
Henry marched back to his board. Deanie and
Kit were dismissed as the king waved to a serving boy
with a pitcher of spiced wine.
  Kit led Deanie back to their place at the
far end of the dais, threading past a pair of
brightly garbed jugglers and a dozen servers bearing
meats, pastries, dressed birds, and bread.
  "You are to be a lady-in-waiting to Queen
Anne," he whispered into her ear after they were again
seated. "'Tis a great honor, Mistress
Deanie. But be aware, the king doth seek means
to find another queen. Do not ally yourself too
closely with the present queen, lest you suffer a like
fate."
  "You mean he wants to dump her?" Deanie
asked, incredulous.
  "In a manner of speaking, yes."
  "Why? What has she done?"
  Kit took a swallow of wine before answering.
"His Majesty sayeth the queen doth stink."
He held the goblet to his lips, muffling
his words, so that Deanie alone could hear him.
  "He should talk," she grumbled.
  Only by the shaking of his broad shoulders,
quaked by silent laughter, could Deanie know he
had heard her.

  The banquet passed in a lavish blur,
course after course placed before her glazed eyes.
Some of the dishes, such as savory meat pie made
of wild boar and a whole fish covered with herbs,
seemed more edible than others. Then there were dishes that
ranged from strange to disgusting: platters of
sharp-smelling pigs' feet, tiny headless birds
served with their claws intact to keep them balanced
on the plate.
  The longer Deanie sat at the table, the more
undeniable her journey seemed. The smells and
sounds and startling colors pressed into her mind with
ceaseless intensity. She was actually in 1540, in
the court of one of the most feared monarchs in
history.
  Every time she felt herself panic, she would
notice Kit, the solid feel of his leg against
hers, his strong hand on her wrist emphasizing a
point. His steady stream of conversation helped her
remain calm, kept her from fleeing the hall in
confusion and terror.
  Finally she began to speak, blinking at each
new sight. The sound of her own inane chatter
seemed the only thing she could control.
  "You know," she said to Kit, eating another
small hunk of brown bread--the only food she
felt brave enough to try--"I once had a date
with a guy who loved to hunt. He picked me up
in this old truck and made me sit on a
burlap bag filled with dead ducks. I mean,
all these plates of dead birds just reminded me
of the Dead Duck Date."
  "Dead Duck Date?"
  She nodded, swallowing the piece of bread.
"All I could think about were the little duck beaks
poking me. I haven't been able to eat duck
since then. The more a meal looks like what it was when
it was alive, the less inclined I am to eat it,
if you know what I mean. Give me chicken
nuggets or a hamburger any time."
  He smiled briefly, as if aware that what
she had just said was meant to provoke an amused
response, though not quite sure why. After another
sip of wine, he leveled his gaze at
her. "Hath you any accomplishments?"
  "What do you mean?" She adjusted the
ridiculous headdress, which was listing to the right.
  "Canst thou ply a skillful needle, or
argue theology, or make music?"
  "Oh." She grew thoughtful. "I can sew. I
used to make all of my own clothes in high
school." His face brightened, and suddenly she
wanted very much to please him. "But I need a
sewing machine," she added quietly. "I can't
sew worth a darn by hand." Then she smiled.
"Hey, get it? "Can't sew worth a darn."
It's sort of a bad pun."
  "Yes. I see." He contemplated the
designs on his goblet.
  "Hey, but I can sing."
  Kit's eyebrows arched. "Canst thou?" His
voice was dubious.
  "Of course. And I can write songs. That's
why I'm here--in England, I mean. I'm a
pretty big deal back home. Well, I
hope to be, at least after the duet with Bucky
Lee Denton hits the airwaves. As a
writer, I've won three CMA awards and
two Grammys, all for other people's songs, of
course. Some of the big names, you know." She took
a deep breath and continued: "And guess what?
I've even played at the Grand Ol' Opry,
but I'm not a member. At least not yet. I was
just a guest." Deanie beamed. "Does that answer
your question?"
  Kit, his face a mask of utter bewilderment,
rubbed his chin pensively. "I fear, Mistress
Deanie, I recall not the question."
  Deanie's shoulders sagged. "Oh. You're not
impressed." She shook her head, careful of the
headdress. "I can sing," she said at last in a
small voice.
  "Ah, excellent!" Then the smile vanished
from his voice, and he paused before continuing. "I
need to ask of you ... something of great importance."
He cleared his throat, his eyes fixed upon her
face with unnerving intensity. "The present queen
be not of England born. She speaketh High
Dutch."
  "So?" Deanie shrugged.
  He spoke deliberately. "Doth thou speak
a Germanic language?"
  "Me? No way Jos`e." She giggled.
"I took a year of Spanish in high
school, and all that did was help me order at the
Taco Bell. I don't know anyone who took
German. It's too hard."
  There was still a palatable tension in him; one of his
hands was clenched in a fist of such force that his
knuckles were white. "Tell me," he said,
trying to sound casual, but his voice was tight as his
posture, "doth--do many people speak German in your
time? Is it an international language?"
  Deanie was mystified by his passion. "No.
I mean, I guess the Germans do, but they
usually stay in Germany. We only get a few
tourists from there, at least in Nashville. You can
always spot the Germans: They wear baggy shorts
and black socks with sandals. Why do you ask?"
  For a moment he remained motionless, staring
straight ahead but clearly not seeing what was before
him. A muscle leaped convulsively in his jaw.
His fist remained clenched.
  "Thank God," he said at last, his words an
explosive sigh. He seemed to relax a little,
still oblivious to his surroundings. "All these
years, I've wondered. Thank God."
  He bowed his head as if in prayer, resting his
forehead on the palm of his hand. Then he
straightened, his eyes once again clear, and smiled
at Deanie. She realized it was the first true
smile she had seen from him, free of turmoil,
free of tension. His teeth were very white, but one
bottom tooth was crooked, a little out of line with the
perfection of the surrounding teeth.
  Something about that one imperfect tooth stirred an
untried emotion deep within her, and she was unable
to breathe. She clamped her hands together, resisting the
urge to run her thumb over the fullness of his
bottom lip. Her palms were damp and cold, and
all she could do was stare at him.
  "Art thou ill?" There was concern in his voice,
tempered by a new-found lightness.
  "Nope." Her reply was a dry croak.
A tooth, she thought, her hands still pressed
together. I think I am falling in love with a
crooked tooth.
  Just then a slender woman in a deep green
gown and an angular headpiece curtsied before
Kit. He smiled at the woman.
  "Ah, very good, Mistress Cecily. This is
my cousin Mistress Deanie Bailey, who is
to be a maid of the queen's household. Deanie,
this is Mistress Cecily, daughter of the
Lady Sellers and sister of Elizabeth
Garrison, much beloved lady-in-waiting to our
departed Queen Jane, mother of our most exalted
prince of Wales." At the mention of Queen
Jane, both Kit and the young woman made hasty
signs of the cross. "Now she awaits Queen
Anne."
  Deanie smiled at Mistress Cecily, then
turned to Kit. "So, what's she waiting for?"
  Kit exchanged bewildered shrugs with
Mistress Anne "What dost thou mean,
cousin?"
  "You just said you're all waiting on the Queen.
Well, what's holding her up, and when does she
get here?"
  "Ah ..." Kit cleared his throat, and
Mistress Cecily flushed crimson, glancing
to her side as if wondering who else may have
heard what Deanie had just said. "Doth thou
recall not what I sayeth earlier? About the
king?"
  There had been so much information thrown at her in the
past few hours that Deanie had to close her
eyes for a moment, struggling to recall what Kit
had mentioned. At once she remembered: that the king
was not pleased with his new queen and would soon be
seeking another wife.
  "Oh, I get it." She leaned forward, and
both Kit and Mistress Cecily moved
closer. "So she's not here? The queen, I
mean." Kit nodded once. From the corner of his
eye he saw Thomas Howard watching the three
huddled together, an appraising glare on his lined
face.
  "He must really hate her," Deanie mumbled,
feeling sorry for an unwanted queen she'd never
even met.
  Kit suddenly rose to his feet, pulling
Deanie with him. His hand was strong and sure on her
elbow. "Mistress Cecily will show thee to thy
quarters, cousin. Thou hath had a most unusual
day and should be in bed anon."
  At the other end of the dais the king stood up,
clapping his hands in time with a group of musicians
who had just begun to play. Deanie had barely
noticed the music. Kit gave her arm a
brief but reassuring squeeze before he handed her
over to Mistress Cecily.
  "Good night, coz," he whispered, his mouth so
close to her ear she could feel a
strange, tingling vibration.
  She gave him an uncertain smile as
Mistress Cecily pulled her through an arched
door to the left of the dais. Deanie had one
final glimpse of Christopher Neville,
duke of Hamilton, as he turned toward a
group of laughing women, his handsome face
reflecting pure delight in their company. He
did not look back at Deanie.
  As if reading her thoughts, Mistress Cecily
chuckled at Deanie when they entered the long
corridor. "Your dear cousin hath won the heart
of every lady at court, be they maid or married."
  Deanie did not reply. They walked down the
hall, through a labyrinth of polished wood
floors and lush tapestries. Away from Kit,
she felt lost and frightened, swallowing against a
rising knot in her throat. This was real. She was
actually here, with people who had been dead for more than
four hundred years. The young woman holding her
hand was dead. The king of England was dead.
  Christopher Neville was dead.
  Mistress Cecily giggled. "I fear the
duke hath won the heart of his cousin as well,"
she said lightly.
  Again, Deanie said nothing. But as they entered a
small, almost bare chamber far from the din of the great
hall, Deanie turned to her companion. With a very
tight smile, she said, "I fear you are right,
Cecily."

  It wasn't the clock radio that woke her the
next morning, nor the familiar smell of
coffee, nor a wake-up call from the front
desk. In her nether-sleep she had half
expected to be back at the Dorchester Hotel,
in her own suite, with the surly figure of
Nathan Burns pacing the carpet and bemoaning his
film career that never was.
  Instead, she awoke to a sharp kick from a
hairy leg.
  With a gasp she sat up, clutching a linen
nightshift under her chin. The thick red curtains
on the bed sealed off all but a slender shaft of
sunlight. Even with that tiny ray, she could see
who was in bed with her. To the right was Mistress
Cecily Garrison, her back turned
to Deanie, her knees tucked against her curled
body. To the left was a complete stranger, a
large woman with dark hair who was snoring
like a longshoreman.
  Yesterday had not been a dream.
  "Holy cow, I'm really here." Her voice
sounded strange, abnormally loud against the silence
of the bedchamber. Trying her best not to wake
Mistress Cecily or the slumbering newcomer,
Deanie slipped through the slight opening in the bed
drapes, closing the fabric as soon as she was
on the other side.
  The floor was cold against her bare feet, and
her first instinct was to return to the bed. Just as she was
about to throw the curtains back to enter, she heard a
snort from within. Somehow, that single sleepy wheeze
changed her direction. Rubbing her eyes, she
took a deep breath and faced the room.
  It seemed even smaller than it had the night
before, when, under the glowing light of three candles,
Mistress Cecily had handed her a nightgown.
Deanie had managed to hide her surprise at
the sleeping arrangements; she hadn't expected
to share a room, much less a bed, with another
person. The new woman must have arrived after
Deanie had fallen asleep. There was something
disconcerting about waking up in bed with a complete
stranger, especially a complete stranger of the
same sex with hairy legs and an apparent
adenoid condition.
  Tentatively, she took in the details of the
room, her arms crossed protectively under her
breasts. The furnishings were spare: just a
leather-back chair, a massive dome-topped
trunk, and a couple of small tables bearing
black-wicked beige candles. The leaded windows
distorted the light, their thick, uneven panes
covered with bubbles and swirls. On one wall was
a rug, rich with burgundies and royal blues,
and another held an immense fireplace, cold
now but still smelling of burned wood and smoke.
There were no protective screens or shields
to keep sparking embers from leaping into the center of the
room.
  In the corner was another small table with a
pitcher of water, and Deanie dipped her hands
into the water and splashed her face, reaching for a
small square of off-white cloth folded beside the
water. It was scratchy and not very absorbent, but
she scrubbed her face dry the best she could. The
water was bracingly cold. Although Deanie was
thirsty, the stagnant odor kept her from drinking.
  She also recalled Kit's warning not
to drink the water.
  Kit.
  Pausing as she refolded the cloth, she
wondered if she had dreamed Kit or if he was
as real as the rest of this world. Had she imagined his
magnificent eyes, the curl at the ends of his
hair, the one crooked white tooth?
  There was a soft knock on the door, and she
jumped. Calming herself, she walked to the heavy
door, not wanting to wake up Mistress
Cecily and the stranger. She slowly turned the
latch and opened the door.
  "Deanie?" It was Kit.
  She swung the door wider, unable to hide her
excitement at seeing him. In the full light of
day he was even more striking than by torchlight. He
wore what appeared to be the same doublet and
hose, but the shirt was fresh, a brilliant
white, with full cuffs tied at the wrist and a
starched collar tied at the throat. His hair was more
unruly, the curls damp and tight against the vast
shoulders. The black-enameled sword and sheath were
on his left side, and in his right hand was a cloth
bundle.
  "Hey." She smiled. He peered over her
shoulder, raising one full eyebrow in a silent
question.
  "They're still asleep," she whispered. Then she
moved closer. "Who's the gal with the hairy legs
and big snore?"
  His burst of laughter seemed to explode in the
silence of the corridor. Holding a finger to his
lips to silence him, she tried to keep herself from
laughing out loud as well. He cleared his throat
and spoke into her ear. "That would be the Lady Mary
Douglass," he answered in a low voice.
  She nodded, again returning her gaze to his
face. His eyes were remarkable this morning, clear
and direct, the blend of greens and browns
glimmering in the sunlight.
  "I brought thee food, to break the fast." He
held up the bundle.
  "In here?"
  "Nay, out of doors. The day brings fine
weather."
  "A picnic!" she squealed; then, remembering
the other women, she cringed and looked over her
shoulder. "But I don't know where my clothes
are," she hissed, pointing to the nightshift.
  "Be there a casket within?"
  "A casket? I sure as hell hope not."
Then she remembered the dome-lidded trunk.
"Oh, you mean the trunk."
  He nodded, and she crept over to the trunk and
lifted the heavy top. Her clothes, carefully
folded, were right below a large red gown she assumed
belonged to Mary Douglass. Stepping behind the bed,
where she'd be hidden by the curtains, she dressed
swiftly, pulling the dress over her head and
slipping on the soft ballet shoes. She was about
to leave the cursed headdress but decided to take
it along with her, in case she needed it.
  Kit was astonished to see her reappear so
quickly, completely dressed. "How didst thou
manage to beclothe thyself?"
  Running her hand through her hair like a comb, she
grinned. "Velcro."
  "Velcro?"
  Turning her back to him, she reached behind and
pulled apart the top fastening. The squares made
a ripping sound, and she pressed them back together.
  "'Tis most marvelous," he murmured. His
warm breath on the back of her bare neck was
extraordinarily unsettling. She swallowed
against the shiver that ran through her.
  She faced him, and for a moment they were both
silent. His eyes swept her, drinking in each
detail: the freshness of her complexion, the thick
silken beauty of her hair. She was about to speak
when he grasped her hand. "Art thou hungry?"
His voice was husky, and he nodded once, although
she hadn't replied, and led her to an airy
courtyard.

  From inside the king's chamber, he stared down at
the Cloister Green Court. His chubby hand, with
rings that grew ever tighter, rested against the cool
stone ledge.
  It was late morning, and still the duke of
Hamilton was entertaining his Welsh cousin. He
watched in fascination as the pair ate bread and
cheese and drank of the small ale from coarse
mugs. There was an animation most strange about the
duke this morn. The king then watched the way the
sun sparkled in the cousin's hair. It was shorn
above the shoulders, and the king wondered if she had of
late been cloistered in a convent.
  He had noticed her the night before, had watched
her from his place at the banquet. She was indeed
a beauty. Just then she laughed and turned
toward the duke, and he returned the smile.
  The king swore under his breath. His leg was paining
him. The royal physician, Dr. Butts,
had lanced the wound, yet still it refused to heal,
robbing him of his vigor and youth. He was once
Bluff King Hal, the pride of Europe.
He could tire a dozen horses on a single
day's hunt, leaving his men panting in wonderment
at their sovereign's superb physical condition.
Bluff King Hal, the princely scholar, the very
ideal of manly beauty.
  Ten years before Mistress Deanie would have been
fawning over him, those brown eyes flashing at
Henry the man, not Henry the king. Ten years and
four wives ago he would have had her, taken her of
her own will, then tired of her.
  Now he was saddled with the Flanders Mare, his
Teutonic bride with whom he was to sire a
second son, a duke of York to assure the
Tudor line. Not only was the begetting of a son
crucial to the realm, it was vital to a man who
had thus far sired but three living children, two of
them unneeded females.
  In truth, he had not been able to perform the deed
with his German wife. He recalled her sagging
breasts and foul breath on their wedding night, and in
his fury he kicked the limb of a fine inlaid
Italian table. It was his bad leg, and the ulcer
throbbed in protest, making him explode in a
series of oaths. As a king, he had married for the
good of England. But as a man, he wanted her
gone from his life.
  A new bride.
  For the first time since that dismal January day when
he saw the horror who was to be his wife, Henry
felt the stirrings of hope. He watched
Mistress Deanie and Kit, the easy grace of
his kinsman as he helped her to her feet.
  The duke of Hamilton was a good man, one of
his favorites. No other member of the King's
Privy Council could match Hamilton for
sport or conversation. His brilliant mind and
bold military daring had more than once put down
a rebellion on the Scots border. Surely
he would help his King secure a more suitable
bride. The Cleves union had been a
diplomatic one, not a love match. He was
becoming a laughingstock, his virility in question, his very
manhood mocked. With his domestic life in
order, he could be the sovereign he had
always dreamed of becoming, the magnificent leader
he could have become had his beloved wife Jane not
succumbed after the birth of Prince Edward.
  It was Henry's turn now.
  "Cromwell!" He shouted to his chief
minister. Cromwell had done this to him, arranged
the union with the Cleves hag, shoved him into this
most unsavory marriage. Cromwell would
soon be gone. But first he would make Cromwell
suffer as he had, to know the hourly torment of a
hell on earth.
  "Cromwell!" he again bellowed.
  The door flew open and Thomas Cromwell
entered, his blunt features reddened by the run to the
king's chamber, his flowing cloak hanging askew from
a golden chain secured at his squat throat.
  "Your Highness." He bowed low, still puffing.
  "Two things, Cromwell." The king did not
face him, his eyes still on the striking couple in the
courtyard. "One, get rid of Queen Anne as
soon as possible. We care not how 'tis done,
be it annulment or trial. Two, we are to be
free to wed a new bride by midsummer."
  Cromwell stammered an answer: about his
treatment of the queen prompting a war, of the
diplomatic disasters that would be caused by an end
to this marriage. But the king did not listen. From his
opulent chamber, he was watching the way the light
from the sun caught Mistress Deanie's smile,
and he wondered what it would be like to kiss those
sweet lips in his marriage bed and to sire at
last a duke of York.

              Chapter 4

  "Nothing like a brewsky for breakfast."
Deanie sighed, shaking the crumbs from her full
skirt. "I feel as if I've been on the
road with Aerosmith in the seventies. What I
could really use is a cigarette and a cup of
coffee."
  "I know I shall regret this," Kit said with a
chuckle as he brushed grass from the back of her
gown, "but could you please explain the meaning of what
thou quoth?"
  Their hands almost touched as she looked up at
him. With only a small hesitation, she spoke.
"Well, brewsky is just an American
bowling-alley term for ale, and Aerosmith is
the name of a group of music makers,
sort of wandering minstrels."
  "Aerosmith." He paused, as if deciding
whether or not to continue, then smiled. "And the
others?"
  "Hmm." She bit a fingernail, trying to come
up with an explanation of coffee and
cigarettes. "Okay," she said at last, not
noticing Kit's barely curbed amusement,
"coffee is a drink made from coffee beans.
It's boiled, and the drink is served hot, sometimes
with milk and sugar. I like mine black, which means
without anything added. And it doesn't really taste
that great, but it smells wonderful."
  "If the flavor be not to thy liking, why doth
thou drink the brew?"
  "Easy. It's full of something called
caffeine."
  His eyebrows rose in bewilderment. "A
small calf?"
  "No!" For the first time since he met her in the
maze, she laughed, a genuine, infectious
giggle. Unable to hide his delight at her
reaction, he too began to laugh.
  With a deep, bracing breath, she continued:
"Caffeine is sort of a potion, I suppose.
It makes you feel wide awake even when you're
absolutely exhausted."
  "Ah. Most fascinating. We unenlightened
Englishmen simply sleep when exhaustion
settles. Now, what of the other item you spoke
of. Be that a potion as well?"
  "Cigarettes? No." She cleared her
throat, trying to squelch her urge for nicotine.
"Cigarettes are made from plant leaves."
  "And then boiled and swallowed?"
  "Nope. The leaves are dried, then chopped
up and wrapped in paper."
  He ran a hand through his hair, making the already
tousled locks even more unruly. "Dried leaves
wrapped in paper? Paper is a most precious
commodity, Deanie. What then?"
  "Now, this is going to sound crazy, Kit."
  "I think not. What could be madder than
swallowing a bitter bean stock to keep sleep
at bay?"
  "Well ..." Suddenly she turned to him.
"How did you know coffee was bitter?"
  He crossed his arms, a small smile
betraying nothing. "Quoth thee that some people add sugar
and milk. Why else would a personage
mix sugar and milk, unless 'twas a potion most
bitter?"
  "Oh," she said uncertainly, and he gestured
for her to continue. "Well, with cigarettes you
take a little tube of dried leaves and paper, and
you set one end of it on fire."
  "I see," he said with a shrug. "A
cigarette shall be a torch?"
  "Not exactly. You put it in your mouth."
  Kit said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, and he
slowly returned his attention to cleaning up the
remains of the picnic. "A jest at my
expense."
  "No, seriously! I'm not kidding, Kit. You
put the end that's not on fire in your mouth, and you
suck it in."
  "And your mouth becomes an inferno?"
  "No. It really tastes good--the smoke, I
mean. You breathe it in. But it's not good for you."
  "Deanie," he said slowly, "once a small
fire overtook my home. A young page was
caught within, and I returned to pull the boy
to safety. I too swallowed smoke. It did
not taste "good," as you say. Should you offer me a
burning torch to put within my mouth, my answer would
be to send you off, away from bed hangings and
kindling."
  "Well, it's true. And after years of everyone
smoking ..."
  "Smoking?"
  "Yeah, that's what they call it. After years of
everyone smoking, some big government doctors
discovered that it is bad for your health to smoke."
  "Ah. How sagacious your surgeons must
be." Kit shot her a grin as he
unceremoniously picked up the picnic cloth,
mugs, jugs, and half-eaten rounds of bread
jumbling together.
  During their meal he had been acutely aware
of the piercing gaze from the royal chambers above.
Had he known they would become the focus of the king's
appraising stare, he would have chosen another
courtyard for their meal. Any courtyard, or just
beyond the moat; even the tilting yard would have been more
comfortable. Kit had seen that intense stare before, and the
memory left him uneasy.
  He turned toward Deanie, who had suddenly
become very quiet. She had chatted like a magpie
as they broke the fast. Now she was looking at the
center of the courtyard, a strange
expression on her face.
  "Where's the fountain?"
  "The fountain?"
  The headdress was dangling from her hand, forgotten
for the moment. A bird suddenly flitted from one of the
newly planted shrubs, trilling in contentment.
The Cloister Green was serene in the morning, a
silent place to think and converse. The arched-brick
walkway echoed the hollow footsteps of busy
courtiers or servants, who could rarely pause
to savor the quadrangle.
  "I just remembered," she continued, her voice
wavering. "I took a tour of this place before we
began shooting."
  "Ah. Thou wast here on a hunting
excursion?"
  "No. We were shooting a music video, a
film to go with my song with Bucky Lee
Denton." She took a deep breath before going
on. A light breeze rustled her hair, and she
impatiently swept it from her eyes. "There was a
fountain here. A major fountain, Kit. I think
it was designed by someone named after a bird."
  "A bird?" He tried to hide his smile
by making a strong fist and drawing it to his mouth, as
if in deep thought. "Perhaps 'twas a Master
Robin, or a Sir Peacock."
  "No. But it was old, Kit. I mean, it was
really old, and it's not here yet." The headdress
slipped from her hand. "I'm really here. I'm
here. What am I going to do?"
  Without hesitating, Kit dropped the breakfast
bundle and gently grasped her shoulders.
"Deanie, sweet, listen to me." She turned
her eyes to his, and before speaking he cast a
swift glance toward the large windows of the royal
apartment. The king was no longer watching them.
  She blinked against the force of his scrutiny. "You
are here. You must understand what I am saying, or you
may find yourself in serious trouble." His accent,
undeniably British, was lighter, less bent
by the odd Tudor intonations. "You are in a time and
place you know not of. They play by different
rules; everything is dictated by arcane custom and
superstition."
  "Everyone here should be dead," she muttered
to herself. He tilted her face toward his,
running a finger along the line of her jaw.
  "Not you," she added. "Oh Kit. I didn't
mean that you should be dead."
  His face was unreadable. She would have thought he
hadn't heard her, but there was an almost incandescent
glint in his eyes. "I should be dead," he said at
last. "But I am not."
  "No. I mean everyone else here." She
spoke quickly, wanting to rid the strange,
haunted expression from his face. "The king. He
should be dead."
  Kit's eyes snapped to hers, clear now.
Gone was the vague uncertainty she had seen for
such a brief moment. "Nay. Speak not of such
things. Just listen. 'Tis treason to even imagine
the king's death, or the death of the prince of
Wales. Should an enemy hear your idle words,
'twood immediately be brought to the king's ears."
  "What are you talking about? How the hell could
I have an enemy when I only got here yesterday?
Sure, there are a few label executives in
Nashville who would probably like to see me
brought down a peg or two, not to mention Vic
Jenkens and Bucky Lee Denton, but here?"
  "More so than you know." His voice was tender.
"This court, 'tis a viperous place fraught with
jealousy. And a fair maid such as thyself, well
..." His speech became halting. "I will be by your
side as much as possible, as much as my duties
allow. When I cannot be with you, try not to bring
overmuch attention to thyself."
  She remained silent for a moment. From a distance,
she heard the laughter of a group of men, the neighing
of a horse. A pair of serving maids scurried
across the stone walkway, a large wooden bucket
balanced between them. One of the women, with a white
bonnet tied under her chin, looked swiftly at
Kit, then away, to the giggles of her companion.
  "Why are you being so nice to me?" Deanie's
voice was taut as Kit's grip on her
shoulders loosened. His thumbs rotated lazily
on her arms, soothing the spot where his hands had
grasped her so harshly.
  His hair caught the sun's reflection, and she
was aware again of how potent he was, how very
masculine. He wasn't simply handsome, for in
truth his features were too harsh. His nose, in
profile, was too hawkish, his eyes too
penetrating. Yet, taken together, with the sublimely
luxurious mouth, he was the most breathtaking man
she had ever seen.
  "Why am I kind to you? You have asked me that
before." He cleared his throat. "I have
no family here," he said at last. "You remind
me of my sister."
  That was not what she'd had in mind. She smiled
anyway, feeling a deep warmth course through her
body. "Thank you. I think."
  He gave her a quick wink and then crouched
to swoop up her headdress and the remains of the
breakfast in one hand. His sword jutted out as he
bent over, and she wondered if he was ever without it.
Perhaps at night. In bed. By himself ...
  "Now cousin," he said, taking her hand, "let
us see about getting rid of thy clothing."
  "What?"
  He laughed. "Thou art a lady-in-waiting
to the queen, and gowns are needed. There is a
Master Locke, who designs gowns for all,
nobility and royalty alike. We shall see to it
anon."
  "Oh."
  Together they left the courtyard. From another
window, Thomas Cromwell watched the interplay
between the two, tapping his fingernail lightly upon the
glass, thinking of his next move.


  Mistress Cecily Garrison could not hide
her fascination with Deanie's costume.
  Unlike customary gowns, a white linen
undersmock topped by a second layer with the surgown
on top, Deanie's was all of one piece.
Small strips of white cloth appeared, at first
glance, to be an undersmock, but they were false. The
bodice of the gown was a single layer, cuffs and
collar sewn on with glossy thread. The
petticoat visible from under her hem was also but a
paltry few inches of cloth. The fabric was of
an inferior quality, poorly sewn. Her
slippers were already wearing thin at the soles, with a
strange band stretching across the instep.
  She had been so astounded by the Velcro
fastenings, she had confided to Kit that Deanie's
clothing may possess magical powers. He had
laughed, raising her hand to his lips and causing
Mistress Cecily to blush tremulously.
  "Ah, fair Cecily," he whispered.
"'Tis simply a Welsh fashion."
  "She sayeth the bewitching lacings be called
Velcro." Mistress Cecily hoped the
duke would not notice how damp her palms had
become. She had never been this close
to him, although she had indeed tried to gain his attention
many times.
  "Yeah, 'tis true enough. A Velcro is
a Welsh rodent, a vermin of unusual ferosity
with prickly skin."
  After that Mistress Cecily left Deanie's
clothing alone, never commenting on the strange
fabric or the odd design. Instead, she
helped Kit procure a wardrobe for Deanie,
including a reed-and-canvas corset, some
quilted under garments to keep her skin from rubbing
against the bindings, sleeves that could be worn with two
new brocade bodices, and several round,
wimplelike headdresses called French
hoods. They had long folds of cloth hanging
down the back called lapets, which could be left
alone or pinned neatly to the side of the
headdress.
  Deanie had been helpless at first, not understanding
how the clothes were to be worn. They were all
separate, reassembled and tied together before each
wearing. There were holes in the corset, which wasn't
nearly as uncomfortable as she had feared. The
holes were to tie layers of starched petticoats in
place. Mistress Cecily, eager to impress
Kit, assisted happily, clarifying the finer
points of fashion that Deanie's remote Welsh
upbringing had caused her to miss.
  Two details of court clothing fascinated
Deanie. One was the long train of cloth that
dragged behind every female of rank. Kit explained
that only women of substantial means could afford
such a luxury of swirling cloth about on the
floor.
  "Are you a man of means, Kit?" Deanie
asked, practicing the current court posture and
walk. Every step involved kicking out to clear the
cloth from treading feet, causing the hips to sway.
Kit had been watching her appreciatively,
enjoying her surprising ability to mimic the other
court ladies precisely, down to the haughty
carriage of the head and the stiff, straight spine.
  "What was the question?" He crossed his arms and
stepped back, neatly missing her blue velvet
train.
  "I asked if you are a man of means. I
mean, you must have some money to afford all these clothes
for me." She tossed a handful of cloth to her other
hand, and walked back across the room.
  "I have funds enough, from Manor
Hamilton, my estate, and from other sources.
Very nicely turned, Deanie."
  Another thing that startled Deanie was the complete
lack of underwear other than the smock and a pair of
linen hose. She had expected drawstring
drawers, perhaps even bloomers. But even the finest
of ladies wore absolutely nothing else under
their skirts. It took some getting used to, and
she was in constant terror of pulling her train too
high or of falling down a flight of stairs.
  "In truth," Mistress Cecily confided,
"that is exactly what most gentlemen of the court
are waiting for. They pray for a misstep, and
position themselves thusly, to gain the best view."
  Suddenly court did not seem so very foreign after
all.
  Mary Douglass, Deanie's other bedmate,
remained stubbornly sullen, glaring at Deanie
from under stubby lashes. Cecily said that Mary, like
so many other women at court, had fallen prey
to her cousin Kit's charms. Although, she hastened
to add, "he hath done nothing to encourage the
chit."
  Deanie sympathized with Mary. She too
felt a giddy delight when in Kit's presence,
a euphoria at just being by his side. And while
part of her reveled in the new, strange feelings,
another part warned her of the dangers of falling for a
man like Kit. Now was not the time to become so
vulnerable. Her own pathetic track record
demonstrated how unreliable the male sex could
be.
  In spite of the turbulence of her new life--
learning the ways of the royal court, adjusting to a
foreign way of speaking, eating peculiar foods,
and comprehending that she would probably never see her
mother or her home again--Deanie had one constant and
exquisite thought. Before she fell asleep each
night, wedged between two unbathed women with hairy
legs, she remembered that in the morning she would
see a smile of dazzling whiteness with a slightly
crooked tooth at the bottom.

  The duke of Hamilton was not easily
impressed.
  Nevertheless, watching the facility with which Deanie
memorized names and titles and positions at
court, the correct forms of address and deference,
gave him an unfamiliar sense of pride.
  "It's nothing, really, Kit," she
said late one afternoon, reaching back to loosen one of
her laces. They ran on either side of her gown,
and Kit had told her the clergy called the side
lacings the "Gateways to Hell." "I've done
so many Nashville parties and concerts, I can do this
kind of stuff in my sleep. I can tell you every
producer's name, his label, his wife or
girlfriend or boyfriend's name, the kind of car they
drive, and where they go to church. All that information
comes in handy."
  "'Twas years before I could master a quarter
of the titles. Here, let me help you." He
guided her to a massive chest of drawers standing in
a corridor. With experienced fingers, he let out
the lacings, careful to fasten them again. "Is that
better?"
  She sighed. "It sure is. If I could
only get rid of this damned corset."
  "Alas, cousin, I do not decree the
fashion."
  Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath
and rubbed the back of her neck with her hand, still
bandaged from when she'd touched his sword. He
watched the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the
gown of dark green velvet. The embroidered
corset top peeked from above the bodice, and the
sleeves, tied at the shoulders, had matching
blue embroidery. Upon her head was a French
hood, the lappets flowing down her back. It was
a simple style that only a woman of rare
beauty could wear. Deanie was such a woman.
  "I don't know about you, but these dogs are
barking." She opened her eyes, her lips curving
into a soft smile.
  "Dogs? I hear no hounds."
  "No, I mean my feet hurt. These stone
floors are about as comfortable as asphalt in
July."
  A group of courtiers swept past, intent on
their private conversation. Deanie was still astonished
how crowded Hampton Court was. Every
threshold marked a favorite lounging spot,
each chair held at least one courtier eager
to curry favor.
  And it was a motley crowd indeed, with
dignitaries speaking every strange language
imaginable, cloaked in their native clothes,
sweeping through the airy hallways of Hampton.
One man in particular struck Deanie as an
oddball: a square-jawed fellow with an
angular beard and Moe Howard haircut. His
clothes, though made of a fine fabric, were always
covered with drips and smears of
brilliant-colored paint, fiery reds and rich
blues and dulcet yellows. The man's eyes
had a wild, ever-shifting expression. He was also
the only courtier Kit seemed to actively
dislike.
  "He is admired greatly by the king for his
artistic skills, although I trust him not," Kit
said, pulling Deanie from the man's path as he
charged down the hallway toward the royal chapel.
"He is German, a painter. Hans Holbein
by name."
  "Has he ever painted you?" Deanie asked,
watching the man stop abruptly, throw his hands
into the air, and run back through the door he had just
come from, again narrowly missing Deanie with his
gesticulating arms.
  "No," he replied, irritation evident in his
voice. "I could not tolerate his guttural
ramblings whilst he worked."
  She looked down at her hands, twirling one
thumb over the other. "Oh. I guess I must
sound awful to you, the twang and all," she
murmured.
  She had not been fishing for compliments, and
wasn't even sure Kit had heard her, when she
felt one of his powerful arms glide about her
shoulder. "Nay, Deanie. To me, your voice
is like music."
  Her eyes met his, questioning, wondering if he
was making fun of her. Before she could speak, he
kissed her forehead. "Let me show you the music
salon," he said softly. "Perhaps you may enjoy
some of the instruments."
  He guided her through the corridor, his hand on
the small of her back. Both nodded at passing
courtiers, Kit providing a running commentary.
  "Lady Cowen hath a most profond affection
for her stud master. ... That gentleman in the
soiled buskins? Ah, he is Sir William
Wade, known for his peculiar penchant for plundering
table linens. He was once discovered without so much as
a stitch of clothing, rolling the laundresses'
basket. Yonder lay a massive wardrobe of
cherry wood, twice pilfered by servants.
'Tis a problem to find manservants of
honorable character."
  "Wow. Even here, I suppose good
help's hard to find."
  "Exactly." Kit smiled, allowing her
to enter the room first.
  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the
sun-drenched corridor to the darker,
wood-paneled room. And when she did, she
gasped.
  In every corner, upon every table and chair, were
musical instruments. She glanced toward the heavy
russet drapes covering the window.
  "To give the musical tones a more pleasant
sound," Kit answered her unspoken question. With
reverence, she touched the closest instrument. It was
large and stringed, shaped like a swollen gourd. The
neck was bent back. It gave the appearance of a
rounded woman gazing at the sky.
  "A lute," he said. "That one belongs to the
king's lutinest, Phillipe Van Wilder."
  "I know. I played a fake one during the
video shoot, but it was nothing like this. Nothing at
all."
  There were keyboard instruments. Kit identified
each one as she reached it. "A clavichord.
Spinnet. Organ." Some had black keys,
one was a double keyboard. All were ornately
carved, covered with gilt or romantic paintings
of angels or the Virgin Mary. Returning to the
stringed instruments, she continued touching them, not
actually picking them up. These were museum
pieces.
  "Mandolin, lyre," he continued. And then she
saw it.
  "Guitar," they said in unison.
  It was smaller and more narrow than the type she was
used to, but the shape was unmistakable. "Oh,
Kit," she breathed.
  "Would you like to play?"
  She leaned closer, not daring to touch it yet.
"Holy cow!" She whistled. "How many strings
does this thing have?"
  "The usual--five pairs. A total of
ten."
  "A ten-string guitar?" She straightened,
wiping her palms on her skirt. "Man, I'd
love to see Lee Roy Parnell get his hands
on this guitar."
  "Why don't you play?"
  Deanie shrugged. "I don't know. This thing's
probably worth a fortune."
  "No. 'Tis worth a few
shillings. At least, that is what I paid for it."
  "It's yours?"
  He nodded, handing the instrument to her. The back
was an incredible design of geometric cubes,
three dimensional in appearance. The neck was
fretted--as far as she could tell with the same
number of frets as on a modern guitar. The
head was bent back at a graceful angle, as
if in repose and listening to chords played on its
strings.
  Kit strode to a corner and returned with an
ornately carved chair of dark wood with a high
back and no arms. There were faces all over the
chair, weird gargoylelike leers and grins.
"Geeze," she muttered. Even through the wooden
corset and layers of undergarments, she could feel the
sharp bumps and indentations of the wood. "Haven't
y'all ever heard of a nice, smooth-backed
chair?"
  "In a royal household?" Kit looked
offended. "Never!"
  Settling the guitar on her lap, she savored
the weight of the instrument, the satiny feel of the
varnished wood. "This is gorgeous, Kit. Where
did you get it?"
  "From a Spanish trader, a gentleman who
provided the late Queen Katherine with many of her
goods." He made the sign of the cross at the
former Queen's name.
  After some slight hesitation, she began strumming
the instrument. The tone was sonorous and rich,
surprisingly deep considering the smallish size
of the guitar. Just as she was about to play another
chord, a sharp pain stung her injured hand.
  Kit knew immediately what had caused her
to stop. "Your wound," he said softly. "I am so
sorry, Deanie. Please, let me have a look
at it."
  He examined the palm of her hand, intent on the
cut from his sword. "I think it will heal nicely
if you just keep it clean. Don't muck it up with
any of those balms or salves of the court
physicians. They mean well, but God only
knows what the ingredients are. Eye of newt,
most probably."
  Her eyes met his, a strange expression
on her face. "Be there something wrong?" he
asked.
  Withdrawing her hand, she rested it on the neck
of the guitar. "Just now, Kit, you sounded
different. I mean, you didn't use those confounded
thees and thous and talk backwards."
  "I know. I am trying to mimic your speech
patterns, so you can understand me more clearly." He
took the guitar away and placed it against a
wall. "I speak several languages,
Deanie. Yours is most strange, but easily
learned."
  "Oh." She stood up, smoothing the folds of
her gown. "It must be like speaking pig latin:
sort of familiar, but not. Right?"
  "Thou cannot be serious. Pigs can speak Latin
in your time?"
  Deanie chuckled, looping her arm through his.
"Never mind, Kit. I'm starving. Do you
suppose we can get something to eat? Preferably
something without a head or feet?"
  "I believe I saw some bread and cheese beyond
the larder. Would that satisfy thy hunger? Or
does cheese speak in your time as well?"
  Laughing, they left in search of lunch.




              Chapter 5

  Finally, after more than a week spent living at
the court of Henry VIII, Deanie was to meet
the queen.
  There was an extraordinary frenzy of activity
about the palace. Tapestries were beaten and
rehung, panels of richly carved roses--the
Tudor rose--were polished to a lustrous
gleam. Flower garlands were laid over every mantle
and doorway, accompanied by a furious sweeping
of the hallways and chambers and brick-vaulted
passageways. Fresh rushes were scattered on
the floor of the great hall, over those drenched in
wine, food, and dog urine. A new crop of
ladies-in-waiting, from the queen's native
duchy of Cleves, arrived overnight to prepare
the way for the bride.
  To everyone who had witnessed the barely restrained
fury of the king, it was clear that he was not looking
forward to his wife's arrival. He lashed out with
increasing frequency at his closest ministers,
especially Thomas Cromwell, who, in a
surprise move that stunned the court, had just been
elevated to the rank of earl of Essex.
  The king had taken to physically hitting his
newest earl, slapping and kicking him like an
ill-used cur. Embarrassed witnesses told
of the king whacking Cromwell's shoulders and head,
and of Cromwell ducking sheepishly back to his
own quarters after such beatings.
  "Why did the King make Cromwell an earl
if he hates him so much?" Deanie asked as they
sat in what had become their favorite spot, the
Cloister Green courtyard. Others stayed away
because of the king's apartments, and the excellent view the
royal eyes had of the yard. Kit and Deanie
felt it was worth the privacy, gambling against the
off chance the king would be watching.
  Her gown, of deep blue velvet with a low,
square neckline, bordered with tiny flowers of
black-and-red embroidery, fanned out behind her where
she sat on the grass. She shifted, the tightly
laced corset pinching her sides, trying to get
comfortable. It was a losing battle. The queen was
to arrive at any moment, and Deanie, along with the
rest of the ladies-in-waiting, had to be ready.
She lifted a finger to scratch under the rounded
headpiece, a French hood studded with pearls,
showing a crown of dazzling dark hair parted down the
middle.
  The shortness of her hair, concealed under the
headpiece, had elicited comments from Mistress
Cecily Garrison and Mary Douglass. Both
women assumed Deanie had been in a convent, for
only nuns wore their hair shorn. Most
ladies never cut their hair, letting it flow
well past their waists when free from the confining
headdresses.
  Kit, again coming to Deanie's rescue, had
heard the gossip and neatly put an end to it
by mentioning how distressed she had been when her hair
fell out during her illness. The court ladies,
and even some of the men, felt a surge of sympathy
for the lovely young maid who had survived the throws
of brain fever. Instead of making her an oddity,
her shoulder-length hair made her an object of
compassion. And Kit and Deanie relished his
terrible pun: that poor Mistress Deanie had
been "distressed" at being "detressed."
  Kit chewed on a piece of grass in the
courtyard, watching Deanie in her fruitless
effort to get comfortable, tugging on the knotted
laces of her bodice, running a finger under the
square neckline to loosen it. He
grinned, the blade of grass tilting up with the
motion.
  "Well?" she asked again, a little breathless from
her exertions.
  From his expression, the sharp angles of his face
augmented by his smirk, she knew he hadn't paid
attention to her. But she couldn't even pretend to be
annoyed. She too had found it increasingly
difficult to follow his words. Instead, she would
notice the way the sunshine played off his hair,
or how the dimples in those lean and severe cheeks
would appear just before he smiled. His doublet, of dark
gray velvet, was of the simple style he
preferred, with a narrow collar at the throat. The
sleeves were slashed to reveal the white shirt,
tied at the wrists and collar. His hose showed his
legs, thick with muscles, the ever-present
sword sheathed in black enamel resting on his
thigh.
  Leaning on his elbow, he plucked the grass from
his teeth, the tip chewed flat. It reminded
Deanie of a cigarette, and she swallowed against the
craving for nicotine that had been plaguing her for a
week.
  "What did you ask?" His tone was insolent, a
grin behind the voice.
  "Me?"
  He nodded, absentmindedly brushing a small
clump of dirt from her hem. They had rarely
touched each other, except for his offering of a
courtly arm or her tapping his hand in excitement
as they spoke. The single exception was when he
kissed her forehead, a lapse in his customary
control. Yet a tension ran between them, a strange
awareness of each other that seemed to expand and
intensify with each passing day. It was as if they were
in ceaseless physical contact, alert to each
other's every move. When he entered a room, she
knew before looking up that he was there. When she
retired with the other ladies of the court, he could
feel her absence without being told she was gone.
  Deanie closed her eyes to remember her question,
knowing she could not possibly gather her thoughts with his
face so close, every detail becoming so
familiar, so fascinating. She would never grow
tired of watching him.
  As her eyes shut, her fine brows furrowed in
thought, she missed the sudden gentleness in his
expression. The harsh lines seemed to vanish as
he studied her face, drinking in each
feature: the light blue veins on her
eyelids, the tiny freckles on her nose.
He thought of the way her eyes would widen, brown and
luminous, whenever he supplied her with yet another
aspect of court life.
  She was vulnerable here, away from all with which she
was familiar. For the first time since he had arrived
at court ten years earlier, he felt
overwhelmingly protective of another human
being. Before he'd been unattached, unencumbered
by the gentle strings of affection. His duty was to the
king and to the families who called Manor
Hamilton home. No other thoughts had softly
plagued his sleep. No radiant smile had
rewarded his smallest of gestures.
  Now there was Deanie.
  Everything about her was enchanting. The dichotomy
of the dark-haired beauty was enthralling to him, a
strength mingled with delicacy, a determination touched
by uncertainty.
  Perhaps she trusted him simply because he alone
knew of her past, where she came from, of the
miraculous journey that had led her to England,
to 1540 ... to him.
  It would mean nothing if he could not protect her
from physical danger, from the very real perils of the
court: the petty jealousies, the power-hungry
courtiers who would ruthlessly destroy a life
simply to enjoy more useless luxury.
  Sitting before him, she closed her eyes, as
unaware of the menace swirling about her as she was of
his own open expression. He realized with a jolt
that he loved her. His breath caught in his throat
as he mentally articulated the concept.
  I love her.
  Before he could ponder the revelation, make sense
of the rush of emotions pounding through his veins, she
opened her eyes, beaming.
  "I remember! I was about to ask you why the king
made Cromwell the earl of Essex when he
clearly can't stand the guy."
  Kit blinked, as if startled, and rolled over
on his back. He closed his eyes against the sun.
Against Deanie.
  He paused before he could answer, breathing
heavily as if he had just run a great distance.
Deanie watched his broad chest rise and fall,
the unfamiliar look of confusion on his face.
Kit, who seemed to know all there was to know about
everything, suddenly looked as lost as a
little boy at a state fair.
  He took one deep lungful of air, and
once again his face wore the usual controlled,
composed expression.
  "I believe he maketh Cromwell an earl
so that his fall, when it occurs--and mark my words,
it will," he said, raising an eyebrow to Deanie,
"will be all the more dramatic and devastating because of the
height."
  "You mean," she said softly, "he's setting
him up just to knock him over?"
  He nodded once, and Deanie whistled through her
teeth.
  Kit could not help but smile at himself, at the
inevitable parallel his words had just drawn. Like
poor beleaguered Cromwell, Kit wondered if
he had unwittingly set himself up for a colossal
fall.

  They lined the Great Hall, all the ladies and
gentlemen of the court. Off the hall, on the
domestic side of Hampton, the massive
kitchen and all its wings--including the larder,
dry-fish room, spicery, pastry room, and the
buttery--lay in pristine order. The hundreds
of servants stood in neat, motionless rows, as still
and solemn as the scoured pots and neatly arranged
spoons, awaiting inspection from the queen. Her
jewel-studded slippers might not pad beyond the great
hall, but, just in case, every attendant was scrubbed
and ready.
  King Henry held Anne of Cleves at a
formal distance, more regal than was absolutely
necessary. His face did not betray his distaste, for
above all, Henry took enormous pride in his
ability to perform his royal duty with unfailing
elegance and dignity. When he glanced at his
bride, which he did as infrequently as possible,
his pursed lips would twitch under the reddish
mustache, and the great beard would tighten, as if the
king were making a superhuman effort not to be ill.
  Deanie was in the low curtsy she had been
practicing with another new lady-in-waiting, a
chirpy, plump teenager named Katherine Howard.
Deanie had been stunned to learn that Mistress
Katherine, who reminded Deanie of a typical
school cheerleader, was the niece of Thomas
Howard, the creepy man who had been in the maze
when she first met Kit. It seemed impossible that
bubbly Katherine was in any way
related to Norfolk, who had made clear his
disapproval of Deanie by making peculiar huffing
noises whenever he passed.
  Her eyes were lowered, just as Kit had
instructed. She was not to look up until the queen
addressed her directly. Deanie could not see
her yet; she was lingering over each and every member of the
court. The hall was stifling in the unusual afternoon
heat, made all the more uncomfortable by the layers of
heavy clothing. The windows were sealed against the threat
of fresh air. She tried to take a deep
breath, but the corset bound her ribs and the breath was
stopped short.
  I'm going to faint, she thought with alarm.
  Kit stood directly behind her, bowing low
along with all the other titled peers. Deanie, as
a new lady-in-waiting as well as his cousin, was
allowed the privilege of standing with their ranks.
He saw her shoulders begin to slump forward, and very
quietly, without disturbing the sword at his side
or elbowing a grizzled duke standing barely a
foot away, he reached toward her and firmly
gripped her waist.
  She didn't jump at the sudden sensation of a
pair of strong hands bracing her. It was as if she
had been expecting his help. He steadied her for a
few moments, her full weight in his grasp.
He knew that if he let her go she would tumble
to the ground.
  He also knew how completely she trusted him.
  It was the longest physical contact they had ever
enjoyed, had ever allowed. The queen was approaching
more quickly now, nodding to her ladies, graciously
bestowing smiles upon her subjects.
  Deanie let the corner of her voluminous
skirt fall and caressed one of his hard hands,
giving a soft squeeze. He smiled, understanding
her signal. With a returning press, he withdrew
his grasp. The bones in her hand had felt fine and
delicate in his, gentle hands to be cherished.
  Warmth flooded Deanie's face, a tenderness
that threatened to bring a tear to her eye. And then,
too late, she realized the queen was before her.
  Snapping back to reality, Deanie tried
frantically to recall what she was to do next.
Damn! They had practiced just that morning,
Deanie and Mary and Cecily and Katherine.
  Then it came to her: She was to sink deeper into a
curtsy. In her haste, she'd forgotten that she
had let go of a corner of her gown to touch
Kit's hand. The toe of her slipper caught the
hem of her skirt, and in the blink of an eye,
Deanie plopped unceremoniously to the ground.
  For a moment all was quiet, as a stunned,
startled hush fell over the entire hall. One
lady allowed a soft gasp to escape her mouth.
Someone--probably Thomas Howard--snorted in
disgust.
  Kit stepped forward to help her rise, placing
a foot on the swirling train of her gown.
Muttering apologies to the king and queen, he
lifted her halfway to a standing position, when
suddenly the material he was unwittingly standing on
began to rise with its wearer. Both Deanie and
Kit slammed to the ground, his sword clattering
beside them.
  Deanie scrambled to stand, leaning on Kit's
shoulder for leverage. With a dazed Kit still on her
skirts, there was no hope.
  Suddenly a single booming laugh filled the
hall. Henry, his face flushed with glee, threw
back his head, pounded his hands together, and roared with
genuine, unaffected laughter.
  "By God," he shouted, the peers beginning
to smile among themselves, relieved at their
sovereign's delight. "'tis the best jest we
have seen in years! Ha! Mistress Deanie and
Hamilton, we most heartily thank ye!"
  The king then dissolved into a fit of hilarity,
tears streaming down his massive face, his
bejeweled doublet shaking with unrestrained glee.
  At last Deanie and Kit were able to stand and
face the queen.
  She was not at all what Deanie had
expected. Instead of some foreign, exotic beast,
Anne of Cleves--in spite of her
strangely shaped headdress and high-necked
gown, thick with gold thread and belted under ample
breasts--was one of the most friendly, unabashedly
kind-looking people Deanie had ever seen. She was
certainly not attractive. Her nose was large
and crooked, her skin slightly pockmarked, and
her eyebrows, heavily plucked, rested over
droopy eyes.
  But then she giggled, an infectious, girlish
laugh, and clasped Deanie's hand.
  "Mistress Deanie," she said in her
ponderous accent. "I too must give thee thanks
for making my most gracious husband happy."
  Kit hastened to explain that his cousin was
very new to the court and had yet to learn its ways.
He apologized, bending over her hand, causing the
queen, like every other female, to blush with pleasure
at his charms.
  The king was still howling with laughter. The queen, before
continuing the reception, whispered into Deanie's ear:
"I hope, Mistress Deanie, that since we
are both so very new at this court, we shall become
special friends." Then she left to conclude her
royal progress.
  Deanie, still startled by what had happened, felt
herself smile. She liked the queen, no matter
what the king or even Kit felt about her.
  Another thought crossed her mind: Even in a
world of mucky, foul smells, Anne of
Cleves sure did stink.

  One of the king's ministers was not in the Great
Hall. His absence was a glaring omission, one the
king had specifically planned, one the king
particularly relished.
  Thomas Cromwell paced in his chamber,
ignoring the plush, fur-trimmed collar that
tickled his cheek. Downstairs the queen was receiving
the other peers. Cromwell, as the newly titled
earl of Essex, should have been there, beside Norfolk
and Suffolk and Hamilton. Instead, the king had
ordered Cromwell to work on the annulment
proceedings, even as the queen, oblivious to her
impending fate, played the role of genteel
consort.
  It mattered not that the workings of England could grind
to a halt at the king's every whim and fancy, that a
fine day could find the king and his Privy Council
galloping the countryside in search of a beast
to slay for mere sport.
  Cromwell was not to be allowed the honor of
receiving the very woman he had made queen.
  The quill in his hand snapped in two.
Cromwell knew what the king's conduct toward
him meant; he could read the ominous writing on the
stone wall. He had seen his sovereign act this
way before; his once-blazing enthusiasm for a
subject could pivot overnight into deadly,
sometimes irrational hatred.
  It had been that way for Anne Boleyn,
another woman Cromwell had made queen.
She had once been the center of the king's
universe; then, within hours it seemed, Henry
told of his loathing, how she had bewitched
him, how the very sight of the woman he once adored
made him physically ill.
  Like the quill in his hand, Anne Boleyn had
ended in two pieces, her dark head separated from
her slender body by the executioner's sword. At
the time, members of the court had remarked on the
king's marvelous kindness in hiring an expensive
but expert swordsman from France to make his former
wife's death swifter, and presumably less
painful, than it would have been had he relied on a
native headsman with a dull, thick English
ax. Nobody dared to mention that Henry had already
procured a divorce from Anne Boleyn. He
had been free to marry again, free of his second
wife. Her death had been a stroke of
malevolent spite from an enraged sovereign.
  Others had been executed, good men, great men.
There were too many to count now: Thomas More and
Bishop Fisher and Lord Rochford. Like a spoiled
child grown weary of a shiny new trinket, Henry
would toss aside men, turning his back on those
who had served him most faithfully.
  Cromwell knew the pattern. He had
assisted the king on countless occasions, winning a
conviction of treason here, usurping a peer's land
and worldly goods there, always expeditious in condemming
last week's favorite to the Tower.
  And soon it would be Cromwell himself.
  It was no fault of his that reports of the
Cleves woman had been grossly inaccurate.
His own ministers had attested to her beauty and
wit, that she would be in every way a most perfect
wife for the great Harry of England. If anyone was
to blame for the deception it was that German artist
Holbein, whose magnificent portrait of the
sister of the duke of Cleves that had whet the king's
considerable appetite in the first place.
  But the king became infuriated when Cromwell
suggested that the culpability lay with the painter.
  "He is an artist, Cromwell," the king
sneered. "I, above all, understand the artistic
mind. 'Tis no fault of his." Unspoken,
but implied by the king's glare, were the words "How
canst thou, naught but a blacksmithy's son,
know of art and beauty?"
  Cromwell had arranged the marriage, and now
the king would find the means with which to make him pay.
  In his mind he envisioned the reception below, the
bobbing ladies and bowing gentlemen, the eyes
meeting in silent awareness that Thomas
Cromwell, the earl of Essex, was absent. It
would begin now, his slide to ruin.
  Who would take his place? The duke of
Norfolk, Thomas Howard, would be eager as a
puppy to please the king. He had managed
to extricate himself from that disastrous niece of his,
Anne Boleyn, by becoming her most vocal
detractor once he saw the king had tired of
her. By licking the king's boots, Norfolk was
again in favor, backed by Catholics alarmed
by Cromwell's dissolution of the monasteries.
  The king had been happy enough to take the riches
of the dissolved monasteries. His lavish court had
all but bankrupted England, and someone had to pay.
The monies had replenished the royal coffers.
Now the king blamed Cromwell. The Catholics
blamed Cromwell as well, and they heaped on
added reproach by throwing in Anne of Cleves, a
follower of the heretic Martin Luther. Never mind
that she had played the part of dutiful Catholic
since arriving in England.
  Cromwell alone would be blamed, accused, and
condemned.
  Now Norfolk was pushing another niece--how
many did he have?--toward the king in hopes of
securing permanent favor. Katherine Howard was
but fifteen, pretty enough in a plump, sluttish
way. He was right, that Norfolk. Whoever
supplied the king with an antidote to the Cleves
woman would reign supreme at court, topped
only by the king himself.
  His fist came down on a stack of parchments,
documents drawn up by his clerks to win an
annulment. Once that was achieved, Cromwell's
time would be up.
  Unless ...
  He recalled a few days earlier, in the
king's chambers, the expression on Henry's
face as he looked upon the new woman, that cousin
of Hamilton's, the wench from Wales. The
royal countenance had been hungry, lascivious.
She was indeed extraordinary in appearance. The
king liked women of spirit, with flashes of wit,
women who could amuse his regal humor. He
professed to love virtue in a woman, although
what he really loved was gaiety and vivacity.
  Hope began to blossom in Cromwell.
  He would control Hamilton's cousin,
present her to the king as a precious jewel on
black velvet. It may actually work
to his advantage, the Cleves union, for the king
would be so eager to rinse the bitter taste of Anne
from his mouth that any dainty tidbit would be all the
more delectable.
  What was her name? Ah, Mistress Deanie
Bailey. A common name, but it would be regal enough
once she shared the king's bed.
  Now it would be a game. Cromwell loved
games; the higher the stakes, the greater his
triumph. Mistress Deanie would be his pawn in
this tournament of chess; Norfolk had Katherine
Howard. And whoever captured the king would win.
  There was only one slight problem: Christopher
Neville, the duke of Hamilton. He
seemed inordinately fond of Mistress
Deanie, above the realm of mere cousins. If
indeed she was his cousin. The king was attached
to Hamilton, which might pose another obstacle.
  Cromwell's face folded into a smile of
anticipation. One way or another, the gallant
Hamilton would be removed. It mattered not how,
just as long as Cromwell had a clear shot at the
Bailey wench. Hamilton was bright, more clever
than most of the courtiers. It would take an even
more clever man to best him, to win this ultimate
tournament. Cromwell loved games, adored
gambles. Whoever lost this game would surely
forfeit his life.
  Thomas Cromwell, the earl of Essex, was
again on familiar ground.

  Deanie tried to hide her yawn, turning her
head slightly and placing a hand over her mouth.
Even the three-legged juggling black bear,
fascinating at first, now seemed old and dull.
The trainer, cloaked in absurd patched hose
and a red stocking cap with bells on the tip, tried
to amuse the audience with a limp backflip. But
he missed and slammed into Lady Alison
Conyngham, who shrieked in horror. Deanie
would have smiled at that bit of slapstick humor,
but she was numb with exhausted boredom.
  Kit, of course, saw her stifled yawn,
even as he was engaged in a discussion of jousting
techniques with Charles Brandon, the duke of
Suffolk. Poor Suffolk. He was a good enough
fellow, Kit supposed, watching the once-handsome
face betray a life of increasingly rich food
and drink and increasingly less physical
activity. Kit glanced down at his own
hand, not realizing until then he had been tapping
a finger impatiently. He stopped, not wishing
to insult Suffolk. But he was still restless. The
trestle table seemed to sway under the weight of the
food piled on plates of silver and gold,
goblets of wine, and leather-covered tankards of
ale.
  The banquet, which had begun in the late afternoon,
showed no signs of ending. The Hampton Court
clock struck eight times, each ring echoing its
melancholy chime.
  Everyone knew why the king was so reluctant
to disperse the crowd. That would mean that he had to be
alone with his queen, the woman chatting happily
by his side in High Dutch and halting English,
blissfully unaware of the terrible plans the king was
at that very moment orchestrating. If she was lucky,
it would be an annulment and disgrace. If not,
well ... For her sake, everyone in the hall
hoped it wouldn't come to that. She had shown herself to be
a pleasant enough woman; there was no malice in those
eyes of dung brown, not a sliver of ambition in
her friendly nod.
  Kit was sharply aware of every move Deanie
made, of every gesture, of every morsel of food she
took and every comment she made to Mistress Cecily
or Katherine Howard.
  Charles Brandon was slamming his hand on the
table, forcing Kit's attention back to his dull,
stale tale of a tournament a decade and a half
old. Poor Suffolk. When into his cups, as
he was tonight, he became a cloddish boor. Even
hangers-on eager to ingratiate themselves in the
royal ranks found him difficult to tolerate;
the same jousting tales were recited over and over,
every detail becoming just slightly inflated with each
go-round. He pounded his fist on the table, causing
filled goblets of wine to spill their contents like so
much blood. Without turning his head, Kit knew
that Suffolk's imaginary opponent had just been
vanquished by one of his self-proclaimed
brilliant maneuvers.
  In his youth Suffolk had wielded more charm--and
eventually more power--than anyone else at court.
The king had even forgiven him for eloping with
Princess Mary Tudor, the king's own widowed
sister. Now, like his sovereign, Suffolk rode
tournaments only in his memory, wooed the fair
ladies only in his heavy dreams.
  With a muffled sigh Kit shifted on the
bench. Deanie leaned toward Kit's ear,
whispering softly. "Isn't that the same story he
told on Monday?" she hissed. "The one where
he manages to single-handedly defeat the French
knight with the lion on his shield?"
  Suffolk again pummeled the table, and a small
fleck of spittle escaped the corner of his
mouth. "Hamilton! Listen to me!" he demanded.
"Now, Sir Jean de Coeur Lyon
galloped upon his mighty stallion. But I,
Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, was
prepared to fight. ..."
  "God help us, Deanie," Kit murmured.
"'Tis the long version."
  "What say you?" barked Suffolk.
  Instinctively, Deanie slid her hand upon
Kit's thigh. "Oh, my Lord Suffolk," she
purred. "My cousin asked me to pass the roast
venison. Your tale has us all enthralled, and
I did not hear him. Please--I mean, pray
continue."
  Kit's hand folded over hers and he nodded,
unable to speak for fear of laughing out loud.
Deanie's face remained serene as she raised
her eyebrows, urging Suffolk to continue, which he
did with renewed gusto.
  "As I was saying ..." he droned.
  A large platter of venison, complete with
hoof, was plopped before them. In surprise, she
backed against Kit and her hand tightened in his
grip. She almost laughed, but the warmth and solid
feel of his hand stopped her. Slowly she turned
her eyes to his, the constant sound of Suffolk's
voice a blurred hum in the background.
  All of the Great Hall seemed to dissolve as
her palm turned up in his. A jolt ran through
her arm, a mild tingling sensation. From Kit's
sudden stillness, she knew he felt it too.
He stared ahead for a moment, then he faced
Deanie.
  He was so close that she could smell him, a
marvelous fragrance of leather and grass and a
unique, masculine scent, primitive and
undeniable. Her eyes took him in; she wanted
every detail etched forever in her memory: the stray
lock of hair that fell over his forehead, the
cleft in his chin, the slight shadow of new
whiskers, the solid angles of his face. Above
all, his eyes--the strange, shining luster of
greens and ambers, reflecting almost
black in the flickering light of torches and
candles.
  Her breath stopped short when she saw his
expression. The unwavering fervor was almost frightening
and she would have backed away, but she felt utterly
compelled to return the gaze. She realized that she
had indeed forgotten to breathe, and when she opened her
mouth, a squeaky hiccup escaped.
  It was loud enough to cause Suffolk to pause.
"God's blood, what was that, eh?" Only the
vaguest of smiles lifted the corners of
Kit's mouth.
  Katherine Howard giggled into her napkin when
Deanie hiccuped a second time, and Mistress
Cecily handed her a full goblet of warm spiced
wine.
  "Perhaps some fresh air?" Kit's voice was
tight, and Deanie nodded, scrambling over the
bench as he helped her to her feet. They walked
slowly past the watching room off the great hall.
Deanie, who usually paused to admire the
wool-and-silk tapestry of "The Romance of the
Rose," glided by as if it didn't exist.
  Both were unaware of the stares that followed them.
Thomas Howard pretending to listen to an
Italian diplomat, followed their every move with
his lips thinned in concentration. His hand rose
slowly to touch a jewel on his cloak, as if
to reassure himself it was still there.
  The king, reaching for a honeyed almond, smiled
to himself. Mistress Deanie, her back straight,
her carriage graceful, her face more lovely
than a fresh rose, was leaving the hall with
Hamilton. His small eyes glimmered with a
shrewd and knowing intelligence. Soon she would be
leaving the hall on the arm of her king. Soon she
would be his.

  The cool night air caressed their faces as
they stopped in the courtyard. The music of the
minstrels seemed far away; the laughing and
table-pounding of the banquet wafted from the leaded
windows as if from a great distance, distorted and
muffled.
  Kit turned to face Deanie, the yard
illuminated by blazing torches within. For a long
moment they simply stared at each other, her
hiccups forgotten. He drew his hand
deliberately to her face and, with exquisite
tenderness, brushed her silken cheek with his
hard knuckles. "I've been wanting to do that,"
he said hoarsely.
  His features were partially shadowed, and she reached
up to touch his hair. It was coarse and thick, just as
she had imagined it would be. The ends curled in
her fingers, springing back when her thumb pressed
them down. Her hand slid to his face. She
slowly ran a trembling finger along the side of
his lean cheeks, the hollow beside his mouth. And then
she did what she had dreamed of ever since she first
saw him: She stroked the fullness of his bottom
lip.
  At once his arms closed around her in an
embrace of stunning urgency. Ignoring the
awkward tilt of her rounded headpiece, she
wrapped her arms about his slender waist in
response. Her eyes closed as if trying
to block out everything but the sensation of being so close.
Beneath his velvet doublet she heard the strong pounding
of his heart.
  This is where I belong, she thought. Of all
the strange events that had brought her to him, everything
now made perfect sense. This one embrace
made it all clear to her, and for the moment, they were the
only two beings who mattered. She felt her
knees give out, and he held her more tightly as
she reached up and gripped his shoulders. The
muscles under his clothing shifted, heavy and
solid.
  "This is where you belong," he rasped, his voice
thick.
  Had he heard her thoughts?
  "Kit," she breathed. With that she looked up
at him, his eyes incandescent. His mouth descended
upon hers, hungry, pleading. And she felt herself
responding; that strange jolt she had experienced
earlier at his mere touch threatened to consume her
entire body.
  His mouth was just as she'd imagined it would be:
strong yet soft, demanding yet supple. She was
lost in a spiral, whirling in his arms, both
safe and terrified at the same time. She stepped
back, gasping.
  "Kit," she panted. "What are we going
to do?"
  His eyes were foggy, and again he reached for her,
pulling her close. "I know not," he muttered.
"Dear God, I know not."
  But they both knew.
  It was sheer madness, utter folly--
yet utterly right. She was no longer able to stand, and
he was no longer able to support her weight. It
was as if all strength and wisdom had fled him at
the same time. As her knees collapsed he
eased her gently to the ground, and somehow their lips
were again joined, touching at first--lightly,
delicately, then fiercely passionate, grinding
together as if the world were melting.
  His hands caressed her leg through the velvet, then
inched up the gown until the hem was clenched in his
fist. She felt the cool night air, the
prickly smooth grass at once on her thigh.
And then she felt his hand, the hand she knew so very
well.
  Her back arched, bringing her even closer to him,
and deep in the back of his throat she heard a low
groan.
  "Deanie."
  "Oh, please," she whispered.
  He hesitated a brief moment, and in that
instant she clung to his body with unnatural
ferocity, ignoring her headdress as it tumbled
beneath her.
  "Kit."
  With the sound of his name on her lips, any chance of
control vanished.
  All she wanted was to be close to him, to feel
his powerful body next to hers. Every other desire
was tossed to oblivion.
  "My Lord Hamilton!" The shout came from
one of the king's young pages.
  For a moment they remained very still, the silence
broken only by their ragged breathing.
  "Quickly," he rasped, pulling her as he
rose to his feet. He was slightly unsteady,
his hands still trembling as he began to adjust her
skirts.
  Still dazed, she could only blink as he hastily
replaced her headpiece and tucked a stray strand
of hair into place.
  "Deanie." His voice seemed to come from a great
distance.
  Before he could speak again, the sound of footsteps
in the courtyard echoed harshly in their ears.
  "My Lord Hamilton," repeated the page as
he emerged from behind a hedge. "There you are! And
Mistress Bailey! The king doth require your
presence within! Pray come! He desires to hear
my lady's music."
  "Bad timing," she murmured, her
voice shaky.
  He took a deep breath. "Later we must
speak." He placed her hand through his arm.
  "When?" she whispered as the page approached.
  Kit did not address her. Instead he nodded
toward the page. "Tell the king we will be within
presently, as Mistress Deanie catches her
breath."
  "My Lord." The page bowed, then left the
courtyard.
  "Later we will speak," he repeated. "But now
the king awaits."
  They began to walk toward the great hall, both
lost in their own thoughts. "Kit, I just realized
I don't know where you live. I mean, you don't
just hang out at court all the time, do you?"
  He smiled. "After what just very nearly
occurred, you want to know where I live?"
  She nodded. "Do you have your own home, or do you
just follow the king?"
  "Nay, Deanie, I have my own estate,
called Manor Hamilton. It's a smallish
place compared to the royal palaces, but large
enough, with servants and pages aplenty."
  "Does your sister live there?"
  He stopped, a strange cast to his eyes.
"Why ask you of my sister?"
  "Because you said I reminded you of her," she
answered, perplexed.
  "My sister is not alive." He looked down
at her, and his eyes again softened. "Come. The king
awaits."
  "I'm sorry," she stammered at last.
  But he said nothing as he led her back into the
great hall.
  Then she stopped. "My God, Kit," she
whispered. "I need a second." She swallowed
and closed her eyes. "I'm about to play a gig
for the king of England."

  The king clapped his hands as they entered. "Ah!
Mistress Deanie! My lutist Van Wilder
doth praise your skill on the guitar. Let us
hear thee." The queen smiled and nodded, as if
happy to see attention diverted from herself but
unsure of precisely what the king was saying.
  Van Wilder, his glinting doublet garish under a
red satin cloak, handed her Kit's guitar.
  She had to concentrate, she told herself. This was
a show. Never mind what had happened in
the courtyard.
  There was a murmur of conversation as she refused
the chair he offered and looped the guitar over her
shoulders. She had fashioned a makeshift strap
out of an embroidered kirtle, and she winked at
Katherine Howard's expression of shock.
  With a casual shrug, she tossed the
three-foot train of her blue velvet gown
over her right shoulder. There was a collective
gasp from the women, which Deanie carefully
ignored.
  "Good evening, ladies and gentleman," she
began, the practiced words of her opening banter.
"Oh, and king and queen." She did a swift
curtsy, and the royal couple acknowledged her with
regal nods.
  "Hope y'all have enjoyed the show so far."
What was she saying? How could she call a troupe
of mummers and a wrestling bear an opening act?
Kit made a motion as if to come to her side, and
she shot him a smile.
  This was the one thing she could do. For once, since
landing in the maze, she was not in need of Kit. She
was not waiting to be rescued.
  Most of the audience were intoxicated. This was the
dinner theater from hell, she thought, the artificial
smile still on her face. Once she had played
a little honky-tonk in west Texas. There was
chicken wire strung across the stage to keep the
audience from throwing bottles at the performers. The
place was so dangerous, she had used the phone with
her back pressed against the wall, watching every
patron like the potential felons they were.
  All in all, she wished she were back in west
Texas.
  Swallowing once, she cleared her throat,
finding the familiar chords on the slender neck
of the strange little guitar. Without any further
banter, she launched into the old standby of every
female country singer unsure of the crowd: a
medley of Patsy Cline hits. From "I
Fall to Pieces" and "Crazy" to "Walkin'
After Midnight" and finally "Sweet Dreams (of
You)."
  At first she was tentative, unsure of her
voice and the guitar in the vastness of the hammer-beam
ceilinged hall. After four bars she realized the
acoustics of the hall were spectacular; and her
voice was rich and mellow, rising above the
openmouthed audience.
  The more she played, the more the songs carried her
away, and she began to stroll, making eye contact
with her audience. Some stared at her with their eyes
comically wide, while others squinted in
bafflement.
  Damn, she thought. I'm good.
  The audience remained silent. Her mind
whirled, trying to think of a logical reason.
Perhaps since they had never heard the tunes before,
there wasn't that spark of recognition and fond
memory that usually prompted the most inebriated
listener to leap to unsteady feet after the medley.
  So without waiting for more humiliating silence, she
embarked on a tune that would be a number-one
crossover hit for another singer in about four
hundred and fifty years. It was her own
composition, a rocking ballad titled "A
Strong Man's Weakness." Sure, whenever she
imagined her own concert, she saved the number for
later in the show. But with this audience, she wasn't
sure how much of a show there would be. The bear and his
colorfully dressed trainer were waiting for a sign
to reenter.
  Their immobility bothered her the most. Like the
seasoned small-club performer she was, she'd be
damned if she'd let them get away with it. The
eye-contact trick wasn't working, so she had
to grind harder. Strolling from table to table, she
reached over a platter of oysters and plucked the
broad-brimmed velvet hat from the duke of
Suffolk. Stunned at first, he began to smile
groggily at the absurdity of the moment, pleased
by the attention. Before he could comment, she grabbed
another hat, this one belonging to an elderly man in
somber garb.
  Unfortunately, the old guy was the new
bishop of Winchester. But he was game, and he
soon began to nod his now-naked head in time to her
music. The next hat was Norfolk's.
Deanie decided to skip him altogether. She also
passed over women, knowing from painful experience how
difficult the headpieces were to fasten to the hair.
  Their hats piled up on the edge of the table, she
kept moving, kicking the hem of her gown out of her
path each time she changed direction.
  She was aware that her voice was unusual to their
ears. From what she had heard--placid women
strumming limply on lutes, seated
delicately on a heavy chair--they were
accustomed to high-pitched, Deanna
Durbin-type voices. But Deanie's voice
was rich and deep and confident.
  Deanie also noticed that she sounded smoother
than before and attributed the change to her not smoking
cigarettes. High notes she had been forced
to fudge back in Nashville, by shifting into a
lower register, now came easily, soaring as she
bent into the final syllable.
  She could usually gauge an audience easily.
This crowd was different. The hatless ones seemed
pleased, but others remained perfectly still. At
different times throughout her performance, an intrepid
drummer in the minstrels' gallery tried
valiantly to play along, only to peter out
into an uncertain tee-tum. A single wooden
recorder tooted once before warbling into oblivion
with the drum.
  The song ended, guitar strings vibrating the last
resonant chord. And then there was the sound of one
clap, strong and slow at first. The clapping grew
faster and more furious. Deanie, blinking in
astonishment at the bold clapper, turned toward
the source of the solitary applause.
  The king of England.

              Chapter 6

  Taking a cue from their sovereign, others in the
hall began to clap, some stomping approval, a
few clanging pewter-and-silver goblets on the
thick table boards like an inmate uprising at
Leavenworth. A large hound, who had
unceremoniously chewed his rear leg for fleas
during her entire performance, shrugged from the hall,
clearly annoyed by the commotion.
  Deanie was uncertain how to respond. With a
swift curtsy and a mumbled "y'all have been a
great audience," she began to back away. The
guitar dangled from its strap, bumping her hip with
every step.
  The king rose to his feet, a strangely
animated look on his mammoth face. He
lifted one beefy hand into the air, silencing the
hall. He walked around the dais, passing a
stupefied Norfolk and a benevolently smiling
Queen Anne, her oblong headpiece shadowing
her eyes.
  Kit began to move protectively toward
Deanie, his wary hazel eyes fixed upon the king.
Few noticed that his right hand was poised
over the hilt of his sword. The voiceless,
expectant tension had all eyes riveted on
Deanie, her own stance uncertain as she stepped
slowly toward Kit.
  Henry's height, well over six foot
two, and his enormous gold-clothed girth
reminded her of an oversized Christmas tree,
garishly decked by zealous children with more humor than
taste. She averted her stare from the gem-studded
codpiece poking from the lavish folds of his doublet
skirt.
  The king shook his head, clicking his tongue as
he approached. His small mouth compressed into a
compact pucker. She slammed into Kit's side,
and both of them ignored her awkwardness when she
stumbled on his foot, her gown causing her
to slide along his leg. With nowhere else to go, she
stood stockstill, unsure and more than a little
alarmed. Could the king kill her? Behead her for not
performing to his imperial satisfaction? She had
heard of acts dying on stage but never being
executed.
  "Mistress Deanie," the monarch whispered, his
booming voice subdued and almost meek. He
stopped several feet short of Deanie, and from the
corner of her eye she saw Kit, solid and
motionless as a stone wall.
  Forcing herself to look directly at the king's
face, she felt her jaw drop in astonishment.
  The king of England had tears in his eyes.
  "Never--" His voice broke as he pulled
her hand to meet his lips. "Never hath we heard
such music, such poetry. Never. So simply
wrought, yeah, so elegant." He brushed his
damp mouth and crumb-dusted beard across the back
of her hand. "Thou hath moved the royal heart with
thy Welsh songs."
  With a brief squeeze of her hand, he bowed
to her. Deanie grinned. Suddenly she liked the
king. Heck, he was just another fan.
  Tilting her eyes to Kit, hoping to see
grudging admiration on his face, perhaps even the
glazed adulation of a newly won Wilma Dean
Bailey enthusiast, she saw instead a flash of
vexation. She had seen such a reaction before: in
Vic Jenkens, in Bucky Lee Denton. It
was something more than simple jealousy. They were
threatened by her, as if her ability to create and
perform music somehow detracted from their own
talents. Vic and Bucky Lee did
not like to share the spotlight with anyone, much less a
woman. Deanie was momentarily stunned to realize
that Kit was no different from the others.
  An irrational, childish impulse overtook
her. How Kit must envy her, the skill she
displayed on his guitar. He must play himself, but
she had never heard him. He was probably no
good at it, the jerk. Now he was ticked off at
someone showing him up, especially in front of the
entire court and the king.
  With calculated coyness, she turned her most
dazzling smile on the monarch, the same smile
she used at award ceremonies and press
conferences. She was well aware that the king prized
perfect teeth. Three months of extensive
dental work had given her a smile brilliant
enough to light up any video. Adding a dash of
Tudor flourish, she curtsied low and gazed
adoringly at Henry.
  She completely ignored Kit.
  The king's expression changed. For a few
moments his face was blank with confusion, then something
in his tiny eyes seemed to ignite. His whole
body stiffened.
  "Mistress Deanie," he said gruffly. "It
would be our greatest pleasure to visit thee in thine
own chambers."
  Deanie was about to turn to Kit in bewilderment.
Why was the king asking permission to wander about in his own
palace? He had said "we," so she assumed he
would take the queen as well.
  Just before she raised a questioning eyebrow to Kit,
she remembered her anger. He stood completely
motionless, and she knew he'd heard every word the king
had just uttered. Good, she thought. Not for nothing was
she a top performer in Nashville. Okay,
maybe not exactly top, but close enough. Perhaps
she was far away from home, but no man--not even
Christopher Neville, the duke of Hamilton
--could hold her down.
  "Your Majesty," she replied, not daring
to glance at the king's face, "you are welcome at
any time."
  Before she could speak another word, the king was
clapping his hands, motioning to the minstrels. "A
galliard! A galliard!"
  The hall was suddenly a bevy of activity, with
serving boys shooing away dogs, the musicians
scurrying into place in the gallery. The king winked
once at Deanie and returned to his
place on the trestled dais, a decided spring
in the royal step. The ulcered leg was forgotten.
The last two decades seemed to have melted away
from the king.
  Courtiers could not help but notice that for the first
time in recent memory, Bluff King Hal had
returned.
  The ladies and gentlemen left their benches,
some still chewing the remains of the banquet, others
grabbing a quick swallow of wine. On the center
floor they formed two straight lines, the men
facing the women. Deanie wanted to see the dance,
which was beginning to resemble her high school
square-dancing lessons. She whirled to face
Kit, smiling in anticipation. He grabbed her
upper arm.
  "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she
shrieked in protest, startled by how painful his
grasp was even through three heavy layers of
fabric.
  He did not answer. With a single swift
motion, he pulled the guitar from her shoulders and
handed it to a passing carver, who stood momentarily
baffled, juggling a large platter of half-eaten
venison, a heavy gold knife, and the instrument.
Then Kit dragged her through a passage to the
courtyard, the exact spot where they had shared a
sublime interlude less than thirty minutes
before. By the time he let go of her arm, her
surprise had become fury.
  Without speaking a word, she turned on her
heels to leave.
  "Hold," he ordered. She stopped, her
rigid back toward him. He was close enough that she
could hear him breathing, even over the music and
laughter inside.
  She glanced down at her clenched fists, the
sumptuous fabric covering her wrists,
delicate lace trimmed in black. Then her
eyes blurred with tears, hot and heavy. A
knot formed in her throat, and although she tried
to swallow it, it remained painfully in place.
  "You're just like the others," she murmured,
unaware that she had spoken aloud. The hurt was
too deep for her to care, and she began to pluck
unmercifully at the lace cuffs, unraveling the
fine needlework, not caring as she shredded the
fragile material.
  "Deanie." He reached for her shoulder. This time
his touch was gentle, the anger in his voice
diffused. She did not pull away; she no
longer had the energy.
  "You're just jealous." She sighed. "I've
seen it before, Kit."
  "Canst thou not," he began, taut with swelling
rage. He took a ragged breath and started over.
"Listen to me. Follow my words." Lifting her
chin, he saw the tears and, with a thumb, wiped them
away. "In short, Deanie, you have just agreed
to become the king's mistress."
  "What?" All traces of self-pity
vanished. "You must be joking, Kit. The old
guy just wants to bring his wife over to--"
  "His wife? When did he make mention of his
wife?"
  She rolled her eyes, shaking her head in
exasperation. "He said "we would like to visit,"
or something like that. He's bringing someone, at any
rate. He won't be alone."
  "Deanie." Kit held both shoulders now,
forcing her to face him directly. "He employed
the royal "we." Hath thou ... have you not heard
of it?"
  A slow dawning closed over her expression.
"Oh."
  "Yeah. Oh."
  For a moment they were silent. Then she brightened,
almost enjoying the still-thunderous expression on his
face. He wasn't angry at her talent,
jealous of her ability to entertain. He was merely
concerned for her reputation.
  "Hey, Kit. It's no big deal. I'll
just apologize to the king, you know. Let him down
gently. And then ..."
  "Nay."
  "Nay?"
  As if exerting supreme control, he closed
his eyes and let out a deep breath. "The entire
court saw the exchange," he said softly.
"Did you not espy Norfolk's expression?
God's blood, Deanie." The hazel eyes
opened, then softened as he saw her bafflement.
"Let me speak plainly: The king has asked you
to become his mistress. You have accepted."
  She was about to speak when he held up a hand
to stem her flow of denials. "Listen to me." At
last she nodded, and he continued. "Before the entire
court you have accepted. Now you must understand something.
The king will not tolerate being made a fool. He
can bear petty uprisings, foreign
invasions, even stupidity on the part of his
ministers. But he will never allow anyone--
especially a woman--to make him appear
buffoonish."
  "Awe, come on, Kit. It's not that serious,
just a little misunderstanding."
  Kit made a fist, as if willing her by force
to understand him, then let it fall between them.
"Deanie," he said, his voice rough with meaning,
"another woman quoth like words to me. She too was
confident, and waxed happy that what had
transpired between the king and herself was "just a little
misunderstanding.""
  Deanie grinned. "Oh? Who was that?"
  "Her name," Kit said sharply, "was Anne
Boleyn."

  By the time Deanie returned to her chambers,
exhausted and stunned by what Kit had told her,
she was eager to share the problem with Cecily
Garrison. As both the sister and daughter of
longstanding courtiers, she would certainly know if there
were any way out of the situation. Perhaps Kit was just
overreacting, jumping to conclusions because he had seen
the king behave harshly with other women.
  But Cecily, and all traces of her, had
vanished. Nor was sulky Mary Douglass
anywhere to be seen. In an overcrowded palace,
with well-bred courtiers and eager wanna-bes
taking up every inch of surplus space, Deanie
suddenly had her own room.
  For a moment she knew blind panic, a clawing
fear that Henry would bound into the room at any
moment, his glittering codpiece dangling before her
eyes. Gripping the mahogany post of the bed, she
leaned her forehead against the carved wood, aware of the
sharp edges biting into her skin. Somehow, the
physical pain calmed her, made her acutely
aware of her surroundings.
  All was quiet. She could no longer hear the
raucous clatter of the banquet below, the broken
conversations of lovers escaping into the courtyard.
She let go of the bed and reached for a muslin-covered
bolster, hugging it close to her.
  She needed to find Kit.
  Placing her chin on top of the bolster, she sat
stiffly on the bed. Her clothing made it
impossible to get comfortable, but she didn't care.
She had to get out of here, out of this palace. Kit
had been right: The court was governed
by rules beyond her comprehension. Arbitrary laws of
behavior were set in stone. She was only now
beginning to understand what a dangerous game she had
been playing.
  There was a soft knock on the door, and she
jumped. Could it be the king? She stood up, the
bolster rolling off her lap and onto the thickly
planked floor. Perhaps if she didn't answer,
whoever it was would go away.
  There was another knock, more insistent this time.
  "Mistress Deanie?" whispered a soft
voice. It was Cecily Garrison. She
swiftly unlatched the door, and Cecily
slipped into the room.
  Instead of simply chattering away, as she
usually did, Cecily sunk into a low curtsy.
  "What are you doing?" Deanie asked
incredulously, pulling Cecily to her feet.
Cecily kept her head bowed, not meeting
Deanie's eyes.
  "We are to depart next morn to Richmond,
mistress," Cecily said. "I am to help you,
should you require anything."
  "What? Cecily, what's going on here?"
Deanie felt the fear return in an awful
rush.
  Finally Cecily looked directly at
Deanie. "Oh, Mistress Deanie, 'tis a
great honor to bed the king."
  "No way!"
  Cecily continued, her expression one of
respectful admiration. "The king is England itself.
What England wishes, her humble subjects must
be only too joyous to deliver. Let me
assist you with your stays and laces, milady."
  Without further instruction, Cecily began
unfastening Deanie's headdress and unlacing the
ties down her back. Numbly, Deanie
submitted, noting how Cecily averted her
eyes from Deanie's nearly naked body. Once
she was free of the confining clothes and alone, she could
somehow reach Kit. He was on the palace
grounds. He would know what to do. Perhaps she could
return to the maze and travel back to her own time
with Kit. Perhaps ...
  "Mistress Deanie, wilt thou require
anything else?"
  She glanced at Cecily, a fleeting thought of
asking for help in an escape plan. That wouldn't
be fair. Cecily had no notion of how
Deanie truly felt, deeming it a high honor
to be chosen by the king. Everyone here was of the same
mind, except for Kit. He alone knew what
she was getting herself into, the torment she would
endure. He had tried to warn her, but her
stubborn, stupid arrogance made her turn on
him like a German shepherd in a junkyard.
  "No, Cecily." She faked a smile.
  Cecily backed out of the room, as if Deanie
had just been coronated.
  Alone once more, wearing nothing but the loosely
flowing white nightshift, Deanie slumped into the
bed. She stared at the flickering candle, watching the
beige wax drip hot and thick. She had
to think, find a way to leave before she was confronted
by Henry.
  There was another knock on the door. Deanie,
lost in her dismal thoughts, combed her fingers through her
hair. "Come in, Cecily," she said
distractedly.
  The door opened, and a man wearing a dark green
velvet cloak and a black hat with a turned-up
brim entered. Deanie pulled the coverlet to her
chin as he walked boldly to her side.
  "Mistress Deanie," he said, bowing low.
  She knew who he was, although they had yet
to be formally introduced. Thomas Cromwell, the
newly created earl of Essex, stood in her
bedroom, a small grin twisting his fleshy
lips.
  "What are you doing here, Mr. Cromwell?"
His eyes darkened at her use of "mister" in his
name. "Is the king coming?" Her voice was small,
and she swallowed.
  "Nay, milady. But if thou playest
correctly, the king shall indeed make this chamber his
own."
  He leaned close enough for her to smell his breath,
moldy and corrupt. Although his words were simple,
there was an unmistakable sense of menace behind his
manner. Perhaps in the light of day he would take more
care to polish his demeanor. But now, in the dank
hours of night, before a new member of the court,
there was no reason to smooth his coarse edges.
  Deanie pressed her back against the headboard
of the bed, clutching the bolster and the coverlet against
her bare neck. Cromwell smiled once more.
  "Now, Mistress Deanie, some questions to pave
the way for a smooth transition. Art thou of the
Catholic faith?"
  "No," she gasped, wondering why a fully
clothed earl would wish to discuss religion at this
peculiar hour.
  "Nay?" His beady eyes caught the glint of the
bedside candle. In the massive fireplace, a
log crackled, and a sprinkle of red ash puffed
into the air. The night was cold for late spring, and
she suddenly felt a chill trace the length of
her spine.
  Cromwell continued, his voice neutral.
"Thou hath been absent from the daily Mass.
Good. Art thou then a follower of Luther?"
  "No. I mean, are you talking about the bad
guy Lex Luthor? In the Superman comics?"
Her voice had reached a high pitch, and she
realized she was beginning to babble. "Oh, of course
you aren't. What the hell am I thinking of." Her
palms were damp. "Why are you asking me these
questions?"
  Calmly, he repeated the question: "Art thou a
follower of Luther?"
  Her mind whirled, trying desperately
to recall what Kit had told her about
religion in the court. She had been staring at his
eyes, wondering how a man of such potent
masculinity could have such dark lashes. He had
been emphatic, she remembered. But she also
recalled how close he had been, how she had
averted her eyes from his face, only to be drawn
to his hands, the veins on the top, the spray of
black hairs just visible beneath his full cuffs.
  What had he said?
  Cromwell remained silent, patiently
awaiting her response. She had the uneasy
feeling that he would wait as long as it took for her
answer, ever quiet and composed, whether it took
her a month or a minute to speak. He folded
his hands, and she noticed how thick and stubby they
were, with a heavy gold ring on one finger. She
glanced up at his face, a flat monkey
face, the wide gap between his two front teeth.
  "Well?" he prodded. "Art thou a
Protestant?"
  That sounded right. Growing up, her mother had never
been able to take Deanie to church, since
Sundays were always big-business days at the
truck stop. She assumed she was a Baptist,
since everyone else she knew was. Whenever she
attended services with a friend, it was always at a
Baptist church.
  "Baptist is Protestant, right?"
  For once Cromwell looked befuddled.
"Mistress Deanie, it matters not that thou was
baptized. What matters is--"
  He was interrupted by shouts outside her door
and a scuffling sound. She had been unaware of
anyone else in the hallway. At once the
heavy door swung open, and a gentle beam of
light from the hall torches lit her room.
  "Sir!" A breathless young man, his soiled
leather jerkin askew, threw a pleading glance
toward Cromwell, completely ignoring
Deanie. "The duke, he--"
  From behind, a powerful hand pulled the young man
back into the corridor. Deanie recognized the
fleeting sleeve, the mighty hand.
  "Kit?" she said softly. Then she hopped out
of bed, heedless of the cold floor and the swift
perusal Cromwell gave her barely clothed
form. "Kit!"
  With a casual motion, Cromwell grasped the
neck of her gown and twisted it, stopping not only
her cry but her ability to breathe. Her hands flew
to her throat, clawing uselessly in the air.
  The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as
if aware that it would be terribly bad taste
to smile but unable to entirely mask his pleasure.
  "The duke may enter," Cromwell announced
grandly. The grunts and shuffles in the hallway
ceased.
  Deanie saw Kit enter the room, blood on
his forehead and the front of his doublet torn. The
backs of her knees began to buckle as
Cromwell held firm his grip.
  "You will tell the king nothing of this," Cromwell
said softly, his gaze never leaving Deanie's
desperate face. Kit did not answer.
Instead, he charged toward her.
  From behind she saw a heavy iron staff, with a
blade as wicked as an ax, with red tassles
near the head. With the last of her ebbing strength she
tried to warn Kit, gesturing with her hands of the
danger behind. But her hand movements were
indecipherable.
  In a crazy blur she saw the staff swing
up, gathering momentum, then slice down with an
awful thud on Kit's shoulder. For a horrifying
moment she thought the man had hit Kit on the
head, but at the last instant he swerved.
  Cromwell loosened his hold on her
and she gasped, her chest heaving for air, as Kit
crumpled to the ground. The staff was again raised.
As Kit shook his head and began to push himself up,
Cromwell nodded to his henchman, the go-ahead
to strike again.
  "No!" she croaked, her voice barely
audible. Cromwell paused, stopping the
staff-wielding henchman with an understated shrug.
  "You will tell the king nothing of this," Cromwell
repeated. Deanie nodded in frantic agreement.
With that he let go of her gown, and she stumbled over
to Kit.
  At first she couldn't see his face; his thick
curls of black hair tumbled forward, obscuring
his expression. She knelt beside him, gingerly
placing her hand on his upper arm. His breathing was
loud and ragged, and for a moment she thought he was going
to be ill. With the blow he had just taken, she was
astounded he was still conscious. Only tremendous
physical strength and willpower was preventing him
from slipping into senselessness.
  Before he looked up, his hand, strong and sure,
clamped over her wrist, as if assuring her all
would be well. Then his head snapped up, his eyes
to hers, and her breath caught in her throat. Never
had she seen a look of such unwavering intensity.
It was clearly costing him a great deal to focus.
Behind the searing gaze was a slight cloudiness. He
closed his eyes tightly and shook his head once
more. Again he looked at her, the incandescent
hazel depths clear of all fog.
  He stood up quickly in a forceful rolling
motion, pulling Deanie with him. Only she
noticed the slight unsteadiness in his stance. The
gash on his forehead, the fresh blood seeping through
the crook of his neck where he had just been hit, and
another slash on his arm told her what a beating
he had withstood before he even reached her chamber.
  She had a strange feeling in the pit of her
stomach, a sticky-sick feeling of tumbling in
air. She drew in a shaky breath, and his solid
arm closed protectively around her shoulders.
  He loved her.
  No other man had ever so much as crossed a
street for her. No other man had offered a hand
unless it would directly benefit him. But
Christopher Neville, the duke of
Hamilton, had just endured a physical beating
to get to her.
  "Oh!" Her voice was a small
cry, and she turned her face toward his chest,
savoring his fragrance, his unyielding energy. His
other arm pulled her closer, encircling her in his
warmth.
  Her hair fell over her face, and Kit
saw her neck, white and fragile and vulnerable,
the angry red line where Cromwell had gripped
her. He felt her burrow closer, her hands
pressing him to her side, as if she wanted to be
as close as possible.
  "How very charming," drawled Cromwell. He
motioned for his men to leave the room, all except
the large man with the staff. They did as they were
ordered.
  "Now," he began, as the huge door closed
soundlessly, "shall we discuss the future?"
  Deanie ignored Cromwell and looked up
at Kit. Her hair cascaded like chestnut
silk from her face, her eyes large and liquid
brown. "I want to be with you," she whispered.
"I want to go with you, wherever you go. I don't
care, Kit. I just want to be with you."
  He ran a finger along the side of her face
and was about to speak when Cromwell laughed.
  "Mistress Deanie, thou hath attracted the
king's eye. Follow me, and all of England shall
soon call thee queen."
  She blinked. "But I don't want to be--"
  "Ignore my words," said Cromwell, his
voice lowered, "and thou shall burn as a heretic."
  "Thou art mad," snarled Kit. "A
desperate, pathetic man who will soon attend the
block. Thou hath lost all reason."
  "Nay, Duke. Hath Mistress Deanie
been once to the Holy Mass? Or followed the
king in prayer?" Cromwell spoke easily.
"As for thee, Duke, will you enjoy a charge of
treason? 'Twill be treason to sample
property of the king, to cuckold the royal stud.
Ah, how easily treason will be proved. To have that
handsome head mounted upon a rusty pike at
Traitor's Gate, rotting for all of
London to see. Will the ladies find thee so
handsome then, Duke?"
  "No!" Deanie felt her knees wobble.
Her throat, still raw from Cromwell's hold, was
thick with rising bile. She didn't care about the
threats to herself, but his description of what would
happen to Kit was so vivid, so appallingly
real. "No. Please. I'll do
anything."
  "Deanie, he's bluffing." Kit glared at
Cromwell.
  "Am I?"
  Without waiting for a reply, Cromwell lifted
a single stubby finger to the man with the staff. Immediately
the staff came crashing down on Kit's shoulder,
in the exact spot on which it had landed before. A low
moan escaped his lips, and Deanie felt his
full weight go limp, then slump to the ground.
  "Kit!" She knelt beside him, her hands
trembling with panic. His head was at an awkward
angle, and for a moment she thought his neck had been
broken. Gripping his wrist, she found a pulse,
weak but steady. "Kit," she repeated in a
whisper.
  "Now, Mistress Deanie," Cromwell
continued as if nothing had occurred, "shall we discuss
the future?"
  They would kill him, she realized. If she
did not play along with this madman, Kit was as
good as dead. Swallowing hard, she faced
Cromwell, her hand still clamping Kit's wrist,
the pulsing beat giving her strength.
  When she spoke, her voice was flat and
emotionless. "Yes, Mr. Cromwell. Anything
you wish."

         END OF VOLUME I





















                        ONCE UPON A ROSE

                  by
           JUDITH O'BRIEN



    Volume II of Three Volumes
       Pages i-ii and 187-390



Published by: POCKET BOOKS, 1230
Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY
10020. Further reproduction or distribution
in other than a specialized format is
prohibited.




Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,
National Library Service for the Blind and
Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,
Inc., 1998.












Copyright 1996 by Judith O'Brien












        ONCE UPON A ROSE

              Chapter 7

  The sun beat harshly on her face, causing
her to blink against the heat and glare. Deanie
shifted in the saddle, an absurd device that
felt more like an instrument of torture than an
aid to female riders, the jutting pummel under
her knee meant to hold her uncomfortably in
place. Although she had been horseback riding
dozens of times, she had never been forced to ride
sidesaddle, wearing over ten pounds of clothing and a
wooden corset.
  She wiped the perspiration from her upper lip,
silently cursing the tightly laced sleeves.
Although it wasn't hot--not the humid warmth
Deanie was accustomed to--she felt as if she
had been placed in an oven. Her clothing felt
dirty and four sizes too small, her throat
was scratchy and raw.
  Cecily Garrison rode on her right, and
to her left was Katherine Howard. To the casual
observer, the women presented a fetching sight;
three ladies-in-waiting on the royal caravan
to Richmond palace, a few miles closer
to London. They took the Thames-side road,
winding and twisting as the whims of the river directed
them.
  Unlike the rest of the courtiers, Deanie
wasn't concerned with what sort of image she
projected. She had not slept the night before and
had not been able to eat for fear she would become
ill.
  Her horse stumbled over a log, but Deanie
barely noticed. Her sudden grip was more reflex
than a desire to prevent any mishap. She
didn't really care one way or another. Her
senses were numbed. Everything seemed distorted and
harsh; the pungent odor of the horses, Katherine
Howard's incessant giggles, the shouts of
servants and courtiers along the stone- and
mud-covered path. The only thing she was achingly
aware of was that every hoofbeat took her farther from
Kit.
  Kit.
  Was he even alive? Cromwell had assured
her that he was, yet she had little faith in the
man's word. She closed her eyes, trying to rid
her mind of the last glimpse she'd had of him, being
dragged from her chambers the night before. The
clumsy henchman had bumped into the threshold,
slamming Kit's lolling head against the stone and
wood, but Kit had made no sound, no noise
at all. The elongated pool of blood left
on her floor had been the only evidence of his
presence.
  Everyone else in the caravan was buzzing about
Queen Anne, also left behind at Hampton,
last seen waving rather forlornly from under the clock
tower. She had tried valiantly to follow the
train as far as the bridge over Hampton's
moat, but she had been humiliatingly guided
back by Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk.
  Kit.
  He had fought for her, had beaten his way to her
chamber door. There was so much unfinished business,
so much she wanted to tell him. He didn't even
know her shoe size, or that she was allergic
to shellfish. And there was so much basic information she
didn't know about him. When was his birthday, and how
old was he? Did he prefer blue or green,
and what was his mother like?
  Her horse again pitched forward, this time tripping
over a burlap cloth, muddied and twisted into a
knotted pile.
  She had sold her soul to Cromwell.
To spare Kit's life she had agreed to his
demands, to play the role of mistress to the King,
to even become Queen, all the while securing for
Cromwell his old position as the king's most
trusted adviser. She must turn her back on
Kit, allow no hint of Cromwell's threats
to plague his ambitions.
  Perhaps she should just slip under her horse, allow
herself to be trampled by dozens of well-equipped
horses and carts filled with the royal
furniture, gold plate and napery. She
might be better off dead than have to follow
Cromwell's hideous orders. But if she were
dead, she could not help Kit. She would never see
him again. It was better to have a shred of hope than
to give up altogether.
  With a deep breath she craned her neck and
looked behind, hoping against all reason to catch
sight of Kit riding to her rescue. He would be
on a large black horse, his full cloak
billowing behind, his hair tangled by the wind. But of
course he was not there. Only other chattering
courtiers, nodding and smiling and tossing coins to the
ragged peasants lining the road.
  Kit.
  Was he being cared for? The entire court had
believed Cromwell's tale: that Kit had been
stricken with a sudden illness. It was a vague
story, but the court--and especially the
scourge-obsessed King Henry--had been willing
to accept the account. Deanie's own wan appearance
lent authority to the story. Her cousin the duke was
to recover at Hampton, cared for by the queen's
foreign staff and a few members of the regular
Hampton crew. The king and his court would
travel to Richmond as planned, his people and
servants by land, the king in the well-appointed
royal barge.
  Cromwell was nowhere to be seen in the caravan.
But in her mind he was everywhere, lurking in the
shadows, grinning from the darkness. He had been
triumphant the night before, standing in her chamber as
if it were his own. With Kit gone, she had been
alone--more alone than she had ever been in her
life.
  "So, Mistress Deanie," Cromwell had
uttered smoothly. He snapped his squat fingers
and pointed to the pool of Kit's blood, and a young
boy appeared silently and blotted the stain.
Cromwell continued speaking to her, but she was unable
to follow his words, watching in sick horror as the
boy scrubbed the floor with blood-soaked rags,
never meeting her eyes.
  The boy left, and Deanie blinked at
Cromwell. "And then, Mistress Deanie,"
he concluded after a strangely theatrical
pause, "thou may have the satisfaction of
preserving the Duke of Hamilton's life."
  At that her eyes snapped to his face. He
sighed like an indulgent uncle. "Lest there be
any misunderstanding, I shall repeat. Do as I say.
When the king casts his eye upon a maiden"--he
looked her up and down--"or whatever, she can
scarce disregard his will. You shall be his, Mistress
Deanie. Thou hath a brace of choices:
to capitulate unwillingly, and hear of the duke of
Hamilton's death, unfortunate and tortuous.
Or you may follow my instructions. Do as I
command. Come to the king when he beckons--not before.
Let him believe he is the mighty conqueror,
welcome him with your soft arms open wide. Thou
shall become his mistress, perhaps even the queen. And
sing high my praises. In short, secure my
good favor in the king's grace, and we shall
all profit. Turn away from my good counsel,
and thou shall go to thy grave knowing that stubborn pride
and girlish whims caused the agony and death of a
favored duke. And your grave will not be long in
waiting; a charge of heresy shall be made against thy
person. Disobey me, and a heretic's death shall be
your ultimate reward."
  Deanie tried to recall what she had said
to Cromwell, but she could not remember her exact
words. It didn't really matter. She had
agreed to follow Cromwell's commands. She had
no other choice.
  The earl of Essex had added another caveat:
Should she tell the king what had transpired, or
should the king hear through the court gossips--and here
Cromwell had folded his hands under the fur cuffs
as he spoke--the duke of Hamilton would meet
with an untimely and painful end. Everyone already
believed he was ill. No one would be surprised
by his sudden death. Of course the king would be
saddened, but then he would find another favorite,
another virile young man through whom he could
relive his lost youth.
  In the distance ahead Deanie could see the
stragglers in the first cluster of the royal caravan,
the way-pavers, the warners who informed all ahead,
from Hampton to Richmond, of the king's imminent
arrival. Then came the second wave, the peers
and other courtiers, a veritable moving banquet of
wine and sweetmeats and chatter. Finally, bringing
up the rear, were the carters and the household staff,
the cooks and pages and keepers.
  And somewhere behind those, following the last cow being led
by a cheeseman's son, was Kit, left with a
dishonored queen and her skeleton staff of
foreigners. And of course half a dozen of
Cromwell's minions, ready to convince the duke
of the wisdom of Cromwell's plan.
  Deanie wiped the perspiration from her upper lip
again. When Katherine Howard offered her a skin
filled with spiced wine, she declined. She knew
she would not be able to keep a single swallow down.
But instead of confessing to the fear gnawing the pit of
her stomach, she shot Katherine one of her
brilliant smiles.
  Just as Cromwell had instructed.

  The odor was unbearable. It was a potent stench
of unwashed bodies and grease and spices, some
overly sweet, others bitter and foul.
  There was a hand on his forehead, gentle, soothing.
In the back of his mind he thought of Deanie.
What had happened? He could see her face, the
luminous eyes, the red mark where Cromwell had
hurt her. Damn it, he hadn't brought any of
his own men. What folly had overtaken him
to confront Cromwell without assistance?
  But of course he hadn't known the depths of
Cromwell's plans, the extent of his
desperation. Deanie had been out of his sight for no
more than twenty minutes when he realized they would
have to leave, to flee England if they were to have any
chance of a life together. After that night, it was already
too late for them. The king had set his sights on
Deanie. Once the royal mind was made up,
there was no changing it. He had broken with the Church
in Rome for the sake of a woman. No, it was time
for them to leave. Perhaps go to Calais or
Madrid.
  Where was Deanie? He tried to curb his anger,
furious at his own foolish actions. Since
arriving at court he had never taken a rash
step. Every move he made, every syllable uttered
had been carefully considered. Never had he let
down his guard. Even with women--especially with
women--he had been cautious, watching his intake
of wine, circumspect in the most intimate of
situations.
  He heard a moan, and he wondered if the
noise had come from his own throat. He tried
to move his head but was stopped by a bolt of pain,
crackling, exploding, more intense than any in his
memory.
  The soothing hands were still there. They were not
Deanie's. These hands were larger; Deanie's were
small. Delicate.
  Then he was flying.
  In his mind he could see the ground below: farms and
stone fences and lone horses and cattle grazing.
It was a timeless scene of the English countryside,
quiet and simple.
  Then he saw iron tracks and a puffing
locomotive. From above he could hear only the
roaring sputter of his own engine and the wind. Down
through the clouds, tiny as a child's toy, the train was
chugging away, filled with children fleeing the dangers of
war. The smallest refugees, forced to leave their
mums and dads. Then he saw the distant smoke
of London, the dome of St. Paul's
Cathedral. Big Ben. Landmarks,
landmarks. If he could see them, so could the enemy.
  Training. They had been training for the mission--
how to keep the enemy from shopping at Harrod's, his
fellow Royal Air Force pilots had all
dubbed it. How to keep Herr Himmler from taking
in a show at the Gaiety. They had laughed,
smiling at each other over those precious few
cigarettes. Then they were told how to get home,
how to refuel. The last part was a formality, a
bit of comfort for the green ones who still thought there was a
chance of returning alive. They had yet
to experience empty chairs at the officers'
mess, belongings hurridly bundled off before
evening. The odds were hopelessly, ridiculously
against them, but they paraded about the barracks with all
the dash and swagger of a Gilbert and Sullivan
officer.
  The mission was nothing short of suicide.
Kill the enemy, kill themselves. Perhaps save
England.
  This was his last sortie, after a summer and
autumn of being on alert twelve hours, sometimes
fifteen a day. In August he had flown seven
sorties in a single day. Number seven, a
lucky number. One last twenty-four-hour
furlough.
  He borrowed another chap's motorcycle--
what was his name? They had read history together at
Oxford. Took his motorcycle, even his
goggles, and rode, driving the rickety cycle,
heedless of the shameful waste of petrol.
  Where was he? In the air he would know. On the
ground, with all the signs and markers plucked from the
soil to confuse marauding Germans, he was lost.
Then he saw the chimneys of Hampton and wandered
there, goggles in hand, to the maze. Wandered for
hours, it seemed, clutching the leather and glass
goggles, knowing what the next hours would most
likely bring.
  Above, he heard the familiar buzz of
planes, the exploding shells falling outside of
London. He had flown over Berlin, just as the
Germans now circled over London.
  There was a heavy feeling in his stomach. Not
fear, exactly; just a swelling knowledge that he was
breathing his last. He'd had that feeling before, of
course. Before every sortie there was a sharpening of his
senses, a keen awareness that made every movement
exaggerated and uncomfortable.
  This time it was different, more intense.
Before he had been too exhausted to mentally
calculate his odds, flying by instinct alone,
shooting an enemy plane by swooping down from the
clouds. Dorniers and Heinkels, the plodding but
effective German bombers. Earlier in the
summer it had been Stukas, but the Germans
realized how slow they were, how easy for a new
RAF pilot to cut his teeth on.
  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, every
movement etched with prickly detail. Yet the
hours had raced by with stunning speed. This time it was
different.
  He took note of his every gesture. When he
stopped to tie his shoe in the maze, he wondered
if this knot would be his last. He stretched his
fatigued arms over his head and stood looking at
the old yew bushes. Reaching in his breast pocket
for the last of his cigarettes, he could feel his own
heart beating steadily. How odd, he thought, that the
steady beat would be stilled. It hardly seemed
possible.
  He checked his watch. It was time to get back,
time to prepare for this last mission. If all went
well, he would survive to train the next crop
of pilots. He had already been uncommonly
lucky. Number seven in a single day.
  Then the strange, pulsating beam of light,
blue and effulgent, bounced off the goggles. The
rumbling roared like a hundred bombers, a
sickly tremor of the very earth. In his surprise,
his mind spun the possibilities. Did the
enemy possess an earthquake machine, the
product of a twisted Nazi mind?
  Diabolical. Dastardly. Once he had
been close enough to a Messerschmitt escort
plane to see the pilot. Their eyes locked at
five thousand feet in the air, and they shared an
instant of recognition. There was intelligence in the
Luftwaffe pilot's eyes, a glint of
humor. It hit him heavily, like a low blow:
This man was just like him. University educated.
Joined the local flying club as a lark. In
another time, another year, they would be friends.
  Now they were meeting at five thousand feet, and
in an instant he had shot down his German
doppelg@anger, blinking as the Messerschmitt
spiraled into flames, the wind shrieking against the
wings like hell's banshee.
  Far away he heard a groan. His? Then
a woman's voice, deep and
guttural.
  German. The enemy.
  Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank,
serial number. All he had to say, all they
could make him say. Goddamn Hitler.
Goddamn Nazis. Wish to God the Yanks
would join in. Wish to God his Spitfire would
hold up.
  Name, rank, serial number.
  "Neville, Christopher. Captain.
Royal Air Force, nineteen-forty." That was the
year, not his serial number. What was his serial
number? "Fifteen forty," he mumbled. No.
That was the year, not his serial number. Then his
voice faded out. He tried to ask where he was.
Had his plane gone down behind enemy lines?
  The German woman was speaking. Goddamn
Nazi. Goddamn Hitler. Where was Deanie?
  Then all vanished into black velvet
nothingness.

              Chapter 8

  The twisting four miles from Hampton Court
to Richmond palace passed with inane languor.
It seemed to take hours. Without a watch,
Deanie had no idea how much time had actually
passed. She supposed she was probably
hungry but wasn't sure. Her whole body
seemed anesthetized, emotionless.
  Even in her detached state of mind, she was
aware of the magnificence of the countryside.
Richmond Park was a startling combination of wildly
lush forest and carefully pruned gardens. From the
corner of her eye she caught sight of a
long-limbed stag leaping over a hedge, its
graceful movements unnoticed by anyone else in
the caravan.
  Katherine and Cecily were discussing men,
whispering from beneath their cupped hands like a couple of
students in gym class.
  "Thomas Culpepper? Nay, I like him not,"
hissed Cecily Garrison. "He thinks too
highly of his own charms."
  Katherine Howard nodded eagerly. "What you
say, 'tis true. But surely his face is
worth looking upon if his character can be forgotten. Yet
in my mind no man can compare with the duke of
Hamilton." Cecily tried to shush her friend, but
Katherine was oblivious to the hint,
happily reveling in her own fantasies. "I
do hope he recovers from his illness soon,
Mistress Cecily," she continued, her vapid
eyes glazed with her own thoughts. "Is there another
man so handsome or pleasingly mannered? Ah, and so
manly too. Not foppish, like so many of the young
bucks of the court."
  Finally she noticed the strained silence and,
blinking, turned to Cecily, who was now glaring in
anger. With an embarrassed swallow, Katherine
turned to Deanie.
  "Pray forgive my prattle about your cousin,
Mistress Deanie. He is a respected
peer, and deserveth not to be named with the base-born
Culpepper."
  Deanie, her face a ghastly white, simply
nodded and turned away. Her orders from
Cromwell had been clear. But how on earth would
she manage to carry them out?
  Just then they turned into the gates of Richmond
palace. Straightening in the saddle, wondering if
her leg would be permanently hooked in the
position, she strained to see the palace itself.
  Why hadn't Nathan Burns picked this as the
sight of the video? It was also of brick, with
chimneys and smoke stacks, but this palace was more
manageable. About a third the size of
Hampton, it resembled a private college
rather than a royal residence.
  They rode into a quadrangle, sta2oys and
servants rushing from every corner to assist the ladies
in dismounting, steadying a few of the more inebriated men.
The moment her foot touched the cobbled ground,
Deanie had but one thought.
  She had to get back to Kit. Somehow, as
soon as possible.
  "Mistress Deanie." A beefy hand
grasped her own, and she peered into the bloodshot
eyes of Charles Brandon, the duke of
Suffolk.
  "Thank you," she murmured. She was about
to back away when she paused. "My Lord," she
produced one of her best smiles, and Suffolk
lapped it up, his eyes atwinkle with some secret
thought she did not wish to discover. He bowed.
  "Is Cromwell, the earl of Essex, within?"
Deanie tried to sound casual, but something in her
voice made Suffolk straighten. His eyes were
now keen, appraising. She had to be careful.
  "Cromwell? Nay. The king this
morn hath sent Cromwell on a journey of
state business. May I be of service?"
  She didn't wait for him to complete his offer.
"He's gone? He's not here or at
Hampton?" Oh please, she prayed. Let it
be true.
  A sta2oy took the reins of her horse.
She watched him go through a gate, noting where the
stables were, then turned back to Suffolk, who was
watching her with an intelligence she did not think
he was capable of.
  "And the king?" Her voice was strained.
  "He waits within, attended by the royal
surgeon. The journey pained his leg, and he
may rest."
  An idea formed in Deanie's mind, and she
almost smiled at the thought. She would faint. She
would fake an illness, which would buy her precious
time.
  "My Lord," she said weakly, willing her hand
to tremble as she grasped Suffolk's sleeve.
It was not difficult: She was terrified. Should this
fail, she would place Kit--and herself--in even
greater danger. "I fear I am unwell."
  With those words, Mistress Deanie Bailey
swooned into the brocaded arms of the duke of
Suffolk. In the commotion that followed--the ordering
of a litter to carry her within, sobbing Katherine
Howard attesting to how unwell she had seemed
during the ride from Hampton--no one noticed the
slight smile animating Suffolk's mustache.

  The king peered over his physician's shoulder,
anxious for the task to be completed.
  "We bid you haste, Dr. Butts." He
gritted his teeth against the pain as the cloth covering
his leg was pulled back, making the ulcerating
sore throb. The physical discomfort was nothing
new. But His Majesty's light mood was.
  Dr. Butts took a deep breath through his
mouth, trying to avoid the stench of the festering thigh, and
changed the dressing as swiftly as possible. He
certainly did not wish to bait the king's
well-known temper.
  "Your Majesty, 'twill be but a moment."
  His hands flew deflty over the large royal
limb, noting that the wound was unchanged. No
worse, but certainly no better than the day before.
Would it ever heal? It had already plagued the king for
years, ever since that jousting incident. It
was a miracle that the king had survived. Nobody
realized how severe the injury had been, how
deeply the opponent's lance had cut into the king's
thigh. Only the fevers that followed, the recurring
bouts of delirium, had revealed the true
nature of the injury. The best of modern medicine
had been employed, from leeches and bleeding
to exotic ointments and fervent prayer. Nothing had
helped. The wound remained unhealed.
  The king grunted, whether in impatience or
pain, the physician was not willing to hazard a
guess.
  There was a knock on the door. "Your
Majesty?"
  The king smiled, recognizing the voice. "Come
in, Suffolk, come in."
  The door swung open, and Charles Brandon
entered. "Your Majesty." He bowed.
  Henry gestured him to rise. "Come come,
Suffolk. Hath she arrived?" He was as eager
as a small child.
  "Yes, Your Majesty." Suffolk
straightened. "She hath arrived, and betimes
fainted."
  "Fainted?"
  "Yes." Suffolk was unable to keep the
laughter from his voice. "She fainted into my arms,
Your Majesty."
  "God's blood, Charles. It's not
amusing." Henry slapped Dr. Butts on the
back. "Enough. Be gone." The physician,
noting the irritation in the king's tone, was only
too happy to flee.
  "Think thee she has the same malady as her
cousin, Hamilton?" The king sat heavily on
his chair, kicking the footstool away with his good
leg. The footstool skidded across the floor,
tipping on its side when it hit the heavy
oak-paneled wall.
  "I know not, Your Highness. She rests in
chambers across the yard."
  "Aye," the king spat. "And we would much
prefer she do anything but rest in this very chamber."
A harsh grunt escaped his mouth, and he balled
his hand into a fist. Then he too smiled.
"Fainted," he mumbled.
  "Dead away, Your Majesty," Suffolk
confirmed.
  "Ha! Another jest, eh, Suffolk?" The
king reached for a gold dish filled with
peaches, silently offering one to Suffolk, who
shook his head. "Any word on Hamilton?" The
king took a bite of the fruit, a river of
juice winding through his russet beard. "'Twill
be most dull without him at our board."
  "Mistress Katherine Howard quoth he is
yet unwell, Your Majesty."
  "Katherine Howard, eh?" The king shifted his
bulk in the chair. "Make sure the Howard wench
is seated at our board, eh, Suffolk? With
Hamilton ill and Mistress Deanie in a
swoon, 'twill be the very devil to find
amusement."
  Suffolk bowed low again and took his leave.
Something was afoot, and before he dared mention it to the
king, he was bound to discover exactly what it was.

  It was well past midnight. There was a clock
somewhere nearby, not a massive one like at
Hampton, but smaller. The "ping" was light,
delicate.
  Deanie was fully clothed. She didn't dare
risk undressing, for fear she would not be able
to clothe herself again. Time after time that evening she had
been forced to turn away well-meaning servants and
Mistress Cecily and Katherine, all
solicitous, all wanting to make her more comfortable,
all hoping she would be well enough to dine with the king.
When it was apparent she had no intention of leaving
her heavily furnished room, a silver tray
filled with delicacies was delivered to her door.
  Across the courtyard she caught fleeting sights
of the king. Once she peeked out the window, only
to meet the royal gaze. He had been spying on
her, and when he saw her face, he jumped back
as quickly as she did.
  As spacious as her room was, she longed for
Hampton. Not only did she miss Kit, she
missed the few privies there, closets with
drains to run sewage to the river. Here there were no
such luxuries.
  It was time, just after midnight. She had to leave
now, while all was quiet and before Cromwell
returned. The low-ceilinged chamber felt safe
and solid as she stepped noiselessly to the door.
She didn't dare bring a candle, as that would be
asking for attention.
  The door creaked as she opened it, and she
paused, holding her breath. She had to get to the
stables to find a horse; then she could
ride back to Hampton. All she had to do was
follow the Thames downstream, and she would be there in
a couple of hours. She would check on Kit,
make sure he was being treated well, then ride
back to Richmond before daybreak.
  She almost stepped right in front of a servant.
Pressing herself into an arched doorway, she
remained motionless until the figure had
retreated through another hallway. Her cloak,
dark and sumptuous, rustled as she walked. It
had seemed such a clever idea to wear the damask
hooded cloak. But now it sounded as loud as a car
alarm.
  Outside, she crept through the courtyard, hugging
the brick walls. She could see candles
flickering in some windows. Her slippers padded
silently over the cobblestones. Just around the corner
she could hear the whinnies and snorts of horses in
the stables.
  The stables were illuminated by large torches on
the walls. Again she paused before entering, hoping
none of the horses made a noise as she passed.
  Crouching, she crept along the stalls, keeping
low so the horses didn't see her. She looked
for the mare she'd ridden earlier, a docile beast
named Fancy. It would be easier just to walk
to Hampton, but she didn't have the time to get there
and back before sunrise without a horse.
  In the third stall to the end she saw Fancy,
a burlap blanket over her back. The latch
squeaked.
  "Fancy," she whispered, reaching up to rub the
mare's velvety nose. "Are you up to a quick
ride back to Hampton?"
  A large figure suddenly emerged from the
shadows. "Again, Mistress Deanie, I ask,
doth thou require my service?" Charles
Brandon, wearing the same colorful brocade
doublet as earlier, clamped a hand over her wrist.
  She jumped at the sound of his voice, her
eyes wide. How could she explain her presence
in the stables?
  He continued, his voice even: "I could not but
note how you found the direction of the stables most
fascinating, even as a swoon overtook thee.
How fare thee now, mistress?"
  "Um, hello." She smiled, too perky for the
hour and circumstances. "I'm doing much better,
thank you. I just thought I'd check on the horse.
She seemed a little, uh, under the weather."
  "I see." Suffolk released her wrist.
"'Twood seem, mistress, you confuse the facts.
'Twas thee, not the mare, who fell into a swoon
this day."
  Deanie cleared her throat and pulled the
cloak tighter about her shoulders.
  "Let me speak plain," he said. "Why art
thou here?" She was about to answer, but he held up
one of his large hands. "Play not the innocent. I
heard your words: Thou art bound for Hampton."
  Deanie remained very still but then slumped against the
side of the stall, a very twentieth-century curse
escaping her lips. Suffolk smiled. "That is
better. Honest, at the very least. Tell me,
mistress."
  At once she was exhausted, and she rubbed her
eyes. "I'm worried about Kit. He's ill,
and I was going to ride back to see him for a few
minutes. Just a few minutes, I swear. I was
hoping to get back here by sunrise, so nobody
would even know I had gone."
  "I see," Suffolk said. His eyes raked
over her, the fatigue so evident. "What
manner of illness doth plague the duke?"
  The horse began to prance in place. Before
Deanie could answer, Suffolk opened the stall
door and pushed her away from Fancy's clopping
hooves. Once outside, he folded his arms.
"Let me ask another question: Doth Cromwell
have anything to do with Hamilton's malady?"
  Deanie's eyes snapped to his. She was about
to deny it when something in Suffolk's expression
made her stop. There was no way for her to lie to this
man, who seemed to see straight through her. Instead
of saying a word, she simply nodded once.
  Suffolk stiffened. "Damnation," he spat.
"I feared as much."
  He paced away from her, his back stiff.
"He is a knave, that Cromwell. The king
allowed him much, because there was naught Cromwell
would not do for His Majesty. Power corrupts."
  "And absolute power corrupts
absolutely," Deanie mumbled.
  Suffolk turned, his eyes again sharp. "Thou
art right. However did you know?"
  "Oh, I think it was a question on Jeopardy!"
  For the first time, confusion clouded his brow. Then he
reached for her arm. "Art thou in jeopardy?"
  She nodded. "Will you help me get to Kit?"
  "Nay. Not without more information. Why
doth Cromwell risk all to harm Hamilton?
Surely he knows the duke is a favorite of the
king's."
  She hesitated. How could she be sure
Suffolk wasn't working for Cromwell?
  "Tell me all now," he said softly. "Or
I will go to the king in a thrice."
  "No!" She lowered her voice. "No,
please." There was no choice now, no choice but
to take a chance and trust Suffolk. "Cromwell
wants me to become the king's mistress. He
even wants me to become the next queen. The
whole time I am to get Cromwell back in
favor with the king. If I don't agree, he'll
kill Kit."
  "But I thought ..." Suffolk began, shaking his
head. "What of the other night, the exchange between
His Highness and thee? Was that not an agreement?"
  "No, no. I misunderstood. You see, where
I come from--"
  "Wales?" Suffolk offered.
  "Yeah, sure. Wales. Anyway, I
didn't understand what I was doing. It was a
mixup."
  Suffolk crossed his arms again. "But for any
woman, 'twood be the greatest of honors to be a
companion of the king's."
  "No!"
  Suffolk said nothing. The horses were becoming
restless with the sound of people in the stable, and she heard
hooves kicking against the stalls. "Tell me,"
he said at last. "Doth thou love another?"
  "Yes." Her voice was very small.
  "The duke of Hamilton?" he added.
  "Yes," she whispered.
  There was a long moment, and neither said a word. Then
Suffolk clutched her arm. She gasped,
realizing he was probably taking her straight to the
king.
  Instead, he pulled her from the stables, away from
the palace. "Where are you taking me?" she
panted, stumbling as Suffolk led her into the
woods.
  "There would not be time by horse to get to Hampton
and back," he hissed. "The roads are
dangerous. Vile persons would hurt thee."
  "What?"
  "Boat. We will travel by boat, Mistress
Deanie. Be quick."
  He moved with a speed and agility she
did not think was possible. Kit had told her that
Suffolk had been the greatest jouster in his day, the
most able horseman, the only courtier to rival
the king in athletic ability. As he guided her
through the woods, his feet moving with amazing speed,
his vast body suddenly light and youthful, she
believed the stories.
  They reached the Thames, and he gave a
boatswain a handful of coins and helped her into a
rickety boat. By the time she had caught her
breath, they were well on their way back
to Hampton, Suffolk puffing as they pushed the
boat forward with a long pole.
  "Why are you helping me?" she asked,
remembering that she had asked similar words of
Kit.
  For a while Suffolk said nothing. She assumed
he hadn't heard her, so laboriously was he
propelling the boat.
  "Did you know I was married to the king's sister?"
His voice came from the darkness. She shook her
head, but he did not see her. The outlines of
trees seemed to fly by in the night as they glided
down the Thames. "I was sent to get Mary, sent
to Paris to collect her after her husband, the king of
France, had died. He was a bitter old man."
Suffolk laughed. "Old man--he was of an
age with me now. Mary was beautiful, the fairest
maiden at court before she became queen of
France. I was to escort her home to yet another
arranged marriage, another diplomatic
contract. She sobbed on my shoulder and confessed
her love for me."
  "So did you take her home? I mean, did
she have to marry someone else first?" Deanie had
forgotten for the moment her own problems.
  "Nay. We were married in Paris, in
1514."
  Deanie sighed, leaning back against the boat.
"How romantic."
  "Yes. It was. The king forgave us then, for
he too was a young blood like myself. I fear I was
not a good husband to Mary. I was too young, too
full of fire. I was not faithful, but she was a
good wife. We were married until her death seven
years ago this June. She was unhappy, Mary.
But gad, as a girl, she was a beauty. Her
hair dark as midnight, her eyes sparkled."
  Deanie closed her eyes, imagining the obese
Henry as a dashing young prince and the
bloated Suffolk as his handsome companion. Both
had loved fiercely. How exciting it must have
been, two rogues, strutting in their power and
glory.
  "Mistress Deanie?" Suffolk's voice
startled her.
  "Humm?"
  His voice was dry. "She looked like you. My
Mary, she looked like you."
  The remainder of the journey passed in silence.
Only the water sounds, gentle droplets as they
sliced through the river, echoed in the night.

  Deanie stood beyond the moat of Hampton,
staring up at the colossal palace. Resisting the
urge to go back to the boat where Suffolk was
waiting, she loosened the hood from her cloak,
letting her hair hang freely to her shoulders.
She peered beyond the small bridge.
  It was not a real moat, this little stream surrounding
the building. It had been created by the original
builder of Hampton, Cardinal Wolsey, who
fancied the romance and beauty of a moat.
  A guard appeared from the side of the building.
  "Ho! Who goes?"
  Deanie guessed that without the king in residence,
security would be rather lax. Perhaps the king secretly
hoped that invaders would storm the palace and
kidnap Queen Anne, thus making his own
dilemma a great deal easier to resolve.
  She cleared her throat. "It's me,
Mistress Deanie Bailey. I have come to see
my cousin, the duke of Hamilton." To her own
ears, she sounded incredibly stupid, appearing at
three in the morning at the foot of a moat.
  The guard grasped a torch and approached her
cautiously, squinting as he observed her
features by the orange glow of the flame. But he
didn't ask any further questions. "Come with me,"
he muttered, and she could smell the heavy odor of
wine on his breath.
  He led her through the first three courtyards, not
saying a word. She began to panic, wanting
desperately to ask him how Kit was, yet
afraid of the answer.
  "Through there, to the left. The queen has been
caring for him," he said, leaving her to find her own
way.
  There were far fewer torches on the walls,
evidence of the king's strange sense of
frugality. The halls were silent, and to the left
of the hall she found a door partially ajar.
  Slowly, she entered. In the center of a small
room, illuminated only by a single candle, she
saw a figure lying motionless on a bed.
  "Kit?"
  There was no response. Beside the bed was a
chair, and she shrugged out of her cloak and sat
down, the legs of the chair scraping on the ground.
Reaching for the candle, she held it up to the person's
face.
  It was Kit, lying so still she thought he might be
dead.
  With a trembling hand she touched his forehead, hot
and dry to the touch. His dark hair was disheveled,
lying in a haphazard tumble about the pillow. The
gash on his forehead had been cleaned, or at least
wiped. Drawing her finger along his lean cheek,
she could feel the heat rise even above the growth of
whiskers.
  "Kit, it's me. Deanie," she whispered,
hoping her voice didn't sound as frightened as she
felt. There was no reaction.
  A peculiar fragrance wafted through the room,
musky and pungent. Distractedly, she glanced
around the room but couldn't find the source. She
returned her gaze to Kit, touching a strand of his
hair. His doublet had been removed. All she
could see beneath the coverlet was his shirt, streaked with
blood and dirt.
  "I'm here, Kit." She leaned close,
speaking into his ear. The strange aroma was more
powerful now. She sniffed and realized it was coming from
his shirt. Gingerly she untied the laces at his
throat, watching his chest rise and fall with
swift, shallow breaths.
  Suddenly she felt awkward and embarrassed,
unlacing his clothing as he lay unconscious. His
chest was broad and muscular, as she already knew from
their embraces. What she wasn't expecting was
chest hair, curly and black, covering the upper
portion of his torso. She touched it and quickly
pulled back. This wasn't right, it was indecent.
Yet she could not help but enjoy the feel of him,
the strength that radiated from him even when he
slept.
  Then she saw the wound.
  She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from
crying out. At the crook of his neck, where
Cromwell's man had struck him
twice with a steel-headed staff, was a large,
gaping wound. It looked as if his collarbone had
been broken, and his right shoulder was at an
unnatural angle. Dried blood caked in
black splotches surrounded the area, with jagged
raw edges revealing bits of cloth stuck to the
wound.
  The odd odor was caused by some sort of salve
smeared all over his shoulder, glistening in the
candlelight. Careful not to disturb the wound, she
swiped at a smear with a fingertip. Up close it
was speckled and filthy. Perhaps it had been the work
of Cromwell, a poison to finish him off.
  She reached behind for her cloak and gently dabbed
away whatever she could of the salve. Some was too
deeply entrenched in the wound for her to remove without
hurting him further. The light was poor, and she
wasn't sure if she had wiped enough. There was a
bowl of stagnant water on a table, but she
didn't want to risk using water unless it had
been boiled.
  Her gaze returned to his face. Those strong
features, so vulnerable, filled her with a surge
of determination. She had felt curiously
indecisive before. Now she had a definite
goal: to get him well. She leaned over, staring
at his face up close, and kissed him on the
cheek. The whiskers were scratchy, his skin was
unnaturally hot, but it felt right.
  Time was meaningless as she sat with him, murmuring
soft words, stroking his hair. Once she saw his
throat work, as if he would speak, but he remained
silent.
  She had never taken care of anything
important. Now she was needed to save the life
of the most wonderful man she had ever met.
  She would do it.
  From the window, she could see a soft lightening of the
sky; it was a gentle gray rather than the
pitch-black of earlier.
  Suffolk leaned into the room. She hadn't
heard his footsteps, yet she didn't jump when
she heard his voice.
  "Mistress Deanie," he said, walking to the
bed. "We should go anon. As it is we shall not
make first daybreak." He looked down at
Kit, at the wound on his shoulder.
  "Damnation." He felt Kit's forehead.
"He burns with fever."
  "I know," she said quietly, her
eyes never leaving Kit's face. His left hand
lay next to hers, and she raised it to her lips,
pressing it to the side of her face.
  And very softly, his fingers caressed her cheek,
briefly, tenderly.
  "I know," she whispered, her voice broken.
"You can't talk, but you know I'm here. I'm not
leaving, Kit. I won't go away."
  Suffolk slowly backed out of the room. "I go
forth, Mistress Deanie." His voice was rough.
"Bid me luck, for betwixt here and Richmond
I must concoct the tale of my life for both the
king and Cromwell."

  "Mistress Deanie, Mistress Deanie."
  She was on the edge of a dream, a deep,
solid sleep. A voice was calling her in the
distance, strangely accented. She was slumped
forward, leaning against a bed, propped in a chair.
For a moment she thought she had fallen asleep in
her hotel room. On television was an old
Elke Sommer film, her clear German accent
making everyone else sound dull and ordinary.
  "Mistress Deanie, pray awaken," the
voice pleaded.
  With a jolt she opened her eyes, realizing where
she was. Queen Anne of Cleves, the fourth
wife of Henry VIII, was nudging her shoulder,
uncertain and hesitant.
  "Your Majesty," Deanie gasped, rising
lopsidedly to her feet and simultaneously
trying to curtsy without dropping Kit's hand.
  Queen Anne made a dismissive gesture and
motioned for Deanie to again take her chair. "The
duke: He fares better this morning?" The queen
was outlandishly garbed in gold brocade and
gemstones, her face framed by an angular
headdress shaped like a kite.
  Deanie looked down. He seemed the same;
his unnatural pallor was more apparant in the even
light of morning.
  "My own physician from Cleves hath tended
him." The queen reached over and touched Kit's
head. Deanie held her breath, overpowered by the
queen's aroma. "Is good. The fever lessens,"
she concluded with a brisk nod.
  "He's been looked at by a physician,
Your Majesty?"
  "Ya. His bone here," she said, gesturing to his
collarbone, "hath been split. Then
goes it down, and hurt the air going in and out.
My own Dr. Cornelius make the balm for the
wound." Queen Anne seemed enormously proud
of herself.
  "Oh. Thank you." Deanie watched Kit as
his head turned slightly on the pillow. She was
about to ask what the ointment was made of, afraid
of the answer, when the Queen glanced about the room.
  "We are alone?" she whispered, checking under the
bed with a sweep of her foot. Her heavy gown
prevented her from bending down.
  Deanie nodded, and the queen pulled another
chair, one she hadn't seen the night before, next
to Deanie's.
  "Englebert bade them leave, but I fear they
return."
  "Englebert?" Deanie asked, completely
confused.
  "My man, Englebert. From Cleves, when
I was girl." She leveled her hand to the height
of about four feet. Deanie wasn't sure if the
height represented Anne as a girl or
Englebert as a man. "They quoth to him they
stay, but Englebert, he say no. They no
stay."
  Deanie was about to ask what the queen was talking
about, when the information dawned on her.
"Cromwell's men?" She lowered her voice.
"Were they Cromwell's men?"
  The queen nodded eagerly. "They say, "We
stay." Engelbert know them from when we come first
here. He know they men of Cromwell, not men of
king. He say, "We tell king now." And
Cromwell men leave."
  Deanie rubbed her thumb over the top of
Kit's hand, thinking. The hand was strong and sure.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, "that Englebert
--he's one smart cookie. If I were you,
I'd keep him around."
  "Ja," she responded, the word coming out as
ya. "Englebert is cookie."
  Deanie glanced up, inches away from the earnest
face of the queen. The royal bride was looking
at Kit with unabashed concern. Her broad,
flat hand skimmed his forehead. "Fever is
less?"
  "I think so," Deanie agreed. "I hope
so."
  "Dr. Cornelius come soon for to bleed
him."
  "No"--Deanie tried to keep her voice
even--"I really don't think that's such a hot
idea. I was just thinking of boiling some water with some
bandages in it and changing those filthy rags on his
arm."
  The queen clicked her tongue. "Dr.
Cornelius know about all things physick. He
say bleed the duke. He send for best barbers
to bleed duke."
  "Barbers?" Deanie straightened. "You know,
those whiskers on Kit must be really uncomfortable.
Maybe they can shave them off. That would give them
something to do and make everyone happy. Right?"
  The queen gave her a dubious look. "Dr.
Cornelius say we bleed duke."
  "I say we shave his whiskers. I'll make
a deal with you, Your Highness. Give me five
minutes alone with the barbers and I'll convince them
to shave Kit instead of bleeding him. Okay?"
  The queen's eyes narrowed, but her lips
curved into a grin. "Okay."
  Deanie, her smile still in place, returned
her full attention to Kit. The queen, however,
folded her hands and spent the next half hour
practicing the words okay and cookie.

  He was dreaming again.
  That was the only explanation. He took a
deep breath, swallowing against the pain. His head
hurt, his shoulder hurt, his entire body felt
as if it had been pushed through a sieve.
  The guttural conversations were still floating over his
head. This time there was another voice, gentle, an
edge of laughter to the tone. Yet she wasn't
laughing. The accent was American,
unmistakably Yankee. Not Yankee. It was
an accent from the American South. Harsher than
Vivian Leigh's vowels in her new movie,
Gone with the Wind. He remembered seeing
Miss Leigh on stage, all those plays. They
called her the "fame in a night" girl. She was
lovely, with large hands. Big hands for such a
slight woman.
  The hands on his face were light, delicate.
There was a whisper. "I'm not going away, Kit.
I know you can hear me, and I'm not leaving you."
Did he imagine feeling a soft face wet with
tears? Was she crying for him?
  Deanie. Of course. How could he forget?
  He took another deep breath and could
hear the air come in. It sounded like a terribly
large amount of air, but he still needed more. He
couldn't seem to take in enough air.
  There was another set of hands on his face, these
hard and masculine. There was something familiar about
the scraping he felt, then he realized he was being
shaved. He tried to speak, to form words to say "I
don't need a shave--I need more air!" but he
could not.
  Something else was happening. He could hear
Deanie's voice with a cajoling tone. He tried
to open his eyes, but they remained closed.
  "I promise." There was a laugh in her
voice, and he could imagine her smile, those
eyes. God, how he wanted to see her.
  "Okay, come over here," she was saying. He
heard the uncertain shuffle of feet on the
floor. They were following her to another part of the
room, away from his bed.
  For a while he heard nothing. There was a sloshing
sound of water in a bowl, the grate of a chair on
the floor. And nothing.
  "Ouch!" she shouted.
  He had to help her. What were the barbarians
doing?
  Another female voice said, "Okay!"
  With a supreme effort, he opened his eyes. It
took a moment to focus, and the world tilted
crazily out of control before he could see. From his
barely opened eyes, he saw Deanie surrounded
by half a dozen barber-surgeons. They huddled
about her, their cloaks forming a tent, nodding in
serious but muted conversation. One of them was wielding
a large curved knife with a beefy hand, and he
had Deanie's long and slender bare leg in the
other.
  It looked like a scene of pagan animal
sacrifice. He tried to get enough breath to shout,
to give her a chance to escape, when suddenly he
saw her toss back her head and laugh.
  "No, I'm not kidding." She smiled. "Where
I come from, all the ladies shave their legs. You
have no idea how great it feels."
  The Cleves queen nodded. "Okay. The men
say they no bleed duke, you keep your bargain.
Okay?"
  There was relief in her voice now as Kit
shut his eyes. "Great. Just leave him alone, and
I'll let them shave my legs whenever they want
to."
  Part of him wanted to laugh at this outrageous
woman who had struck such a deal with members of the
barber-surgeon guild. The sheer audacity of
her idea delighted him.
  Another part of him, where his emotions were raw with
turmoil, wanted to weep.
  Instead, he slept.

              Chapter 9

  "What mean you, she is gone?" the king demanded,
all traces of his recent good humor vanished.
  Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk,
paused for a moment before elaborating. Judging from the
shade of crimson now flaming the royal
visage, he knew King Henry was more upset by the
absence of a comely woman than angry at an
errant subject.
  "Your Highness, she feared bearing disease to her
most gracious king. After swooning here at
Richmond, her first thought upon awakening was of her
king's own health. She bid me help her
swiftly back to Hampton, where she could both
tend her cousin and keep Your Majesty from harm."
  A low growl escaped the king's throat as he
looked down at his finely jeweled doublet. He
had worn it for her, for Mistress Deanie. Now
she was gone. His first instinct was to kick a dog, but
there were none about to kick. He stood with his legs
planted apart, his mighty arms akimbo, as if
reassuring himself and Suffolk of his imperial
power.
  Suffolk's words then edged their way into his
mind. "She was concerned about our health, then." He
made it a proclamation, to allow Suffolk no
chance of changing the story.
  "Verily she was," he confirmed. "I did
see Hamilton with mine own eyes, Your
Highness, and his sickness seems not of the infectious
sort."
  The king nodded once, brisk steps striding to the
window. His broad back to Suffolk, he bounced
on the balls of his feet with surprising
buoyancy for a man of his girth.
  "What manner of illness, then, keeps
Hamilton away? He is a hearty sort.
Never have I seen him bend to injury or disease."
The king's tone was light yet probing. Suffolk
realized the king suspected something other than the
usual plague or sweating sickness.
  Suffolk had long before ceased being amazed by his
king's ability to decipher a situation. For all
his good-fellow pats on the back and displays of
pomp, King Henry was a shrewd judge of character.
He could size up a man's worth with the briefest
of conversations, and once his decision was made,
only rarely could it be altered. Unless, of
course, changing his mind would benefit his cause,
whatever it may be. At the moment, Henry's
cause was to find a new wife. Suffolk, from a
lifetime of hard-won experience, knew that nothing
could dissuade Henry from his path.
  "I left Hampton early this morn, Your
Highness, ere the house began to stir. I know not
what the doctors say and judge myself not amongst
their ilk." Suffolk kept his voice even,
carefully choosing his words. "All I know is that
Mistress Deanie is in excellent health now,
and the swoon of yesterday was perchance from the lengthy
journey in the high heat of the noon sun.
Mistress Deanie's concerns are for her king and for
her cousin."
  "In that order?" Henry inquired.
  "I believe so, Sire," Suffolk said
calmly. He wanted to tell Henry of
Cromwell's part in Hamilton's illness, but
to do so would also require explaining the exact
relationship between Mistress Deanie and
Hamilton. Perhaps the king could tolerate the news
later, once his infatuation with Mistress Deanie
had faded. Perhaps then he could explain, gently,
tastefully. Not now.
  Henry turned to face Suffolk, about to speak
again, when the chamber door flew open.
Cromwell, covered in spattered mud and dust from
his journey, swept into the room. His black
cloak billowed behind as he made a low bow.
"Your Highness," he mumbled, only just then
noticing the presence of Suffolk. Cromwell
nodded once to Suffolk, his thick eyebrows
dotted with flecks of soil. "Suffolk." It was
less a greeting than an observation.
  Suffolk maintained a bland expression, biting
back the urge to accuse Cromwell, right before the
king, of ordering Hamilton's brutal beating and
blackmailing Mistress Deanie. Instead, he
gave a curt nod. "Essex."
  The king crossed his arms. "I did not hear you
knock to gain entry, Essex."
  For a fleeting moment, a rare
uncertainy crossed Cromwell's broad
features, a slight look of confusion. In eight
years he had simply entered the king's chamber,
especially when bearing urgent matters of state.
Now he was reprimanded, dressed down like a common
scullery maid, for behaving as was his custom.
  "I wished not to delay the good news, Your
Highness," he announced with more confidence than he
felt. What did the king know? There was something about
his stance, his unwavering glare, that alarmed
Cromwell. "All three bishops--Winchester,
Durham, and York--agree there is much cause
for annulment. God is withholding His blessings from this
marriage, and the king must be free to choose a wife
more of his liking, a wife to bear fruit, for the good
of the realm."
  Instead of the jovial bearhug or slap on the
back he had been expecting, even preparing for,
the king said nothing.
  "We go tonight to Hampton." Henry seemed
to be speaking to Suffolk, but his eyes never left
Cromwell's face.
  "Hampton, Your Highness?" Cromwell's
tone was incredulous. "Why, we left Hampton
but yesterday."
  "Very good, Essex." There was an unpleasant
chord to the king's voice. "I see your travels
have done nothing to weaken your mental
capabilities. We left Hampton but
yesterday, and tonight we return."
  Cromwell's lips tightened as he bowed
once more. "Excellent, Your Highness. I shall
order the household staff to--"
  "No." The king spoke without moving. "You need
not bother, Essex. I believe the duke of
Norfolk can handle the arrangements."
  "Norfolk? But Sire, it has always been
my duty to discharge this task." Cromwell
swallowed. "Norfolk knows not how it is done."
  "Norfolk can handle the arrangements." The
king's voice was low but unmistakably firm.
  Beneath the cloak, Cromwell's hand clenched
into a fist. The ruby ring on his index finger bit
into his skin, leaving an indentation he did not
feel.
  "Your Majesty." Cromwell bowed again,
backing from the room, feeling the heat of Henry's
and Suffolk's stares. He would not leave this way,
cowed by the king and his smirking duke. "Oh,
Sire." Cromwell's head snapped
up, his face stretching into an intimate, knowing
grin. Often he had spoken to the king thus, friend
to friend. "And how is Mistress Deanie? Is she
pleasing to the royal palate?"
  The king's face remained impassive, and
Suffolk spoke: "You know not what happened,
then? Last night I did bear Mistress
Deanie back to Hampton, so she could care for
her cousin Hamilton."
  "Hamilton?" Cromwell's voice warbled
in a shrill pitch before he could control it. "The
duke of Hamilton is not here at Richmond?
I knew not he was ill."
  "We did not say he was ill, Essex."
Suffolk clasped his hands behind his back in an
effort to keep them from closing about Cromwell's
fat neck.
  Cromwell's small eyes shifted before he
responded. "'Twas but a deduction,
Suffolk. You said Mistress Deanie was
attending her cousin. Logic led me to believe
he was ill."
  "Good day, Essex," the king said without his
usual warmth.
  Reining in his escalating rage--fury at his
own men, Hamilton, and above all, that Bailey
wench--Cromwell thundered from the chamber. Someone was
going to pay for this humiliation, he vowed. He would
see a head tumble, and what amusement it would
provide! Someone was going to bitterly regret
playing Thomas Cromwell, earl of Essex,
for the fool.

  "My fool, my fool!" Queen Anne
clapped her hands in delight as the young man
tumbled. The bells on his toes and clipped
to his floppy red hat jingled as he rolled into a
standing position, arms spread wide to receive his
applause. The queen laughed merrily and turned
to Deanie, who sat quietly at her feet.
  They were in the queen's chamber, playing an
interminable game called Blank Dice and
watching a tumbler who would have been given the hook
on "The Gong Show." All Deanie could think
about was Kit, still unconscious below in the small,
stifling room. Dr. Cornelius had ordered
her from Kit's side, promising to tend to the duke
with his own hands.
  That's what had her so worried.
  "My fool, he is okay, no?"
The queen was trying her best to amuse Deanie,
to keep her mind off Kit.
  "Yes, Your Majesty." Deanie tried
to smile. "He's a regular laugh riot."
  The queen raised her plucked eyebrows and
giggled. "A laugh riot? I shall recall that
phrase. It is to my liking. A laugh riot."
  Englebert, the queen's footman, stepped
forward, bearing a silver tray filled with tiny
cakes. The queen took a handful, then gestured
to Deanie. "You have not ate a little even all the day
long," she urged. "You have some of these. My cook
make special."
  Englebert pushed the tray under Deanie's
nose, and she closed her eyes in an effort not
to be sick. "No, thank you. They smell
delicious, though. Sort of like doughnuts."
  "Doo-nots?" The queen was intrigued.
"What be those?"
  "Oh, little pieces of fried dough. I used
to sell them in Nashville."
  Englebert seemed as intrigued as the queen.
Only after she had gently steered the platter from
beneath her face did Englebert nod once and
back away.
  The queen's footman was a short,
bullet-headed man of middle age and
unnaturally black hair. He moved in a
perpetual stoop, yet even in that stance he
seemed to serve no one unless he truly desired
the duty. His devotion to Queen Anne was
unquestionable. Since Queen Anne had made her
friendship with Deanie so obvious, Englebert
looked upon her with rare favor.
  "Maybe you show cook how to make
doo-nuts, okay?" The queen gave Deanie
a look of such earnestness that she could not help but
smile in return.
  "Okay," she said, her voice thick with
exhaustion and worry.
  The tumbler rolled at their feet. He began
to tug at Deanie's skirt, making exaggerated
faces like a monkey. The queen thought his antics
hilarious, and even Englebert began to grin.
  Encouraged, the tumbler pushed harder at
Deanie's knee. She swallowed against the tears
suddenly pricking her eyes. All she wanted was
to return to Kit, to sit by his bed even though he
was insensible to her presence. Instead she was forced
to endure the horrid little tumbler, his
ridiculous bells ringing with every tip of his round
head.
  The corners of his lips turned down, and his
face puckered into a pathetic expression that
exactly mirrored Deanie's feelings. The
queen clapped in delight, turning to Deanie
to share the fun.
  At once the queen stopped clapping.
"Enough." She turned to the tumbler, who shrugged and
rolled away, tucking himself under a table.
  Deanie could only stare at her own hands,
clenched atop the sumptuous velvet gown.
  "You go back to your cousin," the queen said. "You
know where from here he is?"
  Deanie blinked, confused by the queen's odd
phrasing. Then she realized she was being dismissed,
allowed to return downstairs. A feeling of
gratitude washed over her. Impulsively,
she grasped the queen's large hand and kissed it.
  "Thank you," she whispered. Then she stood
up, but before she left the queen's chamber she
sank into a low curtsy. For the first time the bow was
real, not a pretend imitation of court manners.
  Deanie walked swiftly to the door, again
making a deep curtsy before she left. A
gentle smile spread across the queen's face.
It transformed her from a plain woman to one of
unique comeliness. She was not beautiful; instead
she wore an expression of welcome kindness.
  As Deanie's long train disappeared into the
corridor, the queen turned to Englebert.
"Mistress Deanie, she is one okay
cookie." Then she clapped once for the tumbler
to begin again.

  Deanie's eyes took a moment to adjust to the
darkness of the room. Although she could not see
precisely where the bed was, she knew Kit was
there. She could feel him, his presence, his very being.
  The doctor had passed her in the hallway, his
lined face grave. Dr. Cornelius spoke
better English than the rest of Queen Anne's
household, but he was still hard to understand.
  "The duke is better, mistress," he
intoned. "Much because of my ointment, I suspect.
It is the ground bee wings that help the most. How
came he by the wounds?"
  Deanie didn't answer him. "Thank you,
Doctor," she mumbled, brushing past him in her
haste to see Kit. She felt the
doctor's eyes on her back, realizing how
strange she must look without a headdress, her
hair falling free and unadorned to her shoulders.
  She closed the door to Kit's room behind her,
leaning against the heavy wood, gathering her thoughts.
From the odor she knew the doctor had applied more
of the foul salve. She had suspected he would.
In the corner of the room she had folded clean
strips of cloth.
  The laundress had thought her mad, asking
to boil bandages as if they were to be used in a
broth. The queen, however, had given Deanie
permission to ask what she wished of the household.
They would do whatever she requested to aid in her
cousin the duke's recovery.
  Opening the heavy drapery covering the single
window, she let a ray of sunlight into the room
so she could see Kit. She stood for a moment,
staring at his impassive form on the bed.
  Although he was still unnaturally pale, an aura
of power somehow emanated from him. Even asleep,
he seemed bold and undeniably masculine.
She stooped and gathered the clean cloth strips,
careful not to make too much noise as she
returned to his side. The chair she had
occupied earlier was still in place, by the right side
of the bed.
  His forehead felt cooler to the touch, his cheeks
already scratchy with a new growth of dark whiskers.
By the bed was a pitcher of water--also boiled by the
perplexed staff. She dipped a corner of the
cloth into the water and eased open the drawstring on
his linen shirt. Very gently, she cleansed the area
of the new layer of salve, the cloth becoming thick
with the speckled ointment as she worked.
  Her hands moved mechanically. She felt
strangely detached, watching them go through the motions
of pressing the cloth against Kit's muscular
shoulder, then dipping fresh cloth into the water and
repeating the gesture. There was something familiar about
the movements, and she stared at her hands as she
worked.
  Then she remembered.
  Her mother. When she was eight and ill with the chicken
pox, her mother had sat by her bed just like this, pressing
cool cloths dipped in pink calamine lotion
against the itchy rash. Her hands, in that shaft of
light, looked exactly like her mother's. Why
hadn't she ever noticed it before?
  She heard a woman sob, and for a
moment she was startled. It was her own voice, she
realized. Carefully, she completed the task of
caring for Kit, patting the wound dry and covering it
with his white shirt. But she couldn't stop crying;
her weeping almost choked her as she succumbed to the
misery.
  She cried for Kit, she cried for herself, she
cried for her mother.
  There was a hollow ache of emptiness, a
strange knowledge that she would never again return home
to all that was familiar. Balling her hands
into fists, she buried her face in the coverlet
by Kit's side, as if reassured by his warmth
and closeness. Her sobs came out in broken,
jerky breaths, leaving her drained and limp.
  Then she felt a hand, large and warm, on her
shoulder. "Shush," said a male voice, rough and
dry. The hand continued to rub her shoulder, although she
could feel the hand tremble, a weak, shaky
gesture.
  "Kit?" She looked up, almost afraid she
had imagined it. She sniffed, and his eyes opened
very slightly, his parched lips formed into a narrow
smile. His hand remained on her shoulder,
motionless, as if forgotten.
  "Oh, Kit," she said softly. Only then
did she know how terrified she had been that he would
never wake up. The fear had been there all
along, looming over every other thought. He still looked
like hell, but at least he was conscious. "Are you
all right?"
  It was a stupid question, she realized immediately.
He remained very still for a long moment, and she
clasped the hand he had put on her shoulder between
her own two hands. Then, very slowly, he made a
motion with that hand: his fingers curved into a fist, and his
thumb went into the air in the old unmistakable
thumbs-up gesture.
  "Can I get you anything?"
  Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
With a great effort he opened his eyes, oddly
incandescent in the light. "Cromwell?"
  "He went away, some trip for the king.
Suffolk knows everything, Kit. He helped me
get back here to you." She brushed a thatch of
hair from his forehead. "Your fever's down."
  He did not reply, but his eyes closed again in
exhaustion. She reached for a fresh cloth, dipped
it in cool water, and touched it to his dry lips.
  "We need to talk," he said.
  "Not now, Kit. You need rest." She
slipped her hand into his, surprised by the strength
when he closed his fingers over hers.
  "Soon," he murmured. "Soon." Then he
was asleep.
  At once she was exhausted, her own eyelids
heavy. Yawning, she rested her head against his
side, their hands still entwined. For the first time in days,
she slept a peaceful, contented slumber.

  The queen peered from her window, the remains of
her meal still on the tray. In the courtyard below she
saw two couriers dismount from their horses, their
Tudor green-and-white tunics proclaiming them
messengers of the king.
  Several minutes later Englebert entered the
queen's chamber. "The king, he returns within the
hour, Your Majesty."
  "He's coming back?"
  "Yes." Englebert couldn't hide his
excitement. Perhaps the king's sudden return would
portend good news for his mistress. Perhaps the big
English sovereign would finally see Queen
Anne as the jewel all of Cleves knew her
to be.
  The queen smiled. "Very well, Englebert.
We shall be ready to greet His Highness."
  Englebert knew exactly what to do, and he
left the room with a low bow. There was much to be
made ready in an hour, and already he was listing the
chores in his mind. On his way to the kitchen, an
order to Scholsenberg the cook on his lips, he
was haulted by a young page.
  "Mr. Englebert," the youth said, his pale
face betraying worry. "There are half a dozen
members of the barber-surgeon guild beyond the
moat. They say they come to attend Mistress
Deanie, sir. Other members of their guild
bade them come here. What shall I tell them?"
  "Mistress Deanie?" Englebert waved the
boy off. "Be gone for now, young man. The king
arrives within the hour."
  "The barbers are most insistent, sir." The
boy bit back the urge to cry.
  "Then let them in to Mistress Deanie. She
is with the duke below."
  The boy nodded and ran to inform the restless guild
members of Mistress Deanie's whereabouts. By the
time he reached them they had grown in number to nine,
and the boy wondered why on earth
Mistress Deanie had need of half the
barber-surgeons in the county.

  With his good arm, he tried to pull her closer,
inhaling the fresh scent of her hair. She sighed
in her sleep and stretched alongside him on the
small bed. Even in slumber she moved from his
wounded shoulder, resting her head against the other
shoulder. The pain of her movement had awakened
him, but he was glad to be alert, relieved to find
her here.
  Kit lifted his head and scanned the room. His
head throbbed with the motion, and he took a deep
breath to squelch the nausea. He was unfamiliar
with this room. From the angle of the light falling from the
window, as well as the tiny dimensions of the room,
he supposed it was one of the lower chambers used for
servants. Good. It would be easier for them to leave
unseen from this location than from his usual chamber
above, in the thick of palace activity.
  He glanced down at Deanie, her face
drawn even in sleep. He almost loosened the
ties at the sides of her bodice to make her more
comfortable but felt the canvas corset underneath.
There would be no use in unlacing the ties, for the
corset would remain tight. Instead, he kissed
her forehead and closed his eyes.
  Just as drowsiness was about to overtake him, the
clattering of boots in the hallway forced his eyes
open. He felt Deanie stiffen, and he closed
his arm about her more tightly.
  "Kit?" she whispered, unable to mask the
terror in her voice.
  "Be still," he said, his voice still rough and dry.
His lips touched her forehead, and she seemed
to relax a little.
  The door banged open. Even in the single
shaft of light, they both recognized the bulky
form of Thomas Cromwell.
  In a single movement the earl of Essex threw
the draperies open, causing Deanie and Kit
to squint against the sun.
  "You defied me." Cromwell spat with ragged
fury. "Both of you defied me. Now you shall pay
the price."
  With that the henchman who had wielded the staff
against Kit's shoulder entered the chamber, his face
registering excitement rather than anger.
  Kit began to rise, but Deanie sat up first.
"We did not defy you, Mr.
Cromwell," she began. "I just wanted to make
sure Kit was being cared for. I will return
to Richmond with you, if that's what you want."
  "You fool!" he hissed. "The king arrives
here soon. He will be most grieved to learn of the
duke's death, yet Mistress Deanie will be a
balm to his pained soul."
  "You're the fool," Deanie replied
coolly. Kit, who had been about to speak,
turned in astonishment. Her voice was almost
unrecognizable, with a hardness he would never have
believed her capable of. "Do you think I will
become the king's mistress without Kit alive and
well? Forget it. If you so much as touch him, you
can find the king another woman."
  "Then you shall die as well." Cromwell's
voice was firm; only his eyes, flickering
once to Kit, showed a hint of uncertainty.
  "Fine." She shrugged, rising to her feet.
  "No!" Kit propped himself up on one
elbow, his lips white with pain. "Let her be,
Cromwell. Do what you will with me, but touch her
not."
  "If anything happens to you, Kit, I don't
give a damn about myself."
  "This is madness." Cromwell turned from the
two to his henchman, his finger beginning to rise in a
command, when the hallway was filled with the clattering of
footsteps. At once a young page peered in the
doorway.
  "Mistress Deanie? I have over a dozen
barber-surgeons without, all here at your bidding.
Shall I send them in?"
  "A dozen?" Cromwell's small eyes
darted to the boy.
  "Well, sir, a few more just joined them. Word
has spread, sir, that Mistress Deanie has
frequent need of barber-surgeons, and throughout
England they come to Hampton. I know not why, but more
are coming by the hour."
  "Oh, send them in!" Deanie's knees
gave way as she sat on the edge of Kit's
bed. She grasped his hand, and only by the cold and
damp feel of her hand did he realize how
frightened she had been.
  Cromwell and his man backed away, forced from
the room by a strange assortment of men, of all
ages and sizes, all carrying satchels.
  "This is not over," mumbled Cromwell.
  But Deanie did not hear him. She was
already selecting the barber-surgeons to shave her
legs for the second time in less than twelve
hours.

              Chapter 10

  Deanie narrowly avoided a head-on
collision with the queen's tumbler as she slid into the
great hall, her slippers still damp from the eighteen
barber-surgeons who had just taken turns shaving
her legs. Her skin was stinging. One of the barbers
had been mortified when he accidentally nicked
her leg, and yet another barber was sulking below,
muttering bitter words about arriving too late to have
a turn.
  When it was announced that the king had arrived,
Deanie ran from the room at full tilt. Her
last glimpse of Kit had been of him offering the
disappointed barber a chance to shave his legs, which the
man failed to find amusing.
  She took her place beside a giggling Katherine
Howard and Cecily Garrison, sinking into the
deepest curtsy her much-abused legs would
allow. Deanie refused to think about what might have
happened had Cromwell not been interrupted by the
eager barbers. She glanced up to see
Cromwell glaring at her from across the hall.
Norfolk and Suffolk stood just behind the king,
Norfolk somber and dreary, Suffolk smiling.
His eyes lit upon Deanie, and he raised a
questioning eyebrow. She nodded once, with a brief
smile, and he seemed satisfied. Just before she
turned her gaze downward, Suffolk winked at
her.
  The queen greeted her subjects with regal
grace, moving elegantly alongside her
husband. Unlike Deanie and the Englishwomen, the
queen wore a skirt that was rounded at the hem,
free of the treacherous three-foot trains that
threatened to hobble Deanie at every turn. Deanie
had been so impressed with the queen's managable
skirts that she had ordered a similar style from the
court clothier, Mr. Locke. Although Locke
had been surprised by her request--most of the other
courtiers had been snickering about the queen's
unfashionably foreign gowns--he
reluctantly agreed. Within the week, Deanie
too would be able to glide through the room without kicking
out her skirts at each direction change.
  The king peered over the elegant
heads, as if searching for someone. He was
massively resplendent in his bejeweled doublet,
brilliant tufts of fine white linen peeking from
the embroidered slashes in the fabric. His wife
followed his gaze with palpable reverence, and more than
a little fear. Deanie longed to take the queen's
hand, to reassure her that all would be well in this
strange land. Deanie, above all, felt the
same trepidation about the unpredictable court.
Both were at the whim of a mercurial-tempered
monarch and his jostling noblemen.
  "Ah! There she is." The king threaded his bulk
nimbly through the crowd to Deanie. The queen
hastened to follow, her face partially hidden by her
headpiece and demiveil. Henry's burly hand,
his nails cleanly squared, reached out to Deanie.
She had no choice but to take it.
  "Mistress Deanie." For the first time she
noticed how rich his voice was, redolent with
mellow tones. "We are most concerned with the health
of our most favored subject, the duke of
Hamilton. How does he fare?"
  There was nothing suggestive or lecherous about the
king's question. Deanie sensed genuine worry. For
once the royal eyes did not flit up and down
her figure as he spoke.
  "Much better, Your Highness," she replied.
"I must thank the queen for her wonderful care of
Kit--I mean, the duke. She sent her own
physician to him, and sat by his bedside until
I could return."
  Deanie kept her head bent, not wishing to see
the king's displeasure as she praised the queen. But
Deanie felt it necessary. The king had no idea
what kind of a woman fate and diplomacy had
gifted him with.
  Slowly, she raised her eyes. The king wore
an expression of mild befuddlement. "The queen?
She nursed Hamilton?"
  "Yes, Your Majesty," Deanie hastened
to add. "The queen has been most kind to both
myself and the duke." Deanie wanted to elaborate,
but she instinctively knew he was not ready to hear
such lavish commendation. Perhaps the king could only
tolerate a little of Queen Anne's praise at
a time.
  The king frowned, and his black gaze slid
to his wife. "We are most pleased," he
announced to everyone in the hall, to Anne in
particular. "We are most pleased
indeed," he repeated. "I will visit
Hamilton anon." Then he patted Deanie's
hand and rejoined his wife.
  Even from across the vast hall, Deanie could
feel the hatred blazing from Cromwell.

  She had waited long enough.
  That blasted bell-jingled clown of the queen's was
tumbling across the floor, much to the rapture of his
audience. Deanie ground her teeth, wondering when
she could at last leave the hall for Kit's room
below. Finally she was given the subtle nod from the
queen. She could leave.
  She raced through the corridors again, much the way
she had run hours earlier when she had heard of the
king's arrival. Her slippers skidded on the
corners, and she bunched her gown in a handful between
her legs to get to Kit as soon as possible.
  Grabbing the archway of a door to prevent herself from
slamming into a wall, she turned down the
hallway. Still breathless, and puffing a wisp of
hair away from her eyes, she entered Kit's
room.
  "Whew!" she said, breathing hard and slamming the
door closed. "Talk about a bunch of stiff
shirts. Or should I say stiff doublets."
  The room was brighter than before, illuminated by at
least a dozen thick yellow candles. Then she
saw Kit.
  "Hey." She grinned, pleased beyond all
reason he was sitting up. "Did the barbers
finally leave you alone?"
  "Indeed, they have left us all alone,
Mistress Deanie." The sonorous voice
came from King Henry, who was seated in the same
chair she had earlier abandoned.
  "Your Majesty," she curtsied, flustered by the
unexpected presence of the king. She had seen him
retire, leaving the Great Hall with a simple
nod to his bowing subjects, and had assumed he
was going to his own chambers.
  "Please, Mistress Deanie. No
fanfare." The king gestured to the other chair.
"We are amongst friends."
  With only slight hesitation, she ducked into the
chair, her hands folded primly on top of her
lap. The three of them looked at each other,
sharing a sudden awkward silence as Deanie
struggled for something to say.
  "How are you feeling?" she asked
Kit. Simultaneously, Kit spoke:
"I'm feeling much better."
  The king chuckled. "Mistress Deanie, can you
hand us that piece of paper by your foot?"
  Perplexed, she glanced down. Beside the leg of
her chair was a sheet of beige parchment, folded
into an oblong shape. She reached down and passed
it to the king.
  "Your Majesty, I do not think ..." Kit
began. He had a strange tone to his voice,
beyond the exhaustion of the injury and illness. Her
eyes snapped to his, a questioning frown on her
face.
  "Nonsense, Kit." The King laughed.
"Has your cousin seen the trick? Mistres
Deanie, this is most cunning. Show us again how it
works. The duke can always find means of amusing us.
Show us, Kit."
  He passed the parchment to Kit. For a moment
Kit did nothing but lean back against the pillow and
close his eyes. Suddenly Deanie was alarmed.
  "Kit, are you feeling ill?" She reached out
her hand to touch his forehead, but his skin was cool.
  "Show us the trick," the king repeated, the note
of impatience unmistakable.
  Taking a deep breath, Kit opened his eyes
and stared at her for a few moments. He did not
smile, but the hollows of his cheeks seemed
to deepen, as if he were under a great strain. Then,
without tearing his gaze from hers, he began to fold the
paper, again and again, into slender triangles.
  "Ha! Now make it fly; Kit!" The king
seemed like a child, his fat hands clapping together in
delight. "What do you call it again? What was the
word, Kit?"
  With a single motion, Kit launched the paper
into the air. It soared above the bed, then looped
down into Deanie's lap. She stared at it, not
believing, her hands trembling.
  "It is called, Your Highness," Kit said,
his voice flat, "an aeroplane."
  "Yes!" Henry thundered. "An
aero-plane! Most ingenious."
  For a moment Deanie thought she was going to be
ill. The color drained from her face, leaving her
a deathly white. The only sound she could hear was
the fierce pounding of her heart.
  "Mistress Deanie, fear not," said the king,
noting her sudden pallor. "This is not black
magic or sorcery. The Duke knows
many feats of engineering, unparalleled in the world of
science."
  "A paper airplane," she said numbly.
  The sound of a knock on the door pierced the
air. One of the senior butlers entered the room,
his face grave. "Your Highness." He bowed.
"The earl of Essex requests your attention. It
is a matter of the utmost importance, Sire."
  "Cromwell has sent for us?" The king was
astounded, the paper airplane forgotten.
"By God, I shall see him fall." Gone was the
jovial monarch. The king in his fury rose to his
feet, oblivious to Kit and Deanie, and strode
from the room in two great bounds. The manservant,
cowering at the king's heels, followed him through the
door.
  Deanie was staring straight ahead, her mind
reeling.
  "I was going to tell you, Deanie," Kit said
gently. She did not respond, and he continued:
"I was born in 1917, in Kent. My father was
killed in the Great War, so my mother raised myself
and my older sister, Caroline. Are you listening?"
  She swallowed. He reached over to her, and
blindly she took his hand. She was still trembling.
  "How did you get here?" Her voice was
strangely hollow.
  "Through the maze. Deanie, there is something about the
maze--it is a portal of sorts. I've been
trying to get back to my own time. Every chance I
get while I'm here at Hampton, I enter the
maze, hoping to find the portal once more. When
I met you I was trying to find my way back
home."
  With a deep breath she looked at him. "What
year are you from?"
  His callused fingers folded over hers. "I
came here in 1940, and I've been in this time for
ten years."
  Slowly, he drew her toward him, his good arm
encircling her as she reached his side.
Mechanically, she leaned against him, her arms
folded against herself as if for protection. For a long
time she said nothing and simply closed her eyes,
her head tucked against his chest. He stroked her
hair with a soothing, hypnotic rhythm.
  "How did it happen to you?" Her voice sounded
more even.
  Her head rose slightly as he took a
deep breath. "I was a pilot in the
RAF, the Royal Air Force. I was to fly
my last sortie, to keep the damn Luftwaffe
from invading England. We were waiting for you Yanks
to join us. You did, right?"
  "Yes," she murmured against his shirt. "But
I was no whiz in history."
  "History?" She felt him smile. "Gad,
but I feel old. Hitler lost, right?"
  "Oh, sure. He shot himself in a bunker at
the end. He was a real nut by then."
  "He was always a nut." Kit looked up at
the ceiling, the flickering shapes made by the candles
against the wood. "Do you recall what year the war
ended in?"
  Deanie thought for a moment. Kit's hand tightened
into a fist before she answered. "It was 1945. There
were all these fifty-year celebrations when I
left."
  "My God!" Kit's arm tensed. "How did
we survive? We were about done in by 1940."
  They remained silent, each lost in thought.
  "You were a pilot?" Deanie's question jarred the
quiet.
  He nodded.
  "That must have been scary as all get-out."
  At first she thought he hadn't heard her.
Finally he spoke, his voice was rough and low.
"By the time I came here, most of my chums were
gone. Chaps I'd gone to university with, good men
all. I don't know why I survived, why I
lived and they didn't. I still miss them. They
haven't been born yet, and I miss them."
He cleared his throat, and she remained silent.
"That's why it was relatively easy for me when
I came here. A joust is nothing compared with a
duel in the sky. I suppose I attracted the
king's attention because my style was even more reckless
and foolhardy than his own."
  Deanie raised a hand to her eyes and rubbed
them, as if trying to massage sense into her jumbled
thoughts. "I knew you were different from the rest," she
said at last. "Right from the first, you accepted my
story of where I came from. Now it makes sense
--at least the reason you were so kind to me."
  "If I was kind, it was because I understood what
you were experiencing."
  "Oh."
  He smiled. "At first, Deanie, that was the
reason. Almost immediately, it came to me that I--
well, I had grown fond of you."
  She tilted her head up, her lips brushing
along his jaw. "Really?" she asked, trying
to keep the pleading tone from her voice.
  He turned his face to hers, and she closed her
eyes, eager for the feel of his mouth against hers.
Instead, he dropped a distracted kiss on her
forehead. "Tell me, what happened exactly
when you came here through the maze?"
  Startled, she opened her eyes and glared at
him. "I thought I told you everything."
  "From the beginning, Deanie. Maybe we can
figure out how to get back." His tone was eager,
full of hope.
  "Okay ... let me see. We were filming a
music video, and I entered the maze."
  "It was spring for you, but I came here on
September 11, 1940." His brow creased in
thought. "Perhaps the sun is the same distance from the
earth in spring as it is in the autumn. About what
time was it?"
  "Close to sunset. We were about to quit for the
day, because we had already lost the best light."
  "The same with me," he said, his hand stroking her
hair again. "It was time for me to leave for my
mission, and the sun reflected off a pair of
goggles in my hand."
  "And I was carrying the soda bottle," she
added excitedly. "Did it make blue-white
lines, like a triangle?"
  "Exactly! It was a prism, but it seemed
to be almost alive."
  "I wonder if we go back there at sunset,
whether the same thing could happen again."
  "You came in spring, I arrived in the
autumn." He spoke softly, as if thinking
aloud. "If there is some significance in the time
of the year, the placement of the sun, we can only
hope to catch the same alignment."
  "Then we need to hurry, Kit. It will be
summer soon. If we miss it now, we might
have to wait until fall to try again."
  "We can't wait," he warned. "The whole
court will be on its ear by then, and we may not
survive."
  Deanie raised her head. "It might work, you
know."
  "But if it does, we have no guarantee that we
would land in our time. I came from 1940, you are from
a half century later. God only knows what
year we would emerge."
  "Maybe we should just stay here," she wondered
quietly.
  "Oh, hell," he muttered. "Cromwell's
out to kill us, the king wants to make you his
mistress, and at any moment either of us can contract
the plague or be charged with witchcraft." He
glanced down at his shoulder, which was beginning to throb
with molten pain. "We have to leave England,
Deanie. We cannot stay here--it has become far
too dangerous. Perhaps you should flee to Spain
alone. I could join you--"
  "No," she said with finality. "I will stay with
you, Kit." He did not respond, and she
suddenly felt embarrassed. "After all, you have
been so, um, helpful. It would be rotten for me
to duck out on you now."
  "You needn't stay from a sense of obligation."
His voice was tight. "You are not required to pay
me back."
  He had become still, no longer stroking her
hair. The arm about her shoulders was tense, as if
he was reluctant to touch her.
  She swallowed and looked down at her hand, her
palm resting on his chest. Her fingertips were still
callused from years of playing the guitar, yet she
was exquisitely sensitive to his every movement.
He seemed to stop breathing. Beneath her hand she could
feel his heart beating heavily, painfully.
  An overwhelming ache welled up within her
throat, theatening to choke her with its intensity. Why
was she acting like this? Why was she being so dishonest with
Kit, with herself?
  "Kit," she whispered, her voice wavering,
"I lied."
  She felt him glimpse down at her, but he
couldn't see her face. "What did you lie
about?" He spoke softly, his breath ruffling her
hair.
  "I lied because I didn't tell you the truth."
  He sighed, a little of the tension flowing from him.
"That is the usual definition of a lie, Deanie.
What did you lie about?"
  Turning her face toward his chest, she inhaled
the familiar scent of him, the feel of his shirt
and the muscles of his chest, allowing his warmth to give
her the courage to speak. "I don't want
to leave without you because I love you."
  For a moment they both remained motionless.
Deanie cringed, waiting for him to push her away--
or worse, to laugh. Her hand clutched
his shirt, gripping with all her might against whatever
his reaction would be. Every second seemed
exaggerated, a slow-motion agony of waiting.
  Slowly, hesitantly, she allowed herself
to look up. His lips were tight, the hollows of his
cheeks prominent, causing his face to take on a
harsh, fierce appearance. His eyes gazed
straight ahead, a burnished sheen reflected in
the clear depths. She thought perhaps he had not heard
what she said, and for a fleeting instant she was
relieved. Then she saw him blink.
  A single tear escaped from his right eye.
  It traced a path across his lean cheekbone, and
as he turned toward her, it slid onto her hand.
  His words flowed as a single breath. "My
God, Deanie. How I love you."
  With that his mouth was crushed against hers, and she
felt his hand fan out against her back. Startled,
dizzy with a strange warmth that seemed to spiral
through her abdomen, she relaxed against him.
  His mouth, those lips she had dreamed of touching
since first she saw him, pressed against hers with a
sweet, firm need. He shifted, putting most
of his weight on his uninjured shoulder, and as he
moved her tongue grazed his teeth. Through her
exploding haze of passion she could feel the single
crooked tooth, the gleaming imperfection that had
haunted her every moment.
  He pulled away and stared at her. A strand of
her hair fell across her face, and he gently
pushed it back. "Deanie," he said softly.
  She opened her eyes, glazed with desire,
unseeing.
  "Deanie, we can't."
  He too was breathing hard, and a glimmer of
perspiration dotted his forehead.
  "What?" she answered groggily.
  He groaned, pulling her against him again. She
reached up to kiss his glorious mouth once more, and
he laughed.
  "Deanie, at any moment either the king or
Cromwell may enter unannounced." He
swallowed.
  That stopped her, and she was unable to repress an
involuntary shiver. His hand caressed her arm.
  "It just doesn't seem important now,
Kit. Cromwell and all those guys seem so very
far away."
  "That's a dangerous way of thinking." His eyes
slid to hers.
  "I just want to stay here forever." She sighed, a
slight smile on her lips.
  "Please listen to me. Now, more than ever, we
must decide what we are going to do. Perhaps we should
escape tonight. If we flee to Manor
Hamilton, we could buy ourselves some time. I have
men there, servants who are loyal to me."
  "Are you well enough to travel?" Deanie cast a
worried glance at his shoulder, and when she saw it
she immediately jumped off the bed and reached for a clean
cloth. Their embrace had caused the wound to start
bleeding again.
  "I'm fine." His good arm remained in the open
position, where she had just been, but he too frowned
when he saw the shoulder. "Damn."
  She dipped the cloth into the water and pressed it
against the wound to stem the bleeding. "How far away
is Manor Hamilton?"
  "About fifty miles," he admitted.
  "Great. How will we get there? Fly in one of
your paper airplanes?"
  He grinned. "If you only knew how
marvelous it sounds to hear you say airplanes.
Ouch."
  "Sorry."
  Then he stopped smiling. "You must leave first,
Deanie. I can't travel just yet. It would be
folly to attempt a journey of such length with this
blasted shoulder."
  "No." She refolded the damp cloth. "I
don't want to be separated from you."
  "Nor I from you. But it may be our only way
out, barring the maze. And that may very well fail."
  "I just have this awful feeling that if we are
separated we may never get back together."
  He thought for a moment. "I believe Suffolk
knows a duke in Spain, and I am acquainted with
some diplomats from Queen Katherine's court who
have returned to Spain. I wouldn't want to slow you
down, and with me bleeding all over the continent we
couldn't get far enough to be safe."
  Their eyes met as she took his hand. "I will not
leave you behind," she said with determination. "I think
we should give the maze a try. It seems to me
we ought to be able to get a round-trip fare out of
those old bushes."
  He smiled, and Deanie felt herself swallow
hard. Even injured and recovering from illness, he
was absolutely devastating. His voice was rich,
compelling. "The maze it is, then."
  "Do you think the soda bottle's still there?"
  "I would think so. Hardly anyone goes there
since Anne Boleyn was beheaded--it's thought
to be bewitched."
  "And it is." With a sigh she looked down at
their entwined hands. They seemed to fit together
perfectly. "What if we do end up in some
strange time?"
  "Frankly, Deanie, we'd be better off
almost anywhere else. My guess is that we can
only go forward, since the maze is just a decade
old now. When I arrived it was new. As long as
we move ahead, all should be well."
  "What if we can't find the bottle? Do you still
have the goggles?"
  "Ah. The goggles. Of course I still have them
--back at Manor Hamilton. For years I
carried them with me, stepping into the maze every chance I
got, but nothing ever happened. I kept on
returning, with or without the goggles. Force of
habit, I imagine. Maybe I didn't
want to leave badly enough until now."
  She stiffened. "Holy cow, Kit! If someone
else finds that bottle before us, we may never be
able to get out of here."
  "That thought crossed my mind."
  "I should go right now, with a candle--"
  "No, Deanie, not now. You would be too
noticeable with a candle. Besides, you couldn't see
well enough. Why don't you wait until
morning?"
  "Morning will be even worse. The servants are
up and about at dawn, including the gardeners."
  "Then wait until tomorrow afternoon, and I'll go with
you. We can say we are perambulating for my
health or some such nonsense."
  She was about to argue, to mention that he might not be
well enough to go out tomorrow, or the next day, and that every
minute lost offered another passerby the chance
to stumble upon the bottle. Instead, she just nodded.
"Fine," she said, avoiding his gaze.
  There was a strong knock on the door. "Come
in," Kit answered, giving Deanie's hand a
quick squeeze before returning it to her lap.
  A large woman entered, garbed in a rough
pleated skirt and a Germanic headdress peaked
at the top. "Mistress Deanie? The queen
bids you good night, and I am to see you to your
chambers."
  Deanie stood up. "Thank you, Mother
Lowe." She turned to Kit. "Have you met the
queen's head of the ladies-in-waiting?"
  He shook his head, astonished by the size of the
woman.
  Mother Lowe nodded curtly and muttered, "Ya,
Duke," before she turned to the door.
  "Believe it or not, she's shy," confided
Deanie in response to Kit's raised
eyebrows.
  There were mumblings outside the room, all in
German. Englebert entered.
  "Sir," he said, bowing to Kit, "we have
placed four of our guards from Cleves outside
your chamber for your comfort. We do not want barbers
to come at night, no?"
  Deanie smiled at Englebert. "Thank you,"
she whispered warmly, giving him a swift hug.
In return he blushed.
  "Will you be okay?" Deanie asked Kit. There
was so much more she wanted to say, so much had happened
in the past few hours. But between Mother Lowe and
Englebert and the guards, it was impossible. She was
being forced to leave, and they would have no more time alone.
At least not tonight.
  His unwavering gaze caught hers. Somehow, with
just his eyes--reflecting dark green in the
candlelight--he conveyed every emotion she herself was
feeling. Her breath halted in her throat, and she
placed her hand instinctively over her heart.
  At the exact same moment, Kit raised his
own hand and rested it over his heart.
  "Mistress Deanie?" Mother Lowe loomed in
the threshold, and Deanie backed away.
  "Good night," she said softly, her voice
betraying her shattering love.
  "Good night," he returned, his voice echoing
a promise, a pledge.
  And with that Mother Lowe pulled a shaken Deanie
up to the safe quarters of the other
ladies-in-waiting.

  Something woke him.
  Perhaps it was all the spiced wine he had consumed
or the extra helping of dove pie. More than
likely it was his seething anger. He would not allow
them to carry out their vile plans. It was
unthinkable.
  He threw open the heavy draperies on his
bed. It was cold this night, and his fire had been
allowed to dwindle into glowing embers. His
feet--noble feet--felt the chill as they touched
the floor.
  He walked to the window. Not that he was expecting
to see anything, not at this hour. Just as he was about
to go back to bed, the room lit only by the vague
moon, something caught his eye.
  By God, there was someone in the maze!
  He could see a flickering light, a candle
wavering. Whoever it was must be very close to the ground,
perhaps on hands and knees.
  He threw on his surcloak, which had been
resting on a chair by the window, and walked, as
quietly as possible out toward the maze. Doors
that never squeaked seemed to be in need of oil this
evening, planks that were ever silent now seemed
to announce his every movement.
  Finally he reached the back garden, creeping
along the grass to avoid crunching the pebbles.
  As he got closer, he heard a voice coming
from the maze.
  "Come on, come on. I know you're in here."
  Ah! Mistress Deanie!
  His first instinct was to push through the yew shrubs
to confront her, but he quickly tossed that thought
aside. Perhaps he could learn more by just watching her.
  She was rummaging with great intent, and he was
nearly consumed by curiosity.
  "Yes!" Mistress Deanie hissed,
delight evident in her voice.
  She immediately snuffed the candle, and he watched as
she scurried back to the palace. It was
impossible to determine what she was carrying.
  Silently, he entered the maze himself, feeling
a path to where Mistress Deanie had been.
Nothing. He suddenly realized the idiocy of his
impulsive trip outside. It was cold, and he
was barefoot--his tender feet assaulted by every
rock and slip of sharp stone. Besides, he was almost
blind in the dim light.
  Harrumphing at himself, he turned to leave when
his foot slid on something. He reached down and
picked up some papers.
  Shoving them into his cloak, he ran back
to his chamber as quietly as possible. Breathing
hard, he closed his door and lit a taper on the
last glow of the fire.
  He pulled out the papers and gasped. What was
this? What manner of witchcraft?
  The papers, slick and smooth as glass, were
bound together. Upon each page were paintings,
paintings of such fine quality he felt he could
reach out and enter the work.
  There were printed words, strange and even,
unlike anything he had ever seen, and he owned
over a dozen books. Holding the candle, he
read what he could.
  It was all about the court, about Henry and his
wives.
  Then he almost cried out, for there was a portrait
of himself! He was to begin sitting for the painting this
week; Holbein had completed the rough sketches.
But here it was, completed, filled in with lush
colors.
  Further in the book were paintings of court
women, some identified as Henry's wives. But
they were not his wives!
  His hands trembling, he saw his name with a date
--a date in the near future. Was someone wishing
him dead?
  And then he saw something that made him nearly
cry out in fear. Toward the back of the book was a
painting of the king. He was old and bloated, and the
date was 1547.
  Someone was practicing witchcraft and
predicting the death of the king.
  He flipped the book over and looked at the
cover. The words were strange and unfamiliar.
  A Tourist's Guide to Hampton Court
Palace.
  His palms sweating, he shoved the booklet under
his mattress.
  Mistress Deanie had placed the booklet
there, he was sure of it. Not only was she guilty
of witchcraft, she was guilty of a far greater
sin: high treason.
  He pulled the drapes on his bed shut,
wondering what could be done with this new information.
By dawn his pulse had slowed, and on his face was
a confident smile.
  Before breaking the fast, he had decided how
to use his new information. Very soon the entire court
--perhaps even the king--would bend to his every whim.
  At last he would secure his rightful,
God-given place in the realm.

              Chapter 11

  It was hopeless.
  There was no way for Deanie to hide the cola
bottle long enough to reach Kit's
chambers. It was too large to slip under her belt
or tuck within the embroidered false sleeve of
her gown. She tried to fold it under the flowing
lappets of a gable headpiece, but one glimpse
of herself in the distorted, speckled mirror caused
her to yank it off in disgust. The sight of a
lady-in-waiting sporting a headdress plumed
with a Coke bottle was more bizarre than anything
Andy Warhol could have dreamed up.
  So she settled on carrying the bottle in the
open. Her first thought was to fill it up with ale and
hope no one noticed her strutting through the
palace corridors with an open bottle of
beer.
  She nixed that idea because the dried-up,
blackened peanuts still rattled in the bottom.
Although she was fairly certain the nuts had nothing
to do with her passage through time--and as far as she
knew Kit did not travel with his goggles full
of peanuts--she didn't want to alter the
bottle for fear it might upset a delicate
balance.
  It was a glance outside the window, the spring
sun beaming on the garden, that gave her the
inspiration she'd been seeking. She simply
walked decorously through the grounds, nodding gently
at the passing courtiers, and grabbed stems of
roses as soon as they passed. By the time her
stroll was completed, there were so many
brilliant-hued flowers rioting from the innocuous
bottle that no one noticed the plain glass
carafe.
  She had kept her possession of the bottle a
secret from Kit for four days, watching as he
recovered from the wounds and fever. Like a tethered
puppy, he wanted nothing more than to leave his
chamber, and only the combined efforts of Suffolk and
Englebert and the queen and, above all, Mother Lowe,
kept him in the room.
  By her third day he paced the chamber
restlessly, vowing to get past the Germanic guards
and mumbling disjointed curses about their parentage.
Deanie used every ounce of charm to cajole and
reason with him, urging him to stay in place until
he had recovered.
  "You think you've had a rough time?" She had
finally lost the frayed remains of her temper.
Hands on hips, she cornered Kit, who had
been forcing open the window in hopes of escaping to the
garden.
  "I've had my legs shaved a dozen times,
come to fisticuffs with the laundress who refused
to bring your bandages to a complete boil, and been
forced to block Dr. Cornelius from bleeding you every
chance he gets. Humor me, Kit. Hang
around here just a couple more days--or at least
until you can jump out of the window without hurting
something."
  He glared before finally laughing and agreeing with her
logic.
  For days she resisted the urge to run to him,
to whoop with joy over her triumph of retrieving
the missing soda bottle. Besides waiting for Kit
to recover, she had two other reasons for waiting.
  The first reason for her sedate manner was that she
was once again housed in the wing with the other
ladies-in-waiting. She had been given the
same room as before, the same room in which
Cromwell had made his threats and wounded Kit.
There was no physical evidence of that mayhem.
Still, the very motion of entering the chamber caused her
stomach to tighten with apprehension, making it
impossible for her to forget what danger they still
faced.
  The second reason for her hesitation was that
Kit would be furious with her for risking everything
to find the bottle on her own. Even as she
searched in the dark, she realized the stupidity of
her actions. She just wanted to find the damn thing so
they could get on with their plans. Without the
bottle, their most likely escape route was
blocked.
  As she toted the flowers to Kit's room, she
felt as if she held the very key to their future
together.
  She was prepared to find him awake, perhaps being
shaved by a new flock of barbers. Even the sight
of him still asleep, allowing his exhausted and
battered body some much-needed rest, would not have
alarmed her.
  The last thing she expected was to find him gone,
vanished as if he had never set foot in the
small chamber.
  The bottle nearly slipped from her hands when
she realized he was not there.
  "Kit?" she whispered, as if in a hospital
ward. There was no answer. The guards from the night
before were also missing. The only items in the stark
room were the few furnishings: the small bed, two
chairs, a table. The cloth bandages and
her boiled water were nowhere to be seen.
  Gripping the bottle harder, she tried
to control her fear. There was probably a
perfectly logical explanation for his absence.
Maybe he was having breakfast with Suffolk or
the King. Perhaps Mother Lowe, whom she had seen
twice that morning, had decided to change his
room.
  But wouldn't Mother Lowe have mentioned something
to Deanie? She'd had ample opportunity, and
her English wasn't that bad.
  A more likely scenario crept into her mind.
Cromwell. She could almost feel the heat of his
anger, the rage he struggled to contain in the great
hall. He had men who would do anything for a coin.
They relied on his commands and power, not on their own
tattered conscience.
  Kit was a strong man, but he was not yet
recovered from his beating.
  "Kit?" There was still no answer.
  She walked calmly from the room, her head
erect. She would not run, she would not scream his
name.
  With her knees growing ever more unsteady, she
glided through the halls, peering into each room as she
passed. There were over a thousand rooms at
Hampton, and she vowed to search each one until
she found Kit.
  She walked for almost an hour, her anxiety
mounting by the minute. The rest of the court seemed
to be enjoying the grounds, and she could hear occasional
snatches of laughter from the gardens and the tilting
yard as she passed.
  The roses were pressed so close to her body
they began to wilt from the heat. Feeling
light-headed, she recalled that she hadn't eaten
since the previous day. Her plan had been to have
breakfast with Kit.
  She was walking in circles now, not really
seeing into the chambers as she passed. Finally she
went outside, hoping to find Englebert or Mother
Lowe or someone who could tell her where Kit
was.
  A large circle of courtiers stood in the
tilting yard, chatting among themselves, occasionally
erupting into spontaneous applause. There was a
metallic clanking sound from within the crowd, and she
recognized the noise as swords clashing.
  As she approached, the circle opened to let
her in. A few of the women stared at
Deanie, her face ashen, carrying a large armful
of limp flowers.
  "Hamilton, your cousin approaches. It
seems she has been busy plundering the gardens of
their every bloom!"
  The voice belonged to Charles Brandon, the
duke of Suffolk. In the center of the circular
audience were several young men engaged in a show of
swordsmanship.
  One of them--using his left arm--was Kit.
  He handed Suffolk his sword and walked
immediately to her side. He appeared to be disarmingly
healthy, wearing nothing but a loose-fitting shirt
and hose. Even in her relief, Deanie saw the
hungry stares from some of the women.
  "Cousin, for me!" Kit said as he reached her
side, gesturing to the bouquet. Many of the courtiers
laughed and returned to their conversations, or watched
young Surrey begin to battle Brandon.
  "Where the hell have you been?" Kit demanded as
he placed a brotherly arm about her shoulder. He
glared down at her, a brilliant smile fixed
on his face, his eyes flashing dangerously.
"Goddamnit, Deanie, I've looked everywhere
for you. Don't you ever disappear like that again."
  "Where have I been?" she repeated
incredulously. "I've only been searching through that
entire stupid castle for you. When you weren't in
your room, I thought something had happened to you.
Oh, Kit." Her voice broke, and through his
anger he realized how frantic she looked, the
way she hugged the soggy flowers to her chest.
  With a swift glance around to make sure they were not
being watched too closely, he guided her behind a
hedge. There she fell against him, suddenly unable
to support herself.
  "Where did you go?" she asked against his shirt.
  "Englebert woke me early this morning. He
said he saw Cromwell conferring with some of his men
and thought it might be a good idea for me to switch
to another room. I thought he would have told you."
  She shook her head, her feeling of dread just
now beginning to ebb. "No. I'm glad he
didn't, because one of Cromwell's guys might
have followed me to you." She backed away, a
small smile playing at her lips. "You were
right, by the way. These roses are for you."
  She handed them to him, and he was about to speak when
he realized what the container was. "How did you
..."
  "Don't ask." She pushed them into his
grip.
  "Did anyone see you?"
  "No. I went the other night--don't get
mad. It was about three in the morning, and I put
out the candle as soon as I found it. Did you know
it gets dark at that hour? I almost walked into the
brick wall about a dozen times."
  "I should be furious with you," he said, his hand
closing around the bottle. "But I'm so damned
relieved to see you. When Suffolk pressed me
into one of his impromptu tournaments, I could
hardly refuse. He had a very good point: It's
not safe to be out of sight for long in this court."
  Her hand swept a thatch of hair from his
forehead. "How are you feeling? I can't believe
you're up."
  "I feel like hell," he admitted. Only
then did she notice that behind the apparently healthy
glow his skin bore a chalky whiteness. The lines
beside his mouth and radiating from the corners of his eyes
seemed deeper. "I couldn't stand being in that room
one more day. Besides, I believe I'm on the
mend."
  "Thanks to Dr. Cornelius and his magic
ointment?"
  "No." He had stopped smiling. "Thanks
to Wilma Dean Bailey and her magic love."
  The abrupt change in his tone took her
by surprise. She raised her hand to her mouth.
He gazed over her head, wary of curious
courtiers. They were alone. Setting the bottle
on the grass by the concealing shrub, he drew her
to him, enfolding her in his arms. Although they ached from
the punishing swordplay, her very nearness seemed
to soothe away the pain.
  "Shall we try it tonight, at sundown?" His breath
ruffled her hair as he spoke.
  "Maybe later," she murmured, her eyes
closed in a dreamy haze.
  "Later? But we need--" His sudden laugh
startled her. "Deanie, I mean, shall we try the
maze later, not, well ..."
  Her face flushed and he nodded, unable
to answer. Pressing closer, her arms closed about
his waist. She linked her hands tightly behind him,
as if preparing to be wrenched away.
  Kit rested his chin on her head, inhaling the
fragrance of her hair. His eyes remained
watchful as he listened for the telltale
rustle that would signal an intruder into the
boundaries of their private world.
  "It has to work, it just has to," she said at
last, her lips moving against his chest.
  He said nothing, and she pulled back slightly
and looked up. His fierce stare was fixed beyond her,
his expression hooded and unreadable. He
swallowed and his eyes shifted to hers. At once
his face softened, melting into a gentle smile.
  "We'd best rejoin the fray," he
murmured, bending down to pick up the bottle.
He held it up to the light, the flower petals
fluttering to the ground as it moved. "Should I be
unable to speak with you, perhaps we should agree on a
time to meet in the maze. How does six o'clock this
afternoon sound?"
  Deanie tried unsuccessfully to repress a
shiver.
  "Are you cold?" he asked, offering her his arm.
  "Yes." Her voice was subdued. "I've
been cold since I got here."
  "Ah. There's a very good explanation for that."
They emerged from behind the hedge, the sun barely
warming the air. He spoke quietly, leaning
toward her. "We are in the tail end of an ice
age."
  "You're kidding."
  "No. It's a good ten or twelve degrees
colder now than it was in the twentieth century.
Haven't you noticed?"
  "I just thought it was all the palace creeps that
made me feel so chilly."
  He grinned. "Well, they surely don't
help."
  The duke of Suffolk waved from where yet more
courtiers had gathered. "Hamilton, there you are.
Come try your arm with Surrey."
  Kit held up a hand, indicating he would be
right there. "Six o'clock?" His gaze held hers.
  "Six o'clock," she confirmed.
  "Hamilton!" He looked up just as
Surrey tossed his sword, and he caught it with
his left hand.
  With his right he passed Deanie the flowers and
cola bottle. He brushed the back of his hand
along the curve of her cheek. "Take care
until six," he mumbled, then turned to join the
men.
  "Of the bottle?" she asked, watching his broad
back as he walked away. His dark
curls barely reached the collar of the white shirt.
He halted and very slowly turned to face her.
  "No." His shrouded expression revealed
nothing. "Take care of yourself, Deanie. Take
care of yourself."
  With that he hefted the sword in the unfamiliar
hand and left her wondering what on earth his
strange tone could have meant.

  The king was doing everything in his considerable power
to impress Mistress Deanie in the music
salon.
  "Ah, the clavichord," he announced as he
stretched his great hands with a delicate flourish.
He began one of his favorite tunes, each
note vibrating in the air. He hazarded a
peek at Mistress Deanie, who sat stiffly
on the window seat, the gypsy guitar of
Hamilton's resting as if forgotten in her lap.
  God's blood, but she was lovely! Her
hair had much red in its chestnut hues. The
setting sun seemed to cause her thick tresses
to glow with warmth. She had a most distracting
habit of looking out the window, and the king was
determined to force her complete attention on his
princely prowess.
  She had come willingly enough after the noon meal.
Of course she sat with her cousin Hamilton at
her side, and they seemed to enjoy each other's
familiar company the way close family
members often do. When the meal ended Hamilton
seemed reluctant to leave her, even as the
ladies retired to their own chambers.
  "Is it to your liking, mistress?" The king
played the last few bars of the music.
  "Excuse me?" She seemed startled by his
voice.
  The king pursed his lips, trying to control his
impatience. His red beard had been trimmed
earlier by one of the scores of barbers that seemed
to overrun Hampton of late. One had snipped
at his thinning hair, then frowned and put a plumed
round hat on his head like a crown. The king was
well aware of his encroaching baldness, and he
resented a mere barber being privy to the knowledge.
  "The music, Mistress Deanie," he
repeated. "Is it to your liking?"
  "It is just fine, Your Majesty."
  The king squelched the urge to scowl. Instead,
he gave her one of his most dazzling
smiles. He was proud of his teeth; they were
mostly intact, and not as badly discolored as those
of most men his age.
  The song ended, and the king looked down with
approval at the glittering rings on his fingers.
"It is a composition of my own making," he said.
  "Really?" He had caught her attention now.
"Why, it was wonderful, Your Highness."
  "Yes, it is rather wonderful." He stood up
and approached her. "Mistress Deanie, would you
favor our ears with another of your own
compositions?"
  "Of course." She tried to smile. She had
no idea of the exact time, but she knew it was
rapidly nearing six o'clock. She would have to race
to her room to retrieve the bottle before she could
meet Kit in the maze. Her fingers faltered on
the neck of the guitar, fumbling for a chord. She
had no notion what she was going to play; she just
wanted to make it short and fast.
  "Mistress Deanie." The king's voice was
unexpectedly soft. "Is there something amiss?
It does not escape our notice that you seem
to be distracted."
  Deanie strummed a sour chord on the small
guitar and appraised her situation with the king. She
immediately dismissed the idea of telling him everything,
of Cromwell and his strong-arm tactics.
Cromwell would merely lash out with more speed and
ferocity, since he would have nothing else to lose.
  Instead she chose her words carefully. "I
fear, Your Highness, that I am not yet accustomed
to the ways of the court. Everything is so
unfamiliar, and I am afraid I will somehow
offend a courtier--or worse, yourself."
  The king relaxed, sitting alongside her on the
window seat. The jewels on his round hat
reflected the sun, its rays bent through heavy
leaded panes.
  "Did you know I wasn't supposed to ever
become king?" The regal accent was gone from his
voice, and he seemed more human, less
overblown.
  "Really?" She put down the guitar, suddenly
interested in what he had to say.
  A small laugh escaped his mouth, and he
stretched his silk-hosed legs before him. A large
red garter covered the spot where the ulcer ate at
his limb. "I was merely the duke of York, the
second son. My older brother,
Arthur, now he was the true prince.
  "What happened to him?"
  Henry was more than a little surprised. Even in
Wales, the story of his family was common knowledge. But
he explained anyway. "Arthur was my father's
favorite, named for the legendary king."
  "Oh, I get it! King Arthur." Deanie's
eyes, fringed with impossibly long black
lashes, were completely focused on Henry. It
was a sensation he found enormously enjoyable.
  "Yes. Arthur was every inch England's fair
prince. He was even wed to the fairest princess
of Christendom: Katherine of Aragon, daughter
of Ferdinand and Isabella."
  "The guys who sent Christopher Columbus
to the New World?"
  Again, Henry laughed. "Indeed, the very ones.
But only after my father, in one of his few instances of
poor judgment, refused to finance the voyage. The
explorer's brother, Bartholomew Columbus,
came to England to beg funds from my father. It was not
much he asked, but my father refused. He said it
would not be profitable."
  Deanie, forgetting she was with the king, whistled through
her teeth. "Man, I'll bet he sure
regretted that move."
  "Not nearly as much as I regretted it. It
is rather costly to finance a realm." His voice was
light, and there was a distinct twinkle in his beady
black eyes.
  "I'll bet," she agreed. "But what
happened to Arthur?"
  "Ah. When he was a bridegroom of but
fourteen tender years, he died."
  "No! I'm sorry. Oh, that's terrible.
Poor Katherine."
  The king cleared his throat. "Well,
Mistress Deanie, Katherine as a young woman
was lovely. All of a sudden, I, simple
Hal, was thrust into the position of prince of
Wales. My poor father raced throughout Europe
to gather the best tutors available. As the
second son, you see, my education had been
sadly lacking. Oh, it was suitable for a man of the
Church, that bastion of second sons. But it was
lacking for a king. Only by diligent study was I
able to succeed."
  "In other words, you had to cram?"
  The king blinked, then nodded. "I suppose that
is an apt phrase for the book-learning
I experienced. Cram." He flicked an
invisible speck from the rich silk of his doublet.
"One of my tutors was Katherine, widow of my
brother, Arthur. And when my father died, I was
eighteen. Katherine was twenty-three. So I
married her."
  "Wait a second--you married your dead
brother's wife?"
  "Yes. Much to my regret, for God did not
bless us with a living son. We were punished, you
see. Punished for defying God's will. It is
against theological teachings for a man to marry his
brother's wife. The marriage was annulled."
  "How sad."
  The king frowned. "Yes. It was sad indeed."
  Deanie sensed that she should change the topic.
"So how on earth did you learn to become such a
wonderful king?"
  He seemed to expand within the confines of the immense
doublet. "Ah. I believe God touched me with
greatness."
  Deanie bit her lip, well aware that he was
not jesting. In the corner of the room she heard the
ping of one of the king's many clocks.
  "Oh, Your Highness," she said, counting the
strokes. Six. It was six, and Kit was waiting
in the maze.
  The king gave her a lazy grin. "Yes."
There had been passion in her voice, and he liked
the husky tone.
  "I must--" She stood up, an idea hitting
her. "I must visit the privy," she whispered
anxiously.
  The king straightened. "By all means,
Mistress. Leave at once." A look of
royal distaste crossed his face. He did not like
to think of women having bodily functions. It was
most upsetting.
  With a quick curtsy, his hand waving her on, she
exited the music salon, propelling herself faster
than the heavy skirts were ever meant to move.

  The earl of Surrey, Norfolk's son,
waited for Hamilton to pass.
  It had been a day of humiliation for Surrey.
He had called for swordplay with Hamilton,
well aware that the man's shoulder had been
severely wounded. He feigned surprise and
concern, trying to console Hamilton when
Suffolk, that bloated fool, told of the
injury.
  Just as he'd expected, Hamilton said he
could fight with his left hand. The ladies almost
fell into a swoon of delight, and Surrey
ground his teeth in an effort not to shout, to curse
Hamilton. Who was he, after all? Who knew
of his parentage? He appeared every inch the product
of nobility, but his title had been bestowed by the
king.
  Surrey stood straighter, hoping his nose was
not overly red. Springtime always made him
sneeze.
  He was going to defeat Hamilton. Before the
court, before his father and Suffolk. Above all, before
the ladies. Somehow, even his obvious good breeding
and noble manners did little to attract the fair
sex. Hamilton, rough and less dignified,
seemed to have his pick.
  How had it happened? How had Hamilton,
wielding his sword with his left arm instead of the right,
managed to defeat him twice? His ears burned with
humiliation. Some of the ladies had laughed.
Hamilton had not, merely offered his hand after the
final bout. He took it, of course. Had to.
But he had wiped it as soon as Hamilton and
Suffolk left for supper.
  Hamilton.
  Surrey jumped. Someone was approaching.
Perhaps if he just slit Hamilton's throat,
all would be well. No. Not yet. There were too
many people who'd witnessed the mortifying defeat of
Surrey not to cast vile suspicion upon his fine
name should anything happen to Hamilton.
  "Kit?"
  It was Mistress Deanie. Surrey licked
his lips. She was a beautiful wench. How would
Hamilton feel if another man took her,
had his way with her, then tossed her aside like so
much rubbish? Ha. It would be good to see
Hamilton suffer. It would be good to take
Mistress Deanie.
  His father couldn't abide her. Of course, his father
wanted his slut of a cousin Katherine Howard
to become the next queen, to raise them all above
their present noble position. They had survived
Anne Boleyn, his other sluttish cousin. They
would survive Katherine.
  "Kit?"
  The luscious Mistress Deanie was but half
a dozen yards away. He could grab
her, touch her fair--
  "Deanie!"
  Hamilton, curse his eyes, rounded the
corner. Surrey backed away. Another
time. He smiled in promise. Before he left
the gardens, he blew Deanie a silent kiss.

  They entered the maze at a slow pace. Should
anyone be watching from the palace or happen upon the
couple, they would appear to be enjoying the waning
minutes of daylight.
  "Calmly," Kit warned as he felt her
tense. The Lady Longley and a red-faced
groomsman emerged from behind a bush. "Good eve,
Lady Longley." Kit smiled. Deanie
merely showed her teeth.
  Lady Longley nodded and walked swiftly
toward the palace, the groom chasing after her.
  Once within the maze, Deanie handed Kit the
bottle. She had removed the flowers. It
seemed stark and bare, the blackened peanuts
rolling at the bottom.
  "It is almost time." He squinted toward the
sun. "Was this about where you were?"
  "I'm not sure."
  "Well, this is where I was standing, facing over
there." His hand sliced the air, strong,
decisive. He turned to her. "Are you all
right? You are wearing a rather greenish complexion."
He lifted up her chin.
  In the light his eyes were extraordinary, the
greens and browns battling, creating the
magnificent shade of hazel. She pulled her
gaze away, trying to think. It was impossible with
Kit so close.
  "Something's wrong," she said at last.
  He held the bottle above his head, testing.
His other hand gripped her upper arm.
  A single shaft of light hit the glass,
bouncing off in a blue light.
  "Deanie ..." he began, holding her
tighter.
  Suddenly she reached up and pulled the bottle
from his hand. The blue light vanished immediately.
  "What are you doing!" he shouted.
  She shook her arm free. "Something's wrong,
Kit. This isn't right."
  With an explosive sigh he tried to grab the
bottle back, but she jumped out of reach.
"Goddamnit, Deanie."
  Her mind raced, and she covered her face with
an unsteady hand, trying to come up with an
explanation for what was wrong. Kit stood so
close she could feel his warmth. She stepped
back even more, needing to think clearly without the
distraction of his presence.
  It came to her. "Anne!" She gasped. An
awful dizziness swept through her, and she couldn't
seem to think clearly.
  He caught her as she stumbled backward.
"Deanie, look at me," he asked, his flash
of anger gone.
  The sun set with one final burst of light.
  Kit led her to one of the stone benches in the
maze, and she sat beside him, not daring to come in
contact with his body. Taking a shaky breath, she
faced him. "What happens to Queen Anne?"
  "For God's sake, Deanie, don't do that
to me again." It was then she realized how shaken he
was, taking great gulps of air and shooting her
irritated looks.
  "What happens to Queen Anne?" she
repeated, beginning to feel better by the moment.
  "So you want a history lesson?" he
snapped. "Deanie, don't you remember the old
schoolyard chant?"
  "What schoolyard chant?"
  "About Henry and his six wives. My sister
taught it to me, so I would remember the order in
which they came. What kind of education did you have?"
  "A very bad one. Just tell me, Kit: What
happens to Anne?"
  His hand reached down and folded over hers. "It
goes "Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced,
beheaded, survived.""
  Deanie began to count on her fingers. "Could you
repeat that?"
  He did, and she stopped on her fourth finger.
  "Kit, Anne is his fourth wife," she said
quietly.
  "Yes."
  "Henry will divorce her."
  Kit nodded. "Cromwell will arrange an
annulment."
  "It's up to Cromwell?"
  Again he nodded. "Deanie, what's wrong?"
  "Cromwell," she said at last. "If we
leave, I don't think Anne will just be
divorced. Now that we're here, everything is
different. Cromwell is furious,
Kit. What if we somehow have changed history?
Even worse, he's scared to death. Couldn't you
tell the other day in your room? The man's at a
breaking point."
  Kit remained silent, and she continued.
  "If we leave, who do you think will bear the
brunt of his rage? He needs someone to blame--
you know that better than I do. He'll take it out
on Anne. She'll be his logical target.
He'll be backed into a corner and see Anne as
the reason. He'll make sure she's beheaded.
It will be our fault!"
  He said nothing for a few moments, then he
raised her hand to his lips, brushing her
knuckles with a kiss. "You're right, Deanie.
But in truth there's nothing we can do."
  "We can't let that happen." She snatched her
hand away, but the warmth of his lips still lingered.
  "Deanie, we can't possibly attempt
to change the workings of the court."
  "Why not?"
  "For Christ's sake, don't be such a
Yank." He kicked a pebble, then turned
to her. "This is not Boston in the eighteenth
century. There is no concept of democratic
justice here, no way to enlighten their narrow
beliefs. For all our purposes, we are in the
Middle Ages. People are burned for witchcraft
and sorcery. And much as it hurts your American
notion of equality, women rank somewhere between a
decent plough horse and a sturdy pair of
boots."
  "But ..."
  "Use your eyes and ears, Deanie," he
continued. "How the hell can we save a queen who
was destined to fail by either death or divorce the
moment Henry laid eyes on her?"
  "She saved your life."
  He was about to speak but halted.
  "You just don't like her because she has a German
accent," Deanie hissed, her eyes radiating
such fury he straightened.
  "Deanie, you're getting hysterical."
  "The Germans lost, Kit. They lost the
Second World War and lost it big time." She
swallowed, trying to get herself under control.
"Anne is not a Nazi, she's just some poor
woman from Cleves with an ambitious family.
And she nursed you with her own hands, did her very
best to see that you survived. And how are
we going to thank her? By letting her die?"
  In the silence he looked to the sky, wondering
if he had, indeed, condemned Anne for the sins of
her countrymen, distant relatives who would not be
born for another three and a half centuries. In
fact, Anne herself would have no children. She would
leave no one to rise against England in the faraway
future.
  "The sun is gone," he said mildly. "We
can do nothing more tonight."
  "You are wrong, Kit." Now she placed her
hand within his. His fingers automatically folded
over hers. "We can do something tonight. One person
is more powerful than Cromwell. Henry. Perhaps
if he likes his wife even a little, he wouldn't
go along with Cromwell's plans so easily."
  "It matters not how insane Cromwell's
plans are, how unnecessarily vindictive.
I've seen the king agree with Cromwell's
plots simply because they suit the king's own
desires. Now Henry wants Anne gone, and the
king has a remarkable ability to deny any
culpability, at least to himself. It's useless,
Deanie."
  "Maybe," she began, "we can make sure
Anne keeps her head. After all," she said
softly, "without her, you wouldn't have my heart."
  "Unfair." He groaned. Then with a sigh,
he stood up. "Mistress Deanie, do you wish
us to play matchmaker between the king and his wife?"
  She nodded eagerly and stood alongside him,
their hands still clasped.
  "God help me, I believe I'm going
to live to regret this." Kit tossed the bottle
into the air, catching it easily with one hand. And
together they walked back to the palace, both lost in
their own thoughts.

              Chapter 12

  The king was in buoyant spirits at the evening
board. His face, flushed with wine and good humor,
radiated a peculiar excitement. All
present benefited from his joyous mood, from the
lowliest page to Thomas Howard, the duke of
Norfolk, whom many in the hall failed
to recognize. He was wearing a most unfamiliar
disguise: a pleasant expression. Several
commented behind concealing hands that Norfolk should pull out
the camouflage for the next royal mask,
for no one would guess that behind the anemic but genuine
smile was the most noble duke of Norfolk.
  Even the presence of Queen Anne didn't
seem to disturb the king's air of joviality. She
sat quietly, slipping tiny bits of food
into her mouth and trying not to bring undue attention
to herself.
  Kit was exhausted, saying little and eating even
less.
  "You should go to bed," Deanie whispered as
Charles Brandon once again retold the tale of the
duke of Hamilton beating young Surrey in the
tilting yard.
  Kit acted as if his attention were riveted on
Suffolk's every word, but from the corner of his mouth he
was able to speak to her. "Not tonight, with Cromwell
perched like a bird of prey. And until the king
retires, I must play the part of dutiful
subject."
  "I'm sure the king would understand. He saw with his
own eyes how sick you've been. Come on,
Kit. I'll stay here and distract their attention
from your absence."
  "That's the problem." He leaned close to her
ear. "I fear leaving you with the king and Queen
Anne. Lord only knows what plans you have
fermenting in that mind of yours."
  "How much trouble could I get into in a single
evening?"
  "Please, Deanie." A slight smile
deepened his cheeks as his thumb rubbed the rim of his
goblet. "It seems the king has ordered mummers
for this evening. I can always take a nap then."
  "They're that boring?"
  He raised his eyebrows, nodding
halfheartedly at a woman who sat on the other
side of the room, staring at Kit with an intense
expression on her face. "The mummers give
new meaning to the word dull."
  "Who is she?" Deanie asked of the woman.
  The torchlight reflected off his hair as he
faced her. "Ah. I see your plan now: You
are going to keep me awake by interrogation. I
believe such treatment violates the rules of the
Geneva Convention."
  "Seriously, Kit. She looks as if she's
about to devour you with her eyes."
  "I wouldn't put it past her," he mumbled.
  A strange feeling knotted Deanie's
stomach, and she straightened her back.
The woman was still watching Kit, her lips parted
slightly. Deanie suddenly averted her eyes
to her lap, glancing at the ornate tufted
bodice of her gown, idly tracing an
embroidered flower with a finger.
  Other women had stared at Kit with the same
expression, a hazy, wanton quality.
Earlier she had failed to notice how many
feminine eyes batted as he passed, how their
faces became still when they caught his attention.
She had been in such a whirl herself, with new
sights and smells and sounds at every turn, that it
had never occurred to her that he was the center of much
of the court's focus.
  Her hand crept up over her bodice, and she
felt her flesh beneath the canvas corset, so
familiar, so confoundedly ordinary. She imagined
Kit speaking to Suffolk, describing her body
as they thrust with swords.
  "She brings new meaning to the word dull."
  Suffolk would chuckle with understanding.
  "Deanie, do you feel ill?"
  Jolted, she flushed when she realized Kit
had been speaking to her. Katherine Howard and
Cecily Garrison exchanged puzzled shrugs
across the table.
  "Have you ever been in love before?" she blurted,
trying to lower her voice.
  A stupefied expression spread across his face
as he took in her words. The question seemed to come from
nowhere, and he shook his head slightly in
astonishment, mystified by her train of thought.
"Yes," he answered at last, returning his
attention to the goblet.
  It hit Deanie what that unpleasant knot in
her stomach was: jealousy. Never before had she
experienced the tug of genuine envy. Sure, she
had watched with awe as other women soared to the top
of the charts with their songs or conquered a restless
audience with a perfect set. But it had never touched
her private life, never entered her relationships
with men.
  She was jealous.
  "Were you in love with that woman over there?" It
was as if she could no longer control her words, she
so desperately needed to know.
  "With Bessie Carpenter?"
  Unable to speak, she merely nodded.
  "Good God, no."
  A strange sense of relief
uncoiled within her, and she took a deep breath.
  "I don't believe I could truly love a
woman from here, from all this." His hand made a
dismissive gesture, as if flicking the court
into oblivion like a pesky fly. "Their minds
baffle me, with too many absolutes, too many
ideas taken for granted that I could never accept.
I would have to counterfeit a life for myself, to play
an endless role."
  Lost in his own thoughts, he continued as if
Deanie wasn't there. "To a certain extent,
I've had to do just that: to construct a background.
The thought of falling in love with a woman and having
to play that role twenty-four hours a day, each
day of the year, is overwhelming. Can you imagine the
burden? Relentless, crushing ..." She watched
his jaw clench. "No, Deanie," he concluded.
"I could never love one of these court ladies."
  He gave her a vague, amused smile.
  "Who was she, then?" She knew she should quit
while she was ahead, but some inner demon was pushing
her forward. "The woman you were in love with?"
  Crossing his arms gingerly because of the tender right
shoulder, he regarded her, appraising the look of
eagerness on her face. "It was nothing, years
ago. Certainly not a grand passion. More of a
schoolboy crush, really."
  Her mouth dropped involuntarily, and she
closed it as soon as possible. Of course she
had always heard rumors about British men, about
those remote boys' boarding schools where that sort
of thing went on. She had watched enough
"Masterpiece Theatre" episodes
to recognize his upper-crust accent. Still, she was
taken off guard by his admission.
  She sat straighter, trying to act as
nonchalant as possible. "Oh, I see. What
was his name?"
  Kit turned to her, a look of total
bewilderment on his face. "What was whose name?"
  "The schoolboy you had a crush on."
  For a moment he said nothing. Then a dawning
understanding lit his gaze. "You mean you think I
..."
  "It's okay, Kit." She pressed a
sympathetic hand upon his forearm. "I'm in show
business. That sort of thing goes on all the
time."
  "Deanie, I was engaged to be married once.
We thought we were in love; she was my
friend's younger sister. She was not, it seems, my one
grand passion."
  Something seemed familiar about the last phrase,
but Deanie ignored it. For the next several
moments the great hall of Hampton Court,
presently occupied by the most resplendently
powerful men in England, rang with the raucous
timbre of the duke of Hamilton's laughter.

  The idea was so simple, she was almost ashamed not
to have come up with it before.
  It was after Kit had stopped laughing, when he
finally caught his breath and explained that he had
been in love with the younger sister of one of his Oxford
chums, that the notion came to her as swiftly and as
powerfully as a summertime storm.
  The queen's man Englebert, watching with wary
glances as Cromwell slipped from the hall, had
brought the queen a platter of sweets. The king
had his back to her, raising a goblet of wine
to Katherine Howard. Something caused him to spin
about, to face Englebert. It was the fragrance of
sweets. The king would toast Katherine Howard
only after his craving for something sugary had been
satisfied.
  Doughnuts.
  The king would go crazy over doughnuts. Deanie
had a sudden vision of King Henry VIII
stepping into a Krispy Kream, raising a chubby
royal finger, and buying the entire stock.
Glazed, chocolate frosteds, jelly-filleds,
bismarks, crullers--the man would have a field
day.
  Deanie knew how to make doughnuts, and the king
would love them. If the king received doughnuts from
Queen Anne, his exuberance over every bite might
very well spill over to her. She may not be able
to win the king's heart, but she could most certainly
lay claim to his stomach. And with Henry, both were
equally vital to his happiness.
  Surely he would not behead a source of
doughnuts.
  Just as Deanie was about to tell Kit of her
plan, the mummers began to perform. The king had
apparently signaled them to begin, although she had not
seen him issue the command.
  Unable to speak because of the floor show, Deanie
watched the half dozen mummers go through their
slow-motion routine, pausing as they fell into each
pose. They wore brightly colored
robes, all with face-concealing hoods. There
seemed to be some order to what they were doing, although
to Deanie they just seemed to be striking random
positions.
  She slid Kit a look of understanding and saw his
lips tighten in an effort not to grin. The mime's
old trick of the glass wall or the steps to the
basement would be a welcome relief.
  Then an even more brilliant idea came
to her. While all eyes were focused on the
mummers, she could sneak into the kitchen with
Scholsenberg, Anne's cook, and explain how
to make doughnuts. The basic dough was simple,
and similar to the batter they already used. The king was
in such a uniquely good mood, it would be a shame
to pass up this chance. Who knew when the
capricious royal temper would again be so
accommodating?
  She rose slowly to her feet, careful not
to call attention to herself. Kit clamped a firm
hand over her wrist and began to stand, but she shook
her head and, with an embarrassed shrug, nodded
toward the door leading down the hall to the privy.
  As she left the feast alone, three alert
sets of eyes scrutinized her every step.
  One belonged to Kit. Another belonged to the king,
who wondered why all women seemed to spend an
inordinate amount of time traveling to and from the
privy.
  The third belonged to a gentleman of the court who
deemed it his new duty to follow the Bailey
wench wherever she might go. He was clever. While
everyone else watched her departure, he crept
in the opposite direction, slipping through the door
on one side of the hall--by the king's watching
chamber--while Mistress Bailey left through the
main door.
  No one noticed his quiet exit.

  In three weeks since she'd arrived at
Hampton, Deanie had finally learned not
to instinctively reach for a light switch whenever she
entered a room. Katherine Howard had once
caught her groping along a wall, and she had
blushed, explaining that in Wales even the finest
paneling could not compare to the excellence of the royal
walls.
  Before three weeks ago, she had never paused
to think of the difference that bright, even lighting made
to a room. Without the luxury of a
lightbulb, nighttime corridors and empty
rooms become darkly mysterious, places where
shadows flutter and flinch.
  The minstrels below were playing an unfamiliar
tune. Deanie supposed it was one of the king's more
recent compositions. He had a fairly good ear,
but he would never make it on Music Row. As
she swept through the hallway, she had another
mental image of Henry in twentieth century
Nashville, this time with a secondhand
tape-recorder, his demo tapes being cut off
by an impatient producer after fifteen
seconds.
  She could imagine his crimson-and-purple
fury, ordering the offending producer to the block.
Most producers would simply yawn and wish
Henry good luck at another label.
  That's when she realized she was lost.
  Everything was suddenly silent; the minstrels had
either stopped playing or she had gone beyond earshot.
There were so many hundreds of rooms she had never
been near, even during her quick pass-through searching
for Kit, that she hadn't the faintest idea which wing
she had entered.
  Trying to squelch the sudden urge to yell for
help, she backtracked to where she had just been and
peeked through an open chamber door. Could she
recall a room with a single torcher and a tapestry
of St. Sebastian? Nothing seemed familiar.
  Just as she began down the hall again, she had the
distinct impression that she was being followed. She
stopped short, but there were no other sounds. It was
clearly just her imagination.
  She turned down another hall and gasped, her
hand flying to her throat. This particular hall was
indeed familiar--from the original tour she took
with the crew before the first day of shooting the video. The
guide had said the hall was haunted by the ghost of a
woman. Yet Deanie couldn't remember the
ghost's name. Blast, why hadn't she paid more
attention? For all she recollected, it could be
Deanie herself who would haunt the corridor for the
next five centuries.
  Again she stopped, and this time there was a brief
whoosh behind her. She was being followed.
  "Hello?"
  As soon as she spoke she realized how
ridiculous she sounded. What did she expect,
a ghost to step from the shadows and introduce itself?
Or some evildoer to bow and explain why
he was following her into the dark reaches of the
palace?
  Picking up her pace, she walked briskly
toward yet another hallway, not even bothering
to look into rooms as she passed. Her throat was
parched with fright, but she ignored the discomfort. Behind
her she felt someone else mirroring her every
move, faster or slower as she made her way to a
large double door.
  Just before she was able to reach for a huge circular
doorknob, a hand pressed over her mouth.
  "Be still, mistress." The voice was
unfamiliar. A man pinned her to his body,
tall and thin against her shoulder blades.
  With a sharp jab, she elbowed his side. He
groaned but did not let her loose. Instead he
tightened his grip. "That was not wise."
  Her arms were now held back at a painful
angle. She bit down on his hand with all her
might. He spat out a startled curse, and she
used his momentary shock to escape.
  Taking two steps in blind, animal panic,
she made for the large door just beyond her reach. She
slammed the door behind her, her hands shaking,
searching in the dim light for a lock. There was none.
  Her pursuer yanked on the door from the other
side. Using all her strength and the leverage of her
weight, she kept the door pulled shut. With a
frantic glance over her shoulder, she saw a
tapestry-covered table and a high-backed chair.
Upon the table was a single thick candle, its wax
dripping freely over the needlework. The rest of the
chamber was cloaked in shadows.
  Stretching out her foot while still holding on to the
doorknob, she pulled the chair to her side and
jammed it at an angle beneath the doorknob. She
knew it wouldn't hold for more than a few
seconds and immediately dashed for the table, ducking under
the tapestry and praying that it wasn't a chest of
drawers--and that she didn't tip over the candle and
set the whole palace ablaze. Although at that
moment a roaring, out-of-control fire offered her more
safety than cowering under a table in a dead-end
room.
  The table was, indeed, just a table, and there was
plenty of room for her to hide. Just as she heard
the chair crash to the planked floor, she pulled
the train of her gown farther under the table and tried
to still her ragged breathing.
  "I know you are in here."
  There was a triumphant sneer to his words.
Deanie tried to identify her assailant but could
not.
  "Ah, methinks my beautious prey is
hiding." He gave a sharp, unpleasant
chuckle. "Perchance under the chair? No. No
room there. I espy a table. The flame yet
quivers atop, as if some unknown personage
disturbed its glow."
  Deanie was about to speak, to crawl out before he
plunged a sword into the tapestry. Just as she
pulled the tapestry aside, another voice
pierced the air.
  "Leave."
  It was a single command, barked with authority.
  "Who goes?" Her assailant's tone was
unsure.
  "Thomas Cromwell, earl of Essex."
Deanie had known who the third person was before he
identified himself. His voice was etched forever in her
most vivid nightmares. "Be that young Surrey?
Sheath your weapon, pup."
  Deanie's mind reeled. Surrey? Henry
Howard, Katherine's cousin and Norfolk's
scrawny son? She sank against the wall, her
hand over her mouth. Why would Surrey want
to follow her?
  "Cromwell." Surrey was growing bolder by the
minute. "Are you again hiding in disgrace? The
true peers are below, with the king."
  "That explains your presence here then."
Cromwell used the same mild tone he had
used with Deanie.
  "Why you upstart cur!" Surrey sputtered his
anger. "You have nary a drop of noble blood in
your coarse veins! You ... you ..."
  "Yes, Surrey?" Cromwell paused.
"Do I detect a slight impediment in your
speech? Too much blue blood breeds
imperfections. Such as your stuttering tongue. And
your comical swordplay."
  "No!"
  "You may leave, Surrey. Now. Before I
call for my men."
  Deanie could imagine the mortified expression
on the younger man's face.
  "You will soon be felled, Cromwell," spat
Surrey with a final rush of bravado. She then
heard the heavy door open and slam shut. In his
blast of shame, Surrey had forgotten
Deanie, still huddled beneath the table.
  She remained still, waiting for Cromwell
to leave, hoping he had somehow remained ignorant
of her presence. If the chamber was divided by a
screen, or perhaps a small antechamber,
Cromwell might believe the earlier scuffling
to have been Surrey alone.
  "You may come out now, Mistress Deanie."
  Now real fear gripped her. Surrey was an
unknown quantity. With Cromwell, she knew the
danger she was in, the violence of which he was
capable. He had already caused Kit's agonizing
wound with the simple lift of a finger. She remained
silent, the terror causing her limbs to stay
motionless.
  "Come come, mistress. You have nothing to fear."
  "Yeah, right," she muttered aloud.
  "I will repeat my request one more time.
Remove yourself from this ridiculous position
immediately. Or perhaps you would like one of my men
to assist you."
  In an instant she crawled from under the table, her
headpiece catching on the leg, her knees
tangling in the yards of fabric of both the
tapestry and her gown. With an annoyed sigh,
Cromwell held the tapestry still as she struggled
to her feet.
  For a moment they said nothing to each other. Deanie
stared at him, aware how very vulnerable she was, and
also aware how vulnerable Kit was down below. She
hoped he hadn't noticed Cromwell's absence
from the hall, silently prayed he was not at this very
moment searching for her.
  "What were you doing?" Cromwell asked
simply.
  Deanie blinked. The calm manner of his question
both surprised and alarmed her.
  "Excuse me?"
  "There is a banquet below, as usual. The king
is there, as usual." Cromwell straightened.
"Lest you forget, we have a bargain, mistress.
What are you doing creeping through the halls?"
  Crossing her arms and stalling for time, she tried
to think of an answer. Something that wouldn't lead
to even more trouble for both herself and Kit. Then it
hit her: the truth. There was nothing wrong with where
she had been going, or why.
  "I was trying to find the kitchen," she said at
last.
  "The kitchen?"
  She nodded. "I know how to make something the king
would like. They're called doughnuts, and I'm
sure he would love them."
  "Where is Hamilton?"
  "He's below, watching those awful mummers."
  "And he allowed you to go unescorted into the
kitchen?"
  "No," she admitted, shaking her head. "He
thinks I went to the privy. The idea just hit me
downstairs. I saw the king turn his attention from
Katherine Howard to a tray of sweets and
realized how much the king would enjoy doughnuts. So
I decided to sneak down to the kitchen to tell
Scholsenberg all about--"
  "Scholsenberg?"
  "Oh, the queen's cook. Anyway, I just
thought--"
  Cromwell held up a hand to stop her. "I
see." Slowly he turned his eyes to the single
candle, one finger tapping in the air as if an
entity of its own. He did not seem to be aware
of Deanie. For the moment he was in a solitude
imposed by his own thoughts.
  Deanie did not like the silence. Cromwell's
efficient mind, spinning mayhem with just such
malignant concentration, had created far too many
disasters.
  "May I ask you a question?" Deanie rushed.
  He seemed startled and fixed his attention on
her face. With a brisk nod, he signaled her
to speak.
  "These last few days, well, you've pretty
much left us alone. You almost killed Kit last
week, but you've stayed clear since then."
  There was no indication on Cromwell's bland,
flat face that her words had penetrated. He
continued staring at her before answering.
  "Would you prefer I complete the task?" He
spoke softly.
  "No!" She gasped. "We just don't know
what to expect, and it's driving us crazy."
  Cromwell lunged toward Deanie, his black
eyes glinting. She was about to scream when his arm
glided past her and gripped the candle on the
tapestry-covered table.
  "Come here, mistress." For the first time there was no
malice in his voice, no threat behind each
syllable.
  He led her to the back of the chamber. The candle
cast a yellow circle of light on the
furnishings as they walked. She realized she had
stumbled upon his private chambers, his personal
lair where he attended to business, both state and
personal.
  There was a massive desk covered with parchments.
Holding the candle, not looking at her, he
gestured toward the stacks of thick paper, the
bottles of ink and bundle of quills. There was
a heavy seal made of either brass or gold and a
shaker. She knew the silver shaker was full of
sand to blot ink dry.
  "These documents will both annul the king's
marriage and lead Queen Anne to the block.
They are almost complete, lacking but a handful of
easily purchased signatures."
  Deanie was unable to speak, and Cromwell
continued. "Within the past several days there had been
a certain--well, thawing of the king's treatment of the
queen. My men say it began when you told him
how kind the queen had been to Hamilton, how she
nursed him with her own hands."
  "It's true."
  "She is not becoming a demanding shrew, as
Kathrine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn so
foolishly became." Finally he looked at her.
"I care not who is the queen, as long as the king
is content and my own position is secure."
  "You mean it doesn't matter whether it's
Anne or Katherine Howard or me?" She
tried to keep the excitement from her voice.
  "Nay, I did not say that. Should Katherine
Howard be mistress or queen, I shall be
destroyed. And mark my words, I will take you and
Hamilton and Queen Anne with me." He
glared at her in the darkness. "If you can persuade
the king to dislike the queen a little less, it will be
well for all of us."
  She was about to ask him another question, to explain
what he meant, when he waved her off. "Go now.
Go in haste and make the king a most pleasant
treat."
  Now was not the time to press the issue. She all
but ran from the room, holding her train in one hand,
the other stretched out in the pitch-black air,
hoping to stop herself from colliding with a wall or a
piece of furniture. Just before she reached the
door, she halted.
  "Excuse me, Mr. Cromwell?"
  There was silence, then an irritated
response. "Yes?"
  "How do I get to the kitchen?"
  A strange sound erupted from the direction of
Cromwell. Deanie realized it was a laugh--a
dry, humorless laugh. A shiver traced down
her spine. Even while laughing, the man gave
her the creeps. "Down the corridor, to the
left. Follow the scent from there."
  "Thank you," she hazarded.
  There was no response. She ran from the earl of
Essex as quickly as her feet could carry her.

  Cecily Garrison returned to the Great
Hall, pausing only to curtsy to her sovereign
and his wife. She went directly to the duke of
Hamilton, who was waiting for her report.
  "Did you find her?"
  Kit was uncharacteristically anxious. The same
man who had coolly faced mortal danger in the
skies over England, who had just that afternoon risked his
well-deserved reputation as an unparalleled
swordsman by engaging in a brutal match with
Surrey--a lesser opponent but a healthy one
--was showing distinct signs of worry. And the
reason?
  The failure of his cousin to return from the
privy.
  "Nay, I did not," she responded.
  Kit began to rise, not bothering to be charming
to Mistress Cecily or, for that matter,
to anyone in the court. Just as he began to bolt to the
passageway, his left hand hovering over the hilt
of the sword, he slammed into the figure of a
woman who seemed to appear out of nowhere.
  "Kit!" she breathed.
  "Deanie, for God's sake, where have you been?"
  The mild commotion the pair created was quickly
upstaged by the queen's tumbler, performing a duet
with the three-legged brown bear.
  With a firm grip he pulled her to their place
on the bench. Once settled, she turned a
dazzling smile on him. "You'll never guess
what just happened!"
  "I'll tell you." He spoke with his teeth
clenched, the color on his face high. "I almost
charged through the halls, sword drawn, searching for
you. Didn't I ask you not to disappear again?
Didn't I ask you, just this morning?" At last
he took a deep breath and looked at her.
  Her eyes grew large, her complete attention
focused on him. All his anger seemed
to evaporate as he took in the sight of her.
He realized he was still clutching her arm, andwitha
gentle squeeze he released her.
  "There is something white on your nose," he said
softly, reaching out and brushing a dusting of powder from
the bridge of her nose.
  "Oh, that's flour." She rubbed the remaining
flour from her nose, leaving it reddened. Kit could
not help but smile.
  "Look! Look at the king!" she whispered.
She was about to tell him about her meeting with
Cromwell but decided to wait until he had
calmed down.
  "Why?"
  "Just watch."
  On the dais, Englebert, bowing humbly,
presented the king with a large golden platter
filled with round clumps of pastry. The queen,
peering nervously over his shoulder, saw the contents
of the platter. For a moment her face was blank;
then, as a slow smile eased her features, she
turned her eyes to Deanie.
  "What is this?" the king's voice boomed. Then
he looked closer. His jeweled hand immediately
grasped one of the objects. He sniffed it once
like a suspicious dog, then took a large
bite, his small teeth gnashing in mechanical
speed. Then the motions slowed, and across the hall
Deanie held her breath, her hand closing over
Kit's forearm.
  The king turned to the queen, his mouth still full.
"From you?" He pointed an accusing finger--the one not
holding the pastry--at Queen Anne.
  Her face momentarily fell, and she nodded.
"Ja. They are called doo-nuts."
  The king stared, still chewing furiously. And then he
grinned, his red beard sticky with honey. "My
queen! Excellent!" He reached for another
glazed doughnut, gesturing for others to join him.
Finally, like a precious gift, he offered the last
one to Queen Anne.
  Englebert beamed.
  Kit began to laugh. "You made doughnuts for
King Henry?"
  Deanie nodded. "I wanted to make
sugar-coated, but did you know they don't have
regular sugar here? I had to use honey instead."
  "You would fit right in with the NAAFI women."
He chuckled, wrapping his arm briefly about her
shoulders.
  "The what women?"
  He leaned closer. "They brought tea and
biscuits to the pilots, ladies with aprons and
those marvelous cigarettes."
  "Like the USO," she murmured, enjoying the
weight and warmth of his arm. "Wait a minute:
You said cigarettes. Do you mean to tell me that
you made me explain what they were, making me
feel like an absolute idiot, and all along you
used to smoke?"
  He raised his lush eyebrows and grinned. "Like
a chimney."
  "Kit, tell me: When will I forget about
cigarettes? I mean, if we end up here, or
in a time without tobacco, when will I stop thinking about
them?"
  Just then Englebert passed a tray of
doughnuts, and Kit took two, handing one
to Deanie. "Please, Kit," she pleaded,
kneading his sleeve. "When will I get over it?"
  With deliberate languor he took a bite
of a doughnut, nodding in agreement with the king's
appraisal. When he swallowed, his face
became grave. "I'll tell you this much," he
whispered. "The first ten years are the hardest."
  Her face fell tragically. And for the second
time that evening, the great hall was filled with the
laughter of the duke of Hamilton.

              Chapter 13

  The next day Kit and Deanie were forced to wait
until long after the fast was broken to speak. The
night before, she had been able to give him the gist of
her exchange with Cromwell, noting the quietly
puzzling change in his behavior.
  "Now he's even more dangerous," Kit
concluded. "He knows that if the king marries
Katherine, he's finished."
  "Why?" Deanie asked as they left the hall.
Before speaking she made sure no one was listening,
pressing against his arm as they walked. "She seems
nice enough. No rocket scientist, but a
sweet kid."
  Kit laughed then. "The very idea of Katherine
Howard as a scientist ..." He shook his head.
"But it's not Katherine who threatens Cromwell
--it's her family. They're every bit as
ambitious as your Wallis Simpson."
  "I don't have a Wallis
Simpson."
  "You know, the divorced Yank who married our
Edward." When she still seemed perplexed, he
halted and coaxed her into a corner with a gentle
nudge. "Please, Deanie. Don't tell me
you have no idea who I'm taking about."
  "I have no idea who you're talking about," she
confessed.
  "The famous "woman I love" speech?"
  Deanie's face lit with understanding. "Oh, I
do remember! There was a made-for-Tv movie
all about it. She was a Baltimore divorcee,
and Edward abdicated the crown for her. It was
wonderful! I think Jane Seymour played her
in the movie."
  "Jane Seymour?"
  "Not the queen. This Jane was in James
Bond films, then went on to become Dr.
Quinn on television."
  Kit shook his head and raked a hand through his
hair before continuing. "Anyway, our little Katherine
has a pushy uncle and an even more pushy flock
of Catholic supporters. They're still smarting from
Cromwell's dissolution of the monasteries. If
Katherine becomes queen, as indeed she shall,
Cromwell will be left alone, bearing the wrath of
Henry and Norfolk and every Catholic in the land."
  "Doesn't Cromwell have any
supporters?"
  Kit made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"He has never been known for his personal
magnetism. Cromwell's biggest talent has
been to make himself indispensable to the king, never
trusting anyone else enough to share the power. At this
point he's already alienated all his potential
defenders. He's always acted alone and never
bothered to build a political force behind him. It
worked for a while, but ..."
  Kit stopped talking as Norfolk approached
and acknowledged them with a curt nod. Now that the king
had been taking an active interest in his niece,
he seemed to expand within his office, gaining momentum
with every leering twinkle the king bestowed upon Katherine.
  Just as they were about to continue their discussion in the
corridor, the evening ended abruptly with Deanie
and the other ladies-in-waiting escorting Queen
Anne to her bedchamber. There wasn't time for her
to mention the run-in with Surrey.
  She spent the next morning in a frustrating
attempt to learn needlepoint from the
wasp-tongued Mother Lowe. Meanwhile, Kit
passed the hours with Suffolk and the other gentlemen,
planning a tournament to celebrate the coming of
summer. He found her in her chamber, back
turned toward the door, dabbing her fingertips with a
cloth. The halls were unusually silent. Most
of the members of the court were admiring the king's new
bowling alley below.
  "It's raining," Kit announced from the
doorway. His arm was raised over his head,
gripping the archway with casual strength as he
leaned into her room. The pain in his shoulder was still
intense, but he was determined to defy it, refusing
to admit to any limitations. "We have to wait
until the weather clears before we can try the maze
again."
  "Good," Deanie said, her back turned toward
Kit.
  "Good?"
  "That gives us more time to work with Queen Anne.
After those papers Cromwell showed me, I hope
we have weeks of rain. It's going to take a lot
of time to ensure her safety, Kit."
  "I thought you were pleased with how well the
doughnuts worked," he said to her back.
  "Six dozen doughnuts do not a marriage
make."
  Kit frowned. "What the hell is that
supposed to mean?"
  "It just means we need more time--lots of time
to help the king appreciate his queen."
  "We don't have a lot of time, love." He
lowered his voice. "The longer we remain here, the
more likely we are to be brought up on charges of
witchcraft or treason."
  "You've managed to avoid that problem nicely
for more than a decade," she reasoned without facing
him.
  "That was before you arrived. On my own, I was
fine. You're the wild card--everything's changed.
What on earth are you doing?"
  She paused and looked straight ahead. "Is
it good or bad that everything's changed?"
  "Mostly good." There was a smile in his
voice. "Mostly wonderful; just those treason or
witchcraft threats to make us skiddish."
  "I wonder what would be worse," she mused.
"I mean, between treason or witchcraft."
  With a light chuckle he shifted his weight.
"Given a choice, I believe I'd
opt for witchcraft. You might get lucky and have
your fire put out by rain. There's not much hope with
being hanged, drawn, and quartered."
  "All three?" She stiffened. "Isn't that
overkill?"
  "That's the general idea. Why, they make
sure the poor sod is still awake to watch himself
get disemboweled. Say, Deanie, what are you
doing?"
  Deanie turned and held up her left hand.
Even from across the room he could see the tiny
rivulets of blood.
  "Good God, what happened?" He reached her
side in a few long strides.
  "I tried my hand at needlepoint." She
sighed. "It looks so easy, Kit. The
ladies just hanging around, chatting up a storm and
sewing. But those needles are sharp, and Mother Lowe
made me finish the sample."
  As he examined her wounded fingertips, she
reached for her small sample of needlework. With
obvious disgust, she held it before his eyes.
  "It's okay. You can laugh if you want," she
muttered.
  Kit transferred his attention to the little square
of cloth. "Oh. Well. I say, Deanie,
it's really very good. Jolly good indeed." He
squinted, leaning closer, then averted his eyes,
complete befuddlement apparent on his strong
features.
  "Do you know what it is?" A smile tugged at
the corners of her mouth.
  "What? Well of course I do. I'm not a
complete idiot. Hmm, let me see." He
focused again on her fingertips. "A little iodine
would be welcome now."
  "What is it?"
  "Iodine? Why, it's an orange-colored
medicine to kill germs."
  "I know what iodine is, Kit. I'm asking
if you know what my needlepoint is supposed
to be."
  "Oh, that."
  She nodded solemnly.
  "Well, let's just take another look, shall
we?" His voice was artificially cheerful. "My,
what colors! Really, it's quite astounding,
Deanie. Look at your spectacular use of
red."
  "Red? I didn't use any red."
Looking closer at the cloth she bit the inside
of her cheek to stop from giggling. "That's blood,"
she said finally. "Mother Lowe wouldn't let me use
a thimble."
  "Oh. I see. Well it works very well,
doesn't it?"
  "Never mind the colors, Kit. Tell me
what it is."
  "Come now, Deanie. Of course I know what
it is."
  "Then tell me," she insisted.
  The dimples in his cheeks deepened in
concentration. At once his expression brightened.
"Why of course! It's a bug!"
  She shook her head.
  "A bird? Those are wings, are they not?"
  Raising her eyebrows, she crossed her arms
and tapped an impatient foot.
  "You are not going to help me out, are you?"
  Again she shook her head, this time unable to keep
the mischievous grin from her face.
  "Very well. It seems to be some creature from
mythology, perhaps a phoenix rising from its
ashes. No? Let me see. Hallo! Is that
a man inside the neck of the creature?"
  She nodded eagerly.
  "Charades it is, then." Clearing his throat,
he looked at Deanie, the expectant, eager
smile on her face. And he realized what she
had done.
  "Deanie." His voice was suddenly rough as he
turned the sample on its side. For a long
moment he said nothing, just examined her clumsy
attempt at needlepoint, the wild shape with a
lopsided hump on the top. His unwavering gaze
slid to her face. "It's an aeroplane."
  "Bingo."
  He swallowed hard before he returned to the
needlework, wondering why he felt a sudden ache
in his throat. She had made it for him, for him
alone. He tried to keep his tone easy, tried
not to show how touched he was by the gesture. "What
kind of plane is it?" His words sounded harsh and
accusing, but Deanie didn't seem to mind.
  "Oh, I don't know." She shrugged. "I
sort of made it up. I mean, on the road
I've seen tons of old war movies. It's
hard to get right to sleep after a concert. So I just
closed my eyes and tried to remember what the
planes looked like in this old film with
Dana Andrews. I kept on waiting for a
woman to appear the first time I saw it, since I
thought "Dana" had to be a lady." Realizing
she was chattering to cover his silence, she peered down
at the cloth, suddenly embarrassed. "Do you like
it?"
  When she looked into his eyes, she caught a
strange, unsettling flash before he spoke.
"Yes," he said at last, pulling her slowly
toward him with one arm, still examining the work in the other
hand. "May I keep it?"
  "Sure. I did it for you."
  Unlacing the front tie of his black doublet,
he slipped the piece within his full white shirt.
The peculiar expression was still on his face.
  "Deanie, was that one of our planes, or an
enemy aircraft?"
  Confused, she looked up at him as he led her
through the door. "One of ours. Why?"
  "Just wondering," he murmured, taking her hand.
He paused, then drew her needle-pricked
fingertips to his lips and pressed them with a warm
kiss. "Now, are you positive we won the
war?"
  "Very funny," she whispered. But at that moment,
the last thing either of them had on their minds was the war.

  Queen Anne summoned Mistress Deanie
to her chamber an hour before the evening meal was to be
served. The rain still poured against the windows, making
the palace seem more damp and chilly than
usual.
  "Mistress Deanie." The queen smiled as
soon as Deanie curtsied. "Those doo-nuts
last evening, I must say thank you for to bring them.
The king, he sure thought they were okay."
  Deanie raised her eyes and grinned. "He
sure wolfed them down, didn't he, Your
Majesty."
  "I do believe he eat four or five in one
wolf." The queen made a motion for Deanie
to rise and gestured to a chair. "Come, sit. I
need to chew off your ear."
  "Excuse me?"
  "I need to talk, to chew off your ear."
Ignoring the bewildered frown on Deanie's
face, the queen swept past her and returned with
an official-looking parchment. For an awful
moment Deanie thought Cromwell had served her
with the orders of execution. She quickly
dismissed the thought with a sigh of relief. The queen
was preoccupied with something, but she did not seem
to be in mortal fear.
  "Read this, may it please you," the queen said,
handing Deanie the paper.
  It was written in a beautiful hand, one more
legible than most of the samples she had seen
since arriving in 1540. Deanie whistled through her
teeth. "Very nice, Your Majesty. Whoever did
this could work calligraphy at any gift shop or
make a fortune writing names on diplomas."
  The queen pointed with one flat-nailed finger.
"Read it, please."
  Deanie shrugged her shoulders once and began
to read.

  "Permit me to show, by this billet, the zeal with which
I devote my respect to you as a queen, and my
entire obedience to you as my mother. I am too young
and feeble to have power to do more than felicitate you with
all my heart in this commencement of your marriage.
I hope that Your Majesty will have as much goodwill
for me as I have zeal for your service."


  Perplexed, she looked up at the queen.
"Wait a minute: I didn't know you had any
kids," she said. "Whoever wrote this calls you his
or her mother."
  Queen Anne nodded. "'Tis my
stepdaughter, the child of my husband, the king."
  "Oh." Deanie frowned over the paper. "How
old is she?"
  "Six."
  "What? You mean a kid of six wrote this
herself?"
  The queen gave a half smile. "She
seems to be one smart cookie, no?"
  Deanie nodded in agreement, her eyes again
reading the princess' words. "Where is she?" she
asked without looking up. "I haven't seen her
at court. I haven't even seen the little prince.
He's guarded like some sort of prisoner."
  "He's the king's heir, next in line to the
throne. The king must be careful with his only son."
  "The princess is also the king's heir, Your
Majesty. Why isn't she at court?"
  The queen looked satisfied by her response.
"That is what I am riled up about, mistress.
Doesn't it seem to you that the little
Princess Elizabeth should be here?"
  The parchment rested in Deanie's lap. "Of
course. Where is she?"
  "Banished to another palace. The king seems
to hate her and will not allow her to reside in his
presence."
  "Why on earth does he hate her? She's just
a kid," Deanie mumbled. The image of an
eager, bright six-year-old, unwanted by her father,
flamed her own memories of childhood. "I'm
a little hazy on all this, but who's her mother?"
  The queen seemed taken aback. "Why, her
mother was Anne Boleyn, executed over three
years ago by the king."
  "Holy cow! The kid was three years old when
it happened."
  With a wary glance toward the door, the queen
crept over, peering down the outside hall before
she closed it. She spoke in a hushed tone.
"I showed the king this letter, hoping he would feel pity
for his little kid. I even had my cook make some
more doo-nuts before I spoke."
  "So what happened?" Deanie's head was next
to the queen's. Up close she was momentarily
distracted by both her large pores and the
now-familiar scent, thick and mucky but not as
unpleasent as it used to seem.
  "He became angry, Mistress Deanie.
He swore some curses, I know not the meaning of
some of the phrases. He told me to go hence,
away from him, and that the mother of Princess
Elizabeth was but a whore."
  Deanie involuntarily flinched, imagining the
king's rage. "So he won't allow her to join the
rest of her family at court," she said
quietly.
  "No. He has further instructed me to give
this letter to Cromwell, who is then to answer nay."
  "Great. Cromwell would make any
six-year-old girl one swell pen pal."
  The queen seem surprised. "Think you that?"
  "No, Your Majesty," Deanie said at
last. "I think this is terrible." Glancing back
at the paper, she noticed a tiny figure
drawn in the corner. It was a little girl's
sketch of a flower, so small it was easy to miss,
a tentative plea for friendship from a lonely child.
  "Has Cromwell seen this yet?" Deanie
could imagine his glee, striking out at the innocent
child of his tormentor.
  "No. Mistress Deanie, I have no
influence with the king. You do. Can you think of anything
to help this poor little princess?"
  Deanie clenched her hand over the letter, wondering
if the kind queen, begging help for a child she had
never met, knew of the danger she herself faced.
There was something in the queen's dark eyes that made
Deanie believe she was very much aware of the hazards
of the court.
  "Your Majesty, could you give me a little time
to think?" She rubbed a hand over her forehead,
trying to imagine what ideas Kit might have.
  "But of course." The queen smiled and rose
to her feet, gently lifting the letter from Deanie's
lap. "Perhaps at the evening meal we may speak
again."
  Wearily, she nodded. As she left the
queen's chamber, she wondered where she might find
Kit. He would most certainly be able to come up
with a brilliant plan.

  "You promised her what?" Kit demanded,
breathing hard after a fencing match. The tip of his
foil rested on the ground next to her foot, and
she backed away slightly. With a distracted hand
he rubbed his sore shoulder.
  "I just told her we would try to help,"
Deanie repeated. The sound of clashing metal
echoed in the fencing chamber. In the far corner was
Surrey, glaring at her from under a cumbersome
screened helmet. His father insisted he wear the
protection, much to his embarrassment. None of the
accomplished swordsmen had requested a match with
him, further fueling his fury.
  "If the rains cease on the morrow, we must
try to leave," he said in a soothing tone.
  "No, Kit. I really want to stay here and
help, now more than ever."
  "Don't you understand? We have no choice." He
took a deep breath and looked about the room. The
ladies had just been admitted: a prime
opportunity for the young men of the court to show off their
athletic skills. The men were without their doublets,
much to the titillated delight of the women.
  Even in her concern for the princess, Deanie
couldn't help but notice how superior Kit was
to the rest of the gentlemen. Some were attractive, a
few had rather nice physiques. But the duke of
Hamilton, his handsome face flushed from
exercise, the dark hair curled at the
nape of his neck, was extraordinary.
  "Please, Kit. You should see the letter.
Honestly, it broke my heart."
  "Your concern for others is admirable, love."
He wiped a droplet of perspiration from his
eyes. "Save some of that concern for us. Even as
we stand here and talk, we are placing ourselves in
peril. We will try to leave tomorrow, and then all of
these intrigues will hopefully be distant
history."
  He turned and walked to a corner of the chamber,
nodding to a cluster of ladies as he placed his
foil in the rack on the wall. Arms folded,
she followed him, trying to control her anger,
ducking beneath an earl's raised foil as she
crossed the floor.
  "I don't care if you refuse to help me,"
she hissed into his ear. Startled, he turned,
stunned by the unfamiliar vehemence in her voice.
"You have no idea what it's like to know your own father
doesn't give a hoot what happens to you, if
you're sick or well or smart or stupid. You
were a rich kid, with a stable family."
  "My father was killed in the war when I was a child."
  "I know, and that's awful, it really is. But at
least he didn't leave on purpose, letting you
spend the rest of your life wondering what you did
wrong, what you could have possibly done to make him
leave." The tears made her vision blurry, but
she continued. "And at least you and I had our
moms, and you had a sister. Who does
Elizabeth have? She's all alone, all by herself,
writing letters to strangers and asking them to be her
mother. Oh, Kit. The poor kid."
  "Perhaps the "poor kid" needs to be treated
thusly. She may not be a giddy child, but she will
grow up to be a magnificent queen, one who will
have the backbone to keep Spain at bay. Leave
her alone, Deanie."
  "Okay, so she'll be a magnificent
queen," Deanie countered, her voice rising.
"Maybe she'll be even more magnificent if she
can have a happier childhood."
  "And maybe her unhappy childhood is the
key to a great queen." Other courtiers had
hushed, trying to make sense of the strange
exchange between the two. But even the nearest
gentleman could not make head nor tails of their
conversation. All there knew, however, that they were
witnessing a scene full of passion.
  "I'd rather give the kid a hand," she spat.
Then with a deep breath she continued, trying to calm
herself. "Please, Kit."
  "Deanie." His voice was rough as he put out
a hand to steady her. "Love," he said softly,
"helping Elizabeth won't do a jot for your own
childhood."
  Deanie stared ahead, not really seeing. "I
don't know, Kit. Something about this letter has really
gotten to me. Maybe ..."
  "Maybe what, Deanie?"
  "Maybe I want a child of my own," she
breathed. "A child of ours, who will never worry about
where her parents are, or if they love her.
I've never felt this, never."
  Wordlessly, he brushed the tears from her cheeks,
wanting very much to hold her but fully aware that the
most proficient court gossips had already taken
note of their conversation.
  "If all goes well in the maze, we will have
that chance. Only then. Otherwise, we will never have
our turn."
  "Kit, please. What if something happens to us
in the maze, if we're separated or killed?
We both know that's a very real possibility. And
if that happens, what will we leave behind as a
legacy? A recipe for doughnuts? A
spectacular jousting record? That's not much,
Kit. But if we can make a little girl happy,
a future queen. And then also help a generous
woman, someone who is just as out of place here at
court as we are ... Well, no matter what,
we will have lived for something important."
  For a long moment the only sounds were the echoes of
clashing foils and the soft whispers of conversation.
Finally a very small smile appeared on Kit's
mouth. "All right, Deanie," he acquiesced.
"I will make a deal with you. If it rains again
tomorrow, or proves too cloudy to attempt the
maze, we'll try to think of something to help little
Elizabeth and the queen. But if it's sunny,
we'll try to leave."
  Through her sniffles and relief, she smiled and
prayed for an English monsoon.
  Neither Kit nor Deanie had noticed the
growing smirk on the face of Henry Howard, the
earl of Surrey.


                                  
              Chapter 14

  There were rumblings at court.
  At first Deanie feared the news concerned
Queen Anne and the much-anticipated annulment
finally taking place. The corridors vibrated
with a hushed excitement. The usual morning
greetings seemed subdued and hesitant, as if
by the very act of acknowledging another, one might
miss the latest tidbit.
  By ten the sun was rolling high above a cloudless
sky. Usually such weather brought a frenzy of
activity, of courtiers gathering in select
groups to plan a day of splendid outdoor
sport. But on this morning even the most restless
court members lingered within, reluctant to leave the
palace and its fluctuating rumors.
  In the queen's chamber, it was clear that something was
up. Deanie and the other women spoke of fashion,
with Katherine Howard detailing the latest high
neckline just beginning to emerge from Italy and
France. She alone seemed oblivious to the
unnatural pauses and distracted comments from the
other women.
  "And above all, 'tis most flattering to all
figures, be they round or slim," she concluded.
Then she stopped, her gaze rounding the circle.
"However, a great deal of caution must be exerted."
  All five of the ladies' heads, including that
of the queen, snapped to attention. Their needles
hovered in midair, waiting for Katherine
to continue.
  "Why is that, Mistress Katherine?" asked the
queen, her voice dry and brittle.
  "Because ..." Katherine leaned forward, and
Deanie held her breath. As the king's apparent
confidante and Norfolk's niece, she could very
well be the best source of information in the entire
court.
  Katherine yawned before she spoke, a
languorous, unhurried stretch, giving all the
women time to imagine the worst.
  Finally Katherine was ready. "One must
exercise caution, for the high collars may indeed
become entangled with one's headdress." With that
she nodded, satisfied that all had heard her
statement.
  "What?" Deanie asked, ignoring the needle
that just plunged into her thumb.
  "'Tis true. One must wear a
bonnet, much as the gentlemen do. And be wary of
all headdresses, be they gabled or of the French
hood fashion."
  Deanie's eyes met the queen's, and at
once they began to giggle, joined shortly
by Cecily Garrison and the others. Katherine
Howard seemed perplexed.
  "But it is serious," she began. "I have heard
of many a lady caught by a troublesome headpiece,
and once--"
  Katherine halted when the door flew open.
Englebert, his face pale, entered the room and
bowed to his queen before handing her a note. Her
eyes scanned the paper, and she too became
pale.
  "My ladies, I require some privacy,
if that is okay," she mumbled. Deanie rose
with the others and began collecting her needlework.
  "Mistress Deanie, you please stay."
  As the other ladies filed from the chamber,
Deanie stood uneasily, brushing bits of
clipped needlepoint thread from the front of her
gown. The door closed, and from the hallway she
could hear the whispering of the dismissed women.
  The queen did not delay speaking.
"Cromwell this morning was taken by water to the
Tower."
  Stunned, Deanie sank back into her chair
without asking permission. "Is that good or bad?"
she asked bluntly.
  "I don't know," the queen muttered, the note
from Englebert still in her hands. "Cromwell
arranged my marriage. He made allowances for
my foreign behavior and dress. I am far from
my home, Mistress Deanie. You know how that
feels. I am at the mercy of my husband."
  "Maybe you should leave," Deanie said in a
rush. "Maybe you should go home to Cleves as
soon as possible. I'd be glad to help, and
I'm sure Kit would do anything to--"
  "No." She walked to an inlaid desk and
allowed the parchment to flutter from her hands. "I am
a married woman now. No matter what
happens, I will not disgrace my brother
by returning to Cleves."
  "But what if things don't work out?"
  "Don't work out? I know not what you can
mean."
  Clearing her throat, Deanie struggled for a
diplomatic way of phrasing her
thoughts. "Through no fault of your own, the king may
wish another for his wife."
  "Think me stupid?" the queen snapped. This was
the first show of temper Deanie had seen from the serene
Anne. "One day he wants you, one day he
wants Katherine. Holy cow, Mistress
Deanie, he has never wanted me, and for that I
am mightily glad."
  "You mean you don't mind not receiving the king's,
eh, attentions?"
  "Don't mind? Ha." She returned
to Deanie's side and sat heavily in the chair
next to hers. "I hear what happened to the
ladies who received the king's attention. One grew
older than her years and died in exiled
degradation, one got her head chopped off. The
lucky one died in childbed. No. Let me
stay queen, and let the king give his attentions
to some other poor cookie."
  "But Your Majesty, the king wishes a duke of
York."
  "So? I am not stopping him. I will have the duke
of York, then he may go to another." She
seemed satisfied.
  Now Deanie was completely perplexed. "You
mean you and the king have, well, you know?"
  "I know what?"
  "Well, let me think how to put this."
Deanie glanced out the window, watching a bird on
the sill. The sprightly figure of the tiny bird was
distorted by the thick glass. "Is there a
possibility that you may have a duke of York
soon, Your Majesty? If that's the case, you can
pretty much call the shots around here."
  "If the king commands it, I shall have a duke of
York soon."
  "Pardon me, Your Highness, but it takes a
little more than a royal command to produce a Duke
of York."
  The queen raised one of her plucked
eyebrows. "Yes?"
  Again Deanie cleared her throat. "What
I'm asking is, uh, well ... what happens
at night between the two of you?"
  "Oh, I see! It is quite pleasant, really.
The king pats me on the shoulder, and says "Good
night.""
  "And then?"
  "Why of course, I say back to him "And
good night to you, Your Grace.""
  "And then?"
  "Well, it is the nighttime, and I go
to sleep."
  Deanie folded her hands. "But before you go
to sleep, doesn't he sometimes, well, kiss
you?"
  The queen gave her a blank stare. "Why should
he kiss me and keep me awake, when already it
is time to sleep?"
  "Holy cow, Your Majesty." She leaned
forward. "Don't you know anything about the birds and the
bees?"
  "Of course I do, silly. They both fly in
the air."
  Just as an uncharacteristically speechless Deanie
stammered for a response, there was another knock
on the door. Englebert appeared, less ashen
than before, yet still solemn.
  "Your Highness, the dukes of Suffolk and
Hamilton request an audience."
  Deanie jumped to her feet. "Kit! Are you
all right?"
  "Deanie?"
  The queen, unable to resist a smile at
Deanie's sudden eagerness, nodded, and Englebert
held the door wide. Kit emerged first, his
face flushed and eyes bright, with more of a slide
into the room than a stately entrance. Without thinking
twice, Deanie ran to him and threw her arms about
his waist.
  With measured steps, the duke of Suffolk
made his grand entry, sweeping into a low bow before the
queen. From beneath his scraggly eyebrows his gaze
found Kit and Deanie, a decided twinkle
to his formal countenance.
  All in the room watched the couple, the
strange intensity as they seemed able to isolate
themselves from the rest of the world. For a moment they said
nothing to each other, her face buried against his
doublet as his arms tightened round her shoulders. The
queen saw the expression of relief on the
duke's face. His eyes closed, as if the
only sensation he wished to be aware of was the feel
of the woman in his arms.
  He pulled back, framing her face with his
hands. His thumbs gently stroked her cheeks.
"Have you heard?"
  She nodded. "Cromwell's in the Tower.
What does that mean for the rest of us?"
  "If I may speak," said the duke
of Suffolk. "That is precisely what we are
trying to determine. Your Majesty, have you been in
direct contact with either Norfolk or the king this
day?"
  "Nay. We have been closeted within since
early this morn." The queen still gaped at the
couple.
  "It's a sunny day," Kit said softly
to Deanie.
  "I know." Both left their words hanging.
Only they knew the significance of their
exchange. "But with Cromwell in the Tower,
Kit, aren't we all better off?"
  "Not necessarily. For the moment he's too
preoccupied with his own hide to worry about us.
Others, however, can now focus their attention away
from Cromwell. They're free to look elsewhere
to threats real or imagined. I fear that may mean
us." In spite of the dire meaning, he gave her
a slight smile, and she caught a fleeting
glimpse of his crooked bottom tooth.
  Deanie reached up and touched his face,
briefly, gently.
  "I saw it all." His face became somber
again. "I saw his humiliation. God knows I have
never agreed with Cromwell's politics, but
never have I seen a more piteous sight. Norfolk
pushed him to the ground and snatched away one of his
gold medallions. He proclaimed
Cromwell guilty of treason--by which means I
know not. Cromwell threw down his hat and asked
if anyone else there saw him as a traitor."
  Kit looked about the room, at the queen and
Englebert and Suffolk before continuing, his hand
reflexively tightening over Deanie's shoulder.
"Norfolk said nothing, nor did any of us. But
then Norfolk kicked Cromwell, kicked him
hard and enjoyed it."
  "Aye, that he did," confirmed Suffolk.
"Of all, Hamilton, you should have reveled in
Cromwell's downfall. You have borne the
brunt of his anger these past weeks. All there
knew 'twas Cromwell who did you such
grievous harm. But you seemed ill at ease.
In truth, I thought you might become ill."
  "Never have I witnessed such brutality. All
the peers gathered about him like hungry wolves,
taking his garter and fur-trim cloak. All had
called Cromwell a friend, had courted him for his
power. It indeed made me ill to watch
them turn on the man who walked as their equal for
more than eight years. No one is safe. And where
was the king?"
  "Ah." Suffolk rocked on the balls of his
feet as he spoke, as if chafing to get on to the
next topic. "The king cannot bear to see suffering.
It makes him weep like a woman, and he
invariably rescinds whatever order caused a
soul to suffer."
  "What did they arrest him for?" Deanie's
voice sounded shrill compared to the rich tones of
Suffolk and Kit.
  "No charges, Deanie," Kit answered.
"The monstrous thing is that he was felled by his own
creativity. He is being held by the Act of
Attainder, the very device he invented to hold the
old countess of Salisbury for so long. All
of his worldly possessions, every house and inch of land,
every plate and tapestry and inkwell, have been
confiscated by the Crown. Cromwell has nothing
to his name, nothing at all."
  "Will there be a trial?" asked the queen. For a
moment Kit looked surprised, since he had
long before decided that the queen was hopelessly
simple and would never manage to master the English
language.
  "Nay." Suffolk shook his head. "I doubt
it, Your Majesty." Suffolk shot Kit a
questioning glance, and Kit nodded once. "Your
Majesty," continued Suffolk, "we believe the
king has sent Cromwell to the Tower with more than just
his rent clothing. We believe Cromwell has
in his cell the final papers for an annulment.
Forgive me, Your Majesty. But the king wishes
to dissolve your marriage."
  Instead of swooning or falling into a justifiable
fit of tears, the queen merely straightened. At
first Deanie wondered if she had understood
Suffolk's words.
  "What can I do?" she asked after a brief
pause.
  Englebert dashed to his queen's side, but she
pushed him away. "Be gone, Englebert. I
am fine, okay? But I ask of all you here,
What can I do to save myself from the block?"
  Deanie was torn between inching even closer to Kit
and comforting the queen. With a gentle nudge in the
small of her back, Kit prodded her to go
to Anne. Instead of brushing Deanie aside, the
queen clutched her hand.
  "How can the king legally annul the marriage?"
Deanie gave her hand a squeeze. "They are
married by law. Everyone knows that."
  "Indeed, Mistress Deanie, that is where the
difficulty lay." Suffolk gave his hat a
brisk flick to remove a small piece of
dirt. "He may feel forced into a corner to come
up with an excuse. And however ill used
Cromwell is, he forges yet forward on the
proceedings. God only knows what his state of
mind will lead him to contrive. His only hope--and
it is a slim one at that--is to successfully win
for the king an annulment. I beg Your Majesty's
forgiveness for speaking so directly."
  "Nay, good Suffolk," the queen said softly.
"'Tis you gathered here who are my true friends, not
those who think to save me from harsh words, no matter
how true those words may be."
  Kit shifted uncomfortably as Deanie shot
him a carefully subdued nod.
  "Again, I ask of you, what should I do?"
  "I believe the problems with both Queen
Katherine and Anne Boleyn could have been
avoided had they been more agreeable to the king's
variable tempers," offered Kit delicately.
  "Should the present queen bear a male heir,
the king would no doubt change his mind," added
Suffolk, speaking slowly.
  "I fully intend to bear a duke of York
soon," proclaimed Queen Anne, and Deanie
winced.
  "Well, we might have run into a little
roadblock in that department." Deanie gave a
helpless shrug toward Kit, who immediately understood
her meaning.
  "Do you mean to tell me ..." he began.
  "You've got it," she confirmed.
  "What means this?" the duke of Suffolk waved
his bonnet between Deanie and Kit.
  "Mistress Deanie fears the king and queen
may not be having, well ..."
  A dawning expression crossed Suffolk's
reddened face. "Oh, well. Hum. Well."
  "Exactly," confirmed Kit.
  The queen, who had observed the entire conversation
without joining in, narrowed her eyes. "Speak your
words, please. I understand not all this forth and
back."
  "Does Your Majesty recall the discussion
we were having before the dukes entered the
room?"
  "Indeed I do, Mistress Deanie. We were
discussing the new collars from France, although in
Cleves we have worn such collars for many years
now."
  "No, Your Grace," Deanie whispered
into her ear. "The conversation about the birds and the
bees."
  "Oh, that." The queen was genuinely mystified.
  Kit suddenly began to cough, and the duke of
Suffolk stroked the plumes on his hat, staring
at them as if they were the most fascinating object
he had ever beheld. Even Englebert, until
then so silent they had all but forgotten his
presence, started to straighten chairs.
  Then Kit stopped. "I believe we have hit
upon the very device Cromwell and the king may
seize for the annulment," he said, no longer
uncomfortable. Suffolk's eyes snapped
to Kit's, and he nodded slowly.
  "But what can we do, Kit? How can this information
help us?" As Deanie spoke, she walked
to Kit's side. Without looking at her, his gaze
still on Suffolk, he opened his arm to her, and she
automatically ducked into its warmth.
  "Maybe," she began tentatively, "it's not
too late for them to have a happy marriage.
Maybe if we show her how to please the king, you
know. We can show her how to flirt and play the
guitar and sing. And you, Kit, can show her all about
hunting, and we can get her some new clothes, and
then, well, just maybe they would be happy."
  Suffolk gave Deanie a genuinely warm
smile. "Alas, sweet Mistress Deanie,
although your heart is full of good sentiments, I
fear it is too late for such deeds. We have but
small time before the king will make a move."
  Kit felt Deanie shudder, and he pulled her
closer before kissing the top of her head. "We should
be gone now," he murmured.
  "Do you mean really gone, or just gone for a little
while?"
  "Both. But for now, we will be gone but a few
hours. Suffolk and I need to find out more." Under
his breath he added, "I could never tolerate flying
blind."
  As Suffolk and Kit made their formal
goodbyes, promising to get word to them as soon as
they uncovered more news, Deanie felt a stab of
fear in her stomach. "Kit." She
reached out to him, not wanting to see him leave.
  Instead of stopping, he merely smiled.
"While we are gone, I believe you and the queen
need to have a little talk."
  "Oh hell," she mumbled, all trepidation
at being separated from Kit momentarily forgotten.
  "I do believe, love, that Suffolk and I have
by far the easier task. We need merely seek out
vital information." He gave her a swift wink.
"You, however, must find means to impart some knowledge. Be
delicate, Deanie."
  With a final parting glance at the queen, whose
bewildered face darted from Kit to Deanie, Kit
and Suffolk left the chamber.
  Just when they thought the dukes had left, Kit
leaned again into the chamber. "Oh, and Deanie:
Whatever you do, do not try to illustrate your talk
with one of your needlepoint creations."
  "Very funny," she murmured with a grin.
  After the chamber door had closed for a final
time, Deanie set about telling Anne of
Cleves, the queen of England and wife of Henry
Tudor, all about the facts of life.


  "Say nothing. Just smile," Kit ordered,
coming up from behind and hooking his arm through Deanie's.
  "Geez, Kit. Don't do that again! You scared
the daylights out of me," she gasped. They were on
the palace grounds, milling about with all the rest
of the court. Now that it had become common knowledge that
Cromwell was in the Tower, the other peers felt
comfortable enough to venture onto the manicured lawns
to enjoy the unusually fine weather. They traveled
in small groups, their heads bowed together as they
discussed the dangerous atmosphere of the court.
  Only after she had taken a few deep breaths
to regain her composure did Deanie notice the
strained expression on Kit's face. His strong
profile seemed more harsh than usual in the
brilliant sunlight, and he kept his gaze
straight ahead rather than on Deanie.
  "What's happening?"
  "Smile as I speak," he instructed. She
did so, and he continued. "We're leaving now,
Deanie. We are going straight to the maze. The
bottle's in my doublet."
  "We can't, Kit. What about Anne and
Princess Elizabeth? They both need our
help." The artificial smile,
forgotten for a moment, reappeared on her face.
  "We will have to leave them to Suffolk, love. It
appears our dear friend Norfolk has convinced the
king that I too am guilty of treason." He
nodded pleasantly to Lady Rochford as they
passed. "By nightfall I may very well be sharing
lodgings with Cromwell."
  Only Kit's firm grasp kept her from
stumbling. "Well, we can't have that," she chirped,
and Kit glanced down and gave her a curt
smile.
  From the corner of her eye she saw a
conspicuous group of four men. At first she thought
they were yet another wave of barber-surgeons,
seeking her out to shave her legs. Then she
recognized them as Cromwell's henchmen,
including the large one who had wielded the staff that
wounded Kit.
  "Kit," she began, her voice rising.
  "I know. They've been following me all
afternoon. Now that their former patron is in the Tower,
they have managed to shift alliances. Mind your
step." He guided her over a log bordering the
path. He was taking them straight to the maze, not
even bothering to follow the decorative walk.
"They belong to Norfolk now."
  "How on earth could they charge you with treason?"
  He merely shook his head, then he folded a
hand over the clenched fist resting on his arm.
"You're really very good."
  "Huh?"
  "I never got the chance to tell you, Deanie.
Your singing--it's really quite exhilarating. Very
different, but quite marvelous nonetheless."
  She blinked in confusion. "Thank you. Remind
me to sign you up for my fan club when we get
back home."
  "May I also have your autograph?"
  "We'll see." She smiled up at him,
squinting against the glare of the sun.
  Suddenly he slowed their pace, then stopped
altogether, turning her toward him. "I need to tell you
something," he said quietly, his eyes darting over
her head to the burly quartet just beyond the path.
"Should this not work, should we not make it together, you must
try it alone."
  She began to protest, but he silenced her
by placing a gentle finger upon her lips. "I may
have been here too long to ever return. Ten years
--almost a third of my life has
passed in this time. I may be too ensnared by all
of this to ever leave. I speak the language,
follow the custom without a second thought. At
times I almost think as a Tudor man rather than as
someone who once listened to jazz and flew an
airplane."
  "But ..."
  "No, listen." He swallowed, tracing the
contours of her face with his unbroken stare. "You do
not belong here. You're far too fresh and vital and
young. Whatever happens when we enter the maze, know
one thing: I love you, Deanie. I adore
everything about you, and that can never change. If by chance
I remain behind, take my love with you."
  He took a deep, shuddering breath before he
continued. "I will be dead, my love. Long dead,
my body gone. But still I will love you. You will
always be the one grand passion of my life.
Remember that. Through the centuries I'll continue
to love you, but you must find love in your own time,
warm, breathing love."
  "Kit," she whispered, unable to utter anything
else.
  "I almost fear I'm tempting fate. God
help us both," he groaned, his mouth closing
over hers.
  They did not care that it was broad daylight, that
the entire court was but a stone's throw away, or
closer. His tongue plunged into hers as if he
would consume her, and she responded, matching his
rapture with her own.
  With one swift motion, their mouths still locked in
joyous union, he swept her into his arms,
cradling her trembling body to his own. Thus
joined, they entered the maze, oblivious to the
stunned and giddy onlookers.
  And not a single person dared to follow.

  There were no words between them, just complete understanding.
He lowered her tenderly to the ground, pulling away
for but a moment to take in her features. Everyone
else seemed to have dissolved, leaving them
blissfully alone and unhurried.
  Slowly his hands unlaced her stays, each tie
falling limp between his fingers. When the bodice and
skirts slipped away, followed by the undergown,
he simply stared at her.
  "I never knew such perfection," he uttered,
more to himself than to her.
  She felt no shame, no
embarrassment at her nakedness. Instead his gaze
warmed her with a welcome embrace like the morning
sun--all consuming, full of simple enchantment.
  He seemed to remove his own garments in one
bold movement, the sword, forgotten for the moment,
resting beneath the crumpled pile. She stared
wantonly at his body, at the sheer male
perfection now being offered to her. He was just as she
imagined he would be, just as she knew he would be:
finely muscled, strong yet lean. There were marks
and scars on his arms and torso and thighs, slashes
that had healed into light white lines or jagged
trails. Instead of marring him, in her eyes they
represented his life of physical hardship, the
pain he had been forced to endure these past ten
years.
  Something about those healed wounds, as well as the
recent one from Cromwell, moved her, and she
felt her eyes prickle with the weight of tears.
He had always seemed so very mighty and invincible,
yet now she saw him as simply brave but
vulnerable.
  Tenderly she kissed the scar on his shoulder,
then the one on his upper arm. He moaned softly,
his hands raking through her hair.
  There was not time for anything else, no sweet
words or slow, delicious caresses. They were
both aware, even in their haze, of the sun's
movement, and they were drawn together as if by another
force.
  At once he was inside her, and they were
transported for a blissful second to another
place, where they were the solitary souls, and all
else melted into oblivion.
  They lay together, entwined in each other's arms.
  Deanie was afraid to speak, for fear of breaking
the magical rapture that seemed to wrap itself about
them, sheltering them from the afternoon sun, protecting them
from the unwelcome intrusion of others. Her head
rested on his chest, rising and falling with every breath
he took; her eyes were closed in drowsy
contentment.
  He inhaled deeply, his arm tightening about her,
drawing her closer.
  "It's time." His voice sounded odd to his own
ears, and he felt her stiffen.
  "No."
  But she did not resist as he propped himself on
one elbow. His eyes swept over her once more,
and he ran a tender hand along her
curves before he reached for her clothing. They
dressed wordlessly. He pulled each layer of her
gown into place, kissing the hollow of her throat
as he laced the sides of her bodice. As she
drew his billowy shirt over his head, she
paused, savoring the feel and fragrance of his bare
chest one last time.
  When he closed his doublet, she saw him adjust
a small piece of cloth between his shirt and doublet.
He carefully fixed the square directly over
his heart, andwitha pang she realized it was the bit of
needlework she had done for him.
  Smiling, he held out his hand, and she slid her
palm over his. The sun was about to set, and he
held the bottle in the air.
  A fine blue line began to pulsate from the
glass, darting at an angle. Both held their
breath as his arm began to vibrate, and she clung
to him, her eyes closed.
  And then it stopped.
  "What the hell?" he began.
  Immediately she stepped back. "What happened?"
  "I don't know. It just stopped working." He
turned the bottle over, hoping to again catch the
glint of the sun. Nothing. The bottle remained
stubbornly inactive.
  "It worked before, just like that," she said. "Is that the
way it worked with you and your goggles?"
  "Exactly the way. But it continued."
  "Right." She gave the bottle an accusing
stare. "It worked before. What could be wrong?"
  "Well, we may have missed the sun." She
flushed, and he shook his head. "No, I don't
mean today. We may be too far into spring for it
to work."
  "Oh crap," she muttered, and for the first time in
hours they both laughed, uneasily, nervously.
  When they caught their breath, he tapped the
bottle. "Think, Deanie. What was different
when you traveled here?"
  They remained silent for a long while, each
contemplating the details of their journey.
  "The weather was about the same," she said at last.
  "With me too."
  "It was just about dusk." He nodded in
affirmation. Suddenly he stood very still, and with questioning
eyes she looked up at him.
  "The planes," he said at last.
  "What planes?"
  He spoke quickly. "There were
rumblings, flashes of light from the bombs being
dumped on London by the Luftwaffe. At first
I thought I had been hit, Deanie. That's what
I thought the flashes were, the rumbling."
  "I thought it was an earthquake," she said in a
rush. "There were flashes with me too."
  Then she stopped. "Holy cow, Kit: the
camera reflectors!"
  "The what?"
  "There were camera reflectors set up all
over the lawn. With you there were flashes of light from
nearby bombs. What if that's it? What if
..."
  "The instability," he finished. "The flashes,
the bursts of light. Deanie, you're a genius!"
  "So how can we replicate it?"
  He said nothing at first, merely ran a finger
over the bottle. "Let me think." Rubbing his
hand wearily across his jaw, he continued staring at the
bottle.
  "Ho, Hamilton?" A familiar voice
called from just beyond the maze.
  "Suffolk, we're within," Kit's attention was
still focused on the bottle when Suffolk, puffing
with exertion, came into sight.
  "The whole court is merrily discussing the
pair of you," he mocked. "Some even situated
themselves on the hill just yonder, vying for the most
advantageous view. God's blood,
Hamilton, what has gotten into you?"
  "Quiet, Suffolk. I'm thinking."
  "Perhaps you should have done that earlier, instead of ...
well, you know." He glanced at Deanie. "My
apologies, mistress."
  Deanie shrugged absentmindedly, her eyes still
fixed on the soda bottle.
  "By the by, mistress, what happened with the queen
and your discussion? Methinks this afternoon's, eh,
episode was but a demonstration for your lecture."
  "Watch it, Suffolk," Kit warned, but
Deanie merely chuckled.
  "She did not believe me."
  Kit's head snapped up. "She didn't
believe you?" he repeated, a shadow of a smile
creasing his face.
  "Nope. She yelled "God save me!"
and "Fie, begone!" and chased me out of her
chamber. Last I heard poor Englebert was
trying to calm her down."
  A bark of laughter escaped
Suffolk's throat, swelling into a fit of
hysteria. Kit too began to laugh. "So she
believes without question that her husband wishes an
annulment, that she may very well be beheaded, yet
she is unable to believe ..." He was unable
to continue as great waves of laughter overtook
him.
  "Awe, come on," she began, trying her
hardest to resist their ebullience. But it was
impossible, and they exited the maze laughing still,
Kit in the middle with an arm about each of his
companions, Deanie leaning against him, one hand
clutching the soda bottle.

  "Lady Longley, come look," cried a
startled groomsman, "'Twas not just the two of
them! The duke of Suffolk was within, all along!"
  Lady Longley pushed the young man aside,
looking with intense wonderment as Hamilton
slapped the duke of Suffolk's back with
good-humored delight and simultaneously
planted a tender kiss upon Mistress
Deanie's forehead.
  "Well, well," she said, her voice
suddenly gone husky. "It seems our handsome
duke is far more fascinating than I ever
imagined."
  "And so is his cousin," echoed the groomsman,
who received a sharp elbow in the ribs for his comment.

        END OF VOLUME II



















        ONCE UPON A ROSE

                  by
           JUDITH O'BRIEN



    Volume III of Three Volumes
       Pages i-ii and 391-565



Published by: POCKET BOOKS, 1230
Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY
10020. Further reproduction or distribution
in other than a specialized format is
prohibited.




Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,
National Library Service for the Blind and
Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,
Inc., 1998.












Copyright 1996 by Judith O'Brien












        ONCE UPON A ROSE

              Chapter 15

  The tension in the court seemed to increase with each
passing hour. There was an unconvincing attempt
on the part of every peer, page, and servant
to pretend it was business as usual, that the king's
sudden disappearance meant nothing at all. Yet
all knew the dangers that twisted through the halls.
This was the king's pattern, to evacuate the court
whenever any less-than-pleasant event was to take
place. He would order its execution, then leave
as if he had no prior knowledge of the occurrence.
  Cromwell was the new guest in the Tower. It
was anyone's guess who would be the next to fall.
  The morbidly curious could not help but light
upon the duke of Hamilton. Norfolk and his
minions fueled the reports, eagerly adding
whatever morsel would cast weight to the rumors of the
handsome duke's impending doom.
  Hamilton played his part well enough, acting
every inch the charming courtier at the evening meal. The
only noticeable difference was his marked reluctance
to be separated from his cousin, Mistress Deanie.
  A few shrewd observers noticed the
physical contact they seemed compelled to maintain
constantly. When he spoke to another gentleman
across the board, his arm remained firmly,
boldly, about her shoulders. When Katherine
Howard engaged them in light conversation, Mistress
Deanie's hand rested lightly upon his thigh.
  Some thought it was nothing more than the aftereffects
of the now-celebrated frolic in the maze. Others
saw something deeper, more poignant in the intensity
of their closeness.
  The meal ended, and the ladies-in-waiting gathered
in a cluster about their queen. Anne seemed
disturbed, her eyes following Kit and Deanie
with a keen curiosity.
  The duke of Suffolk at last rose to his
feet, planting an amiable hand on
Hamilton's shoulder before leaving the hall.
  "Take care, friend," he muttered. He had
remained unusually silent through the meal, a
different man from the gregarious merrymaker who could
turn every occasion into his own drunken celebration.
Tonight he sipped little from his goblet, ate even
less.
  Deanie approached the queen, her head bowed.
"Your Majesty, may I remain a
while longer with my cousin?"
  The queen seemed to be weighing the matter, then
she nodded once, as if indisposed to grant her
servant's wish. The ladies removed themselves from
the hall with grave dignity. Deanie caught the
flicker of a smile from the queen before they swept
through the arched doorway.
  There were but a handful of people remaining in the hall as
Kit reached for her hand. "So far, so good." He
grinned.
  "Maybe the rumors are all false," she
said hopefully. "Norfolk seemed calm tonight,
didn't he?"
  He did not answer. "Let's go outside for
some fresh air." The servants had commenced the
frantic sweeping and cleaning of the hall, gathering
pitchers and plates and shooing the dogs from
underfoot.
  The sky was beautifully clear, the stars adding
eloquent flashes of light to the lush hue. They
said nothing in the darkness. It was a comfortable silence,
brimming with words unspoken, sentiments raw with
untried bounds.
  She shifted her gaze to his profile, the
sharp angles of his face stark even in the gentle
blue illumination of the moon and stars. He did not
seem aware of her watching him, lost in his own
thoughts. Suddenly a small smile appeared, the
lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
  "I want to fly again," he whispered.
  For a few moments she simply concentrated on
his features, the way the night bathed his face in
its tender glow. Slowly, without breaking the
spell, she leaned her head against his shoulder. And
together they stood beneath the timeless stars, dreaming of a
future they hoped would be theirs.

  It was just after midnight when the duke of
Hamilton walked alone through the proud halls of
Hampton Court Palace. Deanie was
safely in her chamber, the snores of the other
ladies-in-waiting testifying to an uneventful
evening.
  He had handed her the soda bottle, staring at
her face as if committing every feature to memory.
  "Good night." His voice was tight.
  Later she wondered why they didn't speak more,
why they didn't flee to some distant shore. She
was acutely aware of every sound and sensation, the
dampness of the corridor, the crackle
of a wall torch. A lock of dark hair tumbled
over his forehead, but she didn't brush it aside.
She felt as if a heavy weight pressed upon
her chest.
  "Good night," she responded, mechanical,
hollow. Her fingertips brushed the warmth of his hand
as she took the bottle.
  And then he left, placing distance between them with his
sure, clean strides. She wanted to call out,
to stop him for just one more touch, one more word.
  He too wanted to halt, to stay the night beside
her. To be by her side, to know she was there.
  The footsteps behind him were silent. Even if the
men had not been commanded to take extra care, Kit
would never have heard the warning sounds through his own
churning thoughts.
  And when the club came down, ushering him
into darkness, he wasn't surprised, just
strangely empty.
  For God's sake, why hadn't they talked more
when they had the chance?

  The moment she awoke, after a brief, fitful
sleep, she knew what had happened.
  She paced in her chamber, fully dressed
since a little after five in the morning. Just before
eight a note from the queen was delivered.
  "The Duke of Hamilton was last night
taken to the Tower. AC."
  A handful of words. Nothing violent, a
simple statement of fact. No surprises.
  "The Duke of Hamilton was last night
taken to the Tower. AC."
  They had expected this, even last night under the
traitorous luster of the stars. He had known then,
and so had she.
  Deanie rushed to the queen's chamber.
Englebert let her in immediately, without his usual
formal protocol. The queen sat by the window,
looking out upon the garden.
  "It is so very pretty, the flowers and the green,
Mistress Deanie." She sighed. "Yet it
covers terrible things."
  "Please, tell me what happened, Your
Majesty."
  "The duke last night was set upon by four men.
Some people saw it, but who exactly saw I know not.
He was hit from behind, over the head with a whack."
  Deanie sank into a chair, her face betraying
numb disbelief.
  "Shall I continue?" The queen spoke in a
softer tone. Deanie stared straight ahead for a
few moments, her eyes glazed and unseeing, before
she nodded for the queen to go on.
  "We have been told the duke then fell and was
carried away by the men. He never uttered a single
word. Englebert believes the duke did not wish
to have any more company in the Tower and feared very much the
thought of you being taken."
  "Has anyone seen Norfolk?" It was
painful to speak.
  "Yes, and this is the strangest thing of all:
Norfolk seemed surprised. He knew not the
duke was to be taken, not so soon."
  Deanie rubbed her hand over her eyes.
"Does anyone know what Kit's been charged
with?"
  The queen hesitated before answering. "The word
is that the duke is accused of conspiring with
Cromwell."
  "What?" Deanie straightened, the numbness
beginning to ebb. "You know that's crazy, Your
Majesty."
  "I know, that's what I tell Englebert, but
he says people talked of how he refused to beat
Cromwell, even when given the chance. They say
'twas most strange and unnatural for a man who
was said to have been harmed by another man not to wish him
great harm in turn."
  "Great. So he's locked in the Tower for the grand
crime of failing to beat a defenseless man."
Deanie stood up abruptly, folding her hands.
"Will there be a trial?"
  "No. No trial, Mistress Deanie.
He will suffer the same fate as Cromwell."
  "Not if I can help it," she said. "Where is
the king?"
  The queen shrugged. "No one tells me where the
king is, but some say he is at Richmond."
Then she gave Deanie a pointed stare, as if
observing her for the very first time.
  "Mistress Deanie, I heard about you and the
duke in the maze."
  Deanie flushed, trying to think of something to say,
but the queen continued as if she had been discussing the
weather. "I also watched you two last evening at the
meal, the manner in which you spoke and conversed. I
must apologize."
  "Excuse me?"
  "Yesterday, I did not believe what
you told me, of the bees and the birds. But I think
about it, mistress. Holy cow, I think all
night about it, and now I do believe you."
  Deanie smiled, an expression that didn't
seem to fuse with the way she was feeling. "Your
Majesty, I would never kid about something like that."
  The queen returned the smile, and she crooked
her finger for Deanie to come closer. "Now I am
truly glad not to have attracted the king's
attentions," she mumbled into Deanie's ear.

  The king rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
  Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk,
knew precisely what his sovereign was thinking
of. His niece Katherine waited below, clothed in
the newest designs from Mr. Locke. He had
spared no expense, enveloping her in the richest
clothing his beleaguered finances would allow. He had
considered the velvet and silks an investment, for
if Katherine could indeed snare the king, the Howard
family would once again rank supreme.
  This time, with pliable Katherine instead of willful
Anne Boleyn, Norfolk himself could
orchestrate the outcome. Katherine was not
intelligent or overly educated; indeed, she was
barely able to read or write. But Katherine
knew how to entice a man, especially a
grossly obese monarch who had grown more
difficult to please with every added year and pound.
  The king was grooming himself like a peacock.
Norfolk watched him preen with all the
deliberate satisfaction of a young stud. What
did he see in the mirror? Surely not the
image the world viewed as Henry of England.
  Norfolk knew, as did all the other
successful courtiers, that the key to preserving
one's career was to maintain the king's own illusions.
To Henry, he was still the youthful prince, the pride
of Europe, unrivaled in athletic skills,
learning, and manly beauty. In short, the ideal
prince, fit for any story book or young
girl's dreams.
  Norfolk cleared his throat, a bid to gain the
king's attention. The king seemed not to notice,
intent as he was on his own reflection. He held
only a hand mirror now; no longer did he
wish to seek his full form in the unforgiving glass
of a long mirror.
  "Your Highness," began Norfolk. The king
simply raised one nearly transparent
red eyebrow in acknowledgment. Norfolk took it
as a sign to continue. But the king spoke instead.
  "How is the temperament at Hampton?"
  "Your Highness?"
  "After Cromwell's arrest," the king said
irritably. He hated that about Norfolk, his
stubborn inability to follow Henry's
lightning-swift subject changes. One thing about
Cromwell: He could always anticipate the
king's fluctuations. Norfolk was confoundedly
deliberate and plodding. He elaborated.
"Cromwell was arrested yesterday, Norfolk.
You were at Hampton when it happened, and perhaps you
may illuminate us as to the court reaction."
  "Oh, I see," mumbled Norfolk. "In
truth, Cromwell's arrest was no great
surprise, Your Majesty. Many who had watched
the low-born cur had expected, even
anticipated his eventual stumble."
  "Was there great sadness?" The king wanted
to know, to gauge when best to return. He wished
to avoid the unpleasant scene of Cromwell's
arrest, but he was already chafing at Richmond.
Hampton Court was by far his favorite home.
  "Nay, no sadness for Cromwell."
Norfolk spoke carefully, as he had
practiced during the barge ride to Richmond.
He kept his voice neutral. "I will confess,
however, that there was a great deal of surprise over
the sudden arrest of Hamilton."
  The king frowned, setting the mirror to rest in his
ample satin lap. "Hamilton? Never did
I order the arrest of Hamilton. There must be
some mistake. You must have heard the facts
awry."
  Norfolk tensed. This is what he had feared.
Of course he wanted Hamilton out of the way,
but it was too early in the plan. Hamilton was
yet too popular, and his sudden and unexpected
arrest would only garner more supporters. Then the
duke's cousin would come into play, and the king's eyes
would rest favorably on her exquisite
figure. Damnation. Katherine was too plump and
too insipid to keep the royal attention if
Mistress Deanie should become available.
  Damnation.
  "We like Hamilton," muttered the king. "He
is in truth one of my favorites." His small
eyes lit momentarily on the dour form of
Norfolk before he continued. "Someone
else has abducted him, and I mean to find out
whom. They shall pay dearly. If they harm
Hamilton, they shall forfeit their life."
  Norfolk hoped to keep his face bland, but he
flinched at the king's tone. When he spoke
thusly, low and calm, he was far more dangerous
than when he ranted and roared.
  "I will seek whatever answers you shall require,
Your Majesty."
  Henry tapped his finger on the now-forgotten
glass. "How fares Mistress Deanie?"
  "Your Highness?"
  The king did not repeat his question. "Send her here
at once, Norfolk. I wish her in my
presence on the morrow."
  "But Your Majesty." Norfolk smiled,
spreading his hands in a gesture of reasoning
supplication. "Below waits an eager young maid,
hoping to make her most beloved king the merriest
sovereign in Christendom."
  "Then we shall allow her the opportunity," the
king said mildly, rising to his feet with a grunt.
"And I shall expect Mistress Deanie at
Richmond on the morrow."
  Norfolk knew he had just been dismissed.
Frantically, he grasped for something to add, some
slender straw by which he could alter the king's mind,
cause him to forget Mistress Deanie.
  "Your Majesty, may I say--"
  "Good day, Norfolk."
  The duke bowed and left the royal chambers,
silently cursing whoever it was who had stolen the
duke of Hamilton.
  The last thing Norfolk could afford, other than
more lavish clothes for his dim-witted niece, was
an unexpected loose end.

  He was growing accustomed to waking in unfamiliar
surroundings with a headache severe enough to rouse the
dead.
  Kit opened his eyes, for a moment thinking he had
gone blind. He could not see his own hand, or the
room in which he was imprisoned. Then he saw a
flash of light from a distance of a dozen feet, a
slender shaft from under a door.
  There was a strangely familiar fragrance, of
must and damp and soil, and he determined he was below
ground.
  Wouldn't they keep him above ground in the Tower?
  Slowly he sat up, holding a hand
over the top of his head as if it would split in
two. With a thick breath he paused, elbows
resting on his knees, head in his hands, willing the
throbbing pain to cease.
  For a long time he remained in the position, his
eyes closed even though he was in almost complete
darkness. The lump on his head was achingly tender,
yet he knew the injury was not serious.
  Then he thought of Deanie.
  He hoped it was a brilliantly sunny day,
that she would enter the maze and return to her own time.
Would she remember him? Perhaps her memory of their
weeks together would be erased. In a way he hoped
so, for it would be easier if she did not remember
him.
  "Please don't forget me," he murmured,
startled by the sound of his own voice. Had he said
that?
  He took a deep breath and wondered what was
happening to him. Not the sudden captivity, not the
confounding events at court. He had faced far
worse in this time, had come up against political
intrigue and savage actions with almost tiresome
regularity. The Kit of the past ten years was a
man of unthinking action, of knee-jerk
response.
  And last night, when confronted by men who took
him, he capitulated as meekly as a lamb.
Two months ago such a response would have
unthinkable. Two months ago he would have struck
back at his assailants with unwavering ferocity.
  Two months ago he was not in love.
  He bit out a curse in the darkness, his head
pounding. He was thinking too much, pondering his every
action in terms of its effect on Deanie. In this
court, that was more than perilous. It was well nigh
suicidal.
  Yet he had no other choice. One rash
gesture or word could mean death for either of them.
All of the mechanisms he had developed in a
decade of living at court were meaningless.
Suddenly he was exhausted, tired of playing a
role he had never before bothered to question. And he had
Deanie to consider now.
  Again, he tried his voice. "Hello?" It
echoed against the moist stone walls. He could
smell their wetness, slick and slimy. Was
hello a word in 1540? His mind was not
functioning; he seemed to forget all the details
of living in this time.
  He had nothing to lose by calling out again.
  "Hello?" His voice was stronger now. "Am
I in the Tower of London?" The question seemed
ridiculous, but he needed to know the answer.
  From the other side of a thick door he could hear
a clattering sound.
  "Good morn', Duke," replied a cheerful
man. "I 'ave food, sir. Close yer
eyes and I'll shove it on through. We don't
want the light hurting your head now."
  "Where am I?"
  "Mind, 'ere it comes." The door shot open,
but before Kit could push his way through, it slammed
shut again.
  He blinked at the sight before him. There was a
tray piled with covered dishes, and a single candle
still flickering from the journey to his cell. From the
scent he could tell it was a veritable feast: meats
and pastries and a round loaf of bread jutting from
beneath a linen cloth. There was also a large jug of
wine. Clearly his captors had no wish to starve
him. If this tray were any indication, they may
wish to give him an advanced case of gout.
  He wasn't hungry, but he ate from habit.
As he shifted, he realized his sword was still
by his side. What sort of prison was this, where
they gave the prisoner lavish meals and allowed
him to keep his weapons?
  The food was, as he expected, delicious.
The roast chicken was prepared exactly as he
preferred it, with a crust of herbs and salt. The
wine, too, was excellent, good enough to be poured
without the spices that masked the flavor of an
inferior beverage.
  When he had finished, he stretched on the cot.
The candle still illuminated the cell, but it didn't
seem to be a prison at all. Indeed, it
looked more like the cellar of some great house or
estate.
  "Hello?" he shouted once more.
  "Was your meal good, Duke?" The cheerful
voice had returned.
  "Yes, it was," Kit replied, feeling very
much as if he were speaking to a waiter in one of
London's better prewar restaurants. "Where
am I?"
  "Never worry, Duke. You are safe as
safe can be 'ere."
  "This is not the Tower," he said, a statement rather
than a question.
  The response was a short bark of a laugh.
  "May I send a note to someone?"
  "Well now, that depends." The unseen man was
clearly thinking. "Give it a try. It cannot
'urt."
  Several minutes later the door opened, but
Kit remained calmly seated on the cot.
Until he knew exactly where he was, he
would not make any attempt at escape. He
wasn't concerned with his own fate, but he did not
want repercussions from a rash act to harm
Deanie.
  The solicitous man pushed a quill, several
sheets of parchment, and a small bottle of ink under
the door.
  "Candle 'olding up, Duke?"
  "Yes, it is," Kit answered, pulling the
light toward him. "Thank you."
  After thinking for a few moments, Kit began
writing a note to Suffolk. He would not risk
Deanie.

Suffolk,
  I seem to be held by persons unknown, in
a place as yet unknown. Forgive me for asking
of you a great favor. Could you help Mistress
Deanie with a strange endeavor? She has need of
someone to light small bundles of gunpowder about
the maze at Hampton. Think me not insane.
She alone will know what to do within the maze.
  Should she remain at court, please take
care of her until such time as I am able to attend
to her myself. Should fate dictate otherwise, and
I am not able to return, use any monies from
my own estate to help her.
  Finally, let her know I am well cared for
at the present time, and love her above all
else.
  I thank you, my good Friend.
                            Hamilton

  When he had completed the note, he pushed it
through the door.
  "Who does this note go to, Duke?"
  Kit had clearly addressed the letter; he
realized the guard could not read. "It is to go
to Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk."
  There was a pause before he replied, "I will
see what I can do, Duke."
  "Thank you," he said. Suddenly his
head began to ache once more, and he closed his
eyes, exhausted, hoping the note would somehow reach
Suffolk, and that Deanie could somehow reach her own
time.

              Chapter 16

  The duke of Norfolk glared sullenly as
Mistress Deanie was led into the courtyard at
Richmond. He stood at an angle, so if
by chance she should look up she would not see his
visage in the window.
  She had been allowed the extraordinary
privilege of making the journey from Hampton
Court in the royal barge. The little fool did not
realize the meaning of the gesture. Only the king's
closest, most intimate friends were blessed with a ride
on the royal barge, the sumptuous floating
palace that Henry used with princely delight.
Her common backside rested against tufted
velvet, her plebeian feet trod the rich
carpet.
  Norfolk had yet to be invited upon the royal
barge.
  He hated the Bailey wench, despised the
way she smiled at Suffolk, the bloated
idiot. He held her hand with courtly pride,
as if she were the queen of Sheba. His insipid
niece would not compare favorably with Mistress
Deanie's dark, slender beauty, set off this day
by the deep crimson of her gown.
  And then, unexpectedly, he grinned.
  Mistress Deanie, who would soon be trotted
before the king like a prize filly, was clothed in the
plain manner of homely Queen Anne.
Indeed, her red velvet gown was remarkably
similar to the one worn by Anne in the disastrous
Holbein portrait that had so misled the king.
Although she wore a French hood instead of the
clumsy gabled piece of the Cleves mare, there was
no train to swirl behind in luxurious folds, no
fitted bodice to entice a manly eye.
  The king, upon seeing Mistress Deanie, would
first lose his appetite for the wench, and then, with
thrilling predictability, lose his majestic
temper.
  The duke left his excellent view by the
window. He was unwilling to risk missing what
promised to be a most amusing scene.
                                  
  Suffolk held Deanie's hand as they strolled
regally through the courtyard. Both were aware of
Norfolk, who mistakenly thought he was hidden
by the glare of the thick, uneven glass. He was
wrong.
  "Why in God's name are you attired thusly?"
Suffolk asked, a smile pasted upon his face.
He had been at court long enough to have mastered the
ability to speak without altering his diplomatic
expression.
  "What's wrong with how I'm dressed?"
  "Do not act the innocent, my dear. You are
wearing a gown of unfortunate Germanic
tailoring. The king will not be pleased. Mind your
step."
  Deanie did not reply. From the moment
Suffolk helped her off the barge she had been
conscious of being followed by unseen eyes. The
courtyard was strangely silent, yet she felt
the heat of curious, hidden stares.
  "Kit's in the Tower," she whispered. "I'm
going to get him out."
  Suffolk halted momentarily, then continued as
usual. "My dear, just how do you propose
to release him from the Tower?"
  "I'm going to do some big-time royal rear-end
kissing." She smiled, nodding to a page who
emerged from the side entrance. A moment later the
duke of Norfolk walked steadily from the main
arched door, his hands folded within the large fur
cuffs of his robe. His clothing, always of superior
quality, had become even more opulent in the past
few weeks.
  "Ah, Suffolk and Mistress Deanie."
Norfolk stood as if he alone were the master of the
palace. "Allow me to--"
  "Suffolk!" The unmistakable boom of the
king's voice seemed to rattle the windows and
bricks. "Mistress Deanie!" He walked with
an awkward gate, a slight wince when he
placed his enormous weight on the leg with the
ulcerated thigh. His white satin hose bore an
embroidered garter to cover the many layers of
bandages, and he wore a large amount of
cologne to mask the wound's foul odor.
  He stopped cold, and the cheerful expression on
his swollen features became hard and unyielding.
"What are you wearing?" His voice became a
growl.
  "How generous of you to notice, Your
Highness." Suffolk bowed at the waist.
"By God, it's been years since you've found me
in the very least bit attractive."
  The king's tiny eyes, glinting like black
pellets, flicked to Suffolk. Norfolk,
watching from several feet away, was unable to resist
the quiver of a thin smile.
  Then, to everyone's astonishment--including the
king's--Henry began to laugh. "Charles, you
mule! Now that the ladies don't find you
irresistible, you seek approval of your old
friend? Ha!" His well-stuffed doublet rolled with his
chortle. The smile faded from Norfolk's
face.
  "Mistress Deanie, now I am able to see
how the gown should truly be worn, and it is indeed
a gratifying vision. Now come within. We shall have
food and drink and merry times."
  "Your Majesty." Norfolk's tone was
brisk. "My niece Katherine shall join you."
  "Fine, fine," the king answered distractedly,
turning his back on Norfolk. As Suffolk,
Mistress Deanie, and the gaily dressed king
entered the palace, Norfolk watched with bitter
hatred.
  He vowed, for the tenth time that day, to become the
most powerful man in England.
  It was his duty. He alone, through the grace of
God, was worthy.

  The king seemed oblivious to the strained tension in
the chamber. He was delighted to be once again in
amusing company, for Richmond was dull indeed
compared to the lavish routine of Hampton.
Richmond still bore the severe lines of his dour,
disapproving father, a man of little humor and even
less thirst for the worldly pleasures of life.
  The twenty-foot ceilings were inlaid with
Henry's initials entwined by a Tudor rose.
More than once Deanie looked up and counted the
panels, reminding herself of when she used to count the
accoustical tiles in her dentist's office.
  Katherine Howard giggled incessantly,
speaking rapidly and leaning in a conspiratorial
fashion toward the king. He nodded, flattered by the
way her plump hand concealed her meaningless words from
the others. Norfolk seemed on the verge of
interrupting her, alarmed by how base her behavior
seemed even to his own encouraging eyes. The king
seemed not to notice.
  "Mistress Deanie." The king spoke over
Katherine's voice, but she did not seem to be
distressed. "How fares your cousin,
Hamilton?"
  Completely taken aback--she had just counted the
forty-eighth ceiling panel--Deanie tried
to gauge if the king were playing one of his cruel
games. She shot a glance at Suffolk, and he
too seemed startled by the question.
  "Thank you for asking, Your Majesty. When I
last saw him two days ago, he seemed to be
well." She added a neutral smile and shifted
against the carvings on the high-backed chair.
  "Do we know where he is?" The king stroked his
beard in thought, his eyes never leaving Deanie's
face.
  From the corner of her eye she saw Suffolk
straighten and Norfolk lean closer. Only
Katherine, who was reaching for yet another handful of
honeyed figs, was not hanging on every word.
  "No, Your Highness." She almost left it at
that, but some unseen force drove her forward. "I
thought you might know."
  "Me?" His face slackened into a perplexed
question mark. "How would I know where that rascal has
gone?" The king tossed a wrist to the honeyed
figs, eyes twinkling as his fingers collided with
Katherine's hand in the gold bowl. "Well, we
shall all watch and listen, and try to reassure
ourselves that he has come to no harm. Is that not
correct, Norfolk?"
  He jumped when his name was called. "Of
course, Your Majesty."
  "Well, Norfolk? Do you know where
Hamilton is?" The king could barely hide his
annoyance, and he concentrated instead on another
fig.
  Deanie bit her lip, resisting the urge
to scream at the king. Why was he doing this? Everyone
knew Kit had been taken to the Tower of
London. Had the royal amusements grown so
thin that the king was forced to resort to this callous
behavior?
  A steward entered the room and bowed to the king.
"Your Highness, there is a missive just arrived
for the duke of Suffolk."
  "Ah, Charles." The king seemed to forget the
previous conversation. "You may take the
message. I assume it comes forth from that troubled
household of yours."
  "My household is surely troubled, Your
Grace," Suffolk agreed as the servant handed
him the note. For a brief moment his face
changed, tightening into concern before he again relaxed
into his usual contented half smile. "The trouble
is now with the dairy cows, who seem to have gone on
a rampage. All will be well soon, Your
Highness." He folded the note and slipped it
into his doublet.
  "Very well." The king then remembered Deanie.
"Good mistress, favor our ear with one of your
Welsh songs."
  She blinked as if he had asked her to do a
handstand. Music. It had once been so vital
to her, the most important thing in her life. Now
it seemed a worthless substitute for real
emotions. Until Kit, music had been her
only passion. Had her life been that empty?
  "Mistress Deanie." Suffolk raised his
voice, not unkindly but to reach her. She had
seemed lost in her own thoughts. "The king wishes
for a song."
  She turned to Suffolk and suddenly felt
lost. She gripped her hands together to stop them from
visibly trembling. What the hell was she doing,
chatting away over honeyed figs while Kit was
rotting in the Tower?
  "I don't remember any songs," she said
flatly.
  "Come now," soothed Suffolk, urging her with a
pointed glare. "I recall you singing a song about
an addled mind."
  "Yes!" The king clapped in agreement. "And
about losing one's limbs. The words were most
peculiar, but they pleased us."
  The servant who had delivered the message
to Suffolk returned with a familiar guitar. The
back was pieced together with squares of wood,
alternating light with dark to produce a
strangely modern geometric pattern. Tied
to the neck and base of the instrument was a sash, so it
could be looped across her shoulders.
  It was Kit's guitar.
  "Where did this come from?" She stroked the wood
gently, as if it were Kit himself.
  "It was sent from Hampton," replied
Norfolk, irritated by the king's lack of
interest in his niece, who was examining the seeds of a
half-eaten fig as if it held the mysteries of the
universe.
  Deanie sang the songs they requested--
"Crazy" and "I Fall to Pieces"--with less
emotion than she used in ordering a pizza. But
her audience did not seem to notice, and on the
last verse the king's voice was raised with her,
blending with a force that left the royal eyes damp
with tears.

  At last Suffolk had Deanie alone,
cornered in one of the short corridors of
Richmond.
  "The note was from your cousin." He spoke
quickly, without preamble or his usual flowery words.
"He is being held but treated well."
  "Where is he?" She wanted to grab him by the
lapels, but he had no lapels. "When can we
get him out?"
  Suffolk grasped both her wrists in one of his
large hands to prevent them from going about his neck.
"He is being treated well," he repeated
slowly. "He sends you his love."
  "What? What does he think this is, a
postcard from camp? Let me see the note."
  "Nay," he replied, relieved to have her hands
captive. "I have destroyed the note for obvious
reasons."
  "Goddamn it, Suffolk! Why did you do
that?" Her eyes filled with hot tears, and she
wanted to strike someone, but he gripped her
wrists more firmly.
  "The less you know, the better for your safety,"
Suffolk said with authority.
  "Don't give me this "Father Knows Best"
stuff. Tell me where he is! In the Tower,
right?"
  "Calm yourself." He lowered his voice. "He
wrote that he loves you above all else,
Mistress Deanie. That is all a maid needs
to know."
  "Hell, I'm not a maid!" Suffolk
flushed, but she continued, trying to sound convincing but not
hysterical. "Please understand. Kit and I need
to be together and to go to the maze at Hampton. In
order to be together, he must be released from the Tower.
Now, if you would simply tell me where he is,
which part of the Tower, I will leave you alone."
  "He wrote of the maze."
  Deanie stared at him, not sure what
to believe.
  Suffolk dropped her hands and walked
away, a clenched fist tapping against his other hand as
he thought. "He told me to help you, to ignite
small bundles of gunpowder while you are in the
maze. He said you would know when to do it, and that--"
  "He said that in the note?"
  Suffolk nodded.
  "That means he doesn't think he'll get out.
He must be in the Tower." The feelings of blind
panic she had been trying to crush began
to surface again, and she took a deep breath.
  "He wished me to reassure you," Suffolk
continued. "Should he not return--those were his words--
I am to care for you, and you are to receive all of the
monies from his estate."
  "I don't want anything from his estate." She
felt as if the walls were closing in around her.
"I want him."
  Suffolk opened his mouth, about to tell her that
Kit himself did not know where he was being held. But
the less she knew the better. And she couldn't
ask the servant who'd delivered the message where
he had come from, for it was simply left on the
threshold, according to the staff. Let her believe he
was in the Tower, and she was less likely
to attempt something foolish.
  "I have known Kit for a long time," he said
gently. "Since he was a young man, all legs
and fire and spirit. He came to court a youngster, and
now he is one of the bravest and best men in
England."
  Deanie wiped her eyes with an inelegant
hand, and he continued.
  "I can truthfully say, Mistress Deanie,
that he loves you a great deal. He wishes you
to be together, but barring that happy possibility, he
wishes you to be well alone. Few men love so
much that they dare to envision their sweethearts without
them." He lifted her chin. "I know I never have.
So do as he requests; he risked much to send the
missive to my hands. Trust him--and by proxy,
me--and all may soon be well."
  She was about to protest, to run straight to the
Tower and release Kit, but realized that she must
find another way. Suffolk was doing his best, she
knew that. So instead of kicking him in the shins and
escaping, she gave him a genuine smile.
  "Thank you. I'll try my best."
  Somehow, neither of them truly believed her.

                                  
  His head had finally stopped its ceaseless
drumming.
  The jailer had been considerate enough to provide
a limitless supply of candles, which was another
reason Kit believed he was not a prisoner of the
king. Henry would never waste such a large store of
tallow on a prisoner, no matter how favored
he had once been.
  Another fact that led him to believe he was being
held by someone else was the king's recent
behavior. He was certainly not angry at
Kit, for the king let his rage be known whenever a
subject displeased him. No, someone with a very good
cook was holding him against his will.
  He ran a hand over the new growth of beard,
scratchy and uncomfortable, but certainly not
intolerable enough to be called torture. His eyes
watched the flame. He didn't even know what
time of day it was; his dark, silent world gave no
indication.
  His thoughts turned to Deanie, wondering if
Suffolk had received his note. If so, it was
possible she knew by now that he was being treated
well. He just wanted to get the hell out of there
without placing her in danger.
  Deanie.
  How would she look in an evening gown? Not one
of those stiff, corseted monstrosities the women
wore at court. No.
  He could envision her in something of satin, with a
low-cut back, a Myrna Loy gown to show off
her curves. No wooden headpiece, no
layers and ties and leather bindings to hold a
sleeve in place, but a delightfully
machine-made dress.
  And how would her legs look in flesh-colored
hose? So far he'd been the one to wear hose, and
he grinned in the soft light, thinking of how his
chums in the squadron would react if he asked
them if his seams were straight.
  Deanie's hair could fall freely to her
shoulders, loose and dark and gleaming in the sun.
He would show her London, or what was left of
it. London would see her, and the grimy eyes of the
shell-shocked East Enders would squint at the
sight of his Deanie.
  Maybe he could take her up in a plane,
let her feel the thrill of flying in the clouds.
  "Duke? Another meal for you." His eternally
cheerful jailer rattled the door and
pushed yet another feast into the room.
  "Thank you," Kit said automatically.
"Oh, wait."
  He could hear the man pause.
  "Did the message reach Suffolk?"
  "I don't rightly know, Sir Duke." Kit
could almost envision the man scratching his head. "I
believe it did, for it was not returned."
  "Thank you," Kit said again, not bothering
to examine the irony of a prisoner thanking his
jailer. "Oh, one more thing."
  "Yes, Duke?"
  He was almost afraid to ask. "Is my cousin,
Mistress Deanie Bailey, also being held
here?" He tried to make his tone conversational, so
as not to insult the jailer, who seemed to have his own
sense of honor and propriety.
  "No! Do you think we'd keep a lady in
here? I'm surprised, Sir Duke, that you would
even think of it! Why, I never ..." The man
muttered to himself down the hallway.
  That was the answer Kit had been hoping for. The
man was not a good enough actor to have responded with such
force unless it was the truth.
  Ignoring the meal, which was rapidly growing
cold, Kit settled upon the cot and, his hands
linked behind his head, thought more about Deanie.

  She had managed to avoid performing another song
at dinner by pleading a headache, which was in fact the
truth.
  It was astounding how every meal of the king's was
orchestrated with the precision of a theatrical
performance and the solemnity of a religious rite.
Even with but a few of his subjects to bear
witness, the scores of servants wordlessly carried
out their duties, from the royal napkin steward to the
bearer of toothpicks. The king never thanked the
silent army whose mission it was to keep apace with his
every whim. Had he acknowledged each one, he would
pass the day in a never-ending chain of thank-yous.
  The advantage of such a small court was that
each course was served with astounding speed. With so
few distractions, the king ate quickly and greedily,
ignoring the bits of food that flew from his mouth as
he gnashed his way through each tier of the menu.
  Finally it ended, and the women--Katherine and
Deanie--were dismissed. Katherine seemed
reluctant to leave, and she batted her lashes
becomingly at the king. Upon second
thought, the king asked Mistress Katherine to linger
yet.
  Before he could call her back, Deanie
slipped quickly from the chamber. He had officially
dismissed them, so she simply pretended not
to notice Katherine's maneuver. Just as she
left, she saw a decidedly smug expression
on Norfolk's narrow face.
  It was a relief to be alone, to walk through the
halls without pretending restrained delight with
court life. She was finally able to stop smiling.
Her cheeks and lips ached with the artificial
smiles she had flashed the king. He wasn't such
a bad guy, she mused, rubbing her sore face.
He just had no idea that a world existed beyond his own
desires.
  The hallways at Richmond were not only
empty, but far more modest than those at
Hampton. This was already an old place, built
years ago, before the more modern ideas of airy,
spacious architecture became popular. Before
Henry, who embraced all things modern, came
to the throne.
  In a way, she liked Richmond better than
Hampton. It was less imposing, more like a
regular home than a self-conscious palace.
  She strolled through the halls with a very
twentieth-century need to unwind and just think. She
racked her brain for a way to get to Kit, even just
to see him. She had to free him, for she had no
intention of attempting a journey back to her own
time without him.
  Then she saw a swish of fabric, green
velvet, from the corner of her eye.
  At first she thought of Hampton, and the similar
experience of wandering the halls alone and being
confronted by Surrey. That thought quickly
evaporated: Surrey was still at Hampton.
There was no one here to harm or even threaten her--
except for Norfolk. And he had seemed more
than content in the presence of the king and Katherine.
  She entered the room where she had seen the green
velvet, unquestionably the gown of a woman. The
room was empty, with several small chairs and some
papers on a window seat.
  "Is anyone in here?"
  For a few moments there was no response. Just as
Deanie was about to leave, a tiny figure stepped
from the shadows of a sideboard.
  Deanie's first thought was that it was a
midget, for she was dressed as a miniature
adult. But it was a child, a little girl attired as
formally as the highest-ranking courtier. On her
head was a diminutive French hood, and her
bodice was bound so tightly that it looked even more
uncomfortable than usual. Her hands, dimpled and
red as if she had tried to scrub them clean, were the
only feature that seemed childish.
  The little girl sank into a curtsy, her eyes
pinned on Deanie's feet.
  "Hi there," Deanie said, shifting into her
coo-at-the-baby tone.
  The girl looked up, and Deanie immediately
realized who it was. The red hair, the
translucent eyebrows, the dark eyes--this was
Princess Elizabeth.
  Her face was grave, too pinched and worried
for a child so young.
  "I just had dinner with your father," Deanie said.
The girl's face remained impassive.
  "Are you Katherine Howard?" The princess'
voice did not sound like a regular kid's. It was
full of uncertain authority.
  "Heck no," Deanie responded. "I'm
Wilma Dean Bailey, but you can call me
Deanie. All my friends do."
  A dawning expression crossed her features.
"I heard you sing before."
  "Did you? Why, I don't believe I saw
you."
  A very tiny smile, small as the girl herself,
curved her lips. "I was hiding," she whispered.
Then she straightened. "You will not tell, will you?"
  "Of course not." Deanie frowned. "I'm no
stoolie."
  "You are no what?"
  "I mean I will not tell. I promise."
  The princess seemed satisfied. She looked
up at Deanie, her eyes glinting with the same
unnerving intelligence as the king's. "Why are you so
sad?"
  Deanie was about to deny it, when the princess
continued. "Your songs were all sad, nothing
happy. I am only allowed to sing religious
songs in Latin, or happy hunting songs. Why
are you so sad?"
  "Well, for one thing I don't know any
Latin or happy hunting songs," she
admitted. "But I suppose you're right. I am
sad."
  "Why?"
  Deanie cleared her throat. "Because I miss
someone."
  The girl nodded eagerly. "I knew that was the
cause! You sounded just like me." With the
lightning-swift subject changes of all children,
she pointed to the papers on the window seat. "I
drew some pictures today."
  "Did you? May I see them?"
  The princess narrowed her eyes in speculation.
"You are just being nice because I am a princess."
She spoke as if she knew it to be the truth but
wanted someone to contradict it.
  "Well, maybe that's part of the reason,"
Deanie admitted. "Mainly, I want to see
your drawings because everyone else in this house is
insufferably dull, and I'd rather draw with you than
yawn with them."
  Elizabeth's mouth dropped open, and then she
clapped her childish hand over her mouth and
giggled. It was the first truly natural gesture
Deanie had seen her perform. She half skipped
over to the window seat and grabbed her drawings.
  When her back was turned, Deanie saw that the
gown was frayed and much too small for a girl of
Elizabeth's size. The back was stitched in
delicate-yet-entirely-noticeable attempts
to repair the garment; the thread was slightly darker
and sewn in jagged patches. It was also obvious that
the hem had been let down several times, then
finally lengthened by a few inches of blue fabric.
In an effort to make the repair job less
apparent, as well as lengthen the sleeves, the
same blue fabric circled her cuffs.
  How could the princess be clothed in such
threadbare gowns when her father spent a fortune on
his embroidered undergarments alone?
  She returned with her drawings and handed them
shyly to Deanie.
  "Let's get closer to the candle, so I can
see them better," she muttered, glancing at the
top picture.
  Deanie had no idea what to expect. She
imagined a real princess would draw the same
sort of pictures other kids drew, of
silly-faced dogs and smiling suns. She
cleared her throat, ready to praise the
imprecise lines of an elf or crude stick
figures.
  Instead she saw landscapes,
beautifully rendered. "No way," Deanie
exclaimed without thinking. She shuffled through the
pile, but they were all of the same quality,
exquisitely drawn with pen and ink. The
details were astounding, every leaf and rock shaded as
to appear three-dimensional. One of the drawings
did indeed have an animal, but it was a very
realistic rabbit peeking from beneath a fallen
branch. Even the animal's fur, the differing
textures in the fuzzy ears and the sleek back,
was done so expertly that she could almost pet it.
  "You did these?" Deanie realized her mouth must
have been hanging open in stupid befuddlement. "These
are amazing. I mean it--these are about the best
drawings I've ever seen."
  Elizabeth clapped delightedly and nodded,
her face reddened with the unfamiliar pleasure of
genuine praise.
  "I did! I did draw them these past long
days, when I have not been allowed to venture forth from
this room. I did them from this window, looking down
at the grounds through the glass." She peered
critically at the one in Deanie's hand. "I
saw the hare but a moment, yet I recalled him
in most every feature. His nose looked wet."
She crinkled her own nose in unconscious
mimicry of the animal. "I did not know how
to make his nose look wet in my drawing."
  "Princess Elizabeth, you are a natural
artist," Deanie marveled. Then she looked again
at the girl, who was still appraising her own work.
"What do you mean? were you forced to stay inside,
even during the beautiful weather?"
  The girl straightened and said nothing, as if
weighing all possible answers. When she faced
Deanie directly, her expression was one of
disarming honesty. "Yes. My father, the king, did
return unexpectedly to Richmond. He forgot
that I was here, and I have been banished to this room.
He would not wish to see me. In this remote wing
he is most unlikely to stumble upon me."
  "That stinks," replied Deanie without thinking.
  The princess looked shocked, as if she had
rehearsed the reaction frequently. Then she
began to giggle again, both hands clamped over her
mouth.
  "You're right, Mistress Deanie," she
whispered. "I think it stinks too."
  A large woman garbed in black suddenly
appeared in the doorway. "Lady
Elizabeth," the woman snapped, with a brief
glare in Deanie's direction. "It is well
past the hour of prayers and bedtime."
  "Thank you, Lady Bryan," the little girl
replied solemnly. "I will be there anon."
  The woman left, and Deanie leaned closer.
"Why didn't she call you Princess
Elizabeth?"
  "Because I have been all but disowned." She began
to gather the pictures neatly, brushing off a
speck of dried ink from one drawing. "My father had
my mother beheaded. Then the next lady he married
Queen Jane"--the girl made a sign of the
cross--"tried to bring us together, but she died."
  "Do you remember your mother at all?"
  The child beamed. "I do! She was ever so lovely,
with long dark hair all the way to her waist, and
her eyes were brown--much as yours are. I
remember her laughing all the time, and running after
me in a garden. I know not which garden it was, but
I know it was so because it is so clear in my mind."
  Deanie reached out and touched Elizabeth's soft
cheek, feeling the delicate skin only a child can
have. At first the girl stiffened, unaccustomed to being
caressed. Then her forehead creased, as if in
deep thought. "I do remember my mother," she said
emphatically.
  "Your mother would be very proud of you, Princess
Elizabeth."
  "Do you think so?"
  "I know so."
  The girl stared at Deanie. Then, with a swift
curtsy and a small smile, she began to leave.
  "Oh, wait a minute, Princess."
  She paused and faced Deanie, an inquiring
expression on her face.
  "May I please have a few of those drawings?"
  For a moment she hesitated, then shrugged and handed
Deanie the whole stack. "They are for you,
Mistress Deanie. Thank you for the praise."
  Her back stiff, she left the room with
regal bearing. Only when she reached the door
did she turn back to Deanie, and she gave a
childish wave of her hand before ducking through the
door.
  Deanie sat alone in the room for a long time,
flipping slowly through the drawings, and thinking again of
Kit.

                                  
              Chapter 17

  The king saw her immediately, seated in the courtyard
directly below his apartments. He hastened to dress
and join her before the rest of the house stirred, before
Norfolk could cast one of his disapproving
grunts, before even Suffolk--beloved
brother-in-law though he was--could overwhelm with
his forceful presence.
  He checked his appearance in the glass, his
privy stewards clucking in pleasure at the
sight of their master. He knew his looks were at
their best this morn; he had consumed neither drink
nor food to excess for these past few days.
Henry may not be as handsome as Hamilton, but
by God he was king, and that should count for something in the
eyes of a maid.
  A momentary frown crimped his forehead. Where
was Hamilton? Subjects had disappeared from
court before, certainly. In those unfortunate
cases, Henry had known very well where they had
vanished to: usually a remote corner of the
Tower. Or the bottom of the Thames.
  This was different. He liked Kit, enjoyed his
company as much as his excellent sport. He
sincerely hoped nothing had happened to his friend, and
that he would soon return to court hale and
healthy.
  In the meantime he was more than aware of
Hamilton's cousin. With Kit at court, she
seemed to ignore all other men, including--most
vexatiously--the king himself. Even as he prayed
heartily for Hamilton's return, he prayed
it would take but a few more days. He certainly
wished no harm to befall Hamilton. But should
divine providence keep Hamilton from court,
well so be it. He would take it as a sign, a
message from the Lord himself that Henry was to pass some
time in the presence of the lonely Mistress
Deanie.
  Straightening his imposing shoulders, he tilted
his head to observe his reflection in the hand
mirror. In truth, it was becoming ever more
difficult to appear the way he wished to look.
His helpful tailors had broadened his back
to make his waist appear more slender. And if the king
tipped his head slightly to the side, the
unsightly double chin, a recent acquisition,
became all but invisible. He would tilt his head
thusly when speaking to Mistress
Deanie.
  When his toilet was completed, he dismissed his
servants and checked once more in the courtyard.
She was still there, alone, sitting under a tree and
drawing. What a fetching picture she made of
herself, even in the Germanic gown. He had quite
forgotten his own queen, the wife he was beginning
to despise less the more time he spent away from
her.
  He made his way outside quickly. Just before he
entered the courtyard, he made a swift
inspection of his gold-hued doublet. It would never do
to appear before a maid with bits of food flecked
on one's doublet.

  Deanie brushed a piece of grass from the red
folds of her gown, awaiting the arrival of the king.
She knew with absolute certainty that he would come
lumbering out the door in a matter of minutes.
All she needed was a little time alone with him, without
Norfolk or even well-meaning Suffolk.
Perhaps she could straighten out this entire mess with a
few well-chosen words.
  Unfortunately, she wasn't exactly sure
what she was going to say. She somehow needed to free
Kit, reunite the little princess with her father, and
convince the king to spare his wife.
  The key to winning over the king was to bend with his
moods. She couldn't exactly plan a speech
without first discovering his humor. The drawings in her
hand rattled as she looked them over once more.
Her eyes took in the landscapes, the trees and the
wet-nosed rabbit, but all she could really see was
Kit.
  Had it only been three days since they were
together? She could recall every detail, the weight and
warmth of his arm around her shoulder, the wistful
expression on his face as he looked toward the
night sky.
  When she first heard that he was taken to the Tower,
she was furious with herself for wasting that night. They
had said virtually nothing to each other. For most of the
time they hadn't even looked at each other, just
stood side by side, or sat on the lawn touching
hands.
  Now she realized how perfect it had been.
There was nothing they could say, no words that could convey
how they had been feeling that night. Conversation would
have been superfluous. And maybe, just maybe, it
would have broken the enchantment.
  He had to be safe and well. Surely she
would feel it in her heart if he was not.
  "Mistress Deanie!" The king limped toward
her, waving a large hand as if she might not see
him. Very unlikely that she could possibly miss
his entrance. Not only were they the only two people in the
yard, but the jewels of his doublet and round plumed
hat caught the sun with the brilliance of a hundred
flames.
  She smiled and waved back, rising to her feet
to drop into a curtsy as he approached. Only
as she watched his difficulty in walking did she
realize there was no chair or bench for him to sit
upon. She herself had been on the grass. She had
been used to sitting with Kit, who could spring to his
feet and bring her with him.
  "Your Majesty," she began. "Shall we go
inside, or have someone fetch a chair?"
  The king was delighted. He had half expected
her to leave. It wasn't until she mentioned the
chairs that he realized she meant to stay. With a
gruff swat of his hand he gestured to the grass.
  "Nay, Mistress Deanie. Whatever gives
comfort enough to you will serve me as well." He took
her hand. After a moment of hesitation, she realized
he was assisting her back to her place on the
grass.
  Once she was again seated, he lowered himself beside
her, his gouty joints creaking in protest. It was
obvious the effort caused him a great deal of
pain. His thin lips became almost invisible with the
strain. But in a surprisingly short time, he was
settled on the grass. His ulcerous leg was
stretched to the side, as if bending it would be
unbearable.
  "I'm sorry, Your Highness. We should have
called for chairs."
  "Nonsense!" He grinned, a single feather from
his hat dipping over his left eye. "It has
been years since I have had the chance to sit upon the
ground. As a boy I sat in this very yard, gazing
at the heavens."
  He was in an exceptionally good mood. They
both knew it, and both suspected it had more than
a little to do with springtime and romance. And the
possibility of ...
  "Did you sleep well, Your Majesty?"
  His eyes became almost comically heavy-lidded as
he perused her. "Tolerably well, mistress.
Tolerably well."
  This was not going in the direction she had planned.
She needed to change the topic; something neutral.
  "Have you ever had a dog?"
  The lascivious smirk fell from the royal
visage like a loose brick. "A dog? Why,
yes. I believe as a boy I did have a hound
or two." Then he smiled, this time a sweet
smile of childhood memories. "I loved one
dog. His name was Lancelot, for he was brave and
strong. That is the reason for the shameful number of
dogs at court. Every year or two I issue a
proclamation banishing all hounds, other than
ladies' lapdogs, from Hampton and
Whitehall and every other palace. Then I see a
cur who reminds me of old Lancelot, and I
forget all about the proclamation."
  Okay Bailey, she thought. Now was her chance.
"What a wonderful childhood you must have had,
Your Majesty," she began.
  "Yea, it was. My father was stern, but my mother
was soft and kind."
  "It's important for a child to feel loved by his
or her parents, Your Highness."
  He did not reply but raised a suspicious
eyebrow.
  "Could you tell me about your children?" Her voice
was beginning to waver. "You have three, Your
Majesty?"
  "I have a son, Edward." The king kept his
face bland, but his eyes betrayed his
suspicions. He spoke carefully. "Edward
is a fine son. Perhaps a trifle frail, so
I keep him away from the diseases of court."
  "Edward has sisters--"
  "Mary is my eldest child," he cut her off.
"She is a young woman now, and unfortunately
follows her mother in temperament and looks."
  "And where is she?"
  "Mary is elsewhere," he said cryptically.
"I see you have done some drawings, Mistress
Deanie. May I see them?"
  "I met your daughter Elizabeth, Your
Highness. She is a wonderful child, bright and
curious and full of ..."
  He raised his eyes to her slowly, and she
faltered. Never had she seen an expression of
such cool fury. She had gone too far too
quickly. He began to heft himself up, and she reached
out a hand and touched the sumptuous quilted satin of
his sleeve.
  "Please stay, Your Highness," she
groveled. "Forgive me. I talk too much."
  The king stopped and looked at her, as if
pondering the worth of staying. Perhaps it was simply
too much work to lift himself from the ground. Perhaps he
wanted to regain his earlier good humor. Without
saying a word, he lowered himself back onto the
grass. But he did not speak to her.
  Her upper lip was perspiring, even though it was
cool in the yard. She had to be careful. There
wouldn't be a second chance.
  "What a lovely day it is, Your
Majesty."
  He remained silent.
  "What is your favorite thing to do in weather like
this, Your Highness?" She was beginning to sound like the
hostess of a children's program. "I like to take
long walks."
  Again he remained stubbornly silent. He
refused to look in her direction; instead he
feigned great interest in the root of a tree that
poked just above the surface of the lawn. With his
jeweled fingers he poked and prodded at the root,
digging away at the dirt, pulling the bark with his
well-manicured nails.
  She was about to give up when he spoke.
  "I like to hunt."
  "Oh, hunting?" She folded her hands over the
drawings. "What do you like to hunt?"
  Again there was a long pause before he answered.
"All manner of game." His attack on the
defenseless root seemed to let up. "I
especially love to bring down a stag, or a
wild boar. The bigger the beast, the greater the
feeling of triumph. Your cousin is an
excellent hunting companion."
  "Kit?"
  "Indeed." The king smiled and looked at
Deanie. "He does remind me of myself in my
youth. I watch him on a hunt, and wonder who
is the less tamed, Hamilton or the beast."
He chuckled. "Usually I vow it is
Hamilton."
  She had a hard time envisioning Kit as a feral
hunter. Mostly she had seen his gentle side.
Of course, he did what was expected of him in
this time, and that meant hunting animals and jousting on
horseback and even engaging in battle. It was
also difficult to imagine him as a pilot, dashing
to a plane when the alarm sounded, dressing
for flight as he ran.
  It hit her then: Kit had to leave with her.
She did not think he could survive in this time.
Deanie had upset the delicate balance he had
been forced to maintain in order to endure the
brutality of this existence. Already she had seen him
falter, think too much instead of instinctively
raising his sword.
  She had eliminated the edge he had honed
during the past decade.
  The king was still speaking. Slowly, she turned her
attention back to what he was saying.
  "... wherever he is. Norfolk claims to be
searching, mistress. Do not worry, for we shall find
your cousin. God's will, he will be well in body
when we do."
  "Wait a minute, Your Majesty. You mean
you really have no idea where Kit is?"
  "Isn't that what I just said?" He began
to pluck at the root again. "Women. Every one is
the same."
  It took her a moment to process the information.
The king, whatever faults he may have, had not
imprisoned Kit. Was that good or bad? The
bottom line was that Kit was still missing. He would
not have left willingly.
  She took a deep breath. So far this conversation
had been a disaster, although at least she'd garnered
some information on Kit.
  "Well, Your Majesty. Not every woman is the
same," she began coyly.
  He stopped pulling on the tree root, which was
now a pathetically frayed lump of wood.
"Yes, mistress?"
  "There is one woman who is devoted to her king
beyond all else, who will do whatever her sovereign
commands." She lowered her voice so that he had
to lean close to catch her words.
  "Is there?" The leer returned in full force.
  "Yes. She is gentle and good, and dotes upon
the king. Her days are spent anticipating his
wishes."
  He began to breathe loudly, and a slight wheezing
sound whistled through his nose.
  He could barely speak. "Yes?"
  "And her name, Your Highness, is Anne of
Cleves."
  The king looked as if he had been jolted by a
live wire. "Bloody hell!" He glared at
Deanie and again began to rise to his
feet. "This is turning out to be a day fraught with
disappointment." He grunted as he stood
heavily on his feet. "My hose are ruined,"
he accused both Deanie and the ground.
  "I'm sorry, Your Highness, if my honesty
disturbed you. But I--"
  "Cease your prattle, mistress! My head
pounds with your frivolous words," he sputtered.
"By God, you have the ability to make Katherine
Howard seem as learned as Erasmus himself."
  Deanie stood up without his assistance, gathering
the drawings. She bit her lip, aware that one of
her unfortunate fits of laughter was about
to overtake her. She concentrated on the drawings,
busily arranging them in an imaginary order
to keep herself from losing control. Something about the king
of England, stomping about in baggy stockings, seemed
howlingly funny.
  "Well?" He planted his hands on his hips,
towering over her like a malicious elm. "Have you
nothing to say?"
  She bit her lip harder and shook her head,
silently willing him to leave. Now. Before she
began to laugh.
  "You tremble, Mistress Deanie. Do you fear
your mighty king?"
  Oh please, she prayed. Just leave. Take
those baggy stockings and leave before ...
  "Look at me, mistress," he commanded.
  She glanced up, and their eyes met. And she
began to giggle. She saw an expression of
incredulous wonder on his face before her vision was
blurred with tears. The drawings fell from her
grip and floated to the ground, and still she laughed.
  And then something astounding happened.
  The king began to laugh.
  At first he simply stared at Mistress
Deanie as if she had been stricken with an
infectious illness. He watched her clutch at
her drawings as they whirled to her feet, grasping
at air. Then she laughed harder.
  He suddenly remembered being in church as a child,
and the old priest conducting the regal service
belched. He too had been overcome with
laughter, and his mother scowled, which made him laugh
all the harder. As he began laughing with
Mistress Deanie, all the weight and cares of the
realm seemed insignificant. He was just a
man, laughing in the springtime sun with a very pretty
woman.
  It felt wonderful.
  Windows flew open as servants peered in
stunned marvel at their king, laughing like a
carefree schoolboy with Mistress Deanie.
After they had recovered from their initial shock, they
too smiled. No one had seen or heard the
exchange that had led to the scene, but they enjoyed their
king's happiness.
  Finally their giggles faded, and both wiped their
faces of tears.
  "I'm so sorry," she gasped, clutching her
aching sides. "I don't know why, but sometimes I
lose control like that."
  The king sniffed and shrugged, a smirk still on his
face. "We have that in common, Mistress
Deanie. Here." He bent down and retrieved the
drawings, feeling relaxed and content. He glanced
at the top paper, and the smile vanished from his
face.
  "Mistress Deanie, you have not been forthcoming.
Not only do you excel in music, but you possess
a most artistic hand." He shuffled through the
drawings, nodding in approval.
  "Oh, I didn't draw those," she admitted
cautiously.
  "You did not?" He continued looking at them.
"Well then, who did?"
  "Your daughter."
  He stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Mary?
Nay. She cannot render a landscape, or even a
chair. I have seen her efforts." He shuddered at
the thought.
  "Elizabeth." Deanie swallowed, all
sense of mirth gone from her voice. "Your
daughter Elizabeth drew those. She was in her
chamber upstairs."
  He stared straight ahead, over the paper in his
hands.
  "She is very much like her father, Your Highness."
He looked at her, not anger on his face but
bewilderment. Deanie continued: "She has the eye
of an artist, and the heart of a prince."
  Without speaking, he straightened the drawings and
put them under his arm. He crooked his other arm for
Deanie to take, and she did. Together they walked
back into the palace.
  When they reached the door he finally spoke.
"Thank you, Mistress Deanie." He touched
her shoulder for a moment, staring at his own hand. "I
believe I have found something most rare in
a woman."
  Deanie held her breath. "What is that?" she
asked at last.
  "A friend," he said simply. And he walked
down the hallway, his daughter's drawings still under
his arm.

  She couldn't wait to speak to Suffolk.
  "He's not in the Tower!" Deanie sideswiped
the duke just after the midday meal, forcing him into an
anteroom.
  "Good God, woman!" he sputtered as she
closed the door. "What ails you?"
  "I spoke to the king this morning, and he has no
idea where Kit is. Is that good or bad?"
  Suffolk stroked his beard in thought. "I do not
believe Norfolk has the power to act without the
king's authority," he mused. "And I do not
believe Norfolk would do this, not before his niece
is secure on the throne."
  "So where is he then?"
  "I still believe him to be safely ensconced in
the Tower," he said at last.
  "How could he be in the Tower if the king did not
put him there?"
  "Ah, my dear. Sometimes the king, well, he
occasionally forgets who is in the Tower. In truth,
it is so confusing it would take a full-time minister
simply to keep track of the occupants."
  Deanie was stunned. "You're not kidding," she
said, astounded. "He puts people in jail and
doesn't remember? Isn't there someone who can
remind him?"
  "Indeed," Suffolk stated, neatly turning the
subject. "Why, Countess Salisbury has
languished there these past two years, and she's
likely to remain there until she dies. Since
she's well-nigh seventy years old and in ill
health, she may not have long to wait."
  "That is atrocious." Deanie was sickened, not
only for the poor woman in the Tower but newly
frightened for Kit. "What has this Salisbury
woman done to be locked up for so long."
  Suffolk seemed surprised. "Do you not know?
She is a close relation to the king--a cousin, I
believe. He fears there may be those who wish
to usurp his crown and make her into a puppet
queen. She has already seen the rest of her
family executed or killed in battle."
  She had seen cruelty in this time,
instances of savage behavior--such as the ease with
which Cromwell ordered Kit's beating. But somehow
she had seen them as isolated incidents, not
likely to occur again.
  But she had been wrong. Kit had tried
to tell her of the violence of court life, the
dangers there. She hadn't understood, hadn't
listened to his words. It had seemed so
unbelievable that gentlemen in embroidered doublets
could turn around and order a helpless woman to the
Tower.
  There was nothing to say, nothing to lessen the sick
feeling in her stomach. Now more than ever she
wanted to leave this time. Kit had been right: Just
about any place else was better than staying here.
  There was a murmur of voices in the
corridor. One of the king's stewards knocked
once and opened the door.
  "Mistress Deanie?" His face was mottled
in panic. "Mistress, please come. We need
your help."
  The first thought that flashed through her mind was of
Kit; that he had been found and he was hurt.
  Suffolk stayed her with an outstretched hand.
"What goes?"
  The steward grimaced. "There are more than
fifty members of the barber-surgeon guild below,
and all wish an audience with Mistress
Deanie."
  "For crying out loud!" mumbled Deanie.
"Don't they have anything better to do than shave
my legs?"
  "It appears not, mistress," said the duke,
winking at her.
  "All right. Tell them I'll be right down."
  The grateful steward bowed and slipped out
quickly, not wishing to give Deanie a chance to change
her mind.
  Resigned to her fate, she stepped to the window
and stared down at the scores of burly men milling
about in the courtyard. Suffolk stepped by her side
and chuckled.
  "They are a virtual army," he muttered,
shaking his head in amusement.
  Deanie was about to agree, when she stopped.
"What did you say?"
  "I said they are a virtual army," he
repeated.
  "An army," she said softly. "My own army
..."
  "Mistress Deanie," Suffolk warned, "I
like not your tone."
  She answered him with a beaming smile.
  "Tell me what is churning in that mind of
yours," ordered Suffolk.
  But Deanie said nothing. She simply nodded
at him and left the antechamber with an alarmingly
light step.
  After a brief pause, Suffolk began
to follow her through the door. "I am getting too
old for this," he mumbled to himself as he straightened
his sword.
  Before he could make it to the courtyard, he was
stopped by Norfolk, who informed him that the king
needed his counsel on urgent business. Suffolk
had no choice but to go with Norfolk.
  He was not particularly worried. After all,
what harm could befall Mistress Deanie in the
few short minutes during which he would be closeted
with the king?

  If he weren't so damned well fed and rested,
he wouldn't be so damned annoyed.
  "I will repeat my question," Kit said between clenched
teeth. "Who is holding me?"
  "Now now," soothed his tormentingly cheerful
jailer. "How's about another slice of
pheasant?"
  "I do not want pheasant." Kit realized
he was sounding like a petulant child. "I want
to leave this place."
  "Now why would you want to do that, Sir Duke?
Is not the cooking to your liking? Is the wine off?"
  "The cooking and the wine are more than agreeable."
  "Why thank you, Duke. I will go and inform
Cook, and pleased as Punch he will be, let me
tell you."
  "No!" Kit wiped a hand over his mouth in
exasperation. "Please, just tell me where I
am."
  "You are in a lovely place, really."
  A noise very much like a growl escaped Kit's
throat, and he heard his jailer back away.
  "Now, now, Sir Duke. Why would you want
to leave here and go back to that nasty court?"
  Kit was about to speak when something about the jailer's
words made him halt. He bit back the
venomous urge to shout. Instead, he softened his
voice. "You do have a point there, my good man,"
he coaxed.
  "Yes I do, Sir Duke. All those evil
people, God help us, running about, mucking about where
they have no right. Yer better off here, that's what
I say."
  "I suppose you're right." Kit tried
to keep his voice calm. "I am just concerned about
my cousin."
  "Mistress Deanie? Awe, don't you
worry about her, Sir Duke. He'll watch out
for her."
  "He will, won't he?" Kit willed himself
to relax. "He has always been a good friend to me."
  "The flower of manhood he is!" The jailer
stopped and sucked in his breath, as if he could
suck back his words from the air. "By God, I
had best see to my chores."
  Kit sat heavily on the cot, fury surging
through him. Now it all made sense, his
well-meaning, confoundedly meddling friend. The flower of
manhood.
  Blast him to hell!
  From below the cellar, the entire house was racked
by a single bellowing voice.
  "SUFFOLK! DAMN YOU, I'LL GET
YOU FOR THIS!"
  The servants, the kitchen staff, the stable boys
and laundresses and gardeners all stopped,
exchanged perplexed blinks, and returned to work.
  It was always an adventure working in the
household staff of Charles Brandon, the duke
of Suffolk. Always an adventure indeed.

              Chapter 18

  The plan wasn't quite worked out yet. There were a
few minor details missing, a very few
trivial items that needed to be fine-tuned.
  For one thing, Deanie had no idea where the
Tower of London was located. Of course it was
in London, and it was a tower. But that was all she
knew.
  Finding London was also something of a problem. The
last time she was there it had been marked with
reflecting road signs and tourist kiosks.
She'd been lounging in the back of a large,
American-style, air-conditioned bus, her
headphones plugged into the rough tape of a new
CD, and had paid absolutely no attention
to landmarks or directions.
  Once at the Tower, Deanie had no
further strategy. That was it. She had an
imprecise notion of storming through the Tower gates
with a gang of barbers and exiting with an extra
barber--namely Kit. If she could find that
woman, the countess of Salisbury, she would
grab her as well. Nothing mattered other than
getting Kit out of there as soon as possible.
  Assuming Deanie and her makeshift army of
confused barbers could actually locate the right town
and the right tower, finding Kit within the walls of said
tower was also going to be rather exciting. She had
convinced the barbers that she was going on a mission of
mercy to shave and bleed some of the more unfortunate
occupants of the Tower. They knew she had become
a favorite of the king's and did not dare question her
authority.
  Deanie added an extra incentive: If they
followed her occasionally strange-sounding orders,
she would give them permission to shave her legs as
much as they wished. She further promised to make
hair-free legs en vogue at court, thereby
providing them with an intriguing sideline.
  "What if men decide to have their legs shaved as
well?" The question came from a massive young man
named Yerkel. He seemed to have no first name, no
last name. Just Yerkel.
  "Here, here!" shouted an enthusiastic barber with a
disfiguring growth on the side of his face. "I will
not shave a gentleman's limbs."
  "No. I think you're all safe. I don't
think men would like it." She tried to sound convincing, but
she herself wasn't so sure. Men in 1540 did
wear stockings, after all.
  The trick was to persuade the barbers that going to the
Tower had been their own idea, a
guild-sponsored charity mission. After a few
moments of heated debate, they agreed to allow
Deanie to go with them.
  Surprisingly, to the barbers, the Tower itself did
not conjure frightening images, no apparitions of
Vincent Price or looming shadows. Only
recently had it been used as Henry's jail.
Before, it had simply been a royal residence,
like Nonesuch or Richmond. Since it was much
older--it had already been standing for hundreds of
years--the building was well fortified from the days of
ever-changing kings and hostile invasions. After the more
recent imprisonments of Anne Boleyn,
Thomas More, and a handful of other executed nobles,
it was just beginning to garner its sinister
reputation.
  They had left immediately, the barbers on their
mounts and Deanie on Fancy, the same horse
she'd ridden weeks earlier from Hampton. She
didn't want to wait a minute for Suffolk
to follow, or for anyone else to discover her
plan. Even running back into the palace
to change into more suitable riding attire was out of the
question; she surely would have been stopped.
  They were but a few miles from London, continuing
on the muddy Thames-side path that traveled from
Hampton to Richmond.
  She now understood why Suffolk had called the
road dangerous. Even in the full sun of a
spring afternoon, she caught sight of half a dozen
undesirable, suspicious-looking characters, all of
whom seemed capable of the most vile of crimes.
Only when the potential felons seemed to be
following at an alarmingly close pace did she
realize they were reinforcements for her army. The
extra barbers joined them on the road, casting
curious glances at her ankle when the skirt of
her red velvet gown became caught on the
saddle.
  London was still nowhere in sight, or even on the
horizon. She felt as if they had been
traveling for hours. Even as they entered a
village, there were no indications that the great
metropolis of London was near.
  The village was sprawling, hundreds of
half-timber houses and single-story cottages
sprinkled along a gentle rise. Some of the
homes boasted glass windows and brick
chimneys; others had nothing but oiled linen covering
the windows.
  The more modest dwellings had no chimneys at
all. Instead they had gaping holes in the roofs.
Since it was now spring, most of the roof holes were
covered with lengths of thatch or wooden boards or
more oiled linen, anything else that might keep out the
rain.
  Cattle meandered at a leisurely pace through
the muddy streets, making them more evil smelling
than even the Thames-side road. Nothing was
paved, and the streets were dangerously slick with
animal excrement, rotting garbage, used
bathwater, and the tossed-out remains of household
privies.
  The buildings became progressively larger
and more impressive, the gardens smaller
as the houses were packed closely along the
streets both broad and narrow. There seemed to be
no plan to the village, no sense of zoning
commercial buildings from the residential ones.
  She caught sight of a wide bridge spanning
the river. The amazing thing about the bridge was that it
was an actual street, boasting two parallel
rows of houses, some as tall as three stories.
They were pointed and spiraled, triangular and
square.
  A chiming in the distance signaled the hour of
two. Deanie turned to Yerkel, taking a deep
breath through her mouth to avoid the surrounding stench.
She had become used to the odors of the court, but this
was another level of stink she could never have
imagined.
  "Where are we?"
  Yerkel, whose single expression seemed to be
one of bland resignation, lifted his blond
eyebrows. "We are in London, Mistress
Deanie."
  Deanie was about to respond, but instead held her
tongue. What had she been expecting?
Piccadilly Circus with candles? Signs
pointing the way to Heathrow?
  At once a vile gust of wind blasted past
them. Deanie gagged. Yerkel gazed calmy as
she struggled against the urge to wretch.
  "Yonder are the tanners," he explained with the
air of a bored tour guide. "The fishmongers and the
butchers ply their trades together, so their smells
do not poison all of London. The bear-baiting
pits lay there as well, if you enjoy the sport.
So are the baths, the stews, and so forth."
  He smiled in benign contentment.
  "Where is the Tower?"
  Without speaking, he nodded in the direction of a
brick structure.
  While she was instantly relieved that Kit was
not imprisoned in a more horrifying building, it was
something of a disappointment. She had been expecting
a dramatic Gothic castle, black and
sooty, covered with chains and the remains of
tortured victims, faces contorted in silent
screams of eternal agony.
  Instead it was almost cheerful, the gray bricks
edged with lighter trim, impressive turrets
on every corner. The clustered towers made the compound
resemble a Disney creation.
  The only hint of foreboding was the
well-armed guards standing with rigid authority at
the gate. They held staffs much like those of guards
at Hampton, and their determined expressions
appeared even more fierce because of the iron helmets
worn low on their foreheads.
  The closer they got, the less cheerful the Tower
appeared. Most of the expansive windows were
covered with spiked bars. They rode over a
small arched bridge to the main entrance. From that
angle Deanie could see the river entrance, the
so-called Traitor's Gate, through which so many of
Henry's enemies had made their one-way
journey.
  The large guard, standing with his muscled legs
apart, did not seem to notice Deanie and the
barbers. He did not seem to move a muscle,
not even to blink.
  "Hey," Deanie called as her horse
broke away from the pack. The barbers remained a
few feet behind in a shifting cluster. The guard
gave no response to her greeting. "Good day,"
she tried again. "Um, we've come here to shave the
prisoners."
  With that statement the guard's steel-blue eyes
slid to her face. Still he remained silent,
impassive as a log.
  "You see, we're all here to make the
prisoners a bit more comfortable. It's the little
touches that add up." What was she saying? Next
she'd go on about a chocolate on the pillow and a
complimentary Continental breakfast.
  Although it seemed impossible, the guard appeared
even more solid than a few minutes earlier.
  She heard the clip-clop of hooves behind her
and turned to see Yerkel, his face partially
obscured by the cowl of his cloak, approach on his
oversized horse. She tried to gesture him
back to the rear. The last thing she needed was
Yerkel's brooding presence by her side.
  "Good day, Robert," Yerkel said to the guard.
  "Good day to you as well, Yerkel," the guard
muttered without looking up.
  "You two know each other?"
  Yerkel said nothing, but the guard nodded, a
gesture so slight she would have missed it had she not
been alert.
  "Yerkel," she whispered. "Can you get us
inside? Bribe him, threaten, promise him just
about anything--just let us get inside."
  Yerkel remained silent, but he
dismounted from his horse and walked over to the guard.
They exchanged a few words, a very few words, and the
guard's eyes widened, and he looked Deanie
up and down. Finally he nodded once and called
to someone inside the gates. The man inside
called to another unseen person, their shouts echoing
against the brick walls.
  "What did you tell him?" Deanie hissed
to Yerkel, who was motioning to the other barbers
to dismount.
  Yerkel did not respond. Instead he patted
his horse and began to walk through the open gates.
  "Please, what did you say? It had to have been
a threat, perhaps a dire warning. Did you threaten
to fight with him? Please, Yerkel."
  He stopped, his massive shoulders straight,
his rounded blond head still. "The truth?" His tone
was ominous, and Deanie was again reminded what a
barbaric age this was.
  She nodded, bracing herself for the savage warning
Yerkel must have imposed.
  "I told Richard that should he allow us to pass
within the Tower gates to shave some of the prisoners,
we will divide with him any coins we are given."
  "That's it?" She was unreasonably let down.
"You guys promised to share the tip?"
  "That was not all." Yerkel's voice took on
a menacing edge.
  Her eyes widened. She needed to know what
bloodthirsty method Yerkel had employed
to gain entry. She may need the technique
later.
  "I told him that should he allow us to pass
unhindered, I will ask Mother to make a beef
pudding."
  "Mother?"
  "Richard is my older brother," he
concluded, nodding to his sibling as they passed through
the gates.
  "Oh." She looked over at the guard, trying
to imagine a large, doting mother silently stirring
a kettle. "Can you ask him where the duke of
Hamilton is?"
  Yerkel shrugged, handing Deanie the reins to his
horse, and returned to his brother. After a few
more brief words, Yerkel walked back
to Deanie.
  "My brother says the duke of Hamilton
is most likely at court with the king or at his own
estate, Manor Hamilton."
  "No, no," Deanie corrected. "Tell
him it's perfectly all right, we know Kit's in
here."
  "My brother says he is not."
  "No offense," she said, studying Richard's
solid and unyielding form. "But is it possible that
he just doesn't have everyone's name straightened out?"
  Yerkel gave a half shrug of acknowledgment.
"It is possible."
  "Well, then." She sighed. "I guess it's
about time for us to begin shaving the prisoners."
  "Only their faces," he warned. "I will not
shave the leg of a man, or the arm either."
  Andwiththe limb issue settled to Yerkel's
satisfaction, they began searching for Kit.

  "Hamilton! God's blood, move that
carcass of yours!"
  Kit jumped from the cot at the sound of the
voice, the clattering of a sidearm becoming louder
as Suffolk approached.
  "So has he told you, Suffolk?" Kit
warned. "Has my jailer told you that I intend
to kill you? I shall enjoy every moment, you
black-hearted whoreson."
  "Hold, Kit. We do not have time for this." The
rusty lock clicked open and light flooded the
cell. "Mistress Deanie's in the Tower."
  "What happened?" His anger vanished as he was
released from the room. He bolted down the hall
with Suffolk, paying little attention to the stone
corridor or the startled servants.
  "I must apologize, my friend," Suffolk
panted. "I thought to only help you, the both of
you."
  "Tell me, what happened?"
  "I took you here, to my own estate, as I
garner you have deduced by now. The rumors were running
thick and fast that you would attend Cromwell in the
Tower. I wanted to remove you from danger, and had
to move quickly, while the king was yet away at
Richmond."
  "Did Deanie know of this?"
  "Nay. I underestimated her, Kit. I
told her naught of my plan, feeling she would be
safer if she acted the part of the grieving cousin."
  "Poor Deanie," he mumbled, squinting against
the unaccustomed sun. "The Tower, Charles.
Tell me how she was arrested, and why." He
tried to keep the dread from his voice,
tried to remain calm.
  "Oh, she was not arrested."
  Kit stopped, pulling Suffolk to an abrupt
halt with him. "What?"
  "She stormed the Tower, Kit. Entered on her
own free will with a pack of barbers, intending to free
you."
  "She broke into the Tower? That ridiculous,
empty-headed ..."
  "Here's your mount. Forgive me, Hamilton.
I did what I thought was best."
  Kit, his harsh features a mask of intensity,
paused and smiled at Suffolk, a brief,
fleeting smile. "I know that, friend. were the
positions reversed, I daresay we would be
galloping away from my own estate, at this very
moment."
  Together, with their hastily banded group of men, they
raced to the Tower of London.

  They had shaved at least two dozen men, some
less alert than others. Some did not even
appear to realize they were being tended to. One fought
back with blind fear when he saw Yerkel approach
with a glinting straight razor. Only later, when
he had been calmed, did he understand he was not
to be tortured or executed.
  She could not believe the conditions these men were forced
to endure. Although a few of the chambers were fairly
well furnished, she quickly realized those were
mainly the newcomers. By the time the days had
stretched into weeks, and the months to years, the
once-noble courtiers became forgotten by all,
including their own families. Life ground on
outside the Tower walls, while the captive
inhabitants were forced to endure the cruel
boredom of imprisonment.
  Every door held the possibility of Kit.
She would hold her breath as Richard, watching them
with unflattering intensity, allowed them into the
chambers.
  She was beginning to give up when Richard led them
to a corner chamber. The key to this room was more
ornate, the door itself was more massive.
  This might be it.
  The door swung open with a heavy thud, and
Deanie entered. There was but little light in the dim
chamber. In the center of the cell was an oversized
desk covered with papers.
  "Kit?"
  Her voice bounced off the stone walls, sounding
hollow and unnatural. From a darkened corner
came a low chuckle, mirth without humor.
  "Who is it?" Her question was not answered.
Instead, the man laughed some more.
  "Mistress Deanie." The man emerged from the
shadows, and Deanie instinctively stepped back.
"How very kind of you to visit. Forgive my
squalid lodgings."
  "Cromwell."
  "Indeed."
  She could see him more clearly now. He still
wore the elegant clothing of his recent office,
but the fur collar and cuffs were matted, and the cloak
had dark patches of soil and grease. Although he
was not wearing a hat, his dark hair clung to his
round head as if it were still tamped down by a
fashionable bonnet.
  "I'm sorry," she mumbled. The barbers did
not enter the cell, but the guards watched warily.
She began to leave, moving backward as if not
comfortable turning her back on the prisoner.
  "What brings you to the Tower?" he asked
mildly. "You have not been arrested."
  "I was just leaving."
  "I see. You were simply walking through the
pleasant Tower corridors, and decided to pay
an old friend a visit."
  She had reached the door, about to turn and flee.
  "Wait." His voice was less a command than a
plea. She paused, comforted by the sight of the
barbers, who were discussing which level to enter next.
  "How fares the queen?"
  Deanie squinted, wondering what game
Cromwell was playing.
  "Of all the things I have done, I regret that
the most." He seemed to be talking to himself. "My
intention was not to deceive the king, nor to harm an
innocent from Cleves. I thought they would find a
fair measure of happiness."
  Cromwell moved toward the desk piled with
papers. "He makes me work yet, forces me
to labor for the annulment. There are indeed grounds for
this annulment, real ones. It is the last thing I
will do for him. I hope that one day he will recall
my toil, even in here."
  He seemed lost in his own world, as if Deanie
had vanished. She made another movement
to leave. His eyes, suddenly clear, focused on
her once again.
  "Tell her to agree," he said softly.
  "Tell who to agree to what?" She was torn
between wanting to leave and wanting to know what he was
talking about.
  "The queen. I am making provisions for her
well-being. Tell her not to quarrel, not to demand
more. There will be humiliation, of course, but better
humiliation alive than pride dead. The king will
want this done with, and will not stop to think about how
generous he is being with Queen Anne. By the time
he does know, he will not change the settlement.
He will have been complimented on his kindness, a thing
he relishes."
  Deanie watched his face. Gone was the ruthless
ambition, the constant drive she had seen before.
Now he was calm, resigned.
  "I'll tell her," Deanie said.
  "Thank you."
  Again she started to leave. She could feel the heat
of his stare on her back. Without turning, she
spoke. "Why were you so cruel to me and Kit?"
  "Mistress?" His voice was incredulous, and
she spun to face him.
  "Why did you try to kill him? Why did you
want to see us apart?"
  Cromwell remained still for a moment, weighing her
words. "It was not my intention to be cruel." He
glanced back to his desk. "I did what I
felt was best for the king. He did not want the
Cleves union. I thought to offer him a choice.
But you, the two of you, would not allow it." Then he
shrugged. "It was too late. I did not know it,
but it was already too late for me."
  "Is he here, in the Tower?"
  "Hamilton?" Cromwell seemed
surprised. "Nay. Not as I know."
  She grappled for something to say but could think of
nothing.
  "I did my best." Cromwell frowned and
plucked at his cuffs. "Always I did my best
for the king. I learned from Wolsey how to bend the
law to suit a royal whim. It seems I
neglected to follow Wolsey's last lesson,
the most important one. I did not learn from his
fall. I thought I would be different, but just as
Cromwell replaced Wolsey, Norfolk will
replace Cromwell. Not for long. Norfolk
is not clever enough to keep apace. His nobility will
prohibit his success."
  It was time to leave. The guard slowly
closed the door, and Cromwell, still staring at his
desk, made no notice.
  "Mistress Deanie," he said.
  The door was almost closed, and she halted the
guard's arm on the lock.
  "Yes?"
  Cromwell cleared his throat, as if deciding
whether or not to speak. "Watch yourself, mistress.
You and Hamilton. Get yourselves as far from this
shore as you can. Go now. Go far, and do not
delay."
  The heavy door swung shut. The barbers and the
guard said nothing but exchanged curious looks
over Deanie's head.
  "I don't think Kit's here," she said
to herself, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. "Do
you want to call it quits?"
  Yerkel shifted his leather satchel to the other
hand, his gaze involuntarily sliding down her
leg.
  "I am not tired. Are you men tired?"
  "I am not tired," seconded the barber with the
facial growth.
  "Hell," she muttered. "I suppose I'm
going to have my legs shaved again."
  Yerkel thought for a moment. "Perhaps we should give
some of the prisoners a healthful bleeding. Then we
can shave your legs." He blushed when he said the
word legs.
  A new guard suddenly bustled into the hall,
breathing hard from climbing up the steps. He bowed
to Yerkel's brother. "Sir, below are two
dukes. They have men, and wish to gain entry."
  The guards discussed the situation, but Deanie
paid no attention. She was bone-tired, depressed
after seeing the prisoners--most of whom seemed to have
done nothing more serious than be born into the wrong
family--and needed to think.
  If Kit was not in the Tower, where the hell could
he be?

  "I have never liked this place," Suffolk
mumbled. He sniffed with distaste as a guard held
them at the gates, waiting for an answer to their
request to enter. "Even when the king and I were
boys, and the Tower was a place where sovereigns
awaited their coronation, it made me uneasy."
  "Perhaps it was the tale of the lost princes."
Kit tried to peer beyond the guard, but he could see
nothing.
  "Perhaps. The king's father spoke often of the two
princes, murdered by their uncle."
  "Who was in turn murdered by the king's father,"
Kit added distractedly.
  "Watch your step, Hamilton," Suffolk
warned. "You are my friend, but above all I serve
the king. Richard fell in battle; there was no
murder. My own father died on Bosworth
Field."
  "I apologize."
  Suffolk said nothing. He knew the king's
faults, knew the thorns in the Tudor dynasty
better than anyone. But he would not hear a word
raised against the Tudors, would not allow disparaging
comments to be uttered in his presence. Not of serious
matters. To Suffolk as well as to the world, such was
the stuff of treason.
  "Damn it, where is she?" Kit spat.
  The gate opened, and a dusty group of men leading
their horses began to exit. Kit passed an
impatient hand over his face, surprised by the
full beard he had acquired. He had
forgotten. How long had it been since he had
...
  He saw a flash of red in the center of the
passing men.
  Without seeing more, without even seeing a face or
a form, he knew who it was.
  "Deanie!" He cupped his hands over his mouth
so his voice would carry.
  The flash of red stopped. The clatter of
horses' hooves blanked the sound of a single
voice, and the flash of red continued.
  "DEANIE!"
  This time she handed the reins of her horse to a
hulking blond youth.
  "Kit?" Her call was distant, and she was
looking about.
  He charged toward her, brushing past startled
barbers and their horses.
  She seemed so small, her back turned,
calling his name in the wrong direction. Had she
always been so small? In the red velvet German
gown, the sleeves tightly laced, she seemed like
a doll, a dash of brilliant color in a
swirling beige world.
  His arms gripped her shoulders, and even under the
layers of fabric he could feel her shoulder
blades. Then he turned her around, and she faced
him.
  Kit. Her mouth formed his name, but no noise
came out.
  His hair was dark and tossled, and his face was
covered with a fierce beard, but his eyes, green
slivered with brown, seemed lit with an inner
fire. She reached up and threw her arms about his
neck, her own eyes closed against the sudden rush
of tears.
  Just to feel him, the iron grip as he lifted
her off the ground, his long fingers splayed against her
back and shoulders, caused her head to spin. His
familiar scent, the soft bristle of his beard
against her face. She swallowed, inhaling against the
crook of his neck, feeling his warm breath as he
kissed her temple.
  "I was so afraid I'd never see you again,"
she cried. That had been her fear, unspoken,
silent. She had wondered if she would ever feel
his touch. Ever hear his rich voice ...
  "Deanie." His tone was tight, warring with the
overwhelming desire to hold her forever.
  She felt herself sag against him. Her relief
was crushing, almost painful.
  Then his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding and
shattering. Her hand, which had been clutching at his
powerful back, clenched into a fist, then, ever so
slowly, unfolded.
  There was a noise, like buzzing in her ears. He
pulled away from her mouth, cradling her head with a
broad hand. Their eyes met, focused only on
each other, and for the first time in days, he grinned.
She stared at his mouth, the lips that had just left
hers. His impossibly white teeth, the one
crooked bottom tooth.
  Someone whispered, a distant sound, and another
cleared his throat, a faraway shuffling. The
buzzing she had heard was the hiss of conversation.
  She blinked. Only then, as she peered past
Kit's shoulder, did she realize they were
surrounded by dozens of onlookers: horses,
barbers, guards, tradesmen with carts, curious
housewives.
  "Many pardons." She recognized the voice
as Yerkel's. "But would the duke be wanting a
shave?"
  Deanie ran a finger over his jaw, the lush
beard. It made him look dangerous, a ruthless
pirate. He caught her hand and kissed it,
closing his eyes as he did.
  There was a smattering of laughter.
Kit opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow in the
direction of the duke of Suffolk.
  "What did you say?" he asked, but his eyes
had returned to Deanie.
  "I simply noted that should they wish to give you
a shave at this very moment, you would end up bald as
Caesar," answered Suffolk with a good-natured
chortle.
  "Caesar?" Deanie smiled up at Kit.
"The salad guy?"
  The onlookers watched in wonder as the pair
managed to laugh even as they kissed.

              Chapter 19

  Everyone thought they were mad.
  Deanie and Kit had been together a scant few
minutes when they proclaimed a driving need
to journey to Hampton.
  "Hampton?" Suffolk spit out a mouthful of
ale. The guards, upon realizing the exact
identities of the august dukes, had produced
ale, cheese, and bread for all to partake of before
they left the Tower. The three sat on a low
fence, their makeshift bench. Deanie nibbled
guiltily at the coarse bread, wondering if their
impromptu picnic would mean hunger for some of the
prisoners.
  She had not been able to stop looking at Kit,
at his sure and solid movements, the
protective arm he would drape around her
shoulder. Now that they were together, and it felt so very
right, an extraordinary sense of belated terror
made her knees weak.
  They had come so close to losing each other. Had
she stayed within the Tower gates but a few extra
moments, if she had left through the side gate as
they had originally planned, they would have missed
each other.
  The bread was hard to swallow.
  Kit and Suffolk were still debating the matter of
going to Hampton.
  "Richmond is closer by miles," Suffolk
emphatically pointed out. "And the king wishes to see
you, Kit. He has been sore put to discover
your whereabouts."
  "I am flattered. But we need to travel
to Hampton, and we need to get there before
nightfall."
  "Before nightfall! Already it is well
past the hour of four."
  Deanie leaned closer to the conversation. Although she
addressed both, she was clearly speaking to Kit.
"The sun sets at about six, right?"
  "Later." Kit shifted, pulling her closer,
her shoulder pressed to his chest. A delicious
thrill ran through her at his touch. She wondered,
distractedly, if it would always be like this, if she would
always take such delight in his nearness. He
spoke, and she felt his voice rumbling against
her. "It is spring, so the sun stays up longer.
We have until seven, perhaps later."
  Suffolk made a fist in frustration. "You will
not be dissuaded, then." Kit and Deanie, in
perfect unison, shook their heads. "I will go
ask the guard where a boatswain may be had."
He stalked off, muttering under his breath as he
took a sip of ale.
  After days of uncertainty and tormenting
anxiety, Kit and Deanie were finally alone.
  For a moment she did nothing but relax in the
circle of his arms, unconsciously falling into the
rhythm of his breathing. There were some things she wanted
to say. She needed to tell him how she had felt
without him, how her life before all of this meant
nothing to her now. All she needed was Kit. He
was all that mattered.
  She was safe here. She sighed, drowsiness
overtaking her. It had been impossible to sleep
before she found Kit. Now she was safe.
  His hold on her tightened as her eyes
fluttered shut. Gently he kissed her forehead.
Should he tell her now? He wondered, watching as
she drifted off to sleep.
  He had done much thinking in his jail cell; there
had been little else to occupy his time. Deanie had
been the center of his swirling thoughts. Wherever they
went, no matter where they eventually settled, he
hoped they would be together. Of course he would give
her time alone, for she had forged a life for herself,
just as he had forged one in this century. It would
take some adjusting. Yet he knew they could
make a go of it, wherever they were.
  One of the barbers began to approach Kit,
offering to give him a shave. But the barber halted,
transfixed by the tender expression on the duke's
strong face. His harsh features softened as he
stared down at the woman in his arms.
  They would speak later, Kit thought, noticing the
dark smudges of gray under her eyes.
She could use a nap, no matter how brief.
A slight smile of recognition lifted the
corners of Kit's mouth, for he too had been
unable to sleep.
  Then the barber heard the duke speak in a low,
rasping voice: "My love."
  And the barber wisely decided to choose another
occasion to ask the duke of Hamilton if he would
like a shave.

  She had a dream she was gliding.
  There were splashy water sounds in the distance, but
she felt no urgent need to wake up. The sun
warmed her limbs, and she took a deep breath,
contented and lethargic.
  Then, rudely, something cold and wet dripped
on her face. With a gasp she sat up.
  "The boat! Don't rock the boat!"
  Shielding her eyes, she saw Kit, working a
clumsy pair of oars. His doublet was removed,
and the white linen sleeves of his shirt were rolled
above his elbows, exposing the corded muscles of
his forearms.
  "How long have I been asleep?" Her eyes
focused on the bare throat revealed by his open
collar. His skin, flushed with the exertion of rowing,
gleamed through the nearly transparent shirt.
  He grinned, looking very much like a pirate with
brilliant teeth set against a black beard.
Without thinking, she reached out and touched the hollow of
his throat, her thumb feeling the throbbing pulse
there. His grin vanished slowly, and he took a
deep breath, leaning toward her as the oars rose
above the water.
  "Faster, Hamilton!"
  Deanie jumped. Just behind her, lounging on the
opposite end of the rowboat, was a much contented
Suffolk. He still held a mug of ale in his
grip, while the other hand dragged languidly in
the water.
  "You said you needs be there before sundown,"
Suffolk chastised. "Unless you row faster, we will
miss it altogether. The sun lowers even now."
  Kit grunted in reluctant acknowledgment and
began to row harder, harder still.
  "You're a big help," Deanie said
to Suffolk. With a smile and a guiltless shrug,
he took another swallow of ale. "The boat
would hold but three. Hamilton said he would row
if I but curbed my tongue so you could
sleep. I did, as you can see. And you,
Mistress Deanie, were drooling."
  She clapped her hand over her mouth, and both
Suffolk and Kit laughed.
  "Be kind, Suffolk. I have seen you do far
worse in your sleep, and even more atrocious
deeds while awake," Kit said, winking at a
mortified Deanie.
  "Aye, it is true. There! I see
Hampton on the rise! God's blood,
Hamilton, I believe we will make it."
  Deanie reluctantly pulled her gaze beyond
Kit. And as Suffolk had said, Hampton
Court Palace, its splendor bathed in the
ethereal light of an afternoon sun, was in view. The
twisting brick chimneys seemed to glow in the
spring-time warmth.
  "You have the bottle?" Kit asked her,
glancing over his shoulder to guide the boat.
  "Not anymore. It is empty," Suffolk
announced with sadness.
  "Not that bottle." Kit shook his head in
amused resignation.
  Deanie flashed a smile at Suffolk and
turned to Kit, her tone more serious. "Last time
I checked it was in my chamber at Hampton.
It should still be there."
  He nodded once and returned to the business of
moving the oars. Deanie was astounded at his stamina,
at the strength it took to row the boat and its three
adult passengers upstream the many miles
to Hampton. He was only slightly out of
breath, and Deanie could see that the shoulder wounded
by Cromwell's men seemed to be giving him some
trouble. He favored the other arm, and he rotated
the painful shoulder as if trying to work away the
stiffness.
  "Suffolk, you know what to do about the gunpowder?"
  "Why do you think I have had to quaff so much
ale?" Suffolk muttered, shaking his head in
disbelief. "Yes, my brain-addled friend. You will
find two dozen bundles of gunpowder and wadding
placed about the maze. I will, if given but another
mug of this inferior brew, touch off the lights for
you, and trust myself not to blow us all to the heavens."
  Then he paused, and an entirely different
expression passed over his face. He seemed
able to shake off the effects of drink like a cloak.
He grew somber, staring into his earthenware mug.
"I warn you, if the king is in
residence, I will not do this thing for fear of harming
him."
  "Oh, he won't be there," Deanie said. "I
know he wasn't planning to return as long as
Queen Anne remains."
  Suffolk seemed satisfied, carefully
studying the empty mug as Kit steered the boat
to one of the smaller docks. A man at the dock
grabbed the ropes, and Kit stood up, pulling
on his doublet as he took her hand.
  "What, Hamilton? Will you not assist me?"
Suffolk rose unsteadily to his feet.
  "How much did he have to drink?" whispered
Deanie.
  "I thought not much," he said as he lifted her
over the water and placed her on land. "I did not
count. I was too busy."
  "Rowing?"
  "No." He winced as Suffolk staggered through the
water, headless that it was up to his waist. "I was
busy watching you drool."
  She would have responded, but they didn't have time.
The sun was beginning to sink at an alarmingly fast
rate.
  "I'll run to get the bottle," she said,
picking up the heavy hem of her gown. He
nodded.
  "I will get the fireworks ready." He
suddenly turned to her. "We're a little early for
your Fourth of July celebration."
  "It's the middle of June." She smiled,
pushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "We have a
couple of weeks to go."
  "More like a couple of centuries," he mumbled,
more to himself than to her. His eyes were focused on the
maze just beyond, and the burlap bundles Suffolk was
ordering a perplexed gardener to arrange.
  "I'll be right back," she said, touching his arm.
  He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, staring
ahead. Abruptly he grabbed Deanie's
wrist. "It's going to work, you know," he said. "I
can feel it. It's the same way I felt before,
when I first came here. That day I thought I was
experiencing a premonition of my own death, but it
was the journey here I was anticipating."
  With a shake of his head, as if to dislodge his
tumbled thoughts, he gave her hand a squeeze.
"We'd best get on with this."
  She was reluctant to leave his side. "I'm
frightened," she murmured. It was as if a
knowing breeze coursed through her; she had never said
those words before. In all the triumphs she had
managed in her life, the setbacks and the
roller-coaster panics, she had never uttered those
words.
  She was scared to death.
  Instead of coddling her, or calming her
rampaging fears, he simply smiled. It was a
sweet, sad smile. "I am too, my
love," he breathed. "You had best get the
bottle." Then he left to assist a badly
reeling Suffolk, who was unintentionally dripping
ale on the gunpowder bundles.
  Hefting the weighty velvet hem above her
ankles, she ran to the palace. Part of her
wanted to see Anne of Cleves one last time.
The more sensible part realized she could do little to help
her. She had already told Suffolk of
Cromwell's advice to follow the king's whims.
Seeing the queen would not help anyone.
  The halls were virtually empty. Since the king
was now lodged at Richmond, most of the more
fashionable and ambitious courtiers had already
begun the laborous shift to Richmond. It was much
work, sending servants and lesser nobles ahead,
folding rich clothes into the dome-lidded trunks.
But to the courtiers, it was well worth the effort.
  The bottle was right where she'd left it. She
grabbed the neck and paused, startled by a peculiar
sense of having her middle cinched by a wide band.
If all went as planned, this was the last she would
see of this century.
  There was a pang in her throat, an undefined
longing. She placed her hand over the low square
neck of her gown and felt the pounding of her heart.
Why did she have such terrible feelings of regret?
  Kit.
  It was because she associated this era--the smells
and sounds and fingertip sensations--with one man. Without
him it would have been simply a curious journey.
It would have been like a well-designed historical
theme park.
  But it was here, where violence and death and
inscrutable absolutes were everyday occurrences,
where she met Kit. How strange, she thought with a
smile, that a place ebbing with such misery should bring
her the one true joy of her life.
  She regretted leaving because she knew she would
soon feel nostalgic. Kit would be at her
side, his arms about her, and they would talk
of this time, in the hushed whispers of a shared
experience. These would always be their magical days of
courtship.
  Without a second glance, she left the room.
The seeds of her future were here. But the reality of
her future was just beyond eyeshot, in a black
beard and dusty doublet.
  It was time to begin her future.

  Had they planned for days, it could not have been more
perfect.
  She reached his side, breathing hard through her
mouth. Panting, she simply held the bottle
up. He ran his knuckles over her flushed
cheek and smiled.
  The preparations were completed. He reached out his
hand to Suffolk, fumbling for words.
  "I ... we both thank you," he said at
last. "We will be gone from this place, yet we will
always remember you."
  Suffolk grunted. "I understand not where you go.
I only hope you will achieve the happiness that so
eluded you here."
  She almost spoke, wondering how much Kit had
told him. He seemed to understand precisely what
was going to occur within the maze.
  Suffolk nodded as if they were attempting a
risky but entirely normal sea crossing. How
could such a pragmatic man believe in
miracles? Then it occurred to her that everyone here,
with the exception of Kit and herself, had been raised
with a sincere believe in witchcraft and magic, in
fairies and worlds beyond reason.
  The funny thing was, they had been right.
  "Please, light them when I tell you."
Kit's hand gripped hers as he spoke
to Suffolk, one hand holding the future as he
spoke to the past.
  "Oh, and remember to tell Queen Anne to do
as the king requests. Cromwell has set it up
so that, well ... I told you." She smiled at
Suffolk. "And please watch after Princess
Elizabeth. She is so little, and needs--"
  Kit's hand clamped over her mouth, and they
all laughed.
  "It's time," Kit said, but they all knew it
even without his words.
  The two of them walked into the maze, slowly,
deliberately.
  A lone voice pierced the air.
  "Hamilton!" It was a growl of impotent
fury.
  "Goddamn," Kit grumbled. "It's
Surrey."
  They did not halt. Instead they walked faster,
but Kit's hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
  "Suffolk! Now!" Kit shouted as they picked
up their pace. They were not in the exact spot they
needed to be but hoped that by the time they reached the center
the bundles of gunpowder would be set.
  "Hamilton!" Surrey, his pale face a
mask of fury, charged after them into the maze.
  "Faster, love." Kit handed her the bottle
so he could grab her arm, half dragging and half
carrying her to the center. Her feet skimmed the
gravel path as she struggled to hold the bottle.
  The headdress, a small French hood,
caught on a branch. Although her hair was ripped
from her scalp, bringing tears to her eyes, she said
nothing as her head snapped back for a moment. The
headpiece, with a clump of chestnut hair, was
left dangling in the shrubbery.
  The first explosion of powder boomed, and she
gasped.
  "We're almost there," he breathed, covering her
face with his open hand as a shower of gravel rained
down. "Damn, what did he put in those
packets?"
  Another explosion tore through the air. They had
reached the center of the maze, and she threw her arms
about his waist.
  Lifting the bottle from her hand, he wrapped his
other arm around her shoulders. Two more bursts of
gunpowder discharged some rocks, and Deanie closed
her eyes, burying her face against his doublet. His
heart thundered wildly against her ear, as loud and
fierce as the explosions beyond the maze.
  Shielding his eyes from the sprinkling of dust and
rocks, he then held the bottle high over their
heads.
  Immediately, the ground began to tremble, from far more
than the concussion of the explosives. A hum
vibrated, low and mournful, rattling both of them
to the core.
  She opened her eyes and saw the cobalt-blue
light dart from the bottle, causing brilliant
lines to bounce in angles all about them.
  "HAMILTON!" Surrey's voice peeled
over the layers of explosions.
  "For Christ's sake!" Kit
swore. His tone was pure annoyance, as if an
irritating gnat had disturbed their privacy.
  Surrey stood less than six feet away,
his sword pointed at them, his mouth open in an
exaggerated expression of confusion. Then he
closed his jaw and glared at Kit. Slowly,
deliberately, he approached, the tip of his
weapon directed at Kit's throat.
  Kit reached for Deanie's hand and raised it
carefully, not wishing to disturb the laserlike
beams. He slipped the bottle into her hands,
wrapping her trembling fingers around the neck of the
bottle.
  Deanie blinked, looking up at Kit. He
cautiously dislodged her arm from his waist and drew
his own sword.
  "No, Kit! Not now!"
  But Surrey had already lunged. Kit pushed
her out of the way and countered Surrey's sword.
  Frantic, she tried to keep the bottle above
Kit's head, to maintain the pulsating prism that
was flashing more violently now. Four more explosions
rattled her very teeth, and still she stayed at his
side.
  Surrey slashed the air, attacking the spots
that seemed to dance before his eyes with a frenzied
passion. Kit moved Deanie out of the way, his arm
scooting her into the center of a tender bush. From the
corner of her eye she saw the lash of
Surrey's sword, and a bright line of crimson
mark the top of Kit's arm. The black doublet and
white shirt underneath shredded, hanging from the tip of
Surrey's blade.
  The bottle was hot, and Deanie struggled
to get back to Kit, who was countering Surrey with
one arm while trying to protect Deanie with the
other.
  There was a terrific roar. Deanie clutched
at Kit and she saw his gaze, those strangely
colored hazel eyes, flick to hers. An
emotion passed through his eyes, even as she saw
Surrey's merciless sword fly before him. Then
his arm, bloodied, fell limp and his weapon
clattered to the ground.
  She recognized the expression on his face.
Pain? Regret?
  No. It was farewell.
  She screamed his name, but the roar continued,
rampaging and unstoppable.
  The bottle slipped to the ground, and
suddenly everything was dark.

  Suffolk arranged the last of the bundles,
wondering when all the ducks and quails he had just
sent flying would finally return.
  A figure in a rich blue cloak ran
toward the maze waving a piece of paper. With
annoyance, Suffolk realized it was Norfolk.
He wished he had consumed more ale that afternoon, for
facing Norfolk while sober was more than he could
bear.
  "I have it! I have it!" Norfolk's thin face
was animated, his eyes glistening in triumph.
  "What do you have, Norfolk?" muttered
Suffolk. "A soul? I think not. What you do have
is a demented son who just this minute chased
Hamilton and Mistress Deanie into the center
of the maze."
  Norfolk swished a hand, dismissing
Suffolk's information with annoyance. "It matters
not. What is in my hands is a warrant for the
arrest of one Christopher Neville, duke of
Hamilton, and his kinswoman Mistress
Deanie Bailey."
  "On what charges?" Suffolk snatched the
document from Norfolk's slender fingers.
  "Treason."
  "Nay! It is impossible!" Suffolk
scanned the parchment. It was genuine, right down
to Henry's seal.
  With that, Norfolk plucked something from his
cloak. It was a strange sort of book,
narrow, with glossy paper and color and tiny words.
  A Tourist's Guide to Hampton Court
Palace.
  "This book tells of the death of our
sovereign." Norfolk sniffed in self-righteous
pleasure. "The name in the book belongs to Deanie
Bailey. They worked in consort to end our
glorious king's reign through witchcraft. A
woman alone could not do this." Then Norfolk's
eyes narrowed. "And what of you, my duke of
Suffolk? What brings you to this place, with fire
and explosion?"
  Calmly, Suffolk paged through the booklet,
pausing once at a picture of himself, grizzled
and old. There was also the wedding portrait of Mary
Tudor and Suffolk, both flush with youth and
love, her small hand resting in his. There were
dates, but he did not want to look.
He did not want to know.
  So this was their magic, he wondered silently.
He hoped with all his heart they had returned
home. They were not guilty of treason. If
anything, they were guilty of but one offense:
Love.
  His movements smooth, he watched Norfolk
frown at the sod clumps that now pitted the
lawn. While Norfolk scowled, Suffolk,
gentle as a mother with a baby, reached for another
taper. Smiling, he slipped the booklet under the
final bundle and lit it.
  He escorted Norfolk several yards
away, musing on the implications of the arrest
warrant, when the explosion shattered the fragile
calm.
  "What! What!" Norfolk sputtered, his
face mottled and red. Then he leveled his
malicious gaze at Suffolk. "Where is it?
Where is my book? The king has not yet seen it,
you villain. This is the proof of their treason!
Henry signed the warrant based on my word! I
told him it also saw an early death for Edward,
the prince of Wales. He will never believe me
without the proof."
  Smiling, Suffolk pointed to the air, silencing
Norfolk in midsputter. Tiny pieces of
blackened, charred paper twirled to the ground.
  "Come, Norfolk. Let us drink to a
prosperous future."
  Norfolk stamped on the ground, unable
to articulate the furious words that shattered his
well-practiced veneer.
  Suffolk laughed and walked away. "I shall
presently remove myself from the scene of the next
explosion. From the blood in your face,
Norfolk, it will be your head, and it will be very
messy indeed. Good day."
  And with that Suffolk left in search of friendly
companionship and a cool draught of ale.

  Something was scratching her face.
  Deanie tried to open her eyes, but twigs and
sharp leaves made her close them again. She
tried to move her legs and arms. They were pinned in
a spiraling grip, one hand raised over her
head, the other straight back. Her feet did not
even touch the ground.
  "Kit," she moaned, feeling herself slip. The
red velvet gown began to tear, slowly,
steadily, as she sank down.
  Then she realized what was happening. She was
inside one of the bushes, the thick, impassable
walls of the Hampton Court maze surrounding
her. This was no young shrub but a plant decades
old. Centuries old.
  "Deanie, where are you?" A man was calling
her. Kit?
  "I'm over here! Thank God!" Squirming,
she managed to free a hand and waved it
frantically. Now she could see a little, and the shadow
of a man holding a sword approached.
  With a thrust, he plunged it into the shrubbery.
  "Kit! Help! Surrey's here and he's
trying to kill me!"
  Someone laughed. A male voice.
Familiar.
  It was not Kit.
  It was Nathan Burns, her video
director. She had not seen the shadow of a
sword; it was his stupid riding crop.
  The laughing stopped. "You are in the bushes.
How the hell did you get up there?"
  His words sounded strange, hard edged and
unpleasant. Had he always spoken like that?"
  "Please help me," she pleaded. "I am
looking for someone. Kit, the duke of
Hamilton."
  "Very funny, Deanie. Your British accent
is as phony as a rubber crutch." Then he
became angry; he had meant to say funny as
a rubber crutch.
  His face reddened. "First you blow the shoot, now
you're hanging in the center of a very valuable landmark.
Did you think we would cut you down? Damn it.
And you have a concert in two hours. Wembley is
sold out."
  "Kit," she whispered. "Oh dear God."
  "What the hell is that thing you're wearing? It's
all wrong! Completely inaccurate.
Goddamn, Deanie. Are you trying to screw up
my life?"
  Much to Nathan Burns's surprise,
Deanie began to cry. He had never seen her so
much as whimper, never seen her behave the way those
other female singers did. Now she was sobbing,
crying her heart out.
  "Do you have a broken bone?" He didn't know
what else to ask. Some Tudor Babes, the
extras from the video, had arrived,
along with the costume mistress and a cameraman,
all staring up at a splotch of red hanging a
dozen feet over their heads.
  "Kit," she murmured. "He's gone. Dear
God, he didn't make it." They heard a
sharp intake of breath, and her cries became
hysterical.
  "I think she wants her cat," hissed
Monica.
  Nathan snapped his fingers, and a production
assistant, a clipboard tucked under his arm,
stepped to his side. Without looking at his underling,
his eyes still focused overhead, Nathan ticked
off his orders.
  "I want a ladder and a gardener. A first aid
kit and a medic. Go into my case and get the
prescription of Valium. Call Wembley and
stall them."
  Monica the video extra whispered something, and
Nathan nodded.
  "Oh, and find a cat."
  "A cat?"
  The production assistant ran off, hoping he
could find his way through the maze.
  The costume director, her eyes peering through
thick glasses, shook her head. "That is not the
gown she was wearing a few minutes ago," she
complained. "What's wrong? My work isn't good
enough for this video?"
  "Thelma, the costume is the least of our
problems," Nathan ground out. "The costar of this
video is at this moment perched in a bush crying for
her kitty-cat. She seems to think this is the
road show of the Frances Farmer story. Bucky
Lee Denton has just been taken to the hospital
with an infection of his latest hair-transplant
operation. We have lost the light, and the weather
reports predict rain for the next ten days. This
whole video is about to self-destruct.
Frankly, Thelma, if I were you I would be rather
pleased that she is not wearing one of your creations."
  The costume director thought about it for a few
moments, then shrugged.
  A red-faced worker with a gray cap that made him
resemble an old train engineer entered the maze,
an aluminum expandable ladder over his shoulder.
  The gardener arrived next, his face twitching in
anger. They should never have allowed these
hillbillies on the palace grounds! The
woman would have to be cut down. The maze
had survived two world wars, a civil war, and
countless bungling gardeners. But never--never--could it
survive a video shoot.
  After almost an hour of strategic sawing, with
heated debates over which branch would cause the
least amount of damage to the plant, Deanie was
lowered to the ground. Her face and arms were
scratched, her gown shredded and caked with sap and
twigs and muddy leaves.
  The worker had a unique expression on his
face.
  "What's wrong, mate?" asked the other
gardener.
  "That woman, she smells to high heaven. I
work with fertilizer and every organic slime known
to man." He shuddered. "She smells worse
than a three-month-old compost pile."
  The costume director approached the dazed and
still sobbing country star. Her curiosity about the
clothing overcame the nausea from the stench.
  "This gown," she said, breathing through her mouth.
"It's exquisite. That's real gold thread!
And it's hand-sewn! I've only seen the likes
in a museum!"
  "Her hair is filthy, as if it hadn't been
washed in weeks," growled the makeup woman,
who had personally combed out Deanie's hair just that
morning. "And it's grown. It was just at her
shoulders this morning; now it's longer by several
inches."
  Nathan crinkled his nose in distaste. "Get
her back to the Dorchester. She needs a good
scrub and a change of clothing."
  Numbly, Deanie Bailey was led back
to her bus, her eyes unseeing, her hands
trembling.
  The same vehicle she had traveled in a
lifetime ago.

  Stanley cursed the entire American crew
of the video.
  His car, several years old and several payments
late, was parked in the Hampton Court lot.
He watched the commotion with a sense of joy. He
had his paycheck in hand. The rest of the project
could go to hell in a handcart for all he cared.
  Opening the door, he thought about the star of the
video. She was a bit of all right, that's for
sure. The only pleasant aspect of the work had
been meeting her, exchanging a few words
with a genuine American recording artist.
  The keys dangled in the ignition. He reached
for them, when someone began to stagger across the parking
lot.
  The lights illuminated the limping man. He
seemed to be another extra just like himself, but his
costume was all wrong. It was early Tudor, not
Elizabethan. No wonder he had been
sacked, poor sod.
  Then Stanley noticed that the man's arm was
bleeding, and he seemed to be in some sort of
shock.
  "Damn," Stanley spat. Then he stepped
out of his car. "Hey, man. Need a ride?"
  The man spun about and faced him, and
Stanley's breath caught in his throat. Not
only was the guy massively built, but he had
a wild look in his eyes.
  "Aye," the man said, still clutching his bleeding
shoulder.
  Stanley swallowed, wondering if he had
made a mistake. But the man wore a
costume, filthy though it was. He was an
actor just like himself. As the man approached,
Stanley eyed his movements: graceful,
athletic. This was a physical actor, not one of
those introspective soliloquy types. Then
he realized who the man probably was.
  Poor chap, he said to himself. He must be
from that troop out of Durham. They had folded and
left the actors without money, stranded them without
notice.
  The guy got closer, and Stanley
unconsciously stood straighter. There was a
nobility about the stranger that made Stanley
want to behave.
  He held the door open, and the man slid in,
as if used to having doors held for him, wincing in
pain. "We'll get that stitched up in a jiffy,"
Stanley said. To his own surprise, he heard
himself add, "Then you're welcome to stay in my
flat."
  The stranger looked at Stanley. There was an
expression of overwhelming anguish in his eyes, more
than just the result of a physical injury. The
man did not speak but nodded once.
  Together, they drove out of the parking lot, tires
crunching on the gravel.
  Moments after they had left, Wilma Dean
Bailey boarded the large bus. She
seemed incapable of speaking, and in spite of being
forced to swallow two Valium, she was clearly
on the edge of some sort of hysterical fit.
  The bus headed for the Dorchester Hotel.
  Aboard the bus, Nathan Burns made a
series of calls, the first of which cancelled that
evening's show at Wembley Arena. The second
cancelled his contract with the record company.
  This would be the last music video of his career,
and he intended to get very, very drunk that night.

              Chapter 20

  Lorna Dune Bailey paced her
daughter's living room, her thin arms folded
over her chest as if warding off a chill. She
automatically reached for another cigarette,
fumbling through her large canvas purse, the green
plastic lighter clicking against the clasp. She
paused, glancing down at an ashtray already
filled with the crisscrossed remains of
cigarettes. Each had puckered lipstick marks
on the tips, wrinkled and red and in Lorna's
unique coral shade.
  She shoved the nearly empty pack and plastic
lighter back into her purse, disgusted with herself. It
was a filthy habit, one she had never even
contemplated until Deanie returned from
England.
  That's when all the trouble began.
  Lorna began pacing again, her movements jerky
and distracted. Upstairs, her daughter was speaking
with the psychiatrist. Lorna had protested when
everyone said her daughter needed a shrink.
  "All she needs is a rest," Lorna had
insisted when her daughter returned from England. But
Deanie had refused to rest. Instead she did
nothing but write and record her songs, all
by herself in her basement studio. Before England, she
used to love working with other musicians. Now all
she wanted was to be alone with herself and an old
guitar she'd paid way too much for at an
auction.
  Finally her record label, worried about her
increasingly reclusive behavior, had insisted
she get professional help, as had her manager
and even a few newspaper columnists. In the
end Lorna agreed. Deanie had been hanging
about the house ever since, not really caring about anything
except her songs. Even the expensive
house calls from that lady psychiatrist didn't
seem to matter.
  A door upstairs creaked open, and soon the
elegant Dr. Mathilda Howler descended the
carpeted staircase. Deanie had laughed when she
heard her psychiatrist's name. She had laughed
a lot in the past months, but it was never with
humor.
  "How is she?" Lorna tried to keep her
voice low, yet a high pitch had crept in,
unwelcome and naked.
  The psychiatrist shook her head, her
well-lacquered hair remaining firmly in
place. "Mrs. Bailey, your daughter is a
most unusual case. I see many music
industry professionals in my practice. There
are usually warning signs, or some form of substance
abuse before this sort of thing happens."
  "Did you find out what set her off this time?"
Lorna's hands were twitching for a cigarette.
  The doctor shrugged in confusion. "She says it
was a book, a history book."
  "On old England?" Lorna closed her
eyes in resigned exhaustion. "She's become
obsessed with this duke from the court of Henry
VIII. She was real quiet-like, staring at all
these old paintings in a book, until she saw
something about this fellow named Hamilton. It had
two dates. One was 1516 with a question mark, as if
they weren't real sure that's when he was born; and the
other date was 1540. She tore through books,
spent a fortune buying out a store, looking for
different dates. But they all said either 1516 or
1517, and the last date is always 1540. Always
1540."
  "I know I've asked you this before, Mrs.
Bailey, but is there any way she could have become
something of an expert on the Tudor monarchs?
She is extremely knowledgeable."
  Lorna's laugh was a dry bark. "Deanie!
Ha, that's a joke! No, Dr. Howler.
Deanie was no scholar--ever."
  The psychriatrist frowned, marring her
excellent makeup foundation for a brief moment.
"Deanie seems to be quite upset over a
picture book on the RAF."
  "The what?"
  "The Royal Air Force, over in England.
It was a book from the Time-Life series about the
Battle of Britain during World War
II, the young pilots who fought the Luftwaffe,
you know."
  Lorna nodded, not quite sure what the doctor was
talking about. "Well, what about the book? Did
she say?"
  "It's the photograph of a young man, quite handsome
in fact. Black and white, of course. He's
reading a book and holding a chipped mug of tea.
His eyes are tired--extraordinary eyes, even
in black and white. He's still wearing his flight
jacket, and according to the caption he had just returned
from a mission. Oh, and he was lost the following
week, in September of 1940."
  "So?"
  "This is the confusing part, Mrs. Bailey.
Your daughter insists he is the duke from Tudor
England. She swears up and down that they are the
same person. She's cut out the photograph and
put it in a frame."
  "So she's crazy then," Lorna muttered
to herself. "I knew I should have changed her name.
Did you know that? She was named after the Natalie
Wood character from Splendor in the Grass. I
didn't know then she ends up in a looney bin."
  The doctor cringed, and Lorna waved a hand.
  "Sorry. You know what I mean."
  "Your daughter is not insane, Mrs.
Bailey. She is fully aware of her
surroundings, of her career, of you."
  Lorna nodded. "Yes. But she also seems so
distant, so remote. We were always real close,
but now I can't understand her at all."
  "I understand," agreed Dr. Howler. "In some
respects, she has a clear vision of her
life. In others, well, she's simply
delusional, and we do hope we can reverse the
problem."
  "When will she be all right?"
  The doctor took a deep breath. "There is
no way to tell. A great deal depends on her
own will. She is not suicidal, nor will she harm
others. I believe she is suffering from a great
sense of loss."
  The doctor then paused, as if trying
to formulate a way to phrase her next words.
  "She is grieving, Mrs. Bailey, mourning
the loss of a man who never existed, or if he
did, she could never have possibly met. I
believe the seed of this delusion was planted in
England. She met a gentleman there who
related a tale of grand passion and a dead
pilot. His parents, as I understand, were deeply in
love. Deanie's mind, already fragile, created
her own grand passion, a perfect love that could
never be destroyed, simply because it was never real."
  "No offense, Doctor, but you're not making a
heck of a lot of sense to me right now."
  The psychiatrist folded her hands before speaking.
"From her background--her childhood and her
unstable relationships with men--I believe she
created this fantasy to make up for the lack of a
loving male figure."
  "I don't understand."
  "There were no good men in her life, Mrs.
Bailey." The doctor tried to be gentle.
"She never knew her father--through no fault of
yours, I hasten to add."
  Still Lorna swallowed, remembering her
daughter as a beautiful, dark-haired child, sitting
at home the night of the daddy-daughter dinner dance
at school. She never complained, not then. The
doctor continued.
  "As an adult, she has made a success of
her life in all areas except for one--namely,
romance. She is becoming well known, she is
physically beautiful and talented ... and very, very
lonely."
  "What should we do?"
  "I have discussed her case with some of my
colleagues--strictly in confidence, of course.
We believe she needs to go through the same
process as a widow."
  Lorna was about to protest, but Dr. Howler
held up a firm hand to stop her. "Listen to me,
Mrs. Bailey. Your daughter needs to mourn.
She is a creative, intelligent woman who
has been able to invent a man who is completely
real to her. What she feels is a genuine
loss. There is an emptiness in her life that is
no less painful simply because the man who once
filled it never existed. Let her mourn and
experience her grief. Do not judge her, just
help her. Listen to what she says, be
sympathetic. Time will heal this."
  "Good grief," Lorna spat. "My little
girl has lost a pretend boyfriend, and we're
supposed to feel sorry for her? I'll tell you
what: She's made too much money, that's what
her problem is. I was a single mother and I worked
sixteen hours a day at the truck stop
just to keep food on the table and ..." She
stopped, aware that she was shouting.
  Dr. Howler gave Lorna an appraising,
professional look, narrowing her eyes as if
observing a specimen. Lorna grew quiet,
then said, "What about her career? She hasn't
expressed an interest in performing for over four
months. She's writing songs like crazy, the best
stuff she's ever done--at least that's what her
producer is saying. They're about to release her
album, and she needs to back it up with a major
tour. If she doesn't hurry, she'll never
get another chance. Her duet with Bucky Lee
Denton is hot, and--"
  "She will perform when she is ready," Dr.
Howler replied frostily. "We cannot rush the
process. Grief is a very personal thing.
Everyone has their own schedule."
  Lorna nodded.
  "I will prescribe a mild sedative for when
she needs to sleep. Part of her problem is
sleep deprivation. I will return tomorrow. Good
day, Mrs. Bailey."
  With that, the doctor gave a brittle smile,
collected her bag, and walked out the front
door. Lorna fell into a leather chair and
looked at the mantel, the music awards
twinkling in the afternoon light. With a defiant glance
in the direction of the ashtray, she lit a
cigarette.
  It tasted damn good.

              Chapter 21

  For the first time in her entire career, Deanie
Bailey was paralyzed with stage fright. The sounds
of the audience filtered backstage, a deafening,
distorted neon nightmare. Thousands of voices
roared across the arena, calling to her as one giant
beast.
  "Dean-ie! Dean-ie!"
  Their voices grew louder. The stomping and
clapping seemed to march up her spine.
  As a show-business veteran with years of
hard-won experience, Deanie did the logical
thing when faced with such a reception: She decided
to flee.
  "Now, now," shouted Nathan Burns,
gripping the arm of her sequined gown. "They are
all calling you because they like you, Deanie.
Not because they wish to harm you. In fact ..."
  Deanie tuned him out. After his lengthy stay at
the Betty Ford Clinic and extensive
psychotherapy, she was now witnessing the dawn of a
kinder, gentler Nathan Burns, full of
New-Age wisdom and homilies.
  He no longer wore an Erich von
Stroheim costume, instead opting for more of a
love-beads and tie-dyed look. He was
universally acknowledged to be more than a little
unstable. But since her decision to return to the
stage, he was the only one who seemed to understand
her. He had been drunk and crazy, she had
only been crazy, and together they had reached an
unspoken agreement: They were allowed to wig out, but
only in each other's company.
  "Do I look all right?" She tugged at the
midnight-blue gown, sleek as if the silk had
been poured on. It was over a year since she'd
faced an audience, and her heart was pounding in
unison with the audience's chants.
  "You look incredible, Deanie. And as your new
manager, I must say this was a brilliant move
on your part to open your world tour at Wembley.
You're a star now, ever since that Bucky Lee
duet. Those last four hits of yours have left
poor old Bucky Lee green with envy."
  The crowd stomped even louder, vibrating the
backstage area with terrifying thunder.
  "They've forgiven you for your nervous breakdown,
my dear." Nathan continued as if the crowd had
been a faint murmur. "I believe you knocked
Princess Diana off the front page of the
Mirror."
  "Poor thing." Deanie grinned. The lights
dimmed, and the audience hushed as one, as if a soft
blanket had silenced them, row by row.
  Her name was announced, strange-sounding as if it
belonged to someone else, echoing in the vastness of the
arena. The spotlights darted as her band took the
stage, and for a moment she thought of other darting blue
lights, pulsating in a prism.
  Not now. She couldn't think of him now.
  Nathan gave her a gentle shove. She
walked across the stage.
  Was this real? The stadium vibrated with shouts,
her name reverberating to the rafters with inarticulate
and furious cheers. The white-hot lights blinded
her, and she stopped, shaken.
  What was wrong? She had played
hundreds of gigs, thousands of them.
  But that was before. Before the thought of an empty
hotel room at the end of a performance could cause
her knees to buckle. Before she realized the
adoration of an audience was a mechanical,
hollow parody of real love. Before Kit.
  The bass player handed her the guitar, and she
looped the strap over her shoulder. Then all was
silent. Thousands of people, on the edge of their seats,
peered at every move she made. She could hear the
vague whir of the cameras.
  "Hey," she said, mentally kicking herself for
sounding so frightened. "Um, it's great to be back
here in England."
  Wild applause, more hoots.
  "Um, some of my best friends are English," she
added. The audience went nuts, leaping to their feet
and cheering.
  In her mind, she thought: My best friend is
English.
  Then, without waiting, she nodded to the band. With the
resounding hum of her guitar, they began the
performance.
  And it was extraordinary. It was as if she had
always played to a house of forty thousand. The songs
felt right, her voice had never sounded better.
The band played brilliantly, not just hitting the
notes but putting character into every phrase, subtle
nuances that could never be taught but must be felt.
They seemed incapable of blundering, and every note was
unadulterated magic.
  Then something strange happened.
  She paused between songs, reaching for a glass of
water on a stool. As she sipped, her eyes
wandered to the audience, where a beam of light traced
back and forth with frenzied precision. She saw the
usual sights from the stage: the eyeglasses
reflecting their piercing glare, stray glitters of
jewelry, rolled-up programs being used as
fans, random flashes of movement.
  And off to the side she saw Kit.
  Choking on the water, she gasped. The bass
player reached over and slapped her on the back,
but still she coughed.
  "Don't drink the water here!" someone in the
audience shouted. "It's not safe!"
  Oh dear God, she thought. She was going to wig
out right on stage.
  She looked back to where she saw the man
earlier, and he was gone. No one was there.
She had imagined it all, just as Dr. Howler had
said she imagined Kit.
  "My next song," she said, leaning into the
microphone, "seems appropriate. Hope you
all agree."
  She then performed the most perfect rendition of
Patsy Cline's "Crazy" that anyone had ever
heard.
  The show lasted another two hours, passing in a
complete white-hot blur. Time seemed meaningless
as the songs and audience became one. Three
encores later, when she finally left the stage, the
audience and Deanie and her band were exhausted,
limp with relief and deliriously happy.
  Nathan presented her with a sloppy, alarmingly
friendly kiss. The record company executives
declared this would be her next album; the performance had
been recorded for the purpose.
  Anonymous hands clapped her back, sending the
remaining sequins on her costume scattering to the
floor. She signed every bit of paper shoved
into her face by autograph hounds. The flashing
lights made her dizzy, spots dancing before her
eyes. Nathan fielded questions, requests,
demands. Everyone was ecstatic.
  A panic began to rise in her throat at the
frenzy. And she had to be alone.
  Her dressing room backstage was thick with
flowers, some still boxed, others in massive
arrangements. The sounds of the audience leaving the
arena were mercifully muffled; distant laughs and
shouts and the grating scrape of garbage cans as the
crew cleaned up.
  Nathan followed her into the room, beaming,
holding a bottle of champagne and a single
flute.
  "Here, Deanie," he said, popping the cork.
"This is for you."
  Sighing with exhaustion, she accepted the glass
and watched the bubbles float to the top. Some
seemed to swirl like propellers, twisting their way
through the pale froth. Propellers reminded her of
Kit, his love of flying, the way he ...
  Stop! She was not to think of him. Dr. Howler
explained how the mind could do astounding things, such as
allow people to walk over hot coals without being
burned, or cure an incurable illness. In her
case, she was cured ever so briefly of
loneliness.
  Then what about her knowledge of Tudor
England, and the very real duke of Hamilton, and the
photograph of the RAF pilot that sat at that very
moment on her dressing-room table?
  Dr. Howler had an explanation for that as
well. Somehow, during Deanie's trip
to England, she had come in contact with the information. It
was completely logical: She was at Hampton
Court filming a video, she had taken a tour
of the palace and even purchased a guide
booklet. She had met a man named Neville
Williamson who provided a charming, magical
tale of pure love.
  Under the stress of the filming and her first big
chance, combined with the very real career threat posed
by Bucky Lee Denton, she had retreated into a
world of her own, a time and place where she would feel
more in control.
  Then she had invented Kit, her dashingly handsome
duke. He became her fantasy hero, rescuing
her from danger as no flesh-and-blood man ever
had. Deanie's imagination had endowed the
fictitious Kit with all the qualities she had
desired in a man, and even a few irritating
ones just to add a theatrical dash of realism.
  And then she saw the photograph of the equally
handsome--and dead--RAF pilot, and somehow she
combined the two fantasies. A brief glimpse
of a forgotten pilot, and her mind took off.
  Deanie grasped the champagne flute with
firm hands and took a swig, downing half the
contents in a single swallow.
  But Dr. Howler's fine logic had not been
able to explain the clothing she was wearing when they cut
her from the maze, or how her hair could have grown
by inches in a single afternoon.
  Or how she could recall every detail of her
imaginary Kit, from his strong arms that could suddenly
turn gentle to his crooked bottom tooth.
She could still feel the texture of his hair, the
few gray strands only visible in the sun.
  Could anyone imagine the wondrous man who was
Kit?
  There was a sharp knock on the door, and she
jumped, the straggling blue sequins on her gown
rattling with the movement.
  "Come in," she said, not really meaning it.
  A polite guard poked his head into her
dressing room, sniffing at the overpowering scent of
flowers.
  "Excuse me, Miss Bailey, but
there is someone here to see you. Says he is a very
old friend of yours."
  Deanie sighed and took another sip of
champagne. The last thing she needed was to make
small talk with someone she knew from her past,
probably high school.
  Nathan glanced at her, then shook his head
toward the guard. "No, sorry. It's out of the
question. Tell them she's too exhausted, but if they
leave their name and address we'll make sure
to send a personally autographed picture."
  "All right," said the guard. "Oh, wait a
minute. He wanted me to give this to her. Said
she would know what it meant."
  Nathan shook his head even as Deanie shrugged
weakly and reached for the envelope.
  "Thank you." She smiled to the guard.
  Something in her stomach lurched as she touched the
envelope. Her name was written in a strong,
bold hand across the top.
  "Mistress Deanie."
  Nathan was beginning to chatter about the flowers, but
all she could hear was the blood whooshing through her
ears. Her fingers trembling, she eased open the
paper.
  Inside was a small square of whitish cloth.
She knew what it was before she turned it over. It
was a clumsy attempt at needlepoint,
speckled with brown spots that resembled blood.
To most people it was just an amateurish depiction of a
blob with wings, a bug or a bird.
  Or an airplane.
  She gasped and rose to her feet, sending the
crystal flute crashing to the floor.
  "Christ, Deanie! That's Dom you've just
spilled, not Andre. A few months ago I would
have licked it off the floor, glass and all."
Nathan then looked at her, her pale face and
white lips. "What's wrong?"
  Her mouth worked, but no sound escaped. Then she
croaked, "Guard." Softly at first, then
louder. "Guard!"
  The guard returned. "Yes, Miss
Bailey?"
  "Please, please send him in," she rasped,
her voice dry. The guard nodded and left,
closing the door.
  Deanie's knees gave way, and she felt
behind her, blindly grabbing a chair.
  This was impossible, she said to herself,
sinking into the hard folding chair. Kit never
existed. She imagined it all.
  There was a single knock on the door, and
Deanie turned. Her heart literally stopped;
she felt her entire being pause, as if waiting
to decide whether or not to continue existing.
  Slowly the door opened.
  And there he stood.
  A small sound came from her throat as she
saw him, her heart now pounding so loudly she thought
it would shatter her soul.
  "Kit," she breathed.
  He stepped through the door, his very presence
resounding in every corner of the room, filling the
empty spaces with his vitality. He was her
Kit, his shoulders broad, his stance solid and
proud.
  Instead of a plain black doublet he wore a
tweed sports jacket with khaki slacks and a
slightly rumpled button-down shirt. She
saw him take a deep breath as he stared at
her, the incandescent depths of his eyes searing through
her.
  "I thought you were dead," she said, her voice
cracking into a sob.
  "So did I," he whispered, his throat working,
his jaw tight with emotion.
  Nathan Burns emerged from the foliage of a
horseshoe-shaped arrangement. "Goddamn, they
must have thought this was a horse race," he muttered
to himself. Then he looked up at Deanie. "Should
this stuff be divided between a children's hospital and
nursing home? The usual?"
  Deanie did not respond; her eyes were
locked on the tall dark-haired man in the
doorway. Nathan looked between the two, and an
uncomfortable feeling prickled his thick skin.
  "What happened?" She spoke as if in a
trance, and only to the stranger. Nathan frowned.
It was as if he didn't exist.
  "We were separated in the maze, Deanie, but
we did travel together. It worked." Kit's words
were terse, his teeth clenched.
  "Why ... where ..." She closed her eyes,
unable to think clearly with him so near. His shirt was
open at the throat, and she saw his sun-darkened
skin, the sprinkling of dark hair she knew was just
under the cloth. How well she knew the feel and
scent of him, the muscles on his chest.
  She folded her arms and opened her
eyes. "Where have you been? Why didn't you let
me know? Oh Kit, I thought ..."
  "Shh." His voice was deep, resonant.
He reached toward her, his long, strong fingers
open, then pulled back. The gesture was so
swift she thought she had imagined it.
  "I tried, Deanie." His accent was still bent
by archaic vowels, intonations that had been lost for
centuries. "I tried to reach you at your hotel,
before you left England. But they would not let me. I
cannot say that I blame them."
  Then he smiled, and she felt as if the wind
had been knocked from her chest. His smile, the
crooked bottom tooth, the cheeks kissed with his
glorious dimples, elongated, strong. His
eyes crinkled at the corners.
  "They did not truly think me mad until I
expressed a rather firm desire to see you."
Distractedly, he pushed a wayward thatch of
hair from his forehead. "You see, the mere utterance
of your name transformed me from a rather pathetic
out-of-work actor into a dangerous stalker."
  Her mouth dropped open, and he continued. "I
tried to find you, but London had changed so--more in
the last fifty years than in the previous five
centuries."
  Nathan Burns snorted, but they ignored
him.
  "Oh, Kit. No one told me. Then what
happened?"
  "Well, when I tried to find you, I must have
seemed a bit disoriented. So they put me into a
very nice suite. I believe they called it a
ward." He gave a small chuckle, but it was
painful, bitter. "I shared the ward with a
fascinating young man who firmly believed he was
Bette Davis."
  "Bette Davis?"
  "He was quite good, actually. But the poor chap
tended to refer to her later films, always reminding
me to "fasten your seat belts, it's going to be
a bumpy night," whatever the bloody hell that
was supposed to mean. Then he'd puff on
imaginary cigarettes, proclaiming the place a
dump."
  "Oh," she said, stunned.
  "Yes, well. They gave me some marvelous
medication and took copious notes whenever I
babbled, which was often. They interrogated me, asked
me questions I couldn't possibly know the
answer to, like the first moon walk, for Christ's
sake, or Jodie Foster."
  "Kit."
  He straightened. "You were wonderful tonight,
Deanie. When I met you before, I had no idea
... well. I didn't understand. You tried
to tell me about all this." His hand opened and quickly
closed. "I didn't understand."
  She said nothing. A thousand thoughts tumbled through
her mind, but she said nothing.
  "Well, once again I seem to be babbling,"
he said, as a strange, hooded expression
crossed his features. "I'll not keep you any
longer, Deanie. You have all of this--you don't
need me puttering about as a reminder of a time when you
almost met with disaster. I shall let you go to be
embraced by, well, your fans."
  He gave her a curt nod and turned, reaching
for the doorknob.
  "Kit!"
  He paused, his back toward her.
  The finely tailored sports coat seemed
to expand as he drew in a deep breath. "Yes?"
He still did not face her.
  "Where are you going? Where are you staying?"
  The dark head, a mass of glossy, unruly
waves, dropped forward, as if he had suddenly
become very tired.
  "I am going to my sister's." His voice was
flat. "She's Lady Carolyn Deighton
now, and a bit long in the tooth to be called
Sis. She's well into her eighties."
  Nathan Burns knocked his head on the
closet as he glanced up.
  Deanie still could not speak.
  Kit cleared his throat, as if deciding whether
or not to continue. "It's my birthday today," he
said at last.
  "Oh, Kit." Her voice was soft.
  "I'm four hundred and seventy-nine."
  "Happy birthday," and he heard the warm
smile in her voice.
  "Of course, depending on how you look at it,
I could be seventy-nine." He then turned around.
"Or thirty-five."
  Their eyes met as if for the first time. There was a
clarity there, an understanding that reached across the room,
palpable as a caress.
  "Okay, buddy," said Nathan, his face set
in an annoyed scowl. "Let's get out
of here now. I know enough about drugs and booze to see
an abuser."
  Deanie reached for the bottle of champagne for
something to hold on to, anything at all. "Stop,
Nathan," she ordered.
  Nathan ignored her and placed his hand on
Kit's broad back. He paused, startled by the
strength he felt under the tweed.
  Kit did not move.
  His eyes had wandered to Deanie's hand, now
gripping the neck of the bottle, her knuckles
white as her face. That was not what he was focused
on; it was a black-and-white image in a silver
picture frame. Of a young World War II
pilot clutching a mug of tea, his eyes weary
and wary.
  "Deanie," he said huskily. "My love."
  The heavy bottle of Dom clattered to the
floor, and Deanie threw herself into his arms,
waiting and warm.
  Her hands clutched at his back as she inhaled
his scent, more potent than any substance on earth,
clean and male. His hands raked through her hair and
he gently pulled her head back, hungry for a
look at her face.
  His expression as his eyes took her in was
shattering in its focused intensity. All pride
and common sense had been replaced by ragged
desire. Shakily, her thumb traced his lower
lip, tenuous, frightened he would again vanish, that she
would again suffer the barren longing of his absence.
  But he was real and solid, his heart pounding against
her breasts as if proclaiming his existence.
  She tried to speak but was silenced by her
emotions, the rampaging surge of passion and
unmatched joy and, above all, love, pure and
intoxicating.
  Tears fell hot and heavy onto his shirt, and
she pressed herself to him, his powerful arms embracing
her as if their lives depended upon it.
  Her mind was reeling. Could this be happening? Had
she finally gone completely insane?
  He spoke: "If this is madness, may it
never cease." His mouth descended upon hers,
savagely, with a thirst born of anguish and longing
and love.
  In a distant corner of the room, Nathan
Burns was on his hands and knees, gingerly tasting
a splash of long-forgotten champagne.
                                  
  The breakfast tray was shoved next to the door,
untouched save for the empty coffee cups. Only
the single red rose had been moved, and it rested
on top of a folded linen napkin.
  The sheets on the bed were twisted and gnarled.
Two oversized pillows, complete with the
embroidered Dorchester Hotel emblem on the
soft linen, lay mysteriously on the floor in the
center of the room.
  Deanie sighed and leaned against Kit's chest,
her eyes closed in contentment. She wore a
plush hotel robe, he wore a single sheet.
  "I still feel as if I'm in a dream," she
mumbled, planting a kiss on his chest.
  "This is better." She felt him swallow.
"In my dreams I never imagined running water
and an indoor toilet."
  "How romantic."
  He laughed, then grew silent. She felt his
arm become tense about her shoulder and, curious,
she glanced up.
  There were comb marks in his hair from the shower, and he
was staring down, long dark lashes shuttering his
eyes.
  "Do you know what happened back there?"
  He didn't have to explain his meaning. She
fully understood his soft words.
  "I've read dozens of books, Kit. I was
searching for you, looking for you in those dry history
books." She was unable to keep herself from shivering,
and he smiled tenderly, rubbing his thumb slowly
on her shoulder.
  "You saved her life, you know. Anne of
Cleves would have been beheaded, but you saved her."
His voice was full of wonderment.
  "Do you really think so?"
  "I am sure of it, love. Cromwell would
have been forced into having her executed, and Henry
would have agreed. And Anne lived in splendor at
Richmond as the king's honorary sister. Of all
Henry's wives, she was the most fortunate. And
she had you to thank, Deanie."
  "But poor Katherine Howard." Deanie
sighed. "She may have been annoying, but she
didn't deserve to be beheaded. She was a giggling
teenager who should have been grounded, not a queen.
She was used by her uncle."
  "Everyone was used, Deanie. It still occurs, but
on a less-than-grand scale." There was an
astringent edge to his voice. He took
a deep breath. "Poor Surrey,
Norfolk's son. He was eventually executed
as well, another victim of the most esteemed
duke of Norfolk. The only thing that kept
Norfolk's scrawny neck from the block was
Henry's death."
  They were both silent for a moment, trying to make
sense of the waste of lives and talent so many
centuries earlier.
  "At least Suffolk did well," Deanie
said thoughtfully. "I mean, when he died it seems
Henry really grieved."
  "He did, I think. By that time Henry was such
an old man--Katherine's betrayal did it
to him, Deanie. He wanted to love and be loved
so badly that it killed him, killed the great
Henry of England."
  "I read about Suffolk's granddaughter,
Lady Jane Grey. At least he never knew
about it, that his granddaughter was beheaded because of a plot
to put her on the throne. Another innocent, I
suppose. Like Katherine and Surrey, she was
used. Used to death."
  Deanie suddenly remembered the feel of
Suffolk's rough hands on hers, his scratchy
beard when he would kiss her on the cheek like a
favorite uncle. "I liked him," she said at
last.
  "And he liked you, Deanie. Enough to risk hiding
me, incurring both my wrath and that of the king. He
did that for you as much as for me."
  "He was an overgrown romantic." She
smiled. Then she grew serious. "What do you
think of Cromwell's end? I mean, he was
nasty enough, but I still can't believe he was
beheaded. I really didn't think the king would do that
to Cromwell. I thought he'd just rot in the
Tower."
  Kit shook his head. "And he was executed on
the same day Henry married Katherine. That should have
been an omen. Someone should have noticed the gross
crassness of the timing. Have you read some of the letters
Cromwell wrote to Henry, begging for his life?
My shoulder still bothers me, and I would have liked
to see him punished. But those letters, Deanie. They
must be the most pathetic words ever written."
  "Do you think Henry ever saw them?"
  "No. I don't think Norfolk allowed it,
all in the name of dispatching his own duties."
  "Oh, Kit."
  Then he planted a kiss on her head. "Little
Elizabeth turned out rather nicely, though."
  "She did, didn't she?" Deanie found it
hard to believe that the same small girl who
drew a wet-nosed bunny became arguably the
greatest monarch England ever knew.
  Together they rested in comfortable silence. She was about
to suggest they order lunch, or at least poke at
the long-cold breakfast tray, when the expression
on his face suddenly altered. It was as if a
tide had shifted, inevitable, unstoppable.
  "Kit, what's wrong?"
  His gaze was straight ahead, as if he was
unable to see the room. Then he looked at her,
a sadness darkening his eyes.
  "I have to leave," he said.
  "What?" Raw panic made her tense up,
and her hands clenched convulsively. "Are you
joking? All of a sudden you have to leave?"
  "No, Deanie. Please, you must listen
to me."
  She straightened, her back rigid, as he
sat up and pulled on his khaki slacks. For
long moments they said nothing, but were aware of each
other's every movement.
  "This thing that happened to us, this journey," he
began, then halted. "Deanie, I need to find
my own way."
  "What do you mean?"
  "I refuse to become an albatross about your
neck, weighing you down. No, listen." He
placed a finger over her lips. "Please
listen."
  She nodded, unable to keep the sudden tears from
her eyes.
  Then he spoke. "Deanie, everything I know,
everything I have ever known, is gone. Yes, my
sister still lives, and thank God you are well, but
everything else has vanished. I grew up in a
vastly different world. I'm not sure if I can
explain it properly, but it is as if every single
value I believed in has now been proven
false."
  "Do you mean from Henry's time, or from 1940?"
  "Both." He looked up at the ceiling, as
if the answers would be there. "I managed to adjust
once to a new time. It was more than difficult,
at times it was hellish, as you well know. But to be
forced to adjust again, to rethink my entire existence
beyond this room, where I fit in and how I
came to be here, it has exhausted my
resources. Deanie, I am not yet whole."
  "But can't I help you?" She reached for his hand,
and he took it. "You helped me, Kit. I
wouldn't be alive if it hadn't been for you. Let
me help you."
  "No, Deanie." Without looking at her, he
brushed his lips over her knuckles. "You have no
idea how you have helped me, just by being alive. Your
existence is what has kept me sane, given
me a reason to even try to do this thing."
  "I'm still confused," she admitted.
  "You have a life, Deanie. A rare, unique
talent. You are magnificent--no, listen. I
do not want to touch that part of your life."
  "But it means nothing without you!" Her voice was
a cry.
  "But it must! Don't you see? We need to be
strong alone before we can be together. You have done that;
last night you proved it. Now it's my turn."
  "How can you say you are not strong? After all of the
accomplishments ..." Her voice trailed off.
  Kit laughed then and pulled her close. "I
think you are beginning to understand, my love. I need
to find a purpose in this time, a meaningful life.
Think of my resum`e, Deanie. I'm
university-educated; that's good enough. I can fly
a vintage airplane and drop bombs on
Berlin, which was useful in its day but hardly a
worthwhile career at this point. And I am perhaps
the finest tournament jouster in the land. Nay,
excuse me, no--in the world. Unfortunately,
there have not been jousts, real jousts, in about four
centuries.
  "What else can I do? At the risk of
boasting, I am fully able to put down border
uprisings in Scotland and have foiled several
pretenders in their efforts to take the crown from
Henry. I am courteous, courtly,
proficient in both the long bow and short--"
  Deanie reached up and silenced him with a kiss.
  "I understand," she murmured.
  "In short," he concluded, "I have not yet
found a useful purpose. I am nothing more than
a walking anachronism, a breathing sideshow
curiosity." He fell back against the pillows.
"I would make a perfect addition to the House of
Windsor, but alas, there are no vacancies."
  "Kit, I'm not sure if I can live without
you," she said, pulling the robe tightly
around her.
  A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.
"Oh, but you won't have to. Not for long,
anyway. Deanie, I just need time--a few
weeks, a few months. Before last night, before
we were together, I didn't know if I could find the
strength to continue. But now, my God, Deanie.
Now that I know you will be here, I feel I can do
anything."
  "Kit," she breathed. "Anything?"
  "Anything," he repeated. But the word was muffled
when his lips touched hers with a glorious promise
of the future, of the yet-untasted joys that would
soon be theirs.










              Epilogue

  Deanie Bailey tightened the belt of her
trenchcoat against the early spring chill. There were
few tourists this time of year at Hampton
Court Palace. It was still too early for the rows
of plush buses to be parked in the lot, for the
dozens of travelers to wander the grounds plugged
into electronic tour tapes.
  The wind whipped her hair, and she closed her
eyes to meet the misty spray of rain. This was a
lonely place, a place to revel in
melancholy thoughts and dark dreams.
  After watching the horizon for a few moments, she
eased herself onto a damp stone bench, her rear
end feeling the cold even through her coat and jeans.
It was strange to be back after so long, after all
that had happened.
  The scene was tranquil, deceptively so.
With such a pastoral landscape, it was almost
impossible to imagine anything but gentle
movements, quiet encounters with oil-painting
figures.
  Dr. Howler told her she had imagined it
all. Deanie had no proof to convince her
otherwise. Even the very real appearance of
Kit was easily explained.
  "You see, there is a perfectly logical
reason for your new romance," the doctor had
intoned, tapping her pencil on a stack of
notes concerning Deanie's case. "You were in
London right before your episode."
  "Episode" was the psychological term for her
nervous breakdown.
  "You caught a glimpse of Christopher
Neville from the window of your bus, or perhaps as you
checked into the Dorchester. Subconsciously, your
desire for a relationship caused your mind to file
away the details of Mr. Neville. Then you
saw the photograph of the pilot, who does
indeed bear an uncanny resemblance to Mr.
Neville, and your mind developed the
elaborate fantasy."
  "But what about his name, and that he was searching for
me? Dr. Howler, you can't tell me that was pure
coincidence."
  "Ah, but it was. You see, without the very
successful treatment you have completed with me and my
staff, the two of you would never have found each other."
A smile of professional triumph had
crossed the doctor's face. "The only mystery
here is mutual attraction. When he saw you in
London, something clicked within his head as well.
We can analyze many things, Miss Bailey.
For hundreds of years science has tried to understand
what causes sexual attraction in the human
species, but there are no definitive answers,
just tantalizing hints."
  Then a softness had passed over Dr.
Howler's very professional face, and all
elements of science and logic seemed to vanish.
"Perhaps some things are best left a divine
mystery, Miss Bailey. And perhaps grand
passions and romance--the greatest mysteries of all
--should remain just that."
  Dr. Howler had then straightened, as if
embarrassed by showing a more human side, and
slipped her pencil into the pocket of her white
jacket. That had been her last session with Dr.
Howler.
  Deanie rubbed her eyes, bringing her thoughts
back to the present. The chill in the air seemed
to grow by the minute, a dampness unique to England.
  A hand grasped her arm.
  She jumped, startled for the briefest of moments.
  "Did you see this?" He blinked against
the light rain, holding the latest London
tabloid for her perusal.
  She glanced down and began to giggle. "They
say I've married Aaron Neville." She
turned her gaze up to meet his face.
  "Aaron Neville, Christopher Neville
--what's the difference?"
  He settled beside her on the bench, his forearms
resting on his thighs as he read the paper. His
thick green Irish sweater and knee-high
Wellingtons seemed more natural than doublet and
hose, and he shook his head at the content of the
paper.
  "It says here that I dated Julia Roberts
before I married you. Funny, I can't seem
to recall that." With his hair cropped shorter, his
eyes were far more startling, the planes of his face more
apparent. There was a faint hint of whiskers about his
jaw as his eyes narrowed while reading the paper.
  "Sure, Kit. You dated Julia right before
I had that fling with Elvis."
  "Oh, that one." He grinned.
  "Yeah, that one."
  For a few moments they sat in silence, watching
a bird plunder the soil for a worm.
  "It seems so long ago," she breathed,
watching her words puff in the cold air.
  "It was."
  The rain began to pelt down in earnest. He
placed the newspaper on his lap and shook out the
raincoat that had been tossed over his shoulder.
Sighing, she leaned into the circle of his arms as he
held the coat tentlike over her head. They
huddled in silence, her face resting against the
scratchy wool of his sweater, his cheek on her
damp hair.
  "I sometimes wish we could have done more," she said
softly.
  "Perhaps we could have," he murmured. "But we
probably would not have made it back. We would be
footnotes to Henry's long reign, very dead and
very forgotten."
  "We're still footnotes, and we're still
forgotten." She smiled.
  "True. But at least we're alive forgotten
footnotes." He chuckled, brushing his lips
against her hair.
  "Do you miss anything from back then?"
  "A few things," he admitted. "There are
mornings I wake up and think to myself,
What a perfect day for a joust. Or, What will the
king require of me today? It's very strange,
Deanie, not to be dictated by some all-powerful
being."
  A burst of thunder clapped in the distance, and he
pulled her closer under the raincoat.
  "That was Henry." She looked up as the
lightning zig-zagged through the sky. "He demands
another platter of doughnuts."
  Kit laughed, his eyes crinkling as the rain
dampened his hair.
  "We should leave now, love. Neville
Williamson and his wife are holding tea for us;
we should at least arrive on time. And we
promised your mother we'd ring her this evening." Kit
took a deep breath and glanced over her head at
the maze, barely visible in the misty distance. "I
think we've seen all there is to see."
  "I suppose." Then she reached for his hand.
"Have you made a decision yet?"
  "Yes, I believe I have."
  "Well? Tell me, Kit, are you going
to sell? That's a heck of a lot of money they
offered. I mean, how many fledgling airlines are
the center of an international bidding war?"
  "Not many, I imagine." He raised an
eyebrow, unable to keep the smile from his face.
"But then how many airlines are composed completely
of vintage propeller planes?"
  "It's the service everyone goes nuts over,
Kit. It was brilliant of you to think of it: the
old decor, the outfits worn by the flight
attendants, jazz and old radio shows on the
headphones, the antique magazines offered
in-flight, those great old movies."
  "Shush." He placed his hand over her mouth.
"Don't tell me what happens at the end of
Casablanca. Every time I almost reach the end,
some pesky phone call interrupts."
  "Pesky? Like British Airways doubling
their offer? So you haven't told me, Kit: Are
you going to sell?"
  He paused and rotated his shoulder, feeling the
ache of the old wound in the English dampness.
"I've been thinking, Deanie. I have no real
desire to sell. There's nothing quite like flying your
own plane, and I don't believe I could give
that up. Certainly not now, maybe never. But here
in England, where the taxes are brutal and
available land is so limited, it would be
almost impossible for the airline to grow." His thumb
traced over her hand as he spoke. "How about if
I move the operation to the United States?"
  "Really?" The excitement made her voice
shrill.
  "Someplace with lots of land nearby, so
Monarch Air could expand. Perhaps someplace in the
South. It might take awhile, with rough going at
first, but we've been through worse. I have my eye
on a bit of land outside of Nashville and--"
  The rest of his words were cut off by her lips on
his, as the black raincoat slipped off their
shoulders and landed in the dirt, forgotten and muddied.
At first he laughed at her response, but the
laughter died in his throat, replaced by fierce
desire, overwhelming passion for the woman in his
arms.
  His fingers combed through her hair, droplets of
water drizzling from the ends as their embrace
became tighter, their kiss deeper. She noticed
the scratchy feel of his whiskers and the soft
fullness of his lower lip, and it didn't matter
where they were or when they were. It only mattered that
they were together.
  "A-hem," came an embarrassed voice.
  In her haze Deanie did not respond, and
Kit, only half aware of the intrusion, chose
to ignore it.
  "A-hem, a-hem."
  Completing one last kiss, Kit raised his
eyebrows, glancing at the red-faced gardener standing
under a large black umbrella.
  "Excuse me, sir," he said discreetly.
"A-hem, and ma'am. The grounds are closing.
You'd best be off, and get out of them wet
clothes."
  Deanie giggled, her hands dropping to Kit's
chest, her eyes still steady upon his face.
  The gardener cringed. "That's not what I meant."
  Kit held up a hand. "Please, don't
worry. We'll be off."
  The gardener seemed reluctant to leave them
alone. Kit gave Deanie's shoulder a light
squeeze and scooped up his soggy raincoat.
  "You should come back later in the spring," said the
gardener, struggling for something to say. "It's
lovely then, it is. Magical, almost."
  The ghost of a smile traced Deanie's lips.
"We know," she whispered, ducking under Kit's
arm. "It's pure magic."
  Together they walked back to the parking lot, the
gardener holding the umbrella over their heads,
chattering about the flora and fauna of Hampton
Court.
  But Kit and Deanie said nothing. For as
magical, as glorious as the garden was in the
spring, they alone knew the most magical thing of
all is love.
















            Author's Note

  The Hampton Court maze was not actually
created until the reign of William and Mary,
more than a hundred years after Kit and Deanie
and, incidentally, Henry VIII. Anne
Boleyn's family home, Hever Castle,
did have a maze, however. Perhaps Henry wooed his
vivacious ill-fated second wife there.
Only they know for sure.
  Anne of Cleves never did return to her
homeland. She was granted the palace of
Richmond upon the annulment of her marriage, as
well as the extraordinary sum of four thousand
pounds a year. Henry threw in the title of his
"Honorary Sister," as well as the manor of
Betchingly and his reviled late wife's Hever
Castle. Her brother the duke of Cleves
breathed a sigh of relief and admitted that he was
"glad his sister had fared no worse."
  Anne became something of a fashion
trendsetter, and her unique position as a
self-sufficient woman at court gave her a
delightful sense of freedom. Although she never
remarried, she remained good friends with Henry and his
eldest daughter, Mary.
  And after the annulment, Henry allowed Anne
to become a mother figure to his little red-haired
daughter, Princess Elizabeth.