Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

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 othe
r 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