Once Upon a Rose

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Once Upon a Rose Page 7

by Judith O'Brien

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

&n
bsp; 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.

 

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