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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