Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

"'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