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 a
rm.
"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
Once Upon a Rose Page 10
