Strong Man's Weakness." Sure, whenever she
imagined her own concert, she saved the number for
later in the show. But with this audience, she wasn't
sure how much of a show there would be. The bear and his
colorfully dressed trainer were waiting for a sign
to reenter.
Their immobility bothered her the most. Like the
seasoned small-club performer she was, she'd be
damned if she'd let them get away with it. The
eye-contact trick wasn't working, so she had
to grind harder. Strolling from table to table, she
reached over a platter of oysters and plucked the
broad-brimmed velvet hat from the duke of
Suffolk. Stunned at first, he began to smile
groggily at the absurdity of the moment, pleased
by the attention. Before he could comment, she grabbed
another hat, this one belonging to an elderly man in
somber garb.
Unfortunately, the old guy was the new
bishop of Winchester. But he was game, and he
soon began to nod his now-naked head in time to her
music. The next hat was Norfolk's.
Deanie decided to skip him altogether. She also
passed over women, knowing from painful experience how
difficult the headpieces were to fasten to the hair.
Their hats piled up on the edge of the table, she
kept moving, kicking the hem of her gown out of her
path each time she changed direction.
She was aware that her voice was unusual to their
ears. From what she had heard--placid women
strumming limply on lutes, seated
delicately on a heavy chair--they were
accustomed to high-pitched, Deanna
Durbin-type voices. But Deanie's voice
was rich and deep and confident.
Deanie also noticed that she sounded smoother
than before and attributed the change to her not smoking
cigarettes. High notes she had been forced
to fudge back in Nashville, by shifting into a
lower register, now came easily, soaring as she
bent into the final syllable.
She could usually gauge an audience easily.
This crowd was different. The hatless ones seemed
pleased, but others remained perfectly still. At
different times throughout her performance, an intrepid
drummer in the minstrels' gallery tried
valiantly to play along, only to peter out
into an uncertain tee-tum. A single wooden
recorder tooted once before warbling into oblivion
with the drum.
The song ended, guitar strings vibrating the last
resonant chord. And then there was the sound of one
clap, strong and slow at first. The clapping grew
faster and more furious. Deanie, blinking in
astonishment at the bold clapper, turned toward
the source of the solitary applause.
The king of England.
Chapter 6
Taking a cue from their sovereign, others in the
hall began to clap, some stomping approval, a
few clanging pewter-and-silver goblets on the
thick table boards like an inmate uprising at
Leavenworth. A large hound, who had
unceremoniously chewed his rear leg for fleas
during her entire performance, shrugged from the hall,
clearly annoyed by the commotion.
Deanie was uncertain how to respond. With a
swift curtsy and a mumbled "y'all have been a
great audience," she began to back away. The
guitar dangled from its strap, bumping her hip with
every step.
The king rose to his feet, a strangely
animated look on his mammoth face. He
lifted one beefy hand into the air, silencing the
hall. He walked around the dais, passing a
stupefied Norfolk and a benevolently smiling
Queen Anne, her oblong headpiece shadowing
her eyes.
Kit began to move protectively toward
Deanie, his wary hazel eyes fixed upon the king.
Few noticed that his right hand was poised
over the hilt of his sword. The voiceless,
expectant tension had all eyes riveted on
Deanie, her own stance uncertain as she stepped
slowly toward Kit.
Henry's height, well over six foot
two, and his enormous gold-clothed girth
reminded her of an oversized Christmas tree,
garishly decked by zealous children with more humor than
taste. She averted her stare from the gem-studded
codpiece poking from the lavish folds of his doublet
skirt.
The king shook his head, clicking his tongue as
he approached. His small mouth compressed into a
compact pucker. She slammed into Kit's side,
and both of them ignored her awkwardness when she
stumbled on his foot, her gown causing her
to slide along his leg. With nowhere else to go, she
stood stockstill, unsure and more than a little
alarmed. Could the king kill her? Behead her for not
performing to his imperial satisfaction? She had
heard of acts dying on stage but never being
executed.
"Mistress Deanie," the monarch whispered, his
booming voice subdued and almost meek. He
stopped several feet short of Deanie, and from the
corner of her eye she saw Kit, solid and
motionless as a stone wall.
Forcing herself to look directly at the king's
face, she felt her jaw drop in astonishment.
The king of England had tears in his eyes.
"Never--" His voice broke as he pulled
her hand to meet his lips. "Never hath we heard
such music, such poetry. Never. So simply
wrought, yeah, so elegant." He brushed his
damp mouth and crumb-dusted beard across the back
of her hand. "Thou hath moved the royal heart with
thy Welsh songs."
With a brief squeeze of her hand, he bowed
to her. Deanie grinned. Suddenly she liked the
king. Heck, he was just another fan.
Tilting her eyes to Kit, hoping to see
grudging admiration on his face, perhaps even the
glazed adulation of a newly won Wilma Dean
Bailey enthusiast, she saw instead a flash of
vexation. She had seen such a reaction before: in
Vic Jenkens, in Bucky Lee Denton. It
was something more than simple jealousy. They were
threatened by her, as if her ability to create and
perform music somehow detracted from their own
talents. Vic and Bucky Lee did
not like to share the spotlight with anyone, much less a
woman. Deanie was momentarily stunned to realize
that Kit was no different from the others.
An irrational, childish impulse overtook
her. How Kit must envy her, the skill she
displayed on his guitar. He must play himself, but
she had never heard him. He was probably no
good at it, the jerk. Now he was ticked off at
someone showing him up, especially in front of the
entire court and the king.
With calculated coyness, she turned her most
dazzling smile on the monarch, the same smile
she used at award ceremonies and press
&nbs
p; conferences. She was well aware that the king prized
perfect teeth. Three months of extensive
dental work had given her a smile brilliant
enough to light up any video. Adding a dash of
Tudor flourish, she curtsied low and gazed
adoringly at Henry.
She completely ignored Kit.
The king's expression changed. For a few
moments his face was blank with confusion, then something
in his tiny eyes seemed to ignite. His whole
body stiffened.
"Mistress Deanie," he said gruffly. "It
would be our greatest pleasure to visit thee in thine
own chambers."
Deanie was about to turn to Kit in bewilderment.
Why was the king asking permission to wander about in his own
palace? He had said "we," so she assumed he
would take the queen as well.
Just before she raised a questioning eyebrow to Kit,
she remembered her anger. He stood completely
motionless, and she knew he'd heard every word the king
had just uttered. Good, she thought. Not for nothing was
she a top performer in Nashville. Okay,
maybe not exactly top, but close enough. Perhaps
she was far away from home, but no man--not even
Christopher Neville, the duke of Hamilton
--could hold her down.
"Your Majesty," she replied, not daring
to glance at the king's face, "you are welcome at
any time."
Before she could speak another word, the king was
clapping his hands, motioning to the minstrels. "A
galliard! A galliard!"
The hall was suddenly a bevy of activity, with
serving boys shooing away dogs, the musicians
scurrying into place in the gallery. The king winked
once at Deanie and returned to his
place on the trestled dais, a decided spring
in the royal step. The ulcered leg was forgotten.
The last two decades seemed to have melted away
from the king.
Courtiers could not help but notice that for the first
time in recent memory, Bluff King Hal had
returned.
The ladies and gentlemen left their benches,
some still chewing the remains of the banquet, others
grabbing a quick swallow of wine. On the center
floor they formed two straight lines, the men
facing the women. Deanie wanted to see the dance,
which was beginning to resemble her high school
square-dancing lessons. She whirled to face
Kit, smiling in anticipation. He grabbed her
upper arm.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she
shrieked in protest, startled by how painful his
grasp was even through three heavy layers of
fabric.
He did not answer. With a single swift
motion, he pulled the guitar from her shoulders and
handed it to a passing carver, who stood momentarily
baffled, juggling a large platter of half-eaten
venison, a heavy gold knife, and the instrument.
Then Kit dragged her through a passage to the
courtyard, the exact spot where they had shared a
sublime interlude less than thirty minutes
before. By the time he let go of her arm, her
surprise had become fury.
Without speaking a word, she turned on her
heels to leave.
"Hold," he ordered. She stopped, her
rigid back toward him. He was close enough that she
could hear him breathing, even over the music and
laughter inside.
She glanced down at her clenched fists, the
sumptuous fabric covering her wrists,
delicate lace trimmed in black. Then her
eyes blurred with tears, hot and heavy. A
knot formed in her throat, and although she tried
to swallow it, it remained painfully in place.
"You're just like the others," she murmured,
unaware that she had spoken aloud. The hurt was
too deep for her to care, and she began to pluck
unmercifully at the lace cuffs, unraveling the
fine needlework, not caring as she shredded the
fragile material.
"Deanie." He reached for her shoulder. This time
his touch was gentle, the anger in his voice
diffused. She did not pull away; she no
longer had the energy.
"You're just jealous." She sighed. "I've
seen it before, Kit."
"Canst thou not," he began, taut with swelling
rage. He took a ragged breath and started over.
"Listen to me. Follow my words." Lifting her
chin, he saw the tears and, with a thumb, wiped them
away. "In short, Deanie, you have just agreed
to become the king's mistress."
"What?" All traces of self-pity
vanished. "You must be joking, Kit. The old
guy just wants to bring his wife over to--"
"His wife? When did he make mention of his
wife?"
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head in
exasperation. "He said "we would like to visit,"
or something like that. He's bringing someone, at any
rate. He won't be alone."
"Deanie." Kit held both shoulders now,
forcing her to face him directly. "He employed
the royal "we." Hath thou ... have you not heard
of it?"
A slow dawning closed over her expression.
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh."
For a moment they were silent. Then she brightened,
almost enjoying the still-thunderous expression on his
face. He wasn't angry at her talent,
jealous of her ability to entertain. He was merely
concerned for her reputation.
"Hey, Kit. It's no big deal. I'll
just apologize to the king, you know. Let him down
gently. And then ..."
"Nay."
"Nay?"
As if exerting supreme control, he closed
his eyes and let out a deep breath. "The entire
court saw the exchange," he said softly.
"Did you not espy Norfolk's expression?
God's blood, Deanie." The hazel eyes
opened, then softened as he saw her bafflement.
"Let me speak plainly: The king has asked you
to become his mistress. You have accepted."
She was about to speak when he held up a hand
to stem her flow of denials. "Listen to me." At
last she nodded, and he continued. "Before the entire
court you have accepted. Now you must understand something.
The king will not tolerate being made a fool. He
can bear petty uprisings, foreign
invasions, even stupidity on the part of his
ministers. But he will never allow anyone--
especially a woman--to make him appear
buffoonish."
"Awe, come on, Kit. It's not that serious,
just a little misunderstanding."
Kit made a fist, as if willing her by force
to understand him, then let it fall between them.
"Deanie," he said, his voice rough with meaning,
"another woman quoth like words to me. She too was
confident, and waxed happy that what had
transpired between the king and herself was "just a little
misunderstanding.""
&nb
sp; Deanie grinned. "Oh? Who was that?"
"Her name," Kit said sharply, "was Anne
Boleyn."
By the time Deanie returned to her chambers,
exhausted and stunned by what Kit had told her,
she was eager to share the problem with Cecily
Garrison. As both the sister and daughter of
longstanding courtiers, she would certainly know if there
were any way out of the situation. Perhaps Kit was just
overreacting, jumping to conclusions because he had seen
the king behave harshly with other women.
But Cecily, and all traces of her, had
vanished. Nor was sulky Mary Douglass
anywhere to be seen. In an overcrowded palace,
with well-bred courtiers and eager wanna-bes
taking up every inch of surplus space, Deanie
suddenly had her own room.
For a moment she knew blind panic, a clawing
fear that Henry would bound into the room at any
moment, his glittering codpiece dangling before her
eyes. Gripping the mahogany post of the bed, she
leaned her forehead against the carved wood, aware of the
sharp edges biting into her skin. Somehow, the
physical pain calmed her, made her acutely
aware of her surroundings.
All was quiet. She could no longer hear the
raucous clatter of the banquet below, the broken
conversations of lovers escaping into the courtyard.
She let go of the bed and reached for a muslin-covered
bolster, hugging it close to her.
She needed to find Kit.
Placing her chin on top of the bolster, she sat
stiffly on the bed. Her clothing made it
impossible to get comfortable, but she didn't care.
She had to get out of here, out of this palace. Kit
had been right: The court was governed
by rules beyond her comprehension. Arbitrary laws of
behavior were set in stone. She was only now
beginning to understand what a dangerous game she had
been playing.
There was a soft knock on the door, and she
jumped. Could it be the king? She stood up, the
bolster rolling off her lap and onto the thickly
planked floor. Perhaps if she didn't answer,
whoever it was would go away.
There was another knock, more insistent this time.
"Mistress Deanie?" whispered a soft
voice. It was Cecily Garrison. She
swiftly unlatched the door, and Cecily
slipped into the room.
Instead of simply chattering away, as she
usually did, Cecily sunk into a low curtsy.
"What are you doing?" Deanie asked
incredulously, pulling Cecily to her feet.
Cecily kept her head bowed, not meeting
Deanie's eyes.
"We are to depart next morn to Richmond,
mistress," Cecily said. "I am to help you,
should you require anything."
"What? Cecily, what's going on here?"
Deanie felt the fear return in an awful
rush.
Finally Cecily looked directly at
Deanie. "Oh, Mistress Deanie, 'tis a
great honor to bed the king."
"No way!"
Cecily continued, her expression one of
respectful admiration. "The king is England itself.
What England wishes, her humble subjects must
be only too joyous to deliver. Let me
assist you with your stays and laces, milady."
Without further instruction, Cecily began
unfastening Deanie's headdress and unlacing the
ties down her back. Numbly, Deanie
submitted, noting how Cecily averted her
eyes from Deanie's nearly naked body. Once
she was free of the confining clothes and alone, she could
somehow reach Kit. He was on the palace
grounds. He would know what to do. Perhaps she could
return to the maze and travel back to her own time
with Kit. Perhaps ...
"Mistress Deanie, wilt thou require
anything else?"
She glanced at Cecily, a fleeting thought of
asking for help in an escape plan. That wouldn't
be fair. Cecily had no notion of how
Deanie truly felt, deeming it a high honor
to be chosen by the king. Everyone here was of the same
mind, except for Kit. He alone knew what
she was getting herself into, the torment she would
endure. He had tried to warn her, but her
stubborn, stupid arrogance made her turn on
him like a German shepherd in a junkyard.
"No, Cecily." She faked a smile.
Cecily backed out of the room, as if Deanie
had just been coronated.
Alone once more, wearing nothing but the loosely
flowing white nightshift, Deanie slumped into the
bed. She stared at the flickering candle, watching the
beige wax drip hot and thick. She had
to think, find a way to leave before she was confronted
by Henry.
There was another knock on the door. Deanie,
lost in her dismal thoughts, combed her fingers through her
hair. "Come in, Cecily," she said
distractedly.
The door opened, and a man wearing a dark green
velvet cloak and a black hat with a turned-up
brim entered. Deanie pulled the coverlet to her
chin as he walked boldly to her side.
"Mistress Deanie," he said, bowing low.
She knew who he was, although they had yet
to be formally introduced. Thomas Cromwell, the
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