newly created earl of Essex, stood in her
bedroom, a small grin twisting his fleshy
lips.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Cromwell?"
His eyes darkened at her use of "mister" in his
name. "Is the king coming?" Her voice was small,
and she swallowed.
"Nay, milady. But if thou playest
correctly, the king shall indeed make this chamber his
own."
He leaned close enough for her to smell his breath,
moldy and corrupt. Although his words were simple,
there was an unmistakable sense of menace behind his
manner. Perhaps in the light of day he would take more
care to polish his demeanor. But now, in the dank
hours of night, before a new member of the court,
there was no reason to smooth his coarse edges.
Deanie pressed her back against the headboard
of the bed, clutching the bolster and the coverlet against
her bare neck. Cromwell smiled once more.
"Now, Mistress Deanie, some questions to pave
the way for a smooth transition. Art thou of the
Catholic faith?"
"No," she gasped, wondering why a fully
clothed earl would wish to discuss religion at this
peculiar hour.
"Nay?" His beady eyes caught the glint of the
bedside candle. In the massive fireplace, a
log crackled, and a sprinkle of red ash puffed
into the air. The night was cold for late spring, and
she suddenly felt a chill trace the length of
her spine.
Cromwell continued, his voice neutral.
"Thou hath been absent from the daily Mass.
Good. Art thou then a follower of Luther?"
"No. I mean, are you talking about the bad
guy Lex Luthor? In the Superman comics?"
Her voice had reached a high pitch, and she
realized she was beginning to babble. "Oh, of course
you aren't. What the hell am I thinking of." Her
palms were damp. "Why are you asking me these
questions?"
Calmly, he repeated the question: "Art thou a
follower of Luther?"
Her mind whirled, trying desperately
to recall what Kit had told her about
religion in the court. She had been staring at his
eyes, wondering how a man of such potent
masculinity could have such dark lashes. He had
been emphatic, she remembered. But she also
recalled how close he had been, how she had
averted her eyes from his face, only to be drawn
to his hands, the veins on the top, the spray of
black hairs just visible beneath his full cuffs.
What had he said?
Cromwell remained silent, patiently
awaiting her response. She had the uneasy
feeling that he would wait as long as it took for her
answer, ever quiet and composed, whether it took
her a month or a minute to speak. He folded
his hands, and she noticed how thick and stubby they
were, with a heavy gold ring on one finger. She
glanced up at his face, a flat monkey
face, the wide gap between his two front teeth.
"Well?" he prodded. "Art thou a
Protestant?"
That sounded right. Growing up, her mother had never
been able to take Deanie to church, since
Sundays were always big-business days at the
truck stop. She assumed she was a Baptist,
since everyone else she knew was. Whenever she
attended services with a friend, it was always at a
Baptist church.
"Baptist is Protestant, right?"
For once Cromwell looked befuddled.
"Mistress Deanie, it matters not that thou was
baptized. What matters is--"
He was interrupted by shouts outside her door
and a scuffling sound. She had been unaware of
anyone else in the hallway. At once the
heavy door swung open, and a gentle beam of
light from the hall torches lit her room.
"Sir!" A breathless young man, his soiled
leather jerkin askew, threw a pleading glance
toward Cromwell, completely ignoring
Deanie. "The duke, he--"
From behind, a powerful hand pulled the young man
back into the corridor. Deanie recognized the
fleeting sleeve, the mighty hand.
"Kit?" she said softly. Then she hopped out
of bed, heedless of the cold floor and the swift
perusal Cromwell gave her barely clothed
form. "Kit!"
With a casual motion, Cromwell grasped the
neck of her gown and twisted it, stopping not only
her cry but her ability to breathe. Her hands flew
to her throat, clawing uselessly in the air.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as
if aware that it would be terribly bad taste
to smile but unable to entirely mask his pleasure.
"The duke may enter," Cromwell announced
grandly. The grunts and shuffles in the hallway
ceased.
Deanie saw Kit enter the room, blood on
his forehead and the front of his doublet torn. The
backs of her knees began to buckle as
Cromwell held firm his grip.
"You will tell the king nothing of this," Cromwell
said softly, his gaze never leaving Deanie's
desperate face. Kit did not answer.
Instead, he charged toward her.
From behind she saw a heavy iron staff, with a
blade as wicked as an ax, with red tassles
near the head. With the last of her ebbing strength she
tried to warn Kit, gesturing with her hands of the
danger behind. But her hand movements were
indecipherable.
In a crazy blur she saw the staff swing
up, gathering momentum, then slice down with an
awful thud on Kit's shoulder. For a horrifying
moment she thought the man had hit Kit on the
head, but at the last instant he swerved.
Cromwell loosened his hold on her
and she gasped, her chest heaving for air, as Kit
crumpled to the ground. The staff was again raised.
As Kit shook his head and began to push himself up,
Cromwell nodded to his henchman, the go-ahead
to strike again.
"No!" she croaked, her voice barely
audible. Cromwell paused, stopping the
staff-wielding henchman with an understated shrug.
"You will tell the king nothing of this," Cromwell
repeated. Deanie nodded in frantic agreement.
With that he let go of her gown, and she stumbled over
to Kit.
At first she couldn't see his face; his thick
curls of black hair tumbled forward, obscuring
his expression. She knelt beside him, gingerly
placing her hand on his upper arm. His breathing was
loud and ragged, and for a moment she thought he was going
to be ill. With the blow he had just taken, she was
astounded he was still conscious. Only tremendous
physical strength and willpower was preventing him
from slipping into senselessness.
Before he looked up, his hand, strong and sure,
clamped over her wrist, as if assuring her all
would be well. Then his head snapped up, his eyes
to hers, and her breath caught in her throat. Never
had she seen a look of such unwavering intensity.
It was clearly costing him a great deal to focus.
Behind the searing gaze was a slight cloudiness. He
closed his eyes tightly and shook his head once
more. Again he looked at her, the incandescent
hazel depths clear of all fog.
He stood up quickly in a forceful rolling
motion, pulling Deanie with him. Only she
noticed the slight unsteadiness in his stance. The
gash on his forehead, the fresh blood seeping through
the crook of his neck where he had just been hit, and
another slash on his arm told her what a beating
he had withstood before he even reached her chamber.
She had a strange feeling in the pit of her
stomach, a sticky-sick feeling of tumbling in
air. She drew in a shaky breath, and his solid
arm closed protectively around her shoulders.
He loved her.
No other man had ever so much as crossed a
street for her. No other man had offered a hand
unless it would directly benefit him. But
Christopher Neville, the duke of
Hamilton, had just endured a physical beating
to get to her.
"Oh!" Her voice was a small
cry, and she turned her face toward his chest,
savoring his fragrance, his unyielding energy. His
other arm pulled her closer, encircling her in his
warmth.
Her hair fell over her face, and Kit
saw her neck, white and fragile and vulnerable,
the angry red line where Cromwell had gripped
her. He felt her burrow closer, her hands
pressing him to her side, as if she wanted to be
as close as possible.
"How very charming," drawled Cromwell. He
motioned for his men to leave the room, all except
the large man with the staff. They did as they were
ordered.
"Now," he began, as the huge door closed
soundlessly, "shall we discuss the future?"
Deanie ignored Cromwell and looked up
at Kit. Her hair cascaded like chestnut
silk from her face, her eyes large and liquid
brown. "I want to be with you," she whispered.
"I want to go with you, wherever you go. I don't
care, Kit. I just want to be with you."
He ran a finger along the side of her face
and was about to speak when Cromwell laughed.
"Mistress Deanie, thou hath attracted the
king's eye. Follow me, and all of England shall
soon call thee queen."
She blinked. "But I don't want to be--"
"Ignore my words," said Cromwell, his
voice lowered, "and thou shall burn as a heretic."
"Thou art mad," snarled Kit. "A
desperate, pathetic man who will soon attend the
block. Thou hath lost all reason."
"Nay, Duke. Hath Mistress Deanie
been once to the Holy Mass? Or followed the
king in prayer?" Cromwell spoke easily.
"As for thee, Duke, will you enjoy a charge of
treason? 'Twill be treason to sample
property of the king, to cuckold the royal stud.
Ah, how easily treason will be proved. To have that
handsome head mounted upon a rusty pike at
Traitor's Gate, rotting for all of
London to see. Will the ladies find thee so
handsome then, Duke?"
"No!" Deanie felt her knees wobble.
Her throat, still raw from Cromwell's hold, was
thick with rising bile. She didn't care about the
threats to herself, but his description of what would
happen to Kit was so vivid, so appallingly
real. "No. Please. I'll do
anything."
"Deanie, he's bluffing." Kit glared at
Cromwell.
"Am I?"
Without waiting for a reply, Cromwell lifted
a single stubby finger to the man with the staff. Immediately
the staff came crashing down on Kit's shoulder,
in the exact spot on which it had landed before. A low
moan escaped his lips, and Deanie felt his
full weight go limp, then slump to the ground.
"Kit!" She knelt beside him, her hands
trembling with panic. His head was at an awkward
angle, and for a moment she thought his neck had been
broken. Gripping his wrist, she found a pulse,
weak but steady. "Kit," she repeated in a
whisper.
"Now, Mistress Deanie," Cromwell
continued as if nothing had occurred, "shall we discuss
the future?"
They would kill him, she realized. If she
did not play along with this madman, Kit was as
good as dead. Swallowing hard, she faced
Cromwell, her hand still clamping Kit's wrist,
the pulsing beat giving her strength.
When she spoke, her voice was flat and
emotionless. "Yes, Mr. Cromwell. Anything
you wish."
END OF VOLUME I
ONCE UPON A ROSE
by
JUDITH O'BRIEN
Volume II of Three Volumes
Pages i-ii and 187-390
Published by: POCKET BOOKS, 1230
Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY
10020. Further reproduction or distribution
in other than a specialized format is
prohibited.
Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,
National Library Service for the Blind and
Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,
Inc., 1998.
Copyright 1996 by Judith O'Brien
ONCE UPON A ROSE
Chapter 7
The sun beat harshly on her face, causing
her to blink against the heat and glare. Deanie
shifted in the saddle, an absurd device that
felt more like an instrument of torture than an
aid to female riders, the jutting pummel under
her knee meant to hold her uncomfortably in
place. Although she had been horseback riding
dozens of times, she had never been forced to ride
sidesaddle, wearing over ten pounds of clothing and a
wooden corset.
She wiped the perspiration from her upper lip,
silently cursing the tightly laced sleeves.
Although it wasn't hot--not the humid warmth
Deanie was accustomed to--she felt as if she
had been placed in an oven. Her clothing felt
dirty and four sizes too small, her throat
was scratchy and raw.
Cecily Garrison rode on her right, and
to her left was Katherine Howard. To the casual
observer, the women presented a fetching sight;
three ladies-in-waiting on the royal caravan
to Richmond palace, a few miles closer
to London. They took the Thames-side road,
winding and twisting as the whims of the river directed
them.
Unlike the rest of the courtiers, Deanie
wasn't concerned with what sort of image she
projected. She had not slept the night before and
had not been able to eat for fear she would become
ill.
Her horse stumbled over a log, but De
anie
barely noticed. Her sudden grip was more reflex
than a desire to prevent any mishap. She
didn't really care one way or another. Her
senses were numbed. Everything seemed distorted and
harsh; the pungent odor of the horses, Katherine
Howard's incessant giggles, the shouts of
servants and courtiers along the stone- and
mud-covered path. The only thing she was achingly
aware of was that every hoofbeat took her farther from
Kit.
Kit.
Was he even alive? Cromwell had assured
her that he was, yet she had little faith in the
man's word. She closed her eyes, trying to rid
her mind of the last glimpse she'd had of him, being
dragged from her chambers the night before. The
clumsy henchman had bumped into the threshold,
slamming Kit's lolling head against the stone and
wood, but Kit had made no sound, no noise
at all. The elongated pool of blood left
on her floor had been the only evidence of his
presence.
Everyone else in the caravan was buzzing about
Queen Anne, also left behind at Hampton,
last seen waving rather forlornly from under the clock
tower. She had tried valiantly to follow the
train as far as the bridge over Hampton's
moat, but she had been humiliatingly guided
back by Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk.
Kit.
He had fought for her, had beaten his way to her
chamber door. There was so much unfinished business,
so much she wanted to tell him. He didn't even
know her shoe size, or that she was allergic
to shellfish. And there was so much basic information she
didn't know about him. When was his birthday, and how
old was he? Did he prefer blue or green,
and what was his mother like?
Her horse again pitched forward, this time tripping
over a burlap cloth, muddied and twisted into a
knotted pile.
She had sold her soul to Cromwell.
To spare Kit's life she had agreed to his
demands, to play the role of mistress to the King,
to even become Queen, all the while securing for
Cromwell his old position as the king's most
trusted adviser. She must turn her back on
Kit, allow no hint of Cromwell's threats
to plague his ambitions.
Perhaps she should just slip under her horse, allow
herself to be trampled by dozens of well-equipped
horses and carts filled with the royal
furniture, gold plate and napery. She
might be better off dead than have to follow
Cromwell's hideous orders. But if she were
dead, she could not help Kit. She would never see
him again. It was better to have a shred of hope than
to give up altogether.
With a deep breath she craned her neck and
looked behind, hoping against all reason to catch
sight of Kit riding to her rescue. He would be
on a large black horse, his full cloak
billowing behind, his hair tangled by the wind. But of
course he was not there. Only other chattering
courtiers, nodding and smiling and tossing coins to the
ragged peasants lining the road.
Kit.
Was he being cared for? The entire court had
believed Cromwell's tale: that Kit had been
stricken with a sudden illness. It was a vague
story, but the court--and especially the
scourge-obsessed King Henry--had been willing
to accept the account. Deanie's own wan appearance
lent authority to the story. Her cousin the duke was
to recover at Hampton, cared for by the queen's
foreign staff and a few members of the regular
Hampton crew. The king and his court would
travel to Richmond as planned, his people and
servants by land, the king in the well-appointed
royal barge.
Cromwell was nowhere to be seen in the caravan.
But in her mind he was everywhere, lurking in the
shadows, grinning from the darkness. He had been
triumphant the night before, standing in her chamber as
if it were his own. With Kit gone, she had been
alone--more alone than she had ever been in her
life.
"So, Mistress Deanie," Cromwell had
uttered smoothly. He snapped his squat fingers
and pointed to the pool of Kit's blood, and a young
boy appeared silently and blotted the stain.
Cromwell continued speaking to her, but she was unable
to follow his words, watching in sick horror as the
boy scrubbed the floor with blood-soaked rags,
never meeting her eyes.
The boy left, and Deanie blinked at
Cromwell. "And then, Mistress Deanie,"
he concluded after a strangely theatrical
pause, "thou may have the satisfaction of
preserving the Duke of Hamilton's life."
At that her eyes snapped to his face. He
sighed like an indulgent uncle. "Lest there be
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