Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

any misunderstanding, I shall repeat. Do as I say.

  When the king casts his eye upon a maiden"--he

  looked her up and down--"or whatever, she can

  scarce disregard his will. You shall be his, Mistress

  Deanie. Thou hath a brace of choices:

  to capitulate unwillingly, and hear of the duke of

  Hamilton's death, unfortunate and tortuous.

  Or you may follow my instructions. Do as I

  command. Come to the king when he beckons--not before.

  Let him believe he is the mighty conqueror,

  welcome him with your soft arms open wide. Thou

  shall become his mistress, perhaps even the queen. And

  sing high my praises. In short, secure my

  good favor in the king's grace, and we shall

  all profit. Turn away from my good counsel,

  and thou shall go to thy grave knowing that stubborn pride

  and girlish whims caused the agony and death of a

  favored duke. And your grave will not be long in

  waiting; a charge of heresy shall be made against thy

  person. Disobey me, and a heretic's death shall be

  your ultimate reward."

  Deanie tried to recall what she had said

  to Cromwell, but she could not remember her exact

  words. It didn't really matter. She had

  agreed to follow Cromwell's commands. She had

  no other choice.

  The earl of Essex had added another caveat:

  Should she tell the king what had transpired, or

  should the king hear through the court gossips--and here

  Cromwell had folded his hands under the fur cuffs

  as he spoke--the duke of Hamilton would meet

  with an untimely and painful end. Everyone already

  believed he was ill. No one would be surprised

  by his sudden death. Of course the king would be

  saddened, but then he would find another favorite,

  another virile young man through whom he could

  relive his lost youth.

  In the distance ahead Deanie could see the

  stragglers in the first cluster of the royal caravan,

  the way-pavers, the warners who informed all ahead,

  from Hampton to Richmond, of the king's imminent

  arrival. Then came the second wave, the peers

  and other courtiers, a veritable moving banquet of

  wine and sweetmeats and chatter. Finally, bringing

  up the rear, were the carters and the household staff,

  the cooks and pages and keepers.

  And somewhere behind those, following the last cow being led

  by a cheeseman's son, was Kit, left with a

  dishonored queen and her skeleton staff of

  foreigners. And of course half a dozen of

  Cromwell's minions, ready to convince the duke

  of the wisdom of Cromwell's plan.

  Deanie wiped the perspiration from her upper lip

  again. When Katherine Howard offered her a skin

  filled with spiced wine, she declined. She knew

  she would not be able to keep a single swallow down.

  But instead of confessing to the fear gnawing the pit of

  her stomach, she shot Katherine one of her

  brilliant smiles.

  Just as Cromwell had instructed.

  The odor was unbearable. It was a potent stench

  of unwashed bodies and grease and spices, some

  overly sweet, others bitter and foul.

  There was a hand on his forehead, gentle, soothing.

  In the back of his mind he thought of Deanie.

  What had happened? He could see her face, the

  luminous eyes, the red mark where Cromwell had

  hurt her. Damn it, he hadn't brought any of

  his own men. What folly had overtaken him

  to confront Cromwell without assistance?

  But of course he hadn't known the depths of

  Cromwell's plans, the extent of his

  desperation. Deanie had been out of his sight for no

  more than twenty minutes when he realized they would

  have to leave, to flee England if they were to have any

  chance of a life together. After that night, it was already

  too late for them. The king had set his sights on

  Deanie. Once the royal mind was made up,

  there was no changing it. He had broken with the Church

  in Rome for the sake of a woman. No, it was time

  for them to leave. Perhaps go to Calais or

  Madrid.

  Where was Deanie? He tried to curb his anger,

  furious at his own foolish actions. Since

  arriving at court he had never taken a rash

  step. Every move he made, every syllable uttered

  had been carefully considered. Never had he let

  down his guard. Even with women--especially with

  women--he had been cautious, watching his intake

  of wine, circumspect in the most intimate of

  situations.

  He heard a moan, and he wondered if the

  noise had come from his own throat. He tried

  to move his head but was stopped by a bolt of pain,

  crackling, exploding, more intense than any in his

  memory.

  The soothing hands were still there. They were not

  Deanie's. These hands were larger; Deanie's were

  small. Delicate.

  Then he was flying.

  In his mind he could see the ground below: farms and

  stone fences and lone horses and cattle grazing.

  It was a timeless scene of the English countryside,

  quiet and simple.

  Then he saw iron tracks and a puffing

  locomotive. From above he could hear only the

  roaring sputter of his own engine and the wind. Down

  through the clouds, tiny as a child's toy, the train was

  chugging away, filled with children fleeing the dangers of

  war. The smallest refugees, forced to leave their

  mums and dads. Then he saw the distant smoke

  of London, the dome of St. Paul's

  Cathedral. Big Ben. Landmarks,

  landmarks. If he could see them, so could the enemy.

  Training. They had been training for the mission--

  how to keep the enemy from shopping at Harrod's, his

  fellow Royal Air Force pilots had all

  dubbed it. How to keep Herr Himmler from taking

  in a show at the Gaiety. They had laughed,

  smiling at each other over those precious few

  cigarettes. Then they were told how to get home,

  how to refuel. The last part was a formality, a

  bit of comfort for the green ones who still thought there was a

  chance of returning alive. They had yet

  to experience empty chairs at the officers'

  mess, belongings hurridly bundled off before

  evening. The odds were hopelessly, ridiculously

  against them, but they paraded about the barracks with all

  the dash and swagger of a Gilbert and Sullivan

  officer.

  The mission was nothing short of suicide.

  Kill the enemy, kill themselves. Perhaps save

  England.

  This was his last sortie, after a summer and

  autumn of being on alert twelve hours, sometimes

  fifteen a day. In August he had flown seven

  sorties in a single day. Number seven, a

  lucky number. One last twenty-four-hour

  furlough.

  He borrowed another chap's motorcycle--

  what was his name? They had read history together at

  Oxford. Took his motorcy
cle, even his

  goggles, and rode, driving the rickety cycle,

  heedless of the shameful waste of petrol.

  Where was he? In the air he would know. On the

  ground, with all the signs and markers plucked from the

  soil to confuse marauding Germans, he was lost.

  Then he saw the chimneys of Hampton and wandered

  there, goggles in hand, to the maze. Wandered for

  hours, it seemed, clutching the leather and glass

  goggles, knowing what the next hours would most

  likely bring.

  Above, he heard the familiar buzz of

  planes, the exploding shells falling outside of

  London. He had flown over Berlin, just as the

  Germans now circled over London.

  There was a heavy feeling in his stomach. Not

  fear, exactly; just a swelling knowledge that he was

  breathing his last. He'd had that feeling before, of

  course. Before every sortie there was a sharpening of his

  senses, a keen awareness that made every movement

  exaggerated and uncomfortable.

  This time it was different, more intense.

  Before he had been too exhausted to mentally

  calculate his odds, flying by instinct alone,

  shooting an enemy plane by swooping down from the

  clouds. Dorniers and Heinkels, the plodding but

  effective German bombers. Earlier in the

  summer it had been Stukas, but the Germans

  realized how slow they were, how easy for a new

  RAF pilot to cut his teeth on.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, every

  movement etched with prickly detail. Yet the

  hours had raced by with stunning speed. This time it was

  different.

  He took note of his every gesture. When he

  stopped to tie his shoe in the maze, he wondered

  if this knot would be his last. He stretched his

  fatigued arms over his head and stood looking at

  the old yew bushes. Reaching in his breast pocket

  for the last of his cigarettes, he could feel his own

  heart beating steadily. How odd, he thought, that the

  steady beat would be stilled. It hardly seemed

  possible.

  He checked his watch. It was time to get back,

  time to prepare for this last mission. If all went

  well, he would survive to train the next crop

  of pilots. He had already been uncommonly

  lucky. Number seven in a single day.

  Then the strange, pulsating beam of light,

  blue and effulgent, bounced off the goggles. The

  rumbling roared like a hundred bombers, a

  sickly tremor of the very earth. In his surprise,

  his mind spun the possibilities. Did the

  enemy possess an earthquake machine, the

  product of a twisted Nazi mind?

  Diabolical. Dastardly. Once he had

  been close enough to a Messerschmitt escort

  plane to see the pilot. Their eyes locked at

  five thousand feet in the air, and they shared an

  instant of recognition. There was intelligence in the

  Luftwaffe pilot's eyes, a glint of

  humor. It hit him heavily, like a low blow:

  This man was just like him. University educated.

  Joined the local flying club as a lark. In

  another time, another year, they would be friends.

  Now they were meeting at five thousand feet, and

  in an instant he had shot down his German

  doppelg@anger, blinking as the Messerschmitt

  spiraled into flames, the wind shrieking against the

  wings like hell's banshee.

  Far away he heard a groan. His? Then

  a woman's voice, deep and

  guttural.

  German. The enemy.

  Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank,

  serial number. All he had to say, all they

  could make him say. Goddamn Hitler.

  Goddamn Nazis. Wish to God the Yanks

  would join in. Wish to God his Spitfire would

  hold up.

  Name, rank, serial number.

  "Neville, Christopher. Captain.

  Royal Air Force, nineteen-forty." That was the

  year, not his serial number. What was his serial

  number? "Fifteen forty," he mumbled. No.

  That was the year, not his serial number. Then his

  voice faded out. He tried to ask where he was.

  Had his plane gone down behind enemy lines?

  The German woman was speaking. Goddamn

  Nazi. Goddamn Hitler. Where was Deanie?

  Then all vanished into black velvet

  nothingness.

  Chapter 8

  The twisting four miles from Hampton Court

  to Richmond palace passed with inane languor.

  It seemed to take hours. Without a watch,

  Deanie had no idea how much time had actually

  passed. She supposed she was probably

  hungry but wasn't sure. Her whole body

  seemed anesthetized, emotionless.

  Even in her detached state of mind, she was

  aware of the magnificence of the countryside.

  Richmond Park was a startling combination of wildly

  lush forest and carefully pruned gardens. From the

  corner of her eye she caught sight of a

  long-limbed stag leaping over a hedge, its

  graceful movements unnoticed by anyone else in

  the caravan.

  Katherine and Cecily were discussing men,

  whispering from beneath their cupped hands like a couple of

  students in gym class.

  "Thomas Culpepper? Nay, I like him not,"

  hissed Cecily Garrison. "He thinks too

  highly of his own charms."

  Katherine Howard nodded eagerly. "What you

  say, 'tis true. But surely his face is

  worth looking upon if his character can be forgotten. Yet

  in my mind no man can compare with the duke of

  Hamilton." Cecily tried to shush her friend, but

  Katherine was oblivious to the hint,

  happily reveling in her own fantasies. "I

  do hope he recovers from his illness soon,

  Mistress Cecily," she continued, her vapid

  eyes glazed with her own thoughts. "Is there another

  man so handsome or pleasingly mannered? Ah, and so

  manly too. Not foppish, like so many of the young

  bucks of the court."

  Finally she noticed the strained silence and,

  blinking, turned to Cecily, who was now glaring in

  anger. With an embarrassed swallow, Katherine

  turned to Deanie.

  "Pray forgive my prattle about your cousin,

  Mistress Deanie. He is a respected

  peer, and deserveth not to be named with the base-born

  Culpepper."

  Deanie, her face a ghastly white, simply

  nodded and turned away. Her orders from

  Cromwell had been clear. But how on earth would

  she manage to carry them out?

  Just then they turned into the gates of Richmond

  palace. Straightening in the saddle, wondering if

  her leg would be permanently hooked in the

  position, she strained to see the palace itself.

  Why hadn't Nathan Burns picked this as the

  sight of the video? It was also of brick, with

  chimneys and smoke stacks, but this palace was more

  manageable. About a third the size of

  Hampton, it resembled a
private college

  rather than a royal residence.

  They rode into a quadrangle, sta2oys and

  servants rushing from every corner to assist the ladies

  in dismounting, steadying a few of the more inebriated men.

  The moment her foot touched the cobbled ground,

  Deanie had but one thought.

  She had to get back to Kit. Somehow, as

  soon as possible.

  "Mistress Deanie." A beefy hand

  grasped her own, and she peered into the bloodshot

  eyes of Charles Brandon, the duke of

  Suffolk.

  "Thank you," she murmured. She was about

  to back away when she paused. "My Lord," she

  produced one of her best smiles, and Suffolk

  lapped it up, his eyes atwinkle with some secret

  thought she did not wish to discover. He bowed.

  "Is Cromwell, the earl of Essex, within?"

  Deanie tried to sound casual, but something in her

  voice made Suffolk straighten. His eyes were

  now keen, appraising. She had to be careful.

  "Cromwell? Nay. The king this

  morn hath sent Cromwell on a journey of

  state business. May I be of service?"

  She didn't wait for him to complete his offer.

  "He's gone? He's not here or at

  Hampton?" Oh please, she prayed. Let it

  be true.

  A sta2oy took the reins of her horse.

  She watched him go through a gate, noting where the

  stables were, then turned back to Suffolk, who was

  watching her with an intelligence she did not think

  he was capable of.

  "And the king?" Her voice was strained.

  "He waits within, attended by the royal

  surgeon. The journey pained his leg, and he

  may rest."

  An idea formed in Deanie's mind, and she

  almost smiled at the thought. She would faint. She

  would fake an illness, which would buy her precious

  time.

  "My Lord," she said weakly, willing her hand

  to tremble as she grasped Suffolk's sleeve.

  It was not difficult: She was terrified. Should this

  fail, she would place Kit--and herself--in even

  greater danger. "I fear I am unwell."

  With those words, Mistress Deanie Bailey

  swooned into the brocaded arms of the duke of

  Suffolk. In the commotion that followed--the ordering

  of a litter to carry her within, sobbing Katherine

  Howard attesting to how unwell she had seemed

  during the ride from Hampton--no one noticed the

  slight smile animating Suffolk's mustache.

  The king peered over his physician's shoulder,

  anxious for the task to be completed.

  "We bid you haste, Dr. Butts." He

  gritted his teeth against the pain as the cloth covering

  his leg was pulled back, making the ulcerating

  sore throb. The physical discomfort was nothing

  new. But His Majesty's light mood was.

  Dr. Butts took a deep breath through his

  mouth, trying to avoid the stench of the festering thigh, and

  changed the dressing as swiftly as possible. He

  certainly did not wish to bait the king's

  well-known temper.

  "Your Majesty, 'twill be but a moment."

  His hands flew deflty over the large royal

  limb, noting that the wound was unchanged. No

  worse, but certainly no better than the day before.

  Would it ever heal? It had already plagued the king for

  years, ever since that jousting incident. It

  was a miracle that the king had survived. Nobody

  realized how severe the injury had been, how

  deeply the opponent's lance had cut into the king's

  thigh. Only the fevers that followed, the recurring

  bouts of delirium, had revealed the true

  nature of the injury. The best of modern medicine

  had been employed, from leeches and bleeding

  to exotic ointments and fervent prayer. Nothing had

  helped. The wound remained unhealed.

  The king grunted, whether in impatience or

  pain, the physician was not willing to hazard a

  guess.

  There was a knock on the door. "Your

  Majesty?"

  The king smiled, recognizing the voice. "Come

  in, Suffolk, come in."

  The door swung open, and Charles Brandon

  entered. "Your Majesty." He bowed.

  Henry gestured him to rise. "Come come,

  Suffolk. Hath she arrived?" He was as eager

  as a small child.

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Suffolk

  straightened. "She hath arrived, and betimes

  fainted."

  "Fainted?"

  "Yes." Suffolk was unable to keep the

  laughter from his voice. "She fainted into my arms,

  Your Majesty."

  "God's blood, Charles. It's not

  amusing." Henry slapped Dr. Butts on the

  back. "Enough. Be gone." The physician,

  noting the irritation in the king's tone, was only

  too happy to flee.

  "Think thee she has the same malady as her

  cousin, Hamilton?" The king sat heavily on

  his chair, kicking the footstool away with his good

  leg. The footstool skidded across the floor,

  tipping on its side when it hit the heavy

  oak-paneled wall.

  "I know not, Your Highness. She rests in

  chambers across the yard."

  "Aye," the king spat. "And we would much

  prefer she do anything but rest in this very chamber."