grip.
"Did anyone see you?"
"No. I went the other night--don't get
mad. It was about three in the morning, and I put
out the candle as soon as I found it. Did you know
it gets dark at that hour? I almost walked into the
brick wall about a dozen times."
"I should be furious with you," he said, his hand
closing around the bottle. "But I'm so damned
relieved to see you. When Suffolk pressed me
into one of his impromptu tournaments, I could
hardly refuse. He had a very good point: It's
not safe to be out of sight for long in this court."
Her hand swept a thatch of hair from his
forehead. "How are you feeling? I can't believe
you're up."
"I feel like hell," he admitted. Only
then did she notice that behind the apparently healthy
glow his skin bore a chalky whiteness. The lines
beside his mouth and radiating from the corners of his eyes
seemed deeper. "I couldn't stand being in that room
one more day. Besides, I believe I'm on the
mend."
"Thanks to Dr. Cornelius and his magic
ointment?"
"No." He had stopped smiling. "Thanks
to Wilma Dean Bailey and her magic love."
The abrupt change in his tone took her
by surprise. She raised her hand to her mouth.
He gazed over her head, wary of curious
courtiers. They were alone. Setting the bottle
on the grass by the concealing shrub, he drew her
to him, enfolding her in his arms. Although they ached from
the punishing swordplay, her very nearness seemed
to soothe away the pain.
"Shall we try it tonight, at sundown?" His breath
ruffled her hair as he spoke.
"Maybe later," she murmured, her eyes
closed in a dreamy haze.
"Later? But we need--" His sudden laugh
startled her. "Deanie, I mean, shall we try the
maze later, not, well ..."
Her face flushed and he nodded, unable
to answer. Pressing closer, her arms closed about
his waist. She linked her hands tightly behind him,
as if preparing to be wrenched away.
Kit rested his chin on her head, inhaling the
fragrance of her hair. His eyes remained
watchful as he listened for the telltale
rustle that would signal an intruder into the
boundaries of their private world.
"It has to work, it just has to," she said at
last, her lips moving against his chest.
He said nothing, and she pulled back slightly
and looked up. His fierce stare was fixed beyond her,
his expression hooded and unreadable. He
swallowed and his eyes shifted to hers. At once
his face softened, melting into a gentle smile.
"We'd best rejoin the fray," he
murmured, bending down to pick up the bottle.
He held it up to the light, the flower petals
fluttering to the ground as it moved. "Should I be
unable to speak with you, perhaps we should agree on a
time to meet in the maze. How does six o'clock this
afternoon sound?"
Deanie tried unsuccessfully to repress a
shiver.
"Are you cold?" he asked, offering her his arm.
"Yes." Her voice was subdued. "I've
been cold since I got here."
"Ah. There's a very good explanation for that."
They emerged from behind the hedge, the sun barely
warming the air. He spoke quietly, leaning
toward her. "We are in the tail end of an ice
age."
"You're kidding."
"No. It's a good ten or twelve degrees
colder now than it was in the twentieth century.
Haven't you noticed?"
"I just thought it was all the palace creeps that
made me feel so chilly."
He grinned. "Well, they surely don't
help."
The duke of Suffolk waved from where yet more
courtiers had gathered. "Hamilton, there you are.
Come try your arm with Surrey."
Kit held up a hand, indicating he would be
right there. "Six o'clock?" His gaze held hers.
"Six o'clock," she confirmed.
"Hamilton!" He looked up just as
Surrey tossed his sword, and he caught it with
his left hand.
With his right he passed Deanie the flowers and
cola bottle. He brushed the back of his hand
along the curve of her cheek. "Take care
until six," he mumbled, then turned to join the
men.
"Of the bottle?" she asked, watching his broad
back as he walked away. His dark
curls barely reached the collar of the white shirt.
He halted and very slowly turned to face her.
"No." His shrouded expression revealed
nothing. "Take care of yourself, Deanie. Take
care of yourself."
With that he hefted the sword in the unfamiliar
hand and left her wondering what on earth his
strange tone could have meant.
The king was doing everything in his considerable power
to impress Mistress Deanie in the music
salon.
"Ah, the clavichord," he announced as he
stretched his great hands with a delicate flourish.
He began one of his favorite tunes, each
note vibrating in the air. He hazarded a
peek at Mistress Deanie, who sat stiffly
on the window seat, the gypsy guitar of
Hamilton's resting as if forgotten in her lap.
God's blood, but she was lovely! Her
hair had much red in its chestnut hues. The
setting sun seemed to cause her thick tresses
to glow with warmth. She had a most distracting
habit of looking out the window, and the king was
determined to force her complete attention on his
princely prowess.
She had come willingly enough after the noon meal.
Of course she sat with her cousin Hamilton at
her side, and they seemed to enjoy each other's
familiar company the way close family
members often do. When the meal ended Hamilton
seemed reluctant to leave her, even as the
ladies retired to their own chambers.
"Is it to your liking, mistress?" The king
played the last few bars of the music.
"Excuse me?" She seemed startled by his
voice.
The king pursed his lips, trying to control his
impatience. His red beard had been trimmed
earlier by one of the scores of barbers that seemed
to overrun Hampton of late. One had snipped
at his thinning hair, then frowned and put a plumed
round hat on his head like a crown. The king was
well aware of his encroaching baldness, and he
resented a mere barber being privy to the knowledge.
"The music, Mistress Deanie," he
repeated. "Is it to your liking?"
"It is just fine, Your Majesty."
The king squelched the urge to scowl. Instead,
he gave her one of his most dazzling
smiles. He was proud of his teeth; they were
mostly intact, and not as badly discolored as those
of most men hi
s age.
The song ended, and the king looked down with
approval at the glittering rings on his fingers.
"It is a composition of my own making," he said.
"Really?" He had caught her attention now.
"Why, it was wonderful, Your Highness."
"Yes, it is rather wonderful." He stood up
and approached her. "Mistress Deanie, would you
favor our ears with another of your own
compositions?"
"Of course." She tried to smile. She had
no idea of the exact time, but she knew it was
rapidly nearing six o'clock. She would have to race
to her room to retrieve the bottle before she could
meet Kit in the maze. Her fingers faltered on
the neck of the guitar, fumbling for a chord. She
had no notion what she was going to play; she just
wanted to make it short and fast.
"Mistress Deanie." The king's voice was
unexpectedly soft. "Is there something amiss?
It does not escape our notice that you seem
to be distracted."
Deanie strummed a sour chord on the small
guitar and appraised her situation with the king. She
immediately dismissed the idea of telling him everything,
of Cromwell and his strong-arm tactics.
Cromwell would merely lash out with more speed and
ferocity, since he would have nothing else to lose.
Instead she chose her words carefully. "I
fear, Your Highness, that I am not yet accustomed
to the ways of the court. Everything is so
unfamiliar, and I am afraid I will somehow
offend a courtier--or worse, yourself."
The king relaxed, sitting alongside her on the
window seat. The jewels on his round hat
reflected the sun, its rays bent through heavy
leaded panes.
"Did you know I wasn't supposed to ever
become king?" The regal accent was gone from his
voice, and he seemed more human, less
overblown.
"Really?" She put down the guitar, suddenly
interested in what he had to say.
A small laugh escaped his mouth, and he
stretched his silk-hosed legs before him. A large
red garter covered the spot where the ulcer ate at
his limb. "I was merely the duke of York, the
second son. My older brother,
Arthur, now he was the true prince.
"What happened to him?"
Henry was more than a little surprised. Even in
Wales, the story of his family was common knowledge. But
he explained anyway. "Arthur was my father's
favorite, named for the legendary king."
"Oh, I get it! King Arthur." Deanie's
eyes, fringed with impossibly long black
lashes, were completely focused on Henry. It
was a sensation he found enormously enjoyable.
"Yes. Arthur was every inch England's fair
prince. He was even wed to the fairest princess
of Christendom: Katherine of Aragon, daughter
of Ferdinand and Isabella."
"The guys who sent Christopher Columbus
to the New World?"
Again, Henry laughed. "Indeed, the very ones.
But only after my father, in one of his few instances of
poor judgment, refused to finance the voyage. The
explorer's brother, Bartholomew Columbus,
came to England to beg funds from my father. It was not
much he asked, but my father refused. He said it
would not be profitable."
Deanie, forgetting she was with the king, whistled through
her teeth. "Man, I'll bet he sure
regretted that move."
"Not nearly as much as I regretted it. It
is rather costly to finance a realm." His voice was
light, and there was a distinct twinkle in his beady
black eyes.
"I'll bet," she agreed. "But what
happened to Arthur?"
"Ah. When he was a bridegroom of but
fourteen tender years, he died."
"No! I'm sorry. Oh, that's terrible.
Poor Katherine."
The king cleared his throat. "Well,
Mistress Deanie, Katherine as a young woman
was lovely. All of a sudden, I, simple
Hal, was thrust into the position of prince of
Wales. My poor father raced throughout Europe
to gather the best tutors available. As the
second son, you see, my education had been
sadly lacking. Oh, it was suitable for a man of the
Church, that bastion of second sons. But it was
lacking for a king. Only by diligent study was I
able to succeed."
"In other words, you had to cram?"
The king blinked, then nodded. "I suppose that
is an apt phrase for the book-learning
I experienced. Cram." He flicked an
invisible speck from the rich silk of his doublet.
"One of my tutors was Katherine, widow of my
brother, Arthur. And when my father died, I was
eighteen. Katherine was twenty-three. So I
married her."
"Wait a second--you married your dead
brother's wife?"
"Yes. Much to my regret, for God did not
bless us with a living son. We were punished, you
see. Punished for defying God's will. It is
against theological teachings for a man to marry his
brother's wife. The marriage was annulled."
"How sad."
The king frowned. "Yes. It was sad indeed."
Deanie sensed that she should change the topic.
"So how on earth did you learn to become such a
wonderful king?"
He seemed to expand within the confines of the immense
doublet. "Ah. I believe God touched me with
greatness."
Deanie bit her lip, well aware that he was
not jesting. In the corner of the room she heard the
ping of one of the king's many clocks.
"Oh, Your Highness," she said, counting the
strokes. Six. It was six, and Kit was waiting
in the maze.
The king gave her a lazy grin. "Yes."
There had been passion in her voice, and he liked
the husky tone.
"I must--" She stood up, an idea hitting
her. "I must visit the privy," she whispered
anxiously.
The king straightened. "By all means,
Mistress. Leave at once." A look of
royal distaste crossed his face. He did not like
to think of women having bodily functions. It was
most upsetting.
With a quick curtsy, his hand waving her on, she
exited the music salon, propelling herself faster
than the heavy skirts were ever meant to move.
The earl of Surrey, Norfolk's son,
waited for Hamilton to pass.
It had been a day of humiliation for Surrey.
He had called for swordplay with Hamilton,
well aware that the man's shoulder had been
severely wounded. He feigned surprise and
concern, trying to console Hamilton when
Suffolk, that bloated fool, told of the
injury.
Just as he'd expected, Hamilton said he
could fight with his left hand. The ladies almost
fell into a swoon of delight, and Surrey
groun
d his teeth in an effort not to shout, to curse
Hamilton. Who was he, after all? Who knew
of his parentage? He appeared every inch the product
of nobility, but his title had been bestowed by the
king.
Surrey stood straighter, hoping his nose was
not overly red. Springtime always made him
sneeze.
He was going to defeat Hamilton. Before the
court, before his father and Suffolk. Above all, before
the ladies. Somehow, even his obvious good breeding
and noble manners did little to attract the fair
sex. Hamilton, rough and less dignified,
seemed to have his pick.
How had it happened? How had Hamilton,
wielding his sword with his left arm instead of the right,
managed to defeat him twice? His ears burned with
humiliation. Some of the ladies had laughed.
Hamilton had not, merely offered his hand after the
final bout. He took it, of course. Had to.
But he had wiped it as soon as Hamilton and
Suffolk left for supper.
Hamilton.
Surrey jumped. Someone was approaching.
Perhaps if he just slit Hamilton's throat,
all would be well. No. Not yet. There were too
many people who'd witnessed the mortifying defeat of
Surrey not to cast vile suspicion upon his fine
name should anything happen to Hamilton.
"Kit?"
It was Mistress Deanie. Surrey licked
his lips. She was a beautiful wench. How would
Hamilton feel if another man took her,
had his way with her, then tossed her aside like so
much rubbish? Ha. It would be good to see
Hamilton suffer. It would be good to take
Mistress Deanie.
His father couldn't abide her. Of course, his father
wanted his slut of a cousin Katherine Howard
to become the next queen, to raise them all above
their present noble position. They had survived
Anne Boleyn, his other sluttish cousin. They
would survive Katherine.
"Kit?"
The luscious Mistress Deanie was but half
a dozen yards away. He could grab
her, touch her fair--
"Deanie!"
Hamilton, curse his eyes, rounded the
corner. Surrey backed away. Another
time. He smiled in promise. Before he left
the gardens, he blew Deanie a silent kiss.
They entered the maze at a slow pace. Should
anyone be watching from the palace or happen upon the
couple, they would appear to be enjoying the waning
minutes of daylight.
"Calmly," Kit warned as he felt her
tense. The Lady Longley and a red-faced
groomsman emerged from behind a bush. "Good eve,
Lady Longley." Kit smiled. Deanie
merely showed her teeth.
Lady Longley nodded and walked swiftly
toward the palace, the groom chasing after her.
Once within the maze, Deanie handed Kit the
bottle. She had removed the flowers. It
seemed stark and bare, the blackened peanuts
rolling at the bottom.
"It is almost time." He squinted toward the
sun. "Was this about where you were?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, this is where I was standing, facing over
there." His hand sliced the air, strong,
decisive. He turned to her. "Are you all
right? You are wearing a rather greenish complexion."
He lifted up her chin.
In the light his eyes were extraordinary, the
greens and browns battling, creating the
magnificent shade of hazel. She pulled her
gaze away, trying to think. It was impossible with
Kit so close.
"Something's wrong," she said at last.
He held the bottle above his head, testing.
His other hand gripped her upper arm.
A single shaft of light hit the glass,
bouncing off in a blue light.
"Deanie ..." he began, holding her
tighter.
Suddenly she reached up and pulled the bottle
from his hand. The blue light vanished immediately.
"What are you doing!" he shouted.
She shook her arm free. "Something's wrong,
Kit. This isn't right."
With an explosive sigh he tried to grab the
bottle back, but she jumped out of reach.
"Goddamnit, Deanie."
Her mind raced, and she covered her face with
an unsteady hand, trying to come up with an
explanation for what was wrong. Kit stood so
close she could feel his warmth. She stepped
back even more, needing to think clearly without the
distraction of his presence.
It came to her. "Anne!" She gasped. An
awful dizziness swept through her, and she couldn't
seem to think clearly.
He caught her as she stumbled backward.
"Deanie, look at me," he asked, his flash
of anger gone.
The sun set with one final burst of light.
Kit led her to one of the stone benches in the
maze, and she sat beside him, not daring to come in
contact with his body. Taking a shaky breath, she
faced him. "What happens to Queen Anne?"
"For God's sake, Deanie, don't do that
to me again." It was then she realized how shaken he
was, taking great gulps of air and shooting her
irritated looks.
"What happens to Queen Anne?" she
repeated, beginning to feel better by the moment.
"So you want a history lesson?" he
snapped. "Deanie, don't you remember the old
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