Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

schoolyard chant?"

  "What schoolyard chant?"

  "About Henry and his six wives. My sister

  taught it to me, so I would remember the order in

  which they came. What kind of education did you have?"

  "A very bad one. Just tell me, Kit: What

  happens to Anne?"

  His hand reached down and folded over hers. "It

  goes "Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced,

  beheaded, survived.""

  Deanie began to count on her fingers. "Could you

  repeat that?"

  He did, and she stopped on her fourth finger.

  "Kit, Anne is his fourth wife," she said

  quietly.

  "Yes."

  "Henry will divorce her."

  Kit nodded. "Cromwell will arrange an

  annulment."

  "It's up to Cromwell?"

  Again he nodded. "Deanie, what's wrong?"

  "Cromwell," she said at last. "If we

  leave, I don't think Anne will just be

  divorced. Now that we're here, everything is

  different. Cromwell is furious,

  Kit. What if we somehow have changed history?

  Even worse, he's scared to death. Couldn't you

  tell the other day in your room? The man's at a

  breaking point."

  Kit remained silent, and she continued.

  "If we leave, who do you think will bear the

  brunt of his rage? He needs someone to blame--

  you know that better than I do. He'll take it out

  on Anne. She'll be his logical target.

  He'll be backed into a corner and see Anne as

  the reason. He'll make sure she's beheaded.

  It will be our fault!"

  He said nothing for a few moments, then he

  raised her hand to his lips, brushing her

  knuckles with a kiss. "You're right, Deanie.

  But in truth there's nothing we can do."

  "We can't let that happen." She snatched her

  hand away, but the warmth of his lips still lingered.

  "Deanie, we can't possibly attempt

  to change the workings of the court."

  "Why not?"

  "For Christ's sake, don't be such a

  Yank." He kicked a pebble, then turned

  to her. "This is not Boston in the eighteenth

  century. There is no concept of democratic

  justice here, no way to enlighten their narrow

  beliefs. For all our purposes, we are in the

  Middle Ages. People are burned for witchcraft

  and sorcery. And much as it hurts your American

  notion of equality, women rank somewhere between a

  decent plough horse and a sturdy pair of

  boots."

  "But ..."

  "Use your eyes and ears, Deanie," he

  continued. "How the hell can we save a queen who

  was destined to fail by either death or divorce the

  moment Henry laid eyes on her?"

  "She saved your life."

  He was about to speak but halted.

  "You just don't like her because she has a German

  accent," Deanie hissed, her eyes radiating

  such fury he straightened.

  "Deanie, you're getting hysterical."

  "The Germans lost, Kit. They lost the

  Second World War and lost it big time." She

  swallowed, trying to get herself under control.

  "Anne is not a Nazi, she's just some poor

  woman from Cleves with an ambitious family.

  And she nursed you with her own hands, did her very

  best to see that you survived. And how are

  we going to thank her? By letting her die?"

  In the silence he looked to the sky, wondering

  if he had, indeed, condemned Anne for the sins of

  her countrymen, distant relatives who would not be

  born for another three and a half centuries. In

  fact, Anne herself would have no children. She would

  leave no one to rise against England in the faraway

  future.

  "The sun is gone," he said mildly. "We

  can do nothing more tonight."

  "You are wrong, Kit." Now she placed her

  hand within his. His fingers automatically folded

  over hers. "We can do something tonight. One person

  is more powerful than Cromwell. Henry. Perhaps

  if he likes his wife even a little, he wouldn't

  go along with Cromwell's plans so easily."

  "It matters not how insane Cromwell's

  plans are, how unnecessarily vindictive.

  I've seen the king agree with Cromwell's

  plots simply because they suit the king's own

  desires. Now Henry wants Anne gone, and the

  king has a remarkable ability to deny any

  culpability, at least to himself. It's useless,

  Deanie."

  "Maybe," she began, "we can make sure

  Anne keeps her head. After all," she said

  softly, "without her, you wouldn't have my heart."

  "Unfair." He groaned. Then with a sigh,

  he stood up. "Mistress Deanie, do you wish

  us to play matchmaker between the king and his wife?"

  She nodded eagerly and stood alongside him,

  their hands still clasped.

  "God help me, I believe I'm going

  to live to regret this." Kit tossed the bottle

  into the air, catching it easily with one hand. And

  together they walked back to the palace, both lost in

  their own thoughts.

  Chapter 12

  The king was in buoyant spirits at the evening

  board. His face, flushed with wine and good humor,

  radiated a peculiar excitement. All

  present benefited from his joyous mood, from the

  lowliest page to Thomas Howard, the duke of

  Norfolk, whom many in the hall failed

  to recognize. He was wearing a most unfamiliar

  disguise: a pleasant expression. Several

  commented behind concealing hands that Norfolk should pull out

  the camouflage for the next royal mask,

  for no one would guess that behind the anemic but genuine

  smile was the most noble duke of Norfolk.

  Even the presence of Queen Anne didn't

  seem to disturb the king's air of joviality. She

  sat quietly, slipping tiny bits of food

  into her mouth and trying not to bring undue attention

  to herself.

  Kit was exhausted, saying little and eating even

  less.

  "You should go to bed," Deanie whispered as

  Charles Brandon once again retold the tale of the

  duke of Hamilton beating young Surrey in the

  tilting yard.

  Kit acted as if his attention were riveted on

  Suffolk's every word, but from the corner of his mouth he

  was able to speak to her. "Not tonight, with Cromwell

  perched like a bird of prey. And until the king

  retires, I must play the part of dutiful

  subject."

  "I'm sure the king would understand. He saw with his

  own eyes how sick you've been. Come on,

  Kit. I'll stay here and distract their attention

  from your absence."

  "That's the problem." He leaned close to her

  ear. "I fear leaving you with the king and Queen

  Anne. Lord only knows what plans you have

  fermenting in that mind of yours."

  "How much trouble could I get into in a single

  evening?"

  "Please, Dean
ie." A slight smile

  deepened his cheeks as his thumb rubbed the rim of his

  goblet. "It seems the king has ordered mummers

  for this evening. I can always take a nap then."

  "They're that boring?"

  He raised his eyebrows, nodding

  halfheartedly at a woman who sat on the other

  side of the room, staring at Kit with an intense

  expression on her face. "The mummers give

  new meaning to the word dull."

  "Who is she?" Deanie asked of the woman.

  The torchlight reflected off his hair as he

  faced her. "Ah. I see your plan now: You

  are going to keep me awake by interrogation. I

  believe such treatment violates the rules of the

  Geneva Convention."

  "Seriously, Kit. She looks as if she's

  about to devour you with her eyes."

  "I wouldn't put it past her," he mumbled.

  A strange feeling knotted Deanie's

  stomach, and she straightened her back.

  The woman was still watching Kit, her lips parted

  slightly. Deanie suddenly averted her eyes

  to her lap, glancing at the ornate tufted

  bodice of her gown, idly tracing an

  embroidered flower with a finger.

  Other women had stared at Kit with the same

  expression, a hazy, wanton quality.

  Earlier she had failed to notice how many

  feminine eyes batted as he passed, how their

  faces became still when they caught his attention.

  She had been in such a whirl herself, with new

  sights and smells and sounds at every turn, that it

  had never occurred to her that he was the center of much

  of the court's focus.

  Her hand crept up over her bodice, and she

  felt her flesh beneath the canvas corset, so

  familiar, so confoundedly ordinary. She imagined

  Kit speaking to Suffolk, describing her body

  as they thrust with swords.

  "She brings new meaning to the word dull."

  Suffolk would chuckle with understanding.

  "Deanie, do you feel ill?"

  Jolted, she flushed when she realized Kit

  had been speaking to her. Katherine Howard and

  Cecily Garrison exchanged puzzled shrugs

  across the table.

  "Have you ever been in love before?" she blurted,

  trying to lower her voice.

  A stupefied expression spread across his face

  as he took in her words. The question seemed to come from

  nowhere, and he shook his head slightly in

  astonishment, mystified by her train of thought.

  "Yes," he answered at last, returning his

  attention to the goblet.

  It hit Deanie what that unpleasant knot in

  her stomach was: jealousy. Never before had she

  experienced the tug of genuine envy. Sure, she

  had watched with awe as other women soared to the top

  of the charts with their songs or conquered a restless

  audience with a perfect set. But it had never touched

  her private life, never entered her relationships

  with men.

  She was jealous.

  "Were you in love with that woman over there?" It

  was as if she could no longer control her words, she

  so desperately needed to know.

  "With Bessie Carpenter?"

  Unable to speak, she merely nodded.

  "Good God, no."

  A strange sense of relief

  uncoiled within her, and she took a deep breath.

  "I don't believe I could truly love a

  woman from here, from all this." His hand made a

  dismissive gesture, as if flicking the court

  into oblivion like a pesky fly. "Their minds

  baffle me, with too many absolutes, too many

  ideas taken for granted that I could never accept.

  I would have to counterfeit a life for myself, to play

  an endless role."

  Lost in his own thoughts, he continued as if

  Deanie wasn't there. "To a certain extent,

  I've had to do just that: to construct a background.

  The thought of falling in love with a woman and having

  to play that role twenty-four hours a day, each

  day of the year, is overwhelming. Can you imagine the

  burden? Relentless, crushing ..." She watched

  his jaw clench. "No, Deanie," he concluded.

  "I could never love one of these court ladies."

  He gave her a vague, amused smile.

  "Who was she, then?" She knew she should quit

  while she was ahead, but some inner demon was pushing

  her forward. "The woman you were in love with?"

  Crossing his arms gingerly because of the tender right

  shoulder, he regarded her, appraising the look of

  eagerness on her face. "It was nothing, years

  ago. Certainly not a grand passion. More of a

  schoolboy crush, really."

  Her mouth dropped involuntarily, and she

  closed it as soon as possible. Of course she

  had always heard rumors about British men, about

  those remote boys' boarding schools where that sort

  of thing went on. She had watched enough

  "Masterpiece Theatre" episodes

  to recognize his upper-crust accent. Still, she was

  taken off guard by his admission.

  She sat straighter, trying to act as

  nonchalant as possible. "Oh, I see. What

  was his name?"

  Kit turned to her, a look of total

  bewilderment on his face. "What was whose name?"

  "The schoolboy you had a crush on."

  For a moment he said nothing. Then a dawning

  understanding lit his gaze. "You mean you think I

  ..."

  "It's okay, Kit." She pressed a

  sympathetic hand upon his forearm. "I'm in show

  business. That sort of thing goes on all the

  time."

  "Deanie, I was engaged to be married once.

  We thought we were in love; she was my

  friend's younger sister. She was not, it seems, my one

  grand passion."

  Something seemed familiar about the last phrase,

  but Deanie ignored it. For the next several

  moments the great hall of Hampton Court,

  presently occupied by the most resplendently

  powerful men in England, rang with the raucous

  timbre of the duke of Hamilton's laughter.

  The idea was so simple, she was almost ashamed not

  to have come up with it before.

  It was after Kit had stopped laughing, when he

  finally caught his breath and explained that he had

  been in love with the younger sister of one of his Oxford

  chums, that the notion came to her as swiftly and as

  powerfully as a summertime storm.

  The queen's man Englebert, watching with wary

  glances as Cromwell slipped from the hall, had

  brought the queen a platter of sweets. The king

  had his back to her, raising a goblet of wine

  to Katherine Howard. Something caused him to spin

  about, to face Englebert. It was the fragrance of

  sweets. The king would toast Katherine Howard

  only after his craving for something sugary had been

  satisfied.

  Doughnuts.

  The king would go crazy over doughnuts. Deanie

  had a sudden vision of King Henry VIII
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  stepping into a Krispy Kream, raising a chubby

  royal finger, and buying the entire stock.

  Glazed, chocolate frosteds, jelly-filleds,

  bismarks, crullers--the man would have a field

  day.

  Deanie knew how to make doughnuts, and the king

  would love them. If the king received doughnuts from

  Queen Anne, his exuberance over every bite might

  very well spill over to her. She may not be able

  to win the king's heart, but she could most certainly

  lay claim to his stomach. And with Henry, both were

  equally vital to his happiness.

  Surely he would not behead a source of

  doughnuts.

  Just as Deanie was about to tell Kit of her

  plan, the mummers began to perform. The king had

  apparently signaled them to begin, although she had not

  seen him issue the command.

  Unable to speak because of the floor show, Deanie

  watched the half dozen mummers go through their

  slow-motion routine, pausing as they fell into each

  pose. They wore brightly colored

  robes, all with face-concealing hoods. There

  seemed to be some order to what they were doing, although

  to Deanie they just seemed to be striking random

  positions.

  She slid Kit a look of understanding and saw his

  lips tighten in an effort not to grin. The mime's

  old trick of the glass wall or the steps to the

  basement would be a welcome relief.

  Then an even more brilliant idea came

  to her. While all eyes were focused on the

  mummers, she could sneak into the kitchen with

  Scholsenberg, Anne's cook, and explain how

  to make doughnuts. The basic dough was simple,

  and similar to the batter they already used. The king was

  in such a uniquely good mood, it would be a shame

  to pass up this chance. Who knew when the

  capricious royal temper would again be so

  accommodating?

  She rose slowly to her feet, careful not

  to call attention to herself. Kit clamped a firm

  hand over her wrist and began to stand, but she shook

  her head and, with an embarrassed shrug, nodded

  toward the door leading down the hall to the privy.

  As she left the feast alone, three alert

  sets of eyes scrutinized her every step.

  One belonged to Kit. Another belonged to the king,

  who wondered why all women seemed to spend an

  inordinate amount of time traveling to and from the

  privy.

  The third belonged to a gentleman of the court who

  deemed it his new duty to follow the Bailey

  wench wherever she might go. He was clever. While

  everyone else watched her departure, he crept

  in the opposite direction, slipping through the door

  on one side of the hall--by the king's watching

  chamber--while Mistress Bailey left through the

  main door.

  No one noticed his quiet exit.

  In three weeks since she'd arrived at

  Hampton, Deanie had finally learned not

  to instinctively reach for a light switch whenever she

  entered a room. Katherine Howard had once

  caught her groping along a wall, and she had

  blushed, explaining that in Wales even the finest

  paneling could not compare to the excellence of the royal

  walls.

  Before three weeks ago, she had never paused

  to think of the difference that bright, even lighting made

  to a room. Without the luxury of a

  lightbulb, nighttime corridors and empty

  rooms become darkly mysterious, places where

  shadows flutter and flinch.

  The minstrels below were playing an unfamiliar

  tune. Deanie supposed it was one of the king's more

  recent compositions. He had a fairly good ear,

  but he would never make it on Music Row. As

  she swept through the hallway, she had another

  mental image of Henry in twentieth century

  Nashville, this time with a secondhand

  tape-recorder, his demo tapes being cut off

  by an impatient producer after fifteen

  seconds.

  She could imagine his crimson-and-purple

  fury, ordering the offending producer to the block.

  Most producers would simply yawn and wish

  Henry good luck at another label.

  That's when she realized she was lost.

  Everything was suddenly silent; the minstrels had

  either stopped playing or she had gone beyond earshot.

  There were so many hundreds of rooms she had never

  been near, even during her quick pass-through searching

  for Kit, that she hadn't the faintest idea which wing

  she had entered.

  Trying to squelch the sudden urge to yell for

  help, she backtracked to where she had just been and

  peeked through an open chamber door. Could she

  recall a room with a single torcher and a tapestry

  of St. Sebastian? Nothing seemed familiar.

  Just as she began down the hall again, she had the

  distinct impression that she was being followed. She

  stopped short, but there were no other sounds. It was

  clearly just her imagination.

  She turned down another hall and gasped, her

  hand flying to her throat. This particular hall was

  indeed familiar--from the original tour she took

  with the crew before the first day of shooting the video. The

  guide had said the hall was haunted by the ghost of a