Deanie's face lit with understanding. "Oh, I
do remember! There was a made-for-Tv movie
all about it. She was a Baltimore divorcee,
and Edward abdicated the crown for her. It was
wonderful! I think Jane Seymour played her
in the movie."
"Jane Seymour?"
"Not the queen. This Jane was in James
Bond films, then went on to become Dr.
Quinn on television."
Kit shook his head and raked a hand through his
hair before continuing. "Anyway, our little Katherine
has a pushy uncle and an even more pushy flock
of Catholic supporters. They're still smarting from
Cromwell's dissolution of the monasteries. If
Katherine becomes queen, as indeed she shall,
Cromwell will be left alone, bearing the wrath of
Henry and Norfolk and every Catholic in the land."
"Doesn't Cromwell have any
supporters?"
Kit made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"He has never been known for his personal
magnetism. Cromwell's biggest talent has
been to make himself indispensable to the king, never
trusting anyone else enough to share the power. At this
point he's already alienated all his potential
defenders. He's always acted alone and never
bothered to build a political force behind him. It
worked for a while, but ..."
Kit stopped talking as Norfolk approached
and acknowledged them with a curt nod. Now that the king
had been taking an active interest in his niece,
he seemed to expand within his office, gaining momentum
with every leering twinkle the king bestowed upon Katherine.
Just as they were about to continue their discussion in the
corridor, the evening ended abruptly with Deanie
and the other ladies-in-waiting escorting Queen
Anne to her bedchamber. There wasn't time for her
to mention the run-in with Surrey.
She spent the next morning in a frustrating
attempt to learn needlepoint from the
wasp-tongued Mother Lowe. Meanwhile, Kit
passed the hours with Suffolk and the other gentlemen,
planning a tournament to celebrate the coming of
summer. He found her in her chamber, back
turned toward the door, dabbing her fingertips with a
cloth. The halls were unusually silent. Most
of the members of the court were admiring the king's new
bowling alley below.
"It's raining," Kit announced from the
doorway. His arm was raised over his head,
gripping the archway with casual strength as he
leaned into her room. The pain in his shoulder was still
intense, but he was determined to defy it, refusing
to admit to any limitations. "We have to wait
until the weather clears before we can try the maze
again."
"Good," Deanie said, her back turned toward
Kit.
"Good?"
"That gives us more time to work with Queen Anne.
After those papers Cromwell showed me, I hope
we have weeks of rain. It's going to take a lot
of time to ensure her safety, Kit."
"I thought you were pleased with how well the
doughnuts worked," he said to her back.
"Six dozen doughnuts do not a marriage
make."
Kit frowned. "What the hell is that
supposed to mean?"
"It just means we need more time--lots of time
to help the king appreciate his queen."
"We don't have a lot of time, love." He
lowered his voice. "The longer we remain here, the
more likely we are to be brought up on charges of
witchcraft or treason."
"You've managed to avoid that problem nicely
for more than a decade," she reasoned without facing
him.
"That was before you arrived. On my own, I was
fine. You're the wild card--everything's changed.
What on earth are you doing?"
She paused and looked straight ahead. "Is
it good or bad that everything's changed?"
"Mostly good." There was a smile in his
voice. "Mostly wonderful; just those treason or
witchcraft threats to make us skiddish."
"I wonder what would be worse," she mused.
"I mean, between treason or witchcraft."
With a light chuckle he shifted his weight.
"Given a choice, I believe I'd
opt for witchcraft. You might get lucky and have
your fire put out by rain. There's not much hope with
being hanged, drawn, and quartered."
"All three?" She stiffened. "Isn't that
overkill?"
"That's the general idea. Why, they make
sure the poor sod is still awake to watch himself
get disemboweled. Say, Deanie, what are you
doing?"
Deanie turned and held up her left hand.
Even from across the room he could see the tiny
rivulets of blood.
"Good God, what happened?" He reached her
side in a few long strides.
"I tried my hand at needlepoint." She
sighed. "It looks so easy, Kit. The
ladies just hanging around, chatting up a storm and
sewing. But those needles are sharp, and Mother Lowe
made me finish the sample."
As he examined her wounded fingertips, she
reached for her small sample of needlework. With
obvious disgust, she held it before his eyes.
"It's okay. You can laugh if you want," she
muttered.
Kit transferred his attention to the little square
of cloth. "Oh. Well. I say, Deanie,
it's really very good. Jolly good indeed." He
squinted, leaning closer, then averted his eyes,
complete befuddlement apparent on his strong
features.
"Do you know what it is?" A smile tugged at
the corners of her mouth.
"What? Well of course I do. I'm not a
complete idiot. Hmm, let me see." He
focused again on her fingertips. "A little iodine
would be welcome now."
"What is it?"
"Iodine? Why, it's an orange-colored
medicine to kill germs."
"I know what iodine is, Kit. I'm asking
if you know what my needlepoint is supposed
to be."
"Oh, that."
She nodded solemnly.
"Well, let's just take another look, shall
we?" His voice was artificially cheerful. "My,
what colors! Really, it's quite astounding,
Deanie. Look at your spectacular use of
red."
"Red? I didn't use any red."
Looking closer at the cloth she bit the inside
of her cheek to stop from giggling. "That's blood,"
she said finally. "Mother Lowe wouldn't let me use
a thimble."
"Oh. I see. Well it works very well,
doesn't it?"
"Never mind the colors, Kit. Tell me
what it is."
"Come now, Deanie. Of course I know what
it is."
"Then tell me," she insisted.
The dimples in his cheeks deepened in
concentration. At once his expression brightened.
"Wh
y of course! It's a bug!"
She shook her head.
"A bird? Those are wings, are they not?"
Raising her eyebrows, she crossed her arms
and tapped an impatient foot.
"You are not going to help me out, are you?"
Again she shook her head, this time unable to keep
the mischievous grin from her face.
"Very well. It seems to be some creature from
mythology, perhaps a phoenix rising from its
ashes. No? Let me see. Hallo! Is that
a man inside the neck of the creature?"
She nodded eagerly.
"Charades it is, then." Clearing his throat,
he looked at Deanie, the expectant, eager
smile on her face. And he realized what she
had done.
"Deanie." His voice was suddenly rough as he
turned the sample on its side. For a long
moment he said nothing, just examined her clumsy
attempt at needlepoint, the wild shape with a
lopsided hump on the top. His unwavering gaze
slid to her face. "It's an aeroplane."
"Bingo."
He swallowed hard before he returned to the
needlework, wondering why he felt a sudden ache
in his throat. She had made it for him, for him
alone. He tried to keep his tone easy, tried
not to show how touched he was by the gesture. "What
kind of plane is it?" His words sounded harsh and
accusing, but Deanie didn't seem to mind.
"Oh, I don't know." She shrugged. "I
sort of made it up. I mean, on the road
I've seen tons of old war movies. It's
hard to get right to sleep after a concert. So I just
closed my eyes and tried to remember what the
planes looked like in this old film with
Dana Andrews. I kept on waiting for a
woman to appear the first time I saw it, since I
thought "Dana" had to be a lady." Realizing
she was chattering to cover his silence, she peered down
at the cloth, suddenly embarrassed. "Do you like
it?"
When she looked into his eyes, she caught a
strange, unsettling flash before he spoke.
"Yes," he said at last, pulling her slowly
toward him with one arm, still examining the work in the other
hand. "May I keep it?"
"Sure. I did it for you."
Unlacing the front tie of his black doublet,
he slipped the piece within his full white shirt.
The peculiar expression was still on his face.
"Deanie, was that one of our planes, or an
enemy aircraft?"
Confused, she looked up at him as he led her
through the door. "One of ours. Why?"
"Just wondering," he murmured, taking her hand.
He paused, then drew her needle-pricked
fingertips to his lips and pressed them with a warm
kiss. "Now, are you positive we won the
war?"
"Very funny," she whispered. But at that moment,
the last thing either of them had on their minds was the war.
Queen Anne summoned Mistress Deanie
to her chamber an hour before the evening meal was to be
served. The rain still poured against the windows, making
the palace seem more damp and chilly than
usual.
"Mistress Deanie." The queen smiled as
soon as Deanie curtsied. "Those doo-nuts
last evening, I must say thank you for to bring them.
The king, he sure thought they were okay."
Deanie raised her eyes and grinned. "He
sure wolfed them down, didn't he, Your
Majesty."
"I do believe he eat four or five in one
wolf." The queen made a motion for Deanie
to rise and gestured to a chair. "Come, sit. I
need to chew off your ear."
"Excuse me?"
"I need to talk, to chew off your ear."
Ignoring the bewildered frown on Deanie's
face, the queen swept past her and returned with
an official-looking parchment. For an awful
moment Deanie thought Cromwell had served her
with the orders of execution. She quickly
dismissed the thought with a sigh of relief. The queen
was preoccupied with something, but she did not seem
to be in mortal fear.
"Read this, may it please you," the queen said,
handing Deanie the paper.
It was written in a beautiful hand, one more
legible than most of the samples she had seen
since arriving in 1540. Deanie whistled through her
teeth. "Very nice, Your Majesty. Whoever did
this could work calligraphy at any gift shop or
make a fortune writing names on diplomas."
The queen pointed with one flat-nailed finger.
"Read it, please."
Deanie shrugged her shoulders once and began
to read.
"Permit me to show, by this billet, the zeal with which
I devote my respect to you as a queen, and my
entire obedience to you as my mother. I am too young
and feeble to have power to do more than felicitate you with
all my heart in this commencement of your marriage.
I hope that Your Majesty will have as much goodwill
for me as I have zeal for your service."
Perplexed, she looked up at the queen.
"Wait a minute: I didn't know you had any
kids," she said. "Whoever wrote this calls you his
or her mother."
Queen Anne nodded. "'Tis my
stepdaughter, the child of my husband, the king."
"Oh." Deanie frowned over the paper. "How
old is she?"
"Six."
"What? You mean a kid of six wrote this
herself?"
The queen gave a half smile. "She
seems to be one smart cookie, no?"
Deanie nodded in agreement, her eyes again
reading the princess' words. "Where is she?" she
asked without looking up. "I haven't seen her
at court. I haven't even seen the little prince.
He's guarded like some sort of prisoner."
"He's the king's heir, next in line to the
throne. The king must be careful with his only son."
"The princess is also the king's heir, Your
Majesty. Why isn't she at court?"
The queen looked satisfied by her response.
"That is what I am riled up about, mistress.
Doesn't it seem to you that the little
Princess Elizabeth should be here?"
The parchment rested in Deanie's lap. "Of
course. Where is she?"
"Banished to another palace. The king seems
to hate her and will not allow her to reside in his
presence."
"Why on earth does he hate her? She's just
a kid," Deanie mumbled. The image of an
eager, bright six-year-old, unwanted by her father,
flamed her own memories of childhood. "I'm
a little hazy on all this, but who's her mother?"
The queen seemed taken aback. "Why, her
mother was Anne Boleyn, executed over three
years ago by the king."
"Holy cow! The kid was three years old when
it happened."
With a wary glance toward the door, the queen
crept over, peering down the outside hall before
"I showed the king this letter, hoping he would feel pity
for his little kid. I even had my cook make some
more doo-nuts before I spoke."
"So what happened?" Deanie's head was next
to the queen's. Up close she was momentarily
distracted by both her large pores and the
now-familiar scent, thick and mucky but not as
unpleasent as it used to seem.
"He became angry, Mistress Deanie.
He swore some curses, I know not the meaning of
some of the phrases. He told me to go hence,
away from him, and that the mother of Princess
Elizabeth was but a whore."
Deanie involuntarily flinched, imagining the
king's rage. "So he won't allow her to join the
rest of her family at court," she said
quietly.
"No. He has further instructed me to give
this letter to Cromwell, who is then to answer nay."
"Great. Cromwell would make any
six-year-old girl one swell pen pal."
The queen seem surprised. "Think you that?"
"No, Your Majesty," Deanie said at
last. "I think this is terrible." Glancing back
at the paper, she noticed a tiny figure
drawn in the corner. It was a little girl's
sketch of a flower, so small it was easy to miss,
a tentative plea for friendship from a lonely child.
"Has Cromwell seen this yet?" Deanie
could imagine his glee, striking out at the innocent
child of his tormentor.
"No. Mistress Deanie, I have no
influence with the king. You do. Can you think of anything
to help this poor little princess?"
Deanie clenched her hand over the letter, wondering
if the kind queen, begging help for a child she had
never met, knew of the danger she herself faced.
There was something in the queen's dark eyes that made
Deanie believe she was very much aware of the hazards
of the court.
"Your Majesty, could you give me a little time
to think?" She rubbed a hand over her forehead,
trying to imagine what ideas Kit might have.
"But of course." The queen smiled and rose
to her feet, gently lifting the letter from Deanie's
lap. "Perhaps at the evening meal we may speak
again."
Wearily, she nodded. As she left the
queen's chamber, she wondered where she might find
Kit. He would most certainly be able to come up
with a brilliant plan.
"You promised her what?" Kit demanded,
breathing hard after a fencing match. The tip of his
foil rested on the ground next to her foot, and
she backed away slightly. With a distracted hand
he rubbed his sore shoulder.
"I just told her we would try to help,"
Deanie repeated. The sound of clashing metal
echoed in the fencing chamber. In the far corner was
Surrey, glaring at her from under a cumbersome
screened helmet. His father insisted he wear the
protection, much to his embarrassment. None of the
accomplished swordsmen had requested a match with
him, further fueling his fury.
"If the rains cease on the morrow, we must
try to leave," he said in a soothing tone.
"No, Kit. I really want to stay here and
help, now more than ever."
"Don't you understand? We have no choice." He
took a deep breath and looked about the room. The
ladies had just been admitted: a prime
opportunity for the young men of the court to show off their
athletic skills. The men were without their doublets,
much to the titillated delight of the women.
Even in her concern for the princess, Deanie
couldn't help but notice how superior Kit was
to the rest of the gentlemen. Some were attractive, a
few had rather nice physiques. But the duke of
Hamilton, his handsome face flushed from
exercise, the dark hair curled at the
nape of his neck, was extraordinary.
"Please, Kit. You should see the letter.
Honestly, it broke my heart."
"Your concern for others is admirable, love."
He wiped a droplet of perspiration from his
eyes. "Save some of that concern for us. Even as
we stand here and talk, we are placing ourselves in
peril. We will try to leave tomorrow, and then all of
these intrigues will hopefully be distant
history."
He turned and walked to a corner of the chamber,
nodding to a cluster of ladies as he placed his
foil in the rack on the wall. Arms folded,
she followed him, trying to control her anger,
ducking beneath an earl's raised foil as she
crossed the floor.
"I don't care if you refuse to help me,"
she hissed into his ear. Startled, he turned,
stunned by the unfamiliar vehemence in her voice.
"You have no idea what it's like to know your own father
doesn't give a hoot what happens to you, if
you're sick or well or smart or stupid. You
were a rich kid, with a stable family."
"My father was killed in the war when I was a child."
"I know, and that's awful, it really is. But at
least he didn't leave on purpose, letting you
spend the rest of your life wondering what you did
wrong, what you could have possibly done to make him
leave." The tears made her vision blurry, but
she continued. "And at least you and I had our
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