Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

The morbidly curious could not help but light

  upon the duke of Hamilton. Norfolk and his

  minions fueled the reports, eagerly adding

  whatever morsel would cast weight to the rumors of the

  handsome duke's impending doom.

  Hamilton played his part well enough, acting

  every inch the charming courtier at the evening meal. The

  only noticeable difference was his marked reluctance

  to be separated from his cousin, Mistress Deanie.

  A few shrewd observers noticed the

  physical contact they seemed compelled to maintain

  constantly. When he spoke to another gentleman

  across the board, his arm remained firmly,

  boldly, about her shoulders. When Katherine

  Howard engaged them in light conversation, Mistress

  Deanie's hand rested lightly upon his thigh.

  Some thought it was nothing more than the aftereffects

  of the now-celebrated frolic in the maze. Others

  saw something deeper, more poignant in the intensity

  of their closeness.

  The meal ended, and the ladies-in-waiting gathered

  in a cluster about their queen. Anne seemed

  disturbed, her eyes following Kit and Deanie

  with a keen curiosity.

  The duke of Suffolk at last rose to his

  feet, planting an amiable hand on

  Hamilton's shoulder before leaving the hall.

  "Take care, friend," he muttered. He had

  remained unusually silent through the meal, a

  different man from the gregarious merrymaker who could

  turn every occasion into his own drunken celebration.

  Tonight he sipped little from his goblet, ate even

  less.

  Deanie approached the queen, her head bowed.

  "Your Majesty, may I remain a

  while longer with my cousin?"

  The queen seemed to be weighing the matter, then

  she nodded once, as if indisposed to grant her

  servant's wish. The ladies removed themselves from

  the hall with grave dignity. Deanie caught the

  flicker of a smile from the queen before they swept

  through the arched doorway.

  There were but a handful of people remaining in the hall as

  Kit reached for her hand. "So far, so good." He

  grinned.

  "Maybe the rumors are all false," she

  said hopefully. "Norfolk seemed calm tonight,

  didn't he?"

  He did not answer. "Let's go outside for

  some fresh air." The servants had commenced the

  frantic sweeping and cleaning of the hall, gathering

  pitchers and plates and shooing the dogs from

  underfoot.

  The sky was beautifully clear, the stars adding

  eloquent flashes of light to the lush hue. They

  said nothing in the darkness. It was a comfortable silence,

  brimming with words unspoken, sentiments raw with

  untried bounds.

  She shifted her gaze to his profile, the

  sharp angles of his face stark even in the gentle

  blue illumination of the moon and stars. He did not

  seem aware of her watching him, lost in his own

  thoughts. Suddenly a small smile appeared, the

  lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.

  "I want to fly again," he whispered.

  For a few moments she simply concentrated on

  his features, the way the night bathed his face in

  its tender glow. Slowly, without breaking the

  spell, she leaned her head against his shoulder. And

  together they stood beneath the timeless stars, dreaming of a

  future they hoped would be theirs.

  It was just after midnight when the duke of

  Hamilton walked alone through the proud halls of

  Hampton Court Palace. Deanie was

  safely in her chamber, the snores of the other

  ladies-in-waiting testifying to an uneventful

  evening.

  He had handed her the soda bottle, staring at

  her face as if committing every feature to memory.

  "Good night." His voice was tight.

  Later she wondered why they didn't speak more,

  why they didn't flee to some distant shore. She

  was acutely aware of every sound and sensation, the

  dampness of the corridor, the crackle

  of a wall torch. A lock of dark hair tumbled

  over his forehead, but she didn't brush it aside.

  She felt as if a heavy weight pressed upon

  her chest.

  "Good night," she responded, mechanical,

  hollow. Her fingertips brushed the warmth of his hand

  as she took the bottle.

  And then he left, placing distance between them with his

  sure, clean strides. She wanted to call out,

  to stop him for just one more touch, one more word.

  He too wanted to halt, to stay the night beside

  her. To be by her side, to know she was there.

  The footsteps behind him were silent. Even if the

  men had not been commanded to take extra care, Kit

  would never have heard the warning sounds through his own

  churning thoughts.

  And when the club came down, ushering him

  into darkness, he wasn't surprised, just

  strangely empty.

  For God's sake, why hadn't they talked more

  when they had the chance?

  The moment she awoke, after a brief, fitful

  sleep, she knew what had happened.

  She paced in her chamber, fully dressed

  since a little after five in the morning. Just before

  eight a note from the queen was delivered.

  "The Duke of Hamilton was last night

  taken to the Tower. AC."

  A handful of words. Nothing violent, a

  simple statement of fact. No surprises.

  "The Duke of Hamilton was last night

  taken to the Tower. AC."

  They had expected this, even last night under the

  traitorous luster of the stars. He had known then,

  and so had she.

  Deanie rushed to the queen's chamber.

  Englebert let her in immediately, without his usual

  formal protocol. The queen sat by the window,

  looking out upon the garden.

  "It is so very pretty, the flowers and the green,

  Mistress Deanie." She sighed. "Yet it

  covers terrible things."

  "Please, tell me what happened, Your

  Majesty."

  "The duke last night was set upon by four men.

  Some people saw it, but who exactly saw I know not.

  He was hit from behind, over the head with a whack."

  Deanie sank into a chair, her face betraying

  numb disbelief.

  "Shall I continue?" The queen spoke in a

  softer tone. Deanie stared straight ahead for a

  few moments, her eyes glazed and unseeing, before

  she nodded for the queen to go on.

  "We have been told the duke then fell and was

  carried away by the men. He never uttered a single

  word. Englebert believes the duke did not wish

  to have any more company in the Tower and feared very much the

  thought of you being taken."

  "Has anyone seen Norfolk?" It was

  painful to speak.

  "Yes, and this is the strangest thing of all:

  Norfolk seemed surprised. He knew not the

  duke was to be taken, not so soo
n."

  Deanie rubbed her hand over her eyes.

  "Does anyone know what Kit's been charged

  with?"

  The queen hesitated before answering. "The word

  is that the duke is accused of conspiring with

  Cromwell."

  "What?" Deanie straightened, the numbness

  beginning to ebb. "You know that's crazy, Your

  Majesty."

  "I know, that's what I tell Englebert, but

  he says people talked of how he refused to beat

  Cromwell, even when given the chance. They say

  'twas most strange and unnatural for a man who

  was said to have been harmed by another man not to wish him

  great harm in turn."

  "Great. So he's locked in the Tower for the grand

  crime of failing to beat a defenseless man."

  Deanie stood up abruptly, folding her hands.

  "Will there be a trial?"

  "No. No trial, Mistress Deanie.

  He will suffer the same fate as Cromwell."

  "Not if I can help it," she said. "Where is

  the king?"

  The queen shrugged. "No one tells me where the

  king is, but some say he is at Richmond."

  Then she gave Deanie a pointed stare, as if

  observing her for the very first time.

  "Mistress Deanie, I heard about you and the

  duke in the maze."

  Deanie flushed, trying to think of something to say,

  but the queen continued as if she had been discussing the

  weather. "I also watched you two last evening at the

  meal, the manner in which you spoke and conversed. I

  must apologize."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Yesterday, I did not believe what

  you told me, of the bees and the birds. But I think

  about it, mistress. Holy cow, I think all

  night about it, and now I do believe you."

  Deanie smiled, an expression that didn't

  seem to fuse with the way she was feeling. "Your

  Majesty, I would never kid about something like that."

  The queen returned the smile, and she crooked

  her finger for Deanie to come closer. "Now I am

  truly glad not to have attracted the king's

  attentions," she mumbled into Deanie's ear.

  The king rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk,

  knew precisely what his sovereign was thinking

  of. His niece Katherine waited below, clothed in

  the newest designs from Mr. Locke. He had

  spared no expense, enveloping her in the richest

  clothing his beleaguered finances would allow. He had

  considered the velvet and silks an investment, for

  if Katherine could indeed snare the king, the Howard

  family would once again rank supreme.

  This time, with pliable Katherine instead of willful

  Anne Boleyn, Norfolk himself could

  orchestrate the outcome. Katherine was not

  intelligent or overly educated; indeed, she was

  barely able to read or write. But Katherine

  knew how to entice a man, especially a

  grossly obese monarch who had grown more

  difficult to please with every added year and pound.

  The king was grooming himself like a peacock.

  Norfolk watched him preen with all the

  deliberate satisfaction of a young stud. What

  did he see in the mirror? Surely not the

  image the world viewed as Henry of England.

  Norfolk knew, as did all the other

  successful courtiers, that the key to preserving

  one's career was to maintain the king's own illusions.

  To Henry, he was still the youthful prince, the pride

  of Europe, unrivaled in athletic skills,

  learning, and manly beauty. In short, the ideal

  prince, fit for any story book or young

  girl's dreams.

  Norfolk cleared his throat, a bid to gain the

  king's attention. The king seemed not to notice,

  intent as he was on his own reflection. He held

  only a hand mirror now; no longer did he

  wish to seek his full form in the unforgiving glass

  of a long mirror.

  "Your Highness," began Norfolk. The king

  simply raised one nearly transparent

  red eyebrow in acknowledgment. Norfolk took it

  as a sign to continue. But the king spoke instead.

  "How is the temperament at Hampton?"

  "Your Highness?"

  "After Cromwell's arrest," the king said

  irritably. He hated that about Norfolk, his

  stubborn inability to follow Henry's

  lightning-swift subject changes. One thing about

  Cromwell: He could always anticipate the

  king's fluctuations. Norfolk was confoundedly

  deliberate and plodding. He elaborated.

  "Cromwell was arrested yesterday, Norfolk.

  You were at Hampton when it happened, and perhaps you

  may illuminate us as to the court reaction."

  "Oh, I see," mumbled Norfolk. "In

  truth, Cromwell's arrest was no great

  surprise, Your Majesty. Many who had watched

  the low-born cur had expected, even

  anticipated his eventual stumble."

  "Was there great sadness?" The king wanted

  to know, to gauge when best to return. He wished

  to avoid the unpleasant scene of Cromwell's

  arrest, but he was already chafing at Richmond.

  Hampton Court was by far his favorite home.

  "Nay, no sadness for Cromwell."

  Norfolk spoke carefully, as he had

  practiced during the barge ride to Richmond.

  He kept his voice neutral. "I will confess,

  however, that there was a great deal of surprise over

  the sudden arrest of Hamilton."

  The king frowned, setting the mirror to rest in his

  ample satin lap. "Hamilton? Never did

  I order the arrest of Hamilton. There must be

  some mistake. You must have heard the facts

  awry."

  Norfolk tensed. This is what he had feared.

  Of course he wanted Hamilton out of the way,

  but it was too early in the plan. Hamilton was

  yet too popular, and his sudden and unexpected

  arrest would only garner more supporters. Then the

  duke's cousin would come into play, and the king's eyes

  would rest favorably on her exquisite

  figure. Damnation. Katherine was too plump and

  too insipid to keep the royal attention if

  Mistress Deanie should become available.

  Damnation.

  "We like Hamilton," muttered the king. "He

  is in truth one of my favorites." His small

  eyes lit momentarily on the dour form of

  Norfolk before he continued. "Someone

  else has abducted him, and I mean to find out

  whom. They shall pay dearly. If they harm

  Hamilton, they shall forfeit their life."

  Norfolk hoped to keep his face bland, but he

  flinched at the king's tone. When he spoke

  thusly, low and calm, he was far more dangerous

  than when he ranted and roared.

  "I will seek whatever answers you shall require,

  Your Majesty."

  Henry tapped his finger on the now-forgotten

  glass. "How fares Mistress Deanie?"

  "Your Highness?"

  The king did not repeat his quest
ion. "Send her here

  at once, Norfolk. I wish her in my

  presence on the morrow."

  "But Your Majesty." Norfolk smiled,

  spreading his hands in a gesture of reasoning

  supplication. "Below waits an eager young maid,

  hoping to make her most beloved king the merriest

  sovereign in Christendom."

  "Then we shall allow her the opportunity," the

  king said mildly, rising to his feet with a grunt.

  "And I shall expect Mistress Deanie at

  Richmond on the morrow."

  Norfolk knew he had just been dismissed.

  Frantically, he grasped for something to add, some

  slender straw by which he could alter the king's mind,

  cause him to forget Mistress Deanie.

  "Your Majesty, may I say--"

  "Good day, Norfolk."

  The duke bowed and left the royal chambers,

  silently cursing whoever it was who had stolen the

  duke of Hamilton.

  The last thing Norfolk could afford, other than

  more lavish clothes for his dim-witted niece, was

  an unexpected loose end.

  He was growing accustomed to waking in unfamiliar

  surroundings with a headache severe enough to rouse the

  dead.

  Kit opened his eyes, for a moment thinking he had

  gone blind. He could not see his own hand, or the

  room in which he was imprisoned. Then he saw a

  flash of light from a distance of a dozen feet, a

  slender shaft from under a door.

  There was a strangely familiar fragrance, of

  must and damp and soil, and he determined he was below

  ground.

  Wouldn't they keep him above ground in the Tower?

  Slowly he sat up, holding a hand

  over the top of his head as if it would split in

  two. With a thick breath he paused, elbows

  resting on his knees, head in his hands, willing the

  throbbing pain to cease.

  For a long time he remained in the position, his

  eyes closed even though he was in almost complete

  darkness. The lump on his head was achingly tender,

  yet he knew the injury was not serious.

  Then he thought of Deanie.

  He hoped it was a brilliantly sunny day,

  that she would enter the maze and return to her own time.

  Would she remember him? Perhaps her memory of their

  weeks together would be erased. In a way he hoped

  so, for it would be easier if she did not remember

  him.

  "Please don't forget me," he murmured,

  startled by the sound of his own voice. Had he said

  that?

  He took a deep breath and wondered what was

  happening to him. Not the sudden captivity, not the

  confounding events at court. He had faced far

  worse in this time, had come up against political

  intrigue and savage actions with almost tiresome

  regularity. The Kit of the past ten years was a

  man of unthinking action, of knee-jerk

  response.

  And last night, when confronted by men who took

  him, he capitulated as meekly as a lamb.

  Two months ago such a response would have

  unthinkable. Two months ago he would have struck

  back at his assailants with unwavering ferocity.

  Two months ago he was not in love.

  He bit out a curse in the darkness, his head

  pounding. He was thinking too much, pondering his every

  action in terms of its effect on Deanie. In this

  court, that was more than perilous. It was well nigh

  suicidal.

  Yet he had no other choice. One rash

  gesture or word could mean death for either of them.

  All of the mechanisms he had developed in a

  decade of living at court were meaningless.

  Suddenly he was exhausted, tired of playing a

  role he had never before bothered to question. And he had

  Deanie to consider now.

  Again, he tried his voice. "Hello?" It

  echoed against the moist stone walls. He could

  smell their wetness, slick and slimy. Was

  hello a word in 1540? His mind was not

  functioning; he seemed to forget all the details

  of living in this time.

  He had nothing to lose by calling out again.

  "Hello?" His voice was stronger now. "Am

  I in the Tower of London?" The question seemed

  ridiculous, but he needed to know the answer.

  From the other side of a thick door he could hear

  a clattering sound.

  "Good morn', Duke," replied a cheerful

  man. "I 'ave food, sir. Close yer

  eyes and I'll shove it on through. We don't

  want the light hurting your head now."

  "Where am I?"

  "Mind, 'ere it comes." The door shot open,

  but before Kit could push his way through, it slammed

  shut again.

  He blinked at the sight before him. There was a

  tray piled with covered dishes, and a single candle

  still flickering from the journey to his cell. From the

  scent he could tell it was a veritable feast: meats

  and pastries and a round loaf of bread jutting from

  beneath a linen cloth. There was also a large jug of

  wine. Clearly his captors had no wish to starve

  him. If this tray were any indication, they may

  wish to give him an advanced case of gout.

  He wasn't hungry, but he ate from habit.

  As he shifted, he realized his sword was still

  by his side. What sort of prison was this, where