drumming.
The jailer had been considerate enough to provide
a limitless supply of candles, which was another
reason Kit believed he was not a prisoner of the
king. Henry would never waste such a large store of
tallow on a prisoner, no matter how favored
he had once been.
Another fact that led him to believe he was being
held by someone else was the king's recent
behavior. He was certainly not angry at
Kit, for the king let his rage be known whenever a
subject displeased him. No, someone with a very good
cook was holding him against his will.
He ran a hand over the new growth of beard,
scratchy and uncomfortable, but certainly not
intolerable enough to be called torture. His eyes
watched the flame. He didn't even know what
time of day it was; his dark, silent world gave no
indication.
His thoughts turned to Deanie, wondering if
Suffolk had received his note. If so, it was
possible she knew by now that he was being treated
well. He just wanted to get the hell out of there
without placing her in danger.
Deanie.
How would she look in an evening gown? Not one
of those stiff, corseted monstrosities the women
wore at court. No.
He could envision her in something of satin, with a
low-cut back, a Myrna Loy gown to show off
her curves. No wooden headpiece, no
layers and ties and leather bindings to hold a
sleeve in place, but a delightfully
machine-made dress.
And how would her legs look in flesh-colored
hose? So far he'd been the one to wear hose, and
he grinned in the soft light, thinking of how his
chums in the squadron would react if he asked
them if his seams were straight.
Deanie's hair could fall freely to her
shoulders, loose and dark and gleaming in the sun.
He would show her London, or what was left of
it. London would see her, and the grimy eyes of the
shell-shocked East Enders would squint at the
sight of his Deanie.
Maybe he could take her up in a plane,
let her feel the thrill of flying in the clouds.
"Duke? Another meal for you." His eternally
cheerful jailer rattled the door and
pushed yet another feast into the room.
"Thank you," Kit said automatically.
"Oh, wait."
He could hear the man pause.
"Did the message reach Suffolk?"
"I don't rightly know, Sir Duke." Kit
could almost envision the man scratching his head. "I
believe it did, for it was not returned."
"Thank you," Kit said again, not bothering
to examine the irony of a prisoner thanking his
jailer. "Oh, one more thing."
"Yes, Duke?"
He was almost afraid to ask. "Is my cousin,
Mistress Deanie Bailey, also being held
here?" He tried to make his tone conversational, so
as not to insult the jailer, who seemed to have his own
sense of honor and propriety.
"No! Do you think we'd keep a lady in
here? I'm surprised, Sir Duke, that you would
even think of it! Why, I never ..." The man
muttered to himself down the hallway.
That was the answer Kit had been hoping for. The
man was not a good enough actor to have responded with such
force unless it was the truth.
Ignoring the meal, which was rapidly growing
cold, Kit settled upon the cot and, his hands
linked behind his head, thought more about Deanie.
She had managed to avoid performing another song
at dinner by pleading a headache, which was in fact the
truth.
It was astounding how every meal of the king's was
orchestrated with the precision of a theatrical
performance and the solemnity of a religious rite.
Even with but a few of his subjects to bear
witness, the scores of servants wordlessly carried
out their duties, from the royal napkin steward to the
bearer of toothpicks. The king never thanked the
silent army whose mission it was to keep apace with his
every whim. Had he acknowledged each one, he would
pass the day in a never-ending chain of thank-yous.
The advantage of such a small court was that
each course was served with astounding speed. With so
few distractions, the king ate quickly and greedily,
ignoring the bits of food that flew from his mouth as
he gnashed his way through each tier of the menu.
Finally it ended, and the women--Katherine and
Deanie--were dismissed. Katherine seemed
reluctant to leave, and she batted her lashes
becomingly at the king. Upon second
thought, the king asked Mistress Katherine to linger
yet.
Before he could call her back, Deanie
slipped quickly from the chamber. He had officially
dismissed them, so she simply pretended not
to notice Katherine's maneuver. Just as she
left, she saw a decidedly smug expression
on Norfolk's narrow face.
It was a relief to be alone, to walk through the
halls without pretending restrained delight with
court life. She was finally able to stop smiling.
Her cheeks and lips ached with the artificial
smiles she had flashed the king. He wasn't such
a bad guy, she mused, rubbing her sore face.
He just had no idea that a world existed beyond his own
desires.
The hallways at Richmond were not only
empty, but far more modest than those at
Hampton. This was already an old place, built
years ago, before the more modern ideas of airy,
spacious architecture became popular. Before
Henry, who embraced all things modern, came
to the throne.
In a way, she liked Richmond better than
Hampton. It was less imposing, more like a
regular home than a self-conscious palace.
She strolled through the halls with a very
twentieth-century need to unwind and just think. She
racked her brain for a way to get to Kit, even just
to see him. She had to free him, for she had no
intention of attempting a journey back to her own
time without him.
Then she saw a swish of fabric, green
velvet, from the corner of her eye.
At first she thought of Hampton, and the similar
experience of wandering the halls alone and being
confronted by Surrey. That thought quickly
evaporated: Surrey was still at Hampton.
There was no one here to harm or even threaten her--
except for Norfolk. And he had seemed more
than content in the presence of the king and Katherine.
She entered the room where she had seen the green
velvet, unquestionably the gown of a woman. The
room was empty, with several small chairs and some
papers on a window seat.
"Is anyone in here?"
For a few moments there was no response. Just as
Deanie was about to leave, a tiny figure
stepped
from the shadows of a sideboard.
Deanie's first thought was that it was a
midget, for she was dressed as a miniature
adult. But it was a child, a little girl attired as
formally as the highest-ranking courtier. On her
head was a diminutive French hood, and her
bodice was bound so tightly that it looked even more
uncomfortable than usual. Her hands, dimpled and
red as if she had tried to scrub them clean, were the
only feature that seemed childish.
The little girl sank into a curtsy, her eyes
pinned on Deanie's feet.
"Hi there," Deanie said, shifting into her
coo-at-the-baby tone.
The girl looked up, and Deanie immediately
realized who it was. The red hair, the
translucent eyebrows, the dark eyes--this was
Princess Elizabeth.
Her face was grave, too pinched and worried
for a child so young.
"I just had dinner with your father," Deanie said.
The girl's face remained impassive.
"Are you Katherine Howard?" The princess'
voice did not sound like a regular kid's. It was
full of uncertain authority.
"Heck no," Deanie responded. "I'm
Wilma Dean Bailey, but you can call me
Deanie. All my friends do."
A dawning expression crossed her features.
"I heard you sing before."
"Did you? Why, I don't believe I saw
you."
A very tiny smile, small as the girl herself,
curved her lips. "I was hiding," she whispered.
Then she straightened. "You will not tell, will you?"
"Of course not." Deanie frowned. "I'm no
stoolie."
"You are no what?"
"I mean I will not tell. I promise."
The princess seemed satisfied. She looked
up at Deanie, her eyes glinting with the same
unnerving intelligence as the king's. "Why are you so
sad?"
Deanie was about to deny it, when the princess
continued. "Your songs were all sad, nothing
happy. I am only allowed to sing religious
songs in Latin, or happy hunting songs. Why
are you so sad?"
"Well, for one thing I don't know any
Latin or happy hunting songs," she
admitted. "But I suppose you're right. I am
sad."
"Why?"
Deanie cleared her throat. "Because I miss
someone."
The girl nodded eagerly. "I knew that was the
cause! You sounded just like me." With the
lightning-swift subject changes of all children,
she pointed to the papers on the window seat. "I
drew some pictures today."
"Did you? May I see them?"
The princess narrowed her eyes in speculation.
"You are just being nice because I am a princess."
She spoke as if she knew it to be the truth but
wanted someone to contradict it.
"Well, maybe that's part of the reason,"
Deanie admitted. "Mainly, I want to see
your drawings because everyone else in this house is
insufferably dull, and I'd rather draw with you than
yawn with them."
Elizabeth's mouth dropped open, and then she
clapped her childish hand over her mouth and
giggled. It was the first truly natural gesture
Deanie had seen her perform. She half skipped
over to the window seat and grabbed her drawings.
When her back was turned, Deanie saw that the
gown was frayed and much too small for a girl of
Elizabeth's size. The back was stitched in
delicate-yet-entirely-noticeable attempts
to repair the garment; the thread was slightly darker
and sewn in jagged patches. It was also obvious that
the hem had been let down several times, then
finally lengthened by a few inches of blue fabric.
In an effort to make the repair job less
apparent, as well as lengthen the sleeves, the
same blue fabric circled her cuffs.
How could the princess be clothed in such
threadbare gowns when her father spent a fortune on
his embroidered undergarments alone?
She returned with her drawings and handed them
shyly to Deanie.
"Let's get closer to the candle, so I can
see them better," she muttered, glancing at the
top picture.
Deanie had no idea what to expect. She
imagined a real princess would draw the same
sort of pictures other kids drew, of
silly-faced dogs and smiling suns. She
cleared her throat, ready to praise the
imprecise lines of an elf or crude stick
figures.
Instead she saw landscapes,
beautifully rendered. "No way," Deanie
exclaimed without thinking. She shuffled through the
pile, but they were all of the same quality,
exquisitely drawn with pen and ink. The
details were astounding, every leaf and rock shaded as
to appear three-dimensional. One of the drawings
did indeed have an animal, but it was a very
realistic rabbit peeking from beneath a fallen
branch. Even the animal's fur, the differing
textures in the fuzzy ears and the sleek back,
was done so expertly that she could almost pet it.
"You did these?" Deanie realized her mouth must
have been hanging open in stupid befuddlement. "These
are amazing. I mean it--these are about the best
drawings I've ever seen."
Elizabeth clapped delightedly and nodded,
her face reddened with the unfamiliar pleasure of
genuine praise.
"I did! I did draw them these past long
days, when I have not been allowed to venture forth from
this room. I did them from this window, looking down
at the grounds through the glass." She peered
critically at the one in Deanie's hand. "I
saw the hare but a moment, yet I recalled him
in most every feature. His nose looked wet."
She crinkled her own nose in unconscious
mimicry of the animal. "I did not know how
to make his nose look wet in my drawing."
"Princess Elizabeth, you are a natural
artist," Deanie marveled. Then she looked again
at the girl, who was still appraising her own work.
"What do you mean? were you forced to stay inside,
even during the beautiful weather?"
The girl straightened and said nothing, as if
weighing all possible answers. When she faced
Deanie directly, her expression was one of
disarming honesty. "Yes. My father, the king, did
return unexpectedly to Richmond. He forgot
that I was here, and I have been banished to this room.
He would not wish to see me. In this remote wing
he is most unlikely to stumble upon me."
"That stinks," replied Deanie without thinking.
The princess looked shocked, as if she had
rehearsed the reaction frequently. Then she
began to giggle again, both hands clamped over her
mouth.
"You're right, Mistress Deanie," she
whispered. "I think it stinks too
."
A large woman garbed in black suddenly
appeared in the doorway. "Lady
Elizabeth," the woman snapped, with a brief
glare in Deanie's direction. "It is well
past the hour of prayers and bedtime."
"Thank you, Lady Bryan," the little girl
replied solemnly. "I will be there anon."
The woman left, and Deanie leaned closer.
"Why didn't she call you Princess
Elizabeth?"
"Because I have been all but disowned." She began
to gather the pictures neatly, brushing off a
speck of dried ink from one drawing. "My father had
my mother beheaded. Then the next lady he married
Queen Jane"--the girl made a sign of the
cross--"tried to bring us together, but she died."
"Do you remember your mother at all?"
The child beamed. "I do! She was ever so lovely,
with long dark hair all the way to her waist, and
her eyes were brown--much as yours are. I
remember her laughing all the time, and running after
me in a garden. I know not which garden it was, but
I know it was so because it is so clear in my mind."
Deanie reached out and touched Elizabeth's soft
cheek, feeling the delicate skin only a child can
have. At first the girl stiffened, unaccustomed to being
caressed. Then her forehead creased, as if in
deep thought. "I do remember my mother," she said
emphatically.
"Your mother would be very proud of you, Princess
Elizabeth."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so."
The girl stared at Deanie. Then, with a swift
curtsy and a small smile, she began to leave.
"Oh, wait a minute, Princess."
She paused and faced Deanie, an inquiring
expression on her face.
"May I please have a few of those drawings?"
For a moment she hesitated, then shrugged and handed
Deanie the whole stack. "They are for you,
Mistress Deanie. Thank you for the praise."
Her back stiff, she left the room with
regal bearing. Only when she reached the door
did she turn back to Deanie, and she gave a
childish wave of her hand before ducking through the
door.
Deanie sat alone in the room for a long time,
flipping slowly through the drawings, and thinking again of
Kit.
Chapter 17
The king saw her immediately, seated in the courtyard
directly below his apartments. He hastened to dress
and join her before the rest of the house stirred, before
Norfolk could cast one of his disapproving
grunts, before even Suffolk--beloved
brother-in-law though he was--could overwhelm with
his forceful presence.
He checked his appearance in the glass, his
privy stewards clucking in pleasure at the
sight of their master. He knew his looks were at
their best this morn; he had consumed neither drink
nor food to excess for these past few days.
Henry may not be as handsome as Hamilton, but
by God he was king, and that should count for something in the
eyes of a maid.
A momentary frown crimped his forehead. Where
was Hamilton? Subjects had disappeared from
court before, certainly. In those unfortunate
cases, Henry had known very well where they had
vanished to: usually a remote corner of the
Tower. Or the bottom of the Thames.
This was different. He liked Kit, enjoyed his
company as much as his excellent sport. He
sincerely hoped nothing had happened to his friend, and
that he would soon return to court hale and
healthy.
In the meantime he was more than aware of
Hamilton's cousin. With Kit at court, she
seemed to ignore all other men, including--most
vexatiously--the king himself. Even as he prayed
heartily for Hamilton's return, he prayed
it would take but a few more days. He certainly
wished no harm to befall Hamilton. But should
divine providence keep Hamilton from court,
well so be it. He would take it as a sign, a
message from the Lord himself that Henry was to pass some
time in the presence of the lonely Mistress
Deanie.
Straightening his imposing shoulders, he tilted
his head to observe his reflection in the hand
mirror. In truth, it was becoming ever more
difficult to appear the way he wished to look.
His helpful tailors had broadened his back
to make his waist appear more slender. And if the king
tipped his head slightly to the side, the
unsightly double chin, a recent acquisition,
became all but invisible. He would tilt his head
thusly when speaking to Mistress
Deanie.
When his toilet was completed, he dismissed his
servants and checked once more in the courtyard.
She was still there, alone, sitting under a tree and
drawing. What a fetching picture she made of
herself, even in the Germanic gown. He had quite
forgotten his own queen, the wife he was beginning
to despise less the more time he spent away from
her.
He made his way outside quickly. Just before he
entered the courtyard, he made a swift
inspection of his gold-hued doublet. It would never do
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