Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

tried to keep the dread from his voice,

  tried to remain calm.

  "Oh, she was not arrested."

  Kit stopped, pulling Suffolk to an abrupt

  halt with him. "What?"

  "She stormed the Tower, Kit. Entered on her

  own free will with a pack of barbers, intending to free

  you."

  "She broke into the Tower? That ridiculous,

  empty-headed ..."

  "Here's your mount. Forgive me, Hamilton.

  I did what I thought was best."

  Kit, his harsh features a mask of intensity,

  paused and smiled at Suffolk, a brief,

  fleeting smile. "I know that, friend. were the

  positions reversed, I daresay we would be

  galloping away from my own estate, at this very

  moment."

  Together, with their hastily banded group of men, they

  raced to the Tower of London.

  They had shaved at least two dozen men, some

  less alert than others. Some did not even

  appear to realize they were being tended to. One fought

  back with blind fear when he saw Yerkel approach

  with a glinting straight razor. Only later, when

  he had been calmed, did he understand he was not

  to be tortured or executed.

  She could not believe the conditions these men were forced

  to endure. Although a few of the chambers were fairly

  well furnished, she quickly realized those were

  mainly the newcomers. By the time the days had

  stretched into weeks, and the months to years, the

  once-noble courtiers became forgotten by all,

  including their own families. Life ground on

  outside the Tower walls, while the captive

  inhabitants were forced to endure the cruel

  boredom of imprisonment.

  Every door held the possibility of Kit.

  She would hold her breath as Richard, watching them

  with unflattering intensity, allowed them into the

  chambers.

  She was beginning to give up when Richard led them

  to a corner chamber. The key to this room was more

  ornate, the door itself was more massive.

  This might be it.

  The door swung open with a heavy thud, and

  Deanie entered. There was but little light in the dim

  chamber. In the center of the cell was an oversized

  desk covered with papers.

  "Kit?"

  Her voice bounced off the stone walls, sounding

  hollow and unnatural. From a darkened corner

  came a low chuckle, mirth without humor.

  "Who is it?" Her question was not answered.

  Instead, the man laughed some more.

  "Mistress Deanie." The man emerged from the

  shadows, and Deanie instinctively stepped back.

  "How very kind of you to visit. Forgive my

  squalid lodgings."

  "Cromwell."

  "Indeed."

  She could see him more clearly now. He still

  wore the elegant clothing of his recent office,

  but the fur collar and cuffs were matted, and the cloak

  had dark patches of soil and grease. Although he

  was not wearing a hat, his dark hair clung to his

  round head as if it were still tamped down by a

  fashionable bonnet.

  "I'm sorry," she mumbled. The barbers did

  not enter the cell, but the guards watched warily.

  She began to leave, moving backward as if not

  comfortable turning her back on the prisoner.

  "What brings you to the Tower?" he asked

  mildly. "You have not been arrested."

  "I was just leaving."

  "I see. You were simply walking through the

  pleasant Tower corridors, and decided to pay

  an old friend a visit."

  She had reached the door, about to turn and flee.

  "Wait." His voice was less a command than a

  plea. She paused, comforted by the sight of the

  barbers, who were discussing which level to enter next.

  "How fares the queen?"

  Deanie squinted, wondering what game

  Cromwell was playing.

  "Of all the things I have done, I regret that

  the most." He seemed to be talking to himself. "My

  intention was not to deceive the king, nor to harm an

  innocent from Cleves. I thought they would find a

  fair measure of happiness."

  Cromwell moved toward the desk piled with

  papers. "He makes me work yet, forces me

  to labor for the annulment. There are indeed grounds for

  this annulment, real ones. It is the last thing I

  will do for him. I hope that one day he will recall

  my toil, even in here."

  He seemed lost in his own world, as if Deanie

  had vanished. She made another movement

  to leave. His eyes, suddenly clear, focused on

  her once again.

  "Tell her to agree," he said softly.

  "Tell who to agree to what?" She was torn

  between wanting to leave and wanting to know what he was

  talking about.

  "The queen. I am making provisions for her

  well-being. Tell her not to quarrel, not to demand

  more. There will be humiliation, of course, but better

  humiliation alive than pride dead. The king will

  want this done with, and will not stop to think about how

  generous he is being with Queen Anne. By the time

  he does know, he will not change the settlement.

  He will have been complimented on his kindness, a thing

  he relishes."

  Deanie watched his face. Gone was the ruthless

  ambition, the constant drive she had seen before.

  Now he was calm, resigned.

  "I'll tell her," Deanie said.

  "Thank you."

  Again she started to leave. She could feel the heat

  of his stare on her back. Without turning, she

  spoke. "Why were you so cruel to me and Kit?"

  "Mistress?" His voice was incredulous, and

  she spun to face him.

  "Why did you try to kill him? Why did you

  want to see us apart?"

  Cromwell remained still for a moment, weighing her

  words. "It was not my intention to be cruel." He

  glanced back to his desk. "I did what I

  felt was best for the king. He did not want the

  Cleves union. I thought to offer him a choice.

  But you, the two of you, would not allow it." Then he

  shrugged. "It was too late. I did not know it,

  but it was already too late for me."

  "Is he here, in the Tower?"

  "Hamilton?" Cromwell seemed

  surprised. "Nay. Not as I know."

  She grappled for something to say but could think of

  nothing.

  "I did my best." Cromwell frowned and

  plucked at his cuffs. "Always I did my best

  for the king. I learned from Wolsey how to bend the

  law to suit a royal whim. It seems I

  neglected to follow Wolsey's last lesson,

  the most important one. I did not learn from his

  fall. I thought I would be different, but just as

  Cromwell replaced Wolsey, Norfolk will

  replace Cromwell. Not for long. Norfolk

  is not clever enough to keep apace. His nobility will

  prohibit his success."

  It was time to leave. The guard slowly

>   closed the door, and Cromwell, still staring at his

  desk, made no notice.

  "Mistress Deanie," he said.

  The door was almost closed, and she halted the

  guard's arm on the lock.

  "Yes?"

  Cromwell cleared his throat, as if deciding

  whether or not to speak. "Watch yourself, mistress.

  You and Hamilton. Get yourselves as far from this

  shore as you can. Go now. Go far, and do not

  delay."

  The heavy door swung shut. The barbers and the

  guard said nothing but exchanged curious looks

  over Deanie's head.

  "I don't think Kit's here," she said

  to herself, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. "Do

  you want to call it quits?"

  Yerkel shifted his leather satchel to the other

  hand, his gaze involuntarily sliding down her

  leg.

  "I am not tired. Are you men tired?"

  "I am not tired," seconded the barber with the

  facial growth.

  "Hell," she muttered. "I suppose I'm

  going to have my legs shaved again."

  Yerkel thought for a moment. "Perhaps we should give

  some of the prisoners a healthful bleeding. Then we

  can shave your legs." He blushed when he said the

  word legs.

  A new guard suddenly bustled into the hall,

  breathing hard from climbing up the steps. He bowed

  to Yerkel's brother. "Sir, below are two

  dukes. They have men, and wish to gain entry."

  The guards discussed the situation, but Deanie

  paid no attention. She was bone-tired, depressed

  after seeing the prisoners--most of whom seemed to have

  done nothing more serious than be born into the wrong

  family--and needed to think.

  If Kit was not in the Tower, where the hell could

  he be?

  "I have never liked this place," Suffolk

  mumbled. He sniffed with distaste as a guard held

  them at the gates, waiting for an answer to their

  request to enter. "Even when the king and I were

  boys, and the Tower was a place where sovereigns

  awaited their coronation, it made me uneasy."

  "Perhaps it was the tale of the lost princes."

  Kit tried to peer beyond the guard, but he could see

  nothing.

  "Perhaps. The king's father spoke often of the two

  princes, murdered by their uncle."

  "Who was in turn murdered by the king's father,"

  Kit added distractedly.

  "Watch your step, Hamilton," Suffolk

  warned. "You are my friend, but above all I serve

  the king. Richard fell in battle; there was no

  murder. My own father died on Bosworth

  Field."

  "I apologize."

  Suffolk said nothing. He knew the king's

  faults, knew the thorns in the Tudor dynasty

  better than anyone. But he would not hear a word

  raised against the Tudors, would not allow disparaging

  comments to be uttered in his presence. Not of serious

  matters. To Suffolk as well as to the world, such was

  the stuff of treason.

  "Damn it, where is she?" Kit spat.

  The gate opened, and a dusty group of men leading

  their horses began to exit. Kit passed an

  impatient hand over his face, surprised by the

  full beard he had acquired. He had

  forgotten. How long had it been since he had

  ...

  He saw a flash of red in the center of the

  passing men.

  Without seeing more, without even seeing a face or

  a form, he knew who it was.

  "Deanie!" He cupped his hands over his mouth

  so his voice would carry.

  The flash of red stopped. The clatter of

  horses' hooves blanked the sound of a single

  voice, and the flash of red continued.

  "DEANIE!"

  This time she handed the reins of her horse to a

  hulking blond youth.

  "Kit?" Her call was distant, and she was

  looking about.

  He charged toward her, brushing past startled

  barbers and their horses.

  She seemed so small, her back turned,

  calling his name in the wrong direction. Had she

  always been so small? In the red velvet German

  gown, the sleeves tightly laced, she seemed like

  a doll, a dash of brilliant color in a

  swirling beige world.

  His arms gripped her shoulders, and even under the

  layers of fabric he could feel her shoulder

  blades. Then he turned her around, and she faced

  him.

  Kit. Her mouth formed his name, but no noise

  came out.

  His hair was dark and tossled, and his face was

  covered with a fierce beard, but his eyes, green

  slivered with brown, seemed lit with an inner

  fire. She reached up and threw her arms about his

  neck, her own eyes closed against the sudden rush

  of tears.

  Just to feel him, the iron grip as he lifted

  her off the ground, his long fingers splayed against her

  back and shoulders, caused her head to spin. His

  familiar scent, the soft bristle of his beard

  against her face. She swallowed, inhaling against the

  crook of his neck, feeling his warm breath as he

  kissed her temple.

  "I was so afraid I'd never see you again,"

  she cried. That had been her fear, unspoken,

  silent. She had wondered if she would ever feel

  his touch. Ever hear his rich voice ...

  "Deanie." His tone was tight, warring with the

  overwhelming desire to hold her forever.

  She felt herself sag against him. Her relief

  was crushing, almost painful.

  Then his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding and

  shattering. Her hand, which had been clutching at his

  powerful back, clenched into a fist, then, ever so

  slowly, unfolded.

  There was a noise, like buzzing in her ears. He

  pulled away from her mouth, cradling her head with a

  broad hand. Their eyes met, focused only on

  each other, and for the first time in days, he grinned.

  She stared at his mouth, the lips that had just left

  hers. His impossibly white teeth, the one

  crooked bottom tooth.

  Someone whispered, a distant sound, and another

  cleared his throat, a faraway shuffling. The

  buzzing she had heard was the hiss of conversation.

  She blinked. Only then, as she peered past

  Kit's shoulder, did she realize they were

  surrounded by dozens of onlookers: horses,

  barbers, guards, tradesmen with carts, curious

  housewives.

  "Many pardons." She recognized the voice

  as Yerkel's. "But would the duke be wanting a

  shave?"

  Deanie ran a finger over his jaw, the lush

  beard. It made him look dangerous, a ruthless

  pirate. He caught her hand and kissed it,

  closing his eyes as he did.

  There was a smattering of laughter.

  Kit opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow in the

  direction of the duke of Suffolk.

  "What did you say?" he asked, but his eyes

  had returned to Dea
nie.

  "I simply noted that should they wish to give you

  a shave at this very moment, you would end up bald as

  Caesar," answered Suffolk with a good-natured

  chortle.

  "Caesar?" Deanie smiled up at Kit.

  "The salad guy?"

  The onlookers watched in wonder as the pair

  managed to laugh even as they kissed.

  Chapter 19

  Everyone thought they were mad.

  Deanie and Kit had been together a scant few

  minutes when they proclaimed a driving need

  to journey to Hampton.

  "Hampton?" Suffolk spit out a mouthful of

  ale. The guards, upon realizing the exact

  identities of the august dukes, had produced

  ale, cheese, and bread for all to partake of before

  they left the Tower. The three sat on a low

  fence, their makeshift bench. Deanie nibbled

  guiltily at the coarse bread, wondering if their

  impromptu picnic would mean hunger for some of the

  prisoners.

  She had not been able to stop looking at Kit,

  at his sure and solid movements, the

  protective arm he would drape around her

  shoulder. Now that they were together, and it felt so very

  right, an extraordinary sense of belated terror

  made her knees weak.

  They had come so close to losing each other. Had

  she stayed within the Tower gates but a few extra

  moments, if she had left through the side gate as

  they had originally planned, they would have missed

  each other.

  The bread was hard to swallow.

  Kit and Suffolk were still debating the matter of

  going to Hampton.

  "Richmond is closer by miles," Suffolk

  emphatically pointed out. "And the king wishes to see

  you, Kit. He has been sore put to discover

  your whereabouts."

  "I am flattered. But we need to travel

  to Hampton, and we need to get there before

  nightfall."

  "Before nightfall! Already it is well

  past the hour of four."

  Deanie leaned closer to the conversation. Although she

  addressed both, she was clearly speaking to Kit.

  "The sun sets at about six, right?"

  "Later." Kit shifted, pulling her closer,

  her shoulder pressed to his chest. A delicious

  thrill ran through her at his touch. She wondered,

  distractedly, if it would always be like this, if she would

  always take such delight in his nearness. He

  spoke, and she felt his voice rumbling against

  her. "It is spring, so the sun stays up longer.

  We have until seven, perhaps later."

  Suffolk made a fist in frustration. "You will

  not be dissuaded, then." Kit and Deanie, in

  perfect unison, shook their heads. "I will go

  ask the guard where a boatswain may be had."

  He stalked off, muttering under his breath as he

  took a sip of ale.

  After days of uncertainty and tormenting

  anxiety, Kit and Deanie were finally alone.

  For a moment she did nothing but relax in the

  circle of his arms, unconsciously falling into the

  rhythm of his breathing. There were some things she wanted

  to say. She needed to tell him how she had felt

  without him, how her life before all of this meant

  nothing to her now. All she needed was Kit. He

  was all that mattered.

  She was safe here. She sighed, drowsiness

  overtaking her. It had been impossible to sleep

  before she found Kit. Now she was safe.

  His hold on her tightened as her eyes

  fluttered shut. Gently he kissed her forehead.

  Should he tell her now? He wondered, watching as

  she drifted off to sleep.

  He had done much thinking in his jail cell; there

  had been little else to occupy his time. Deanie had

  been the center of his swirling thoughts. Wherever they

  went, no matter where they eventually settled, he

  hoped they would be together. Of course he would give

  her time alone, for she had forged a life for herself,

  just as he had forged one in this century. It would

  take some adjusting. Yet he knew they could

  make a go of it, wherever they were.

  One of the barbers began to approach Kit,

  offering to give him a shave. But the barber halted,

  transfixed by the tender expression on the duke's

  strong face. His harsh features softened as he

  stared down at the woman in his arms.

  They would speak later, Kit thought, noticing the

  dark smudges of gray under her eyes.

  She could use a nap, no matter how brief.

  A slight smile of recognition lifted the

  corners of Kit's mouth, for he too had been

  unable to sleep.

  Then the barber heard the duke speak in a low,

  rasping voice: "My love."

  And the barber wisely decided to choose another

  occasion to ask the duke of Hamilton if he would

  like a shave.

  She had a dream she was gliding.

  There were splashy water sounds in the distance, but

  she felt no urgent need to wake up. The sun

  warmed her limbs, and she took a deep breath,

  contented and lethargic.

  Then, rudely, something cold and wet dripped

  on her face. With a gasp she sat up.

  "The boat! Don't rock the boat!"

  Shielding her eyes, she saw Kit, working a

  clumsy pair of oars. His doublet was removed,

  and the white linen sleeves of his shirt were rolled