Falling For Henry

by Beverley Brenna

  On the day her mother left, Kate had dropped a pitcher of juice on the kitchen floor. It slipped through her hands and smashed, the orange liquid streaming everywhere. Trying to sop it up with a towel, a shard of glass had pierced her palm, leaving a white scar that resembled the letter K. “K for Katherine,” she’d say to herself when she could feel an anxiety attack coming on. “K for Kate.” Somehow the reassurance of herself, her name, gave her strength.

  I hate the way I am, she thought, spiraling into panic as she stood alone in the confines of the tunnel. I hate myself! She stared at her palm, the familiar breathlessness making her ears ring. She tried not to remember the way a woman with red-blonde curls and a soft voice had told her to sit on the sofa until Dad came home, said that he’d bring some Band-Aids, that everything would be all right. The woman smelled like lemons and Kate thought about the jar of lemon drops that had always been on the coffee table. She’d sucked one after another as she sat there by herself, waiting for her father, her hand wrapped up in wet paper towel, and as she remembered this, her heart gave a warning squeeze. This was her first and last memory of her mother, and she’d traced it so often over the years, she’d worn it smooth and flat as a skipping stone. Her one memory of Isobel. And after that—nothing. Isobel had simply vanished.

  Kate took a hesitant step deeper into the tunnel, her eyes slowly adjusting to the absence of light. She felt misery squeeze from every pore. Was she heading toward the elevator or was this actually the path that would take her under the Thames? She had reluctantly studied both the elevator and the tunnel in Fenwick’s history class, and fuzzily remembered something about two Edwardian lift shafts housed at ground level in brick rotundas with glass domes … but maybe that was something else, something to do with the museum? The route under the Thames was all muddled up with the history of Greenwich and the items in the museum that they were supposed to be viewing. What she needed was the footpath that connected Greenwich Park to the City of London, and it didn’t really matter whether or not she took an elevator to get to the footpath. She took another step forward into the dim passageway. This seemed like the right direction.

  Suddenly she felt the world revolving as though she were on a ride at the fair. She dropped to her knees and then fell forward, her body flattening as if gravity were a rolling pin. Hysteria beat against her temples. She tried to move her arms and legs, and could not. She tried to catch her breath, and could not. Terror poured its black ink into her body, filling her from feet to head, and then she was conscious, for a few heady moments, of being zero, of being subtracted from herself until nothing was left. Then, jarringly, she sensed herself back inside a body with shape and form, a body that needed to breathe. She choked, her throat straining for air, and lifted her head from the dirt floor of the tunnel. There was a pinpoint of daylight in the distance. She stumbled to her feet and ran crazily, her arms and legs numb, toward the widening entrance of the tunnel.

  Dazed, she emerged into daylight, expecting to see and hear the City of London. That’s where she’d be if this were the other end of the footpath under the Thames. Instead of the anticipated cityscape, she found herself in the middle of a pastoral forest, a boggy area nearby exuding a pungent smell. Mint, she thought, bewildered. She took a tentative step forward, then stopped when she heard the long, echoing notes of a horn. The clearing up ahead was suddenly filled with activity as horses and dogs came plunging through the undergrowth.

  Her eyes feeling stretched and sore, Kate tried to take in the action before her as about a dozen men and women rode into view. It looked like a hunting party of some kind. They wore odd clothes, the men sporting long, colorful coats, puffy around the hips, overtop green or brown leggings, while the women had on long dresses. Most of the men carried bows and arrows, but there were a few spears, and the horses bore extravagantly embroidered saddle cloths, their manes and tails done up with festive ribbons. The scene looked like something from a movie.

  “I’ve gone off my nut!” Kate breathed, borrowing a phrase from Gran. She held onto the slender trunk of a nearby tree and stared at the impossible images before her. The women’s gowns were tight-waisted and of rich material, with elaborate hoods. They sat sidesaddle on their horses, their bodies twisted in what Kate thought was an awkward position, yet they managed to ride gracefully, nevertheless. On the edge of the clearing, Kate saw another girl carefully maneuvering her way among the trees. She was riding a gray pony that she quickly drew to a walk, sidestepping behind thick bushes which masked her from the hunting party. It looked as if she had just ridden quite a distance, and in her hurry was now breathless and disheveled. She seemed to be trying to avoid the hunters. She was wearing a blue-gray gown; her hood was down and she was working her waist-length auburn hair back into place while staying atop her mount. Something about her was very familiar, and Kate stared hard, trying to get a better look.

  Suddenly, Kate glimpsed what the hunters were after. A muscular buck with huge antlers bounded from the trees, branches snapping with its passage. A young man a bit taller than Kate stood up in his stirrups and shot an arrow. The arrow caught the deer full in the chest and it fell to its knees, struggled to rise, and then went down in the grass, thrashing in panic. An echoing panic ran through Kate’s chest. This picture no longer pleased her; unlike a movie, she couldn’t pass it off as make-believe. This hunt was real! An animal was being killed, right in front of her eyes!

  She tore her gaze away from the deer as the fellow’s red hair, caught in the sunlight, looked as though it were on fire, a mesmerizing effect. He turned and Kate had a glimpse of his face. She’d never before seen such a look of triumph or, a moment later, such grace of motion as he slid from his horse and ran toward the deer. Something about him both interested and frightened her, and the drama of the moment made her heart beat faster. The deer tried to heave itself forward and Kate saw the bright gleam of blood. She felt sick to her stomach. This was definitely no movie.

  The knife flashed in the young man’s hand and he gave an excited cry, his eyes glittering as the buck shuddered and then was still. Not just still, thought Kate: dead. Had she called out, made some kind of noise, could she have saved it? Shaking, she backed further into the shadows. The hunting party yelled jubilantly and horns heralded their success. Harm and harmony, Kate thought, her legs trembling, her hands cold as ice. She saw the girl on the gray pony edge further into the concealment of the forest, trying, as Kate was trying, not to be seen. Kate retreated a little deeper into the tunnel, tripped over her own feet, and fell into a side passage that opened into an alcove. She found herself facing wide blue eyes set in a small, furry gray face. A dog! A puppy of some kind. It stumbled to its feet and tried to run, but one of its front legs buckled and it crumpled back onto the ground. As if it knew it had no chance, it sank back in the dust, eyes gleaming piteously within a band of white fur that ran across its brow and down its muzzle.

  “We’re both afraid,” Kate said softly, “but neither of us is going to get hurt. You’ll be okay. Your mama will be back soon.”

  She remembered with bitterness that someone had told her that once, too, a long time ago. And she was still waiting. Then she heard a low growl coming from the tunnel’s opening and turned quickly, catching a glimpse of stone gray eyes and a fanged snarl. These were no dogs! She threw herself headlong into the shaft of the tunnel, desperate to get away.

  The floor moved under her feet and she was once again moving out of control, a scream locked in her throat. As the force once again flattened her like dough, she heard a bone-chilling howl and her last thought before oblivion was: Wolves!

  Later—and she didn’t know if what had passed were minutes, hours, or some other quantity of time she couldn’t measure—she found herself stumbling shakily toward the light. She made it to the original entrance of the tunnel and tumbled out into the sunshine, chest burning, hands and feet numb with dust particles pebbling her ankles like magnetic filings. The world around her seemed
to be moving and she couldn’t keep her balance. Falling to the grass, she lay there disoriented and sick to her stomach. Above the tree line, she could see the top of the Royal Observatory, signaling that she was once again in Greenwich Park, and the purring of nearby pigeons was oddly comforting, but her mind brimmed with a confusing mix of questions and images that had nothing to do with the sights and sounds nearby.

  Finally she got her thoughts in order. Where had she been? What exactly had she seen there? Images flashed disjointedly through her head and she rubbed at her icy hands. The wolves sorted themselves from the other already fading memories, eerily tangible. She was lucky to be alive! She got dizzily to her feet and began to make her way back along the footpath, stumbling as the ground sloped upwards toward the museum. She saw her tracks on the grass, and, on the side of the hill, her navy jacket. She headed over and snatched it up. Damp from the rain, it was still a welcome weight upon her shoulders.

  “Katherine Allen,” a voice growled, “where have you been!” Up ahead stood Fenwick and the class. Fenwick’s dark eyes gleamed from beneath the thatch of light hair, making her look more like a greyhound than ever. Kate stared at the teacher and took a big gulp of air.

  “I … um … I had to go to the bathroom,” she stuttered, brushing her hands against her wool skirt just as she remembered she hadn’t used the proper British term. “I mean, lavatory,” she amended. Laughter rippled from her classmates, but she steadfastly went on. “And then I thought I’d just … um … run around for a bit until you all came out.”

  Fenwick’s gaze never wavered from Kate’s face although the teacher moved her narrow head from side to side, as if searching a scent on the breeze.

  “We scoured the museum, worried that we’d left you behind,” Fenwick snapped, her nostrils flaring. “Have some consideration for others the next time you decide to go for a jog. Now fall into place.”

  Fenwick skillfully herded the students into threes, and as they took the path again, Kate drew herself away from Tiffany and ratty Cynthia, who still had a smirk on her face as if contemplating some smart remark. For a moment, Kate thought she saw a dark shape slinking among the bushes on the other side of the path, but she blinked and the illusion—for it must have been just her imagination—was replaced by the mottled blend of autumn colors.

  “Where were you?” asked Tiffany in a voice that Kate thought was intended to sound pleasant but under which she could hear the scratch of sharply manicured nails.

  “Nowhere,” said Kate, and looked stonily ahead, again imagining herself as Humpty Dumpty. But she wouldn’t be scrambled. Boiled, that’s how she wanted to act among these kids. Hard-boiled. Tiffany rolled her eyes at Cynthia, who tossed her blonde pony tail in disgust.

  “Foreigners,” she mouthed, and Kate turned away.

  “Note the geodesic domes on the rotundas housing the elevator,” Fenwick was directing. Kate looked with surprise at the brick building ahead. So this was the elevator. She’d apparently gone in the wrong direction and headed down toward the Thames when she should have remained on higher ground. Perhaps what she’d discovered was an old entranceway to the footpath where she’d taken a wrong turn and stumbled onto a movie set. It had to have been a movie. In her panic, she must have imagined the blood.

  Kate thought again of the wolves. They had not been imagined, nor were they part of any film. She wondered, with a sharp sense of duty, if the elevator ahead accessed the same footpath where she’d encountered the wolf and her cub. Should she tell the teacher about the possible danger? She couldn’t let anyone go underground if there was a mother wolf, waiting to attack. Even if its prey was Cynthia, whom she truly despised. The teacher herded them onto the large elevator and Kate caught her breath. She hated elevators. The descent, however, was mercifully swift, and, just as spots of panic began floating behind her eyes, the elevator opened onto an expanse of white tile. This, obviously, was the footpath under the Thames, although perhaps the dirt tunnel she’d been in earlier was somehow adjoining. Kate knew she had to speak up.

  “The … uh … the tunnel might not be safe at the moment,” she began, weakly.

  “What do you mean?” said Fenwick, her liquid eyes fixed on Kate.

  “When … when I was down here before, I heard something. You know, there … there might be a wolf den in here or something.”

  “When were you down here? You mean, just now?” Fenwick bristled, as if the idea of a student alone in the tunnel was alarming.

  “Oh, no,” Kate said, hurriedly. “One other time, with … with my sister. We thought we heard wolves in the tunnel, and so I’m wondering if it’s safe …”

  “Nonsense,” said Fenwick. “Likely some kids having you on. You Americans certainly like to sensationalize things. There haven’t been wolves in London for ages.”

  “But—” started Kate, and then the teacher cut her off.

  “Hurry, now, let’s move along,” Fenwick commanded.

  Well, she can go first, thought Kate. If she becomes pâté for some wild animal, it serves her right. Then we’d have to have a sub. Supply teacher, she mused, absently, and then, more ominously, with a rising sense of hysteria: Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  “Forward,” said Fenwick, her narrow head turning one way, then the other. “Towards the City!”

  “Please, Miss Fenwick, I have to use the lavatory,” Amandella called out, her nasal voice echoing against the tile walls of the footpath.

  “Not now, Miss Hingenbottom,” answered the teacher. “You must wait until we reach the tube stop at the other side of the Thames.”

  Kate moved unsteadily along the flagstones of the immense walkway that was to take them back to the City of London. She knew the sounds she’d heard were not the result of kids playing tricks. She had seen and heard real wolves, although this part of the tunnel certainly seemed safe enough.

  “Only in England,” she mused, staring at the glazed white tile surrounding them. Clearly it was lavatory material, and she could see it stretching ahead for what looked like miles and miles. Rather than a transit tunnel, it looked like a gargantuan bathroom. Or some kind of morgue. Kate took a long, shaky breath. A strong scent of disinfectant completed the impression and she wrinkled her nostrils, stealing glances at the other girls, none of whom seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable about the possibility of being pickled alive.

  Cynthia and Tiffany whispered to each other and stole glances at Kate, while Tiffany at the same time applied tulip-red lipstick to her own puckered lips. Amandella blew her nose on a long string of toilet paper she’d obviously had balled up in her pocket for quite some time. Parvana and Navjiit giggled about something. One of the quieter students—a pretty girl named Hannah—furiously scribbled in a notebook as she walked along, halting every now and then to complete a sentence.

  But as Kate moved further into the walkway, she wasn’t thinking of the other girls. Instead, the children’s rhyme beat a steady staccato against her temples: All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again.

  3

  William

  YOUNG WILLIAM FITZROY stopped and leaned his lanky frame against the cool stones for a moment before opening the gate in the wall. Although the morning was cool, the burden he carried in his cloak was making him sweat just a little. He entered the garden and then used his hip to push the gate shut. There. He had done it. So far his little bundle was safe and sound. If he could just get it into the shed at the far end of the garden, things might be all right.

  William was tired, a thick, aching exhaustion that filled the very marrow of his bones. He had not been resting well, worries thrumming in his brain until the darkness was all but consumed by dawn, before sleep came to the rescue. Yawning, he headed past old raspberry canes and rhubarb stalks, wondering at his own courage in defying the Crown. Wolves had been outlawed long ago. Was he really going to disobey his King and try to save this small creature? Warmth from the
cub seeped through the cloth into his arms. Perhaps it was the last of its kind in England. He strengthened his resolve. I am obliged to do what is right, he told himself. In spite of the consequences.

  William knew no one entered this little garden, abandoned for so long. Across the road from the Friars’ Church, it was a solitary spot surrounded by the low stone wall half hidden by thick, gleaming holly and tendrils of climbing ivy. It had rained earlier that day and the pale green ivy leaves gave off such a scent that he stopped for a minute just to breathe the heavenly sweetness. The garden had once been tended by Princess Margaret, but four years ago she had married King James and gone to Scotland. He supposed that since then the place had become overgrown and forgotten, the tools in the shed untouched, judging by the brambles that stretched over the doorstep of the shed and the cobwebs strung across the frame.

  He’d come across the garden in one of the fitful, wandering moods that overcame him now and then as he pondered his state here in the royal court, haunted by his responsibilities to young Prince Henry, the Duke of York, as well as his dual allegiance to Father, locked up in the Tower by King Henry VII on suspicion of treason. Not that Father had done anything wrong. Somehow, if it took forever, William was determined to find a way to prove his father’s innocence and set him free.

  Quickly, in case someone discovered him and confiscated the little animal, he kicked away the weeds and thrust open the door of the shed, depositing the cub on an empty sack in a corner where it quickly stirred and came gingerly awake. The interior of the shed smelled musty, but at least it was dry. As William went about finding a bowl, he muttered comfort to the creature and, when he brought back fresh water from the stream that ran alongside the garden, the poor thing lifted its head and managed a brief drink. Without the strength to stand, it soon fell back onto the straw and sank into a restless sleep.