Falling For Henry

by Beverley Brenna

  12

  The royal palace

  AS THEY RODE along through the woods, Kate tried not to show the interior battle that was occurring. Contrasting thoughts pulled her this way and that, and uppermost was the idea that she had to be cautious about what she said and did. If she, a stranger, had witnessed anything illegal, this fellow would be treating her differently. Instead, he seemed to know her well and treated her gently. Although she did not know where she was or where they were going, somehow the terrain was familiar, the direction they took stirring up phrases of distant memory: it won’t be long now. We’re almost home. Home?

  What her mind kept settling on was the idea that she had somehow traveled outside of her London time zone and ended up in a different time altogether. A completely different time. But was that possible? Logic whirled her back to details from books she’d read. According to the laws of physics, time travel was indeed possible if one went faster than the speed of light. The speed of light squared, she remembered.

  Of course, travel even at the speed of light wasn’t possible, unless one considered tachyon theory. She considered what she knew about tachyons, charged particles that could be attracted to points at the end of each universe. If the tachyons were drawn to the holes at each end of the tunnel, there would be opposing currents, and the particles themselves would be drawn back and forth through the tunnel, creating an unusual force field. Which would explain the shimmering greenish light—a kind of radiation. Such a force field could distort matter to the physical property it would need to shift between worlds.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up as she contemplated the prospect of being carried through time. Not my idea of a holiday vacation, she muttered, looking down at the dust that still coated her bruised ankles. It occurred to her that this dust could be collections of spent tachyons, particles that had lost their charge. If she was indeed in a time long past, then tachyon theory was a plausible explanation. But what had created the tunnels in the first place? Something had carved them out, had needed the passages so desperately that digging toward escape had become supernatural. The entrances, she mused, seemed stable in terms of place, but perhaps the times at either end could fluctuate, depending on the particular journey one took. Kate remembered leaning a little to the right just before things went dark. Maybe this was what had taken her beyond yesterday’s arrival.

  The young man, Henry, turned again to scrutinize her. “Are you quite all right?” he called. “I can see you shivering.”

  “Fine,” Kate called. “I am quite well.” I have to get a grip on myself, she thought. It would be so easy to lose control. She stared at the scenery. Nothing, and yet everything, was familiar. The parks she knew in London were not at all like this, and yet she felt she somehow knew this place. She was connected here with a history she couldn’t explain. She suddenly recalled other times with Henry—his arms around her, his voice soft against her ear. But maybe it’s all just a dream, she thought desperately. It has to be!

  It occurred to her just as suddenly that maybe the present situation was real, and what she remembered from before was a dream. The accident, her father’s death, living with her sister—maybe these were the products of her imagination, and real life was what she was currently experiencing. Her mind ached at this possibility, a chance, here at her fingertips, for escape from all that troubled her.

  “There!” called Henry as they passed the original hunting site and Kate turned her head from the sight of the dead deer. Instead, she gazed exhaustedly at the marsh and then at the foliage that concealed the mouth of the tunnel. Every pore of her body felt stretched and sore. “Not long now!” he called, glancing back at her with what she interpreted as a worried look. They moved out of the lush woodlands and through a ravaged area of forest, toward an upward-sloping plane. The ground here was reduced to black stubble and the trees stood dark and thin as wires. It looked like a planned burn, its parameters forming what seemed to be a measured quadrant on one side of a grassy hill. What had caused such destruction? Who would burn down an entire forest?

  The view from the top of the hill was stunning. At the end of a long stretch of lawn stood the palace. Kate’s skin tingled. My father the King. Towers and turrets stretched up into the heavens, red brick walls framing a building more massive than any she had seen in New York or London. Most of the structure rose into a second story, but at the far end she could see a tower five stories tall. They passed through stone gates, around which clustered a ragged-looking crowd, men and women holding out their hands beseechingly to the young man while a few scrawny children played in the dirt.

  “You shall have your supper,” her companion called out to them, throwing over a handful of coins over which the children eagerly scuffled. “Bide your time.”

  “God bless you, my lord,” said one of the older men. “God bless you and your many sons!”

  Why did everyone speak of sons? thought Kate disjointedly.

  A cobbled road led up through orchards of fruit trees and past a pond in which swans, white and black, swam languidly. They passed a stone wall, overgrown with vines, around what looked like a smaller, private garden, and Kate caught a glimpse of another young man as he stepped through the open gate toward them and then ducked back inside as if to prevent his being seen. He was a tall fellow with shaggy, sandy hair. She wondered why he’d disappeared like that and what he had to hide.

  After a short while, Henry stopped his horse, dismounted, and then helped Kate down from the pony. He has a broad, handsome face, she thought, his skin flushed and healthy from the sun. For a moment, he was close enough for her to breathe his scent: sage and peppermint, a clean, forest smell. Her knees felt weak but it wasn’t because of the ride. She was tempted to lean even closer to him, but then she regained her senses and pulled away, just as two young men ran over to take the horses.

  “Give them a good rubdown,” her companion said. “They’ve had a fine workout today.” As the grooms led the horses toward the stables, Henry contemplated Kate.

  “You are keeping your arrival secret?” he asked. “You must have paid your servants well to accompany you to Greenwich in secret.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Kate hedged, stumbling on the stones.

  “You did not make the journey by yourself?” he asked, his voice concerned. “There are dangers about, especially for Arthur’s widow. I will send word regarding your whereabouts, for when you are discovered missing, there will be great consternation.”

  “Arthur’s—” she began, then stopped. A sadness not her own squeezed her heart, preventing her from continuing.

  “Katherine, you are some changed,” he continued, after a minute. “I heard you had not been well, but … my brother’s widow would not normally look so—”

  “But I’m not! I—” Kate interrupted, and then stopped. She couldn’t let him think that she was a relative—and a widow, at that! But what could she tell him—that she didn’t have a clue where she was or what she was doing here? And then something in her responded to his words, allowed her to say, “It is all right, Henry. What matters is that I am here now, and quite well.”

  “But you are bleeding!” he exclaimed, examining her scratched hand.

  One of the nearby gardeners, wearing a plain tunic and leggings, turned from his hoe and stared. Kate fell silent under his scrutiny. Her companion called, “Master Walsh, how are the apples?” and the gardener indicated, with a flourish of his arm, a basket of wizened fruit that stood near their feet. “Take what you want, Prince Henry,” he said. “With my good blessing.” Prince Henry, thought Kate.

  “Bear them to the kitchens,” said Henry dismissively, “that they may be made into tarts for our supper.” Anxious to overcome her thoughts, Kate leaned over and took an apple, but before she could bite into it, Henry looked at her, aghast.

  “You won’t be eating raw fruit, Katherine!” he exclaimed. “Raw fruit causes an abundance of cold, wet humors … please, ta
ke care.”

  Kate quickly dropped the apple back into the basket. Numbly, she followed Henry up the path to the palace, every now and then meeting his worried glance as he turned back to study her. As they passed into an inner courtyard, she had a momentary rush of claustrophobia, and, for reassurance, turned over her left palm, studying the white scar. Henry took up her hand and brought it to his lips, then unfolded it and looked at the palm.

  “H for Henry,” he said, playfully.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she looked at the scar. What she’d always thought of as a K now startled her in its resemblance to an H. Or maybe it had always looked like an h. Her head began to spin.

  “We will hasten to your nurse,” said Henry, beckoning her under a stone arch. “I trust that she will know how to mend you.” Kate had the feeling that he was referring to more than the scratch from the pup, but she was too distracted by her thoughts to think about it very deeply. She looked up, trying to catch her breath. Picturesque brick work, mullioned windows, and stately gables loomed over her, along with gargoyles grinning down as if to share some secret joke.

  At the same time as it all seemed grand and terrifying, she intuitively led the way through the maze of passages and doorways to the upper level, where she found the final doorway into rooms she knew well. She touched her hand to her aching eyes.

  I must be careful what I say, thought Kate feverishly, following Henry into a room hung with rich tapestries. An older woman was standing beside one of the walls, rubbing with a husk of bread a section of a large, intricately designed wall hanging. When she turned and saw Henry, she immediately threw down the bread.

  “Well, well, imagine me, an old woman, cleaning our own tapestries.” She leaned toward the wall and brushed away a few of the leftover crumbs. “Do you not think that we deserve more help in these rooms? Whether Katherine is here or not?” Then she saw Kate behind Henry. Her snapping brown eyes took in Kate’s expression with what might have been an answering look of fear. Then she lowered her eyelids and clicked her tongue, bustling Kate into the next room, where she bathed her face and hands in a bowl of rose-scented water and dabbed at the scratches with a handkerchief. The woman’s skin was weathered dark and wrinkled and she looked about sixty, although Kate wondered if she might be younger on account of the jet black hair that was fastened under an embroidered velvet head piece. Kate’s gaze fastened on dark hairs that erupted from the older woman’s chin, but rather than seeing these with surprise, her reaction was instead one of familiarity.

  This is Doña Elvira, thought Kate foggily. My nurse. She is married to Don Pedro Manrique, but she stays here with me when she’s needed, and lives with him in their other rooms downstairs when I’m away. I wonder where the other maids are! They should be here, helping, unless they’ve been sent away with the sweating sickness … She swallowed and put her hand back up to her throbbing eyes.

  “Oh, it’s not a good thing to see you back so soon,” Doña Elvira muttered. “There’ll be trouble because of it, mark my words.” Although Doña Elvira’s speech when she spoke to her privately like this sounded strange and foreign, Kate understood every word. It was as if the nurse were speaking in another language, but a language somehow very familiar.

  After Doña Elvira had cleaned her up, she covered Kate’s head with a blue silk hood and then tied a red ribbon around her wrist: “To ward off bad luck,” she muttered. Then she gave her something to drink—something tart and sweet at the same time—and sternly told her to sit down on the bed. Kate felt too heavy to resist as Doña Elvira removed her shoes, looking at them with a horrified glance.

  “What have you got on your feet?” she croaked. Then her gaze moved upward to the jeans under Kate’s dress.

  “And what are you wearing on your legs! The cloth is thick, like bark!”

  That could be used in an advertisement, Kate thought, hysterical laughter rising in her chest. Denim bark, the newest fad. Do not wash, but allow to weather appropriately. Grows along with the wearer.

  “Not even fit for the grooms,” muttered Doña Elvira, tugging at the jeans. Kate dizzily assisted their removal and watched the old woman pitch them, along with the runners, into a corner of the room.

  “Good thing I’ve aired your slippers,” muttered Doña Elvira. She left the room for a few minutes and Kate felt her eyes drooping shut. Suddenly Doña Elvira returned with a white cotton shift.

  “Put this on and take some rest. We’ll see what we can make of you this afternoon,” she commanded. Then she went back to Henry. Kate held the garment but didn’t move, listening to their conversation in the other room.

  “Henry, what has happened? Why is our princess back from Fulham Palace?” Kate heard the old woman’s question very clearly but couldn’t make out the answer. Something in the drink was making her very drowsy, and her only desire was to sleep as she had been commanded to do. She made a feeble attempt to undress, but her arms were too heavy; instead, she tumbled over onto cool linen sheets and shut her eyes.

  13

  The meal

  WHEN KATE AWOKE, her body felt stiff and sore, as if she had been sleeping a long time. She was in the same strange bed and she could see by the window that it was dusk. The room was dimly lit by a single lantern in the corner and she could smell the thick aroma of burning oil. Kate’s mind was immediately a hive for buzzing thoughts. Here she was in this peculiar place with people who thought she was someone else. Could she ever get home?

  She looked at the nightgown in her hands and wondered if she should put it on, but she couldn’t seem to make her body take orders. Pain ebbed and flowed in her left temple. When she moved, the headache worsened. Whatever she’d been given to drink, she’d best not drink any more of it.

  “I’m going down to dinner,” she heard a woman say in a voice that sounded like dry reeds rubbing together. “Will she be all right if we leave her alone?”

  “Yes, most certainly,” came Doña Elvira’s distinctive cadences. “If she saw a cunning woman and the cat’s got her tongue, there are remedies for that.”

  “Do you think herself’s a sorcerer?” a third woman cried. There was fear in her voice.

  “No, of course not! Stop the talk this instant.” That was Doña Elvira again, speaking very firmly.

  “I didn’t mean … but will she soon be well?” It was Reedy Voice again.

  “Soon, by St. Sebastian. She’s a strong girl. It won’t take long. We’ll use the leeches if need be. It is good to have her home in these difficult times,” replied Doña Elvira.

  Kate shivered under the damp covers and waited until she heard the women retreat down the corridor. Then curiosity and reason got the better of fear. She needed to get up and figure things out. These people were obviously suspicious of her and, wherever she was, if people thought she was a witch, that could be dangerous. Fenwick had made them study this at school, how witches had been burned at the stake. Kate rolled over and thrust her legs off the bed, her feet just touching the floor. Then, standing up shakily, her head pounding, she peered out into the sitting room. It was empty. The bread had been removed and the tile floor swept clean. A small fire glowed in some sort of fire pan, chunks of charcoal sending off an inviting warmth.

  Kate determinedly took a deep breath, shook off the dizziness, and sneaked through the sitting room and down the stone passageway toward a thick stream of voices. Soon she was peering through a doorway into a great room whose roof timbers were painted yellow ochre. The smell hit her hard, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. A bitter combination of human sweat and acrid odors from the rushes on the floor brought tears to her eyes. Long rows of people—about three hundred in all, Kate estimated—sat at trestle tables, and servants in aprons and caps came and went, carrying silver and gold serving dishes. There was a constant tide of laughter and clattering utensils, with boisterous conversations that rose and fell.

  Kate turned her head away from the stench, her stomach turning unpleasantly
. A thick fishy odor that wafted over from a nearby table made her wonder if the meat was entirely fresh. She wrinkled her nose, staring back at the throng as a gaudily dressed clown tumbled head over heels up and down the aisles. Music wove in and out of the sea of voices. At the far end of the room, a man was playing a tubby-looking guitar and singing. Kate gradually noticed other milder smells that were rather pleasant. Violets, she thought, looking down at the rushes. Then she glanced back at the tables, following the pungent scent of sage. She watched as a woman in a low-necked long gown cut her food with a knife, poked bits into her mouth with her fingers, and then threw the bones at her feet. Did nobody eat with forks? Kate looked around, her neck and back beginning to ache from the angle at which she stood in the doorway, trying to remain unnoticed. Decisively, she crept into the room and slipped into an empty chair. Either she could pass freely here, or she’d be undone—might as well find out.

  At her right, a heated conversation seemed to be brewing between two portly gentlemen dressed in plain brown cloth.

  “Kings of England have never had … never had any superior except God!” said the bald-headed one, his words slurring a bit because, Kate thought, of the ale he was thirstily gulping down. “What makes you think His Majesty … is any different?”

  “I’m not questioning that his … that his superior is God,” said the second, his words equally slurred. He spat onto the floor and then used his foot to tread the glob into the rushes. He lowered his voice and Kate could hardly hear the next part. “What I’m saying is that His Highness seized the crown from King Richard, who also served God. Both served God, yet one triumphed and the other perished. How is that possible?”