Once Upon a Rose

newly created earl of Essex, stood in her

  bedroom, a small grin twisting his fleshy

  lips.

  "What are you doing here, Mr. Cromwell?"

  His eyes darkened at her use of "mister" in his

  name. "Is the king coming?" Her voice was small,

  and she swallowed.

  "Nay, milady. But if thou playest

  correctly, the king shall indeed make this chamber his

  own."

  He leaned close enough for her to smell his breath,

  moldy and corrupt. Although his words were simple,

  there was an unmistakable sense of menace behind his

  manner. Perhaps in the light of day he would take more

  care to polish his demeanor. But now, in the dank

  hours of night, before a new member of the court,

  there was no reason to smooth his coarse edges.

  Deanie pressed her back against the headboard

  of the bed, clutching the bolster and the coverlet against

  her bare neck. Cromwell smiled once more.

  "Now, Mistress Deanie, some questions to pave

  the way for a smooth transition. Art thou of the

  Catholic faith?"

  "No," she gasped, wondering why a fully

  clothed earl would wish to discuss religion at this

  peculiar hour.

  "Nay?" His beady eyes caught the glint of the

  bedside candle. In the massive fireplace, a

  log crackled, and a sprinkle of red ash puffed

  into the air. The night was cold for late spring, and

  she suddenly felt a chill trace the length of

  her spine.

  Cromwell continued, his voice neutral.

  "Thou hath been absent from the daily Mass.

  Good. Art thou then a follower of Luther?"

  "No. I mean, are you talking about the bad

  guy Lex Luthor? In the Superman comics?"

  Her voice had reached a high pitch, and she

  realized she was beginning to babble. "Oh, of course

  you aren't. What the hell am I thinking of." Her

  palms were damp. "Why are you asking me these

  questions?"

  Calmly, he repeated the question: "Art thou a

  follower of Luther?"

  Her mind whirled, trying desperately

  to recall what Kit had told her about

  religion in the court. She had been staring at his

  eyes, wondering how a man of such potent

  masculinity could have such dark lashes. He had

  been emphatic, she remembered. But she also

  recalled how close he had been, how she had

  averted her eyes from his face, only to be drawn

  to his hands, the veins on the top, the spray of

  black hairs just visible beneath his full cuffs.

  What had he said?

  Cromwell remained silent, patiently

  awaiting her response. She had the uneasy

  feeling that he would wait as long as it took for her

  answer, ever quiet and composed, whether it took

  her a month or a minute to speak. He folded

  his hands, and she noticed how thick and stubby they

  were, with a heavy gold ring on one finger. She

  glanced up at his face, a flat monkey

  face, the wide gap between his two front teeth.

  "Well?" he prodded. "Art thou a

  Protestant?"

  That sounded right. Growing up, her mother had never

  been able to take Deanie to church, since

  Sundays were always big-business days at the

  truck stop. She assumed she was a Baptist,

  since everyone else she knew was. Whenever she

  attended services with a friend, it was always at a

  Baptist church.

  "Baptist is Protestant, right?"

  For once Cromwell looked befuddled.

  "Mistress Deanie, it matters not that thou was

  baptized. What matters is--"

  He was interrupted by shouts outside her door

  and a scuffling sound. She had been unaware of

  anyone else in the hallway. At once the

  heavy door swung open, and a gentle beam of

  light from the hall torches lit her room.

  "Sir!" A breathless young man, his soiled

  leather jerkin askew, threw a pleading glance

  toward Cromwell, completely ignoring

  Deanie. "The duke, he--"

  From behind, a powerful hand pulled the young man

  back into the corridor. Deanie recognized the

  fleeting sleeve, the mighty hand.

  "Kit?" she said softly. Then she hopped out

  of bed, heedless of the cold floor and the swift

  perusal Cromwell gave her barely clothed

  form. "Kit!"

  With a casual motion, Cromwell grasped the

  neck of her gown and twisted it, stopping not only

  her cry but her ability to breathe. Her hands flew

  to her throat, clawing uselessly in the air.

  The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as

  if aware that it would be terribly bad taste

  to smile but unable to entirely mask his pleasure.

  "The duke may enter," Cromwell announced

  grandly. The grunts and shuffles in the hallway

  ceased.

  Deanie saw Kit enter the room, blood on

  his forehead and the front of his doublet torn. The

  backs of her knees began to buckle as

  Cromwell held firm his grip.

  "You will tell the king nothing of this," Cromwell

  said softly, his gaze never leaving Deanie's

  desperate face. Kit did not answer.

  Instead, he charged toward her.

  From behind she saw a heavy iron staff, with a

  blade as wicked as an ax, with red tassles

  near the head. With the last of her ebbing strength she

  tried to warn Kit, gesturing with her hands of the

  danger behind. But her hand movements were

  indecipherable.

  In a crazy blur she saw the staff swing

  up, gathering momentum, then slice down with an

  awful thud on Kit's shoulder. For a horrifying

  moment she thought the man had hit Kit on the

  head, but at the last instant he swerved.

  Cromwell loosened his hold on her

  and she gasped, her chest heaving for air, as Kit

  crumpled to the ground. The staff was again raised.

  As Kit shook his head and began to push himself up,

  Cromwell nodded to his henchman, the go-ahead

  to strike again.

  "No!" she croaked, her voice barely

  audible. Cromwell paused, stopping the

  staff-wielding henchman with an understated shrug.

  "You will tell the king nothing of this," Cromwell

  repeated. Deanie nodded in frantic agreement.

  With that he let go of her gown, and she stumbled over

  to Kit.

  At first she couldn't see his face; his thick

  curls of black hair tumbled forward, obscuring

  his expression. She knelt beside him, gingerly

  placing her hand on his upper arm. His breathing was

  loud and ragged, and for a moment she thought he was going

  to be ill. With the blow he had just taken, she was

  astounded he was still conscious. Only tremendous

  physical strength and willpower was preventing him

  from slipping into senselessness.

  Before he looked up, his hand, strong and sure,

  clamped over her wrist, as if assuring her all

  would be well. Then his head snapped up, his eyes


  to hers, and her breath caught in her throat. Never

  had she seen a look of such unwavering intensity.

  It was clearly costing him a great deal to focus.

  Behind the searing gaze was a slight cloudiness. He

  closed his eyes tightly and shook his head once

  more. Again he looked at her, the incandescent

  hazel depths clear of all fog.

  He stood up quickly in a forceful rolling

  motion, pulling Deanie with him. Only she

  noticed the slight unsteadiness in his stance. The

  gash on his forehead, the fresh blood seeping through

  the crook of his neck where he had just been hit, and

  another slash on his arm told her what a beating

  he had withstood before he even reached her chamber.

  She had a strange feeling in the pit of her

  stomach, a sticky-sick feeling of tumbling in

  air. She drew in a shaky breath, and his solid

  arm closed protectively around her shoulders.

  He loved her.

  No other man had ever so much as crossed a

  street for her. No other man had offered a hand

  unless it would directly benefit him. But

  Christopher Neville, the duke of

  Hamilton, had just endured a physical beating

  to get to her.

  "Oh!" Her voice was a small

  cry, and she turned her face toward his chest,

  savoring his fragrance, his unyielding energy. His

  other arm pulled her closer, encircling her in his

  warmth.

  Her hair fell over her face, and Kit

  saw her neck, white and fragile and vulnerable,

  the angry red line where Cromwell had gripped

  her. He felt her burrow closer, her hands

  pressing him to her side, as if she wanted to be

  as close as possible.

  "How very charming," drawled Cromwell. He

  motioned for his men to leave the room, all except

  the large man with the staff. They did as they were

  ordered.

  "Now," he began, as the huge door closed

  soundlessly, "shall we discuss the future?"

  Deanie ignored Cromwell and looked up

  at Kit. Her hair cascaded like chestnut

  silk from her face, her eyes large and liquid

  brown. "I want to be with you," she whispered.

  "I want to go with you, wherever you go. I don't

  care, Kit. I just want to be with you."

  He ran a finger along the side of her face

  and was about to speak when Cromwell laughed.

  "Mistress Deanie, thou hath attracted the

  king's eye. Follow me, and all of England shall

  soon call thee queen."

  She blinked. "But I don't want to be--"

  "Ignore my words," said Cromwell, his

  voice lowered, "and thou shall burn as a heretic."

  "Thou art mad," snarled Kit. "A

  desperate, pathetic man who will soon attend the

  block. Thou hath lost all reason."

  "Nay, Duke. Hath Mistress Deanie

  been once to the Holy Mass? Or followed the

  king in prayer?" Cromwell spoke easily.

  "As for thee, Duke, will you enjoy a charge of

  treason? 'Twill be treason to sample

  property of the king, to cuckold the royal stud.

  Ah, how easily treason will be proved. To have that

  handsome head mounted upon a rusty pike at

  Traitor's Gate, rotting for all of

  London to see. Will the ladies find thee so

  handsome then, Duke?"

  "No!" Deanie felt her knees wobble.

  Her throat, still raw from Cromwell's hold, was

  thick with rising bile. She didn't care about the

  threats to herself, but his description of what would

  happen to Kit was so vivid, so appallingly

  real. "No. Please. I'll do

  anything."

  "Deanie, he's bluffing." Kit glared at

  Cromwell.

  "Am I?"

  Without waiting for a reply, Cromwell lifted

  a single stubby finger to the man with the staff. Immediately

  the staff came crashing down on Kit's shoulder,

  in the exact spot on which it had landed before. A low

  moan escaped his lips, and Deanie felt his

  full weight go limp, then slump to the ground.

  "Kit!" She knelt beside him, her hands

  trembling with panic. His head was at an awkward

  angle, and for a moment she thought his neck had been

  broken. Gripping his wrist, she found a pulse,

  weak but steady. "Kit," she repeated in a

  whisper.

  "Now, Mistress Deanie," Cromwell

  continued as if nothing had occurred, "shall we discuss

  the future?"

  They would kill him, she realized. If she

  did not play along with this madman, Kit was as

  good as dead. Swallowing hard, she faced

  Cromwell, her hand still clamping Kit's wrist,

  the pulsing beat giving her strength.

  When she spoke, her voice was flat and

  emotionless. "Yes, Mr. Cromwell. Anything

  you wish."

  END OF VOLUME I

  ONCE UPON A ROSE

  by

  JUDITH O'BRIEN

  Volume II of Three Volumes

  Pages i-ii and 187-390

  Published by: POCKET BOOKS, 1230

  Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY

  10020. Further reproduction or distribution

  in other than a specialized format is

  prohibited.

  Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,

  National Library Service for the Blind and

  Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,

  Inc., 1998.

  Copyright 1996 by Judith O'Brien

  ONCE UPON A ROSE

  Chapter 7

  The sun beat harshly on her face, causing

  her to blink against the heat and glare. Deanie

  shifted in the saddle, an absurd device that

  felt more like an instrument of torture than an

  aid to female riders, the jutting pummel under

  her knee meant to hold her uncomfortably in

  place. Although she had been horseback riding

  dozens of times, she had never been forced to ride

  sidesaddle, wearing over ten pounds of clothing and a

  wooden corset.

  She wiped the perspiration from her upper lip,

  silently cursing the tightly laced sleeves.

  Although it wasn't hot--not the humid warmth

  Deanie was accustomed to--she felt as if she

  had been placed in an oven. Her clothing felt

  dirty and four sizes too small, her throat

  was scratchy and raw.

  Cecily Garrison rode on her right, and

  to her left was Katherine Howard. To the casual

  observer, the women presented a fetching sight;

  three ladies-in-waiting on the royal caravan

  to Richmond palace, a few miles closer

  to London. They took the Thames-side road,

  winding and twisting as the whims of the river directed

  them.

  Unlike the rest of the courtiers, Deanie

  wasn't concerned with what sort of image she

  projected. She had not slept the night before and

  had not been able to eat for fear she would become

  ill.

  Her horse stumbled over a log, but De
anie

  barely noticed. Her sudden grip was more reflex

  than a desire to prevent any mishap. She

  didn't really care one way or another. Her

  senses were numbed. Everything seemed distorted and

  harsh; the pungent odor of the horses, Katherine

  Howard's incessant giggles, the shouts of

  servants and courtiers along the stone- and

  mud-covered path. The only thing she was achingly

  aware of was that every hoofbeat took her farther from

  Kit.

  Kit.

  Was he even alive? Cromwell had assured

  her that he was, yet she had little faith in the

  man's word. She closed her eyes, trying to rid

  her mind of the last glimpse she'd had of him, being

  dragged from her chambers the night before. The

  clumsy henchman had bumped into the threshold,

  slamming Kit's lolling head against the stone and

  wood, but Kit had made no sound, no noise

  at all. The elongated pool of blood left

  on her floor had been the only evidence of his

  presence.

  Everyone else in the caravan was buzzing about

  Queen Anne, also left behind at Hampton,

  last seen waving rather forlornly from under the clock

  tower. She had tried valiantly to follow the

  train as far as the bridge over Hampton's

  moat, but she had been humiliatingly guided

  back by Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk.

  Kit.

  He had fought for her, had beaten his way to her

  chamber door. There was so much unfinished business,

  so much she wanted to tell him. He didn't even

  know her shoe size, or that she was allergic

  to shellfish. And there was so much basic information she

  didn't know about him. When was his birthday, and how

  old was he? Did he prefer blue or green,

  and what was his mother like?

  Her horse again pitched forward, this time tripping

  over a burlap cloth, muddied and twisted into a

  knotted pile.

  She had sold her soul to Cromwell.

  To spare Kit's life she had agreed to his

  demands, to play the role of mistress to the King,

  to even become Queen, all the while securing for

  Cromwell his old position as the king's most

  trusted adviser. She must turn her back on

  Kit, allow no hint of Cromwell's threats

  to plague his ambitions.

  Perhaps she should just slip under her horse, allow

  herself to be trampled by dozens of well-equipped

  horses and carts filled with the royal

  furniture, gold plate and napery. She

  might be better off dead than have to follow

  Cromwell's hideous orders. But if she were

  dead, she could not help Kit. She would never see

  him again. It was better to have a shred of hope than

  to give up altogether.

  With a deep breath she craned her neck and

  looked behind, hoping against all reason to catch

  sight of Kit riding to her rescue. He would be

  on a large black horse, his full cloak

  billowing behind, his hair tangled by the wind. But of

  course he was not there. Only other chattering

  courtiers, nodding and smiling and tossing coins to the

  ragged peasants lining the road.

  Kit.

  Was he being cared for? The entire court had

  believed Cromwell's tale: that Kit had been

  stricken with a sudden illness. It was a vague

  story, but the court--and especially the

  scourge-obsessed King Henry--had been willing

  to accept the account. Deanie's own wan appearance

  lent authority to the story. Her cousin the duke was

  to recover at Hampton, cared for by the queen's

  foreign staff and a few members of the regular

  Hampton crew. The king and his court would

  travel to Richmond as planned, his people and

  servants by land, the king in the well-appointed

  royal barge.

  Cromwell was nowhere to be seen in the caravan.

  But in her mind he was everywhere, lurking in the

  shadows, grinning from the darkness. He had been

  triumphant the night before, standing in her chamber as

  if it were his own. With Kit gone, she had been

  alone--more alone than she had ever been in her

  life.

  "So, Mistress Deanie," Cromwell had

  uttered smoothly. He snapped his squat fingers

  and pointed to the pool of Kit's blood, and a young

  boy appeared silently and blotted the stain.

  Cromwell continued speaking to her, but she was unable

  to follow his words, watching in sick horror as the

  boy scrubbed the floor with blood-soaked rags,

  never meeting her eyes.

  The boy left, and Deanie blinked at

  Cromwell. "And then, Mistress Deanie,"

  he concluded after a strangely theatrical

  pause, "thou may have the satisfaction of

  preserving the Duke of Hamilton's life."

  At that her eyes snapped to his face. He

  sighed like an indulgent uncle. "Lest there be