A harsh grunt escaped his mouth, and he balled
his hand into a fist. Then he too smiled.
"Fainted," he mumbled.
"Dead away, Your Majesty," Suffolk
confirmed.
"Ha! Another jest, eh, Suffolk?" The
king reached for a gold dish filled with
peaches, silently offering one to Suffolk, who
shook his head. "Any word on Hamilton?" The
king took a bite of the fruit, a river of
juice winding through his russet beard. "'Twill
be most dull without him at our board."
"Mistress Katherine Howard quoth he is
yet unwell, Your Majesty."
"Katherine Howard, eh?" The king shifted his
bulk in the chair. "Make sure the Howard wench
is seated at our board, eh, Suffolk? With
Hamilton ill and Mistress Deanie in a
swoon, 'twill be the very devil to find
amusement."
Suffolk bowed low again and took his leave.
Something was afoot, and before he dared mention it to the
king, he was bound to discover exactly what it was.
It was well past midnight. There was a clock
somewhere nearby, not a massive one like at
Hampton, but smaller. The "ping" was light,
delicate.
Deanie was fully clothed. She didn't dare
risk undressing, for fear she would not be able
to clothe herself again. Time after time that evening she had
been forced to turn away well-meaning servants and
Mistress Cecily and Katherine, all
solicitous, all wanting to make her more comfortable,
all hoping she would be well enough to dine with the king.
When it was apparent she had no intention of leaving
her heavily furnished room, a silver tray
filled with delicacies was delivered to her door.
Across the courtyard she caught fleeting sights
of the king. Once she peeked out the window, only
to meet the royal gaze. He had been spying on
her, and when he saw her face, he jumped back
as quickly as she did.
As spacious as her room was, she longed for
Hampton. Not only did she miss Kit, she
missed the few privies there, closets with
drains to run sewage to the river. Here there were no
such luxuries.
It was time, just after midnight. She had to leave
now, while all was quiet and before Cromwell
returned. The low-ceilinged chamber felt safe
and solid as she stepped noiselessly to the door.
She didn't dare bring a candle, as that would be
asking for attention.
The door creaked as she opened it, and she
paused, holding her breath. She had to get to the
stables to find a horse; then she could
ride back to Hampton. All she had to do was
follow the Thames downstream, and she would be there in
a couple of hours. She would check on Kit,
make sure he was being treated well, then ride
back to Richmond before daybreak.
She almost stepped right in front of a servant.
Pressing herself into an arched doorway, she
remained motionless until the figure had
retreated through another hallway. Her cloak,
dark and sumptuous, rustled as she walked. It
had seemed such a clever idea to wear the damask
hooded cloak. But now it sounded as loud as a car
alarm.
Outside, she crept through the courtyard, hugging
the brick walls. She could see candles
flickering in some windows. Her slippers padded
silently over the cobblestones. Just around the corner
she could hear the whinnies and snorts of horses in
the stables.
The stables were illuminated by large torches on
the walls. Again she paused before entering, hoping
none of the horses made a noise as she passed.
Crouching, she crept along the stalls, keeping
low so the horses didn't see her. She looked
for the mare she'd ridden earlier, a docile beast
named Fancy. It would be easier just to walk
to Hampton, but she didn't have the time to get there
and back before sunrise without a horse.
In the third stall to the end she saw Fancy,
a burlap blanket over her back. The latch
squeaked.
"Fancy," she whispered, reaching up to rub the
mare's velvety nose. "Are you up to a quick
ride back to Hampton?"
A large figure suddenly emerged from the
shadows. "Again, Mistress Deanie, I ask,
doth thou require my service?" Charles
Brandon, wearing the same colorful brocade
doublet as earlier, clamped a hand over her wrist.
She jumped at the sound of his voice, her
eyes wide. How could she explain her presence
in the stables?
He continued, his voice even: "I could not but
note how you found the direction of the stables most
fascinating, even as a swoon overtook thee.
How fare thee now, mistress?"
"Um, hello." She smiled, too perky for the
hour and circumstances. "I'm doing much better,
thank you. I just thought I'd check on the horse.
She seemed a little, uh, under the weather."
"I see." Suffolk released her wrist.
"'Twood seem, mistress, you confuse the facts.
'Twas thee, not the mare, who fell into a swoon
this day."
Deanie cleared her throat and pulled the
cloak tighter about her shoulders.
"Let me speak plain," he said. "Why art
thou here?" She was about to answer, but he held up
one of his large hands. "Play not the innocent. I
heard your words: Thou art bound for Hampton."
Deanie remained very still but then slumped against the
side of the stall, a very twentieth-century curse
escaping her lips. Suffolk smiled. "That is
better. Honest, at the very least. Tell me,
mistress."
At once she was exhausted, and she rubbed her
eyes. "I'm worried about Kit. He's ill,
and I was going to ride back to see him for a few
minutes. Just a few minutes, I swear. I was
hoping to get back here by sunrise, so nobody
would even know I had gone."
"I see," Suffolk said. His eyes raked
over her, the fatigue so evident. "What
manner of illness doth plague the duke?"
The horse began to prance in place. Before
Deanie could answer, Suffolk opened the stall
door and pushed her away from Fancy's clopping
hooves. Once outside, he folded his arms.
"Let me ask another question: Doth Cromwell
have anything to do with Hamilton's malady?"
Deanie's eyes snapped to his. She was about
to deny it when something in Suffolk's expression
made her stop. There was no way for her to lie to this
man, who seemed to see straight through her. Instead
of saying a word, she simply nodded once.
Suffolk stiffened. "Damnation," he spat.
"I feared as much."
He paced away from her, his back stiff.
"He is a knave, that Cromwell. The king
allowed him much, because there was naught Cromwell
&
nbsp; would not do for His Majesty. Power corrupts."
"And absolute power corrupts
absolutely," Deanie mumbled.
Suffolk turned, his eyes again sharp. "Thou
art right. However did you know?"
"Oh, I think it was a question on Jeopardy!"
For the first time, confusion clouded his brow. Then he
reached for her arm. "Art thou in jeopardy?"
She nodded. "Will you help me get to Kit?"
"Nay. Not without more information. Why
doth Cromwell risk all to harm Hamilton?
Surely he knows the duke is a favorite of the
king's."
She hesitated. How could she be sure
Suffolk wasn't working for Cromwell?
"Tell me all now," he said softly. "Or
I will go to the king in a thrice."
"No!" She lowered her voice. "No,
please." There was no choice now, no choice but
to take a chance and trust Suffolk. "Cromwell
wants me to become the king's mistress. He
even wants me to become the next queen. The
whole time I am to get Cromwell back in
favor with the king. If I don't agree, he'll
kill Kit."
"But I thought ..." Suffolk began, shaking his
head. "What of the other night, the exchange between
His Highness and thee? Was that not an agreement?"
"No, no. I misunderstood. You see, where
I come from--"
"Wales?" Suffolk offered.
"Yeah, sure. Wales. Anyway, I
didn't understand what I was doing. It was a
mixup."
Suffolk crossed his arms again. "But for any
woman, 'twood be the greatest of honors to be a
companion of the king's."
"No!"
Suffolk said nothing. The horses were becoming
restless with the sound of people in the stable, and she heard
hooves kicking against the stalls. "Tell me,"
he said at last. "Doth thou love another?"
"Yes." Her voice was very small.
"The duke of Hamilton?" he added.
"Yes," she whispered.
There was a long moment, and neither said a word. Then
Suffolk clutched her arm. She gasped,
realizing he was probably taking her straight to the
king.
Instead, he pulled her from the stables, away from
the palace. "Where are you taking me?" she
panted, stumbling as Suffolk led her into the
woods.
"There would not be time by horse to get to Hampton
and back," he hissed. "The roads are
dangerous. Vile persons would hurt thee."
"What?"
"Boat. We will travel by boat, Mistress
Deanie. Be quick."
He moved with a speed and agility she
did not think was possible. Kit had told her that
Suffolk had been the greatest jouster in his day, the
most able horseman, the only courtier to rival
the king in athletic ability. As he guided her
through the woods, his feet moving with amazing speed,
his vast body suddenly light and youthful, she
believed the stories.
They reached the Thames, and he gave a
boatswain a handful of coins and helped her into a
rickety boat. By the time she had caught her
breath, they were well on their way back
to Hampton, Suffolk puffing as they pushed the
boat forward with a long pole.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked,
remembering that she had asked similar words of
Kit.
For a while Suffolk said nothing. She assumed
he hadn't heard her, so laboriously was he
propelling the boat.
"Did you know I was married to the king's sister?"
His voice came from the darkness. She shook her
head, but he did not see her. The outlines of
trees seemed to fly by in the night as they glided
down the Thames. "I was sent to get Mary, sent
to Paris to collect her after her husband, the king of
France, had died. He was a bitter old man."
Suffolk laughed. "Old man--he was of an
age with me now. Mary was beautiful, the fairest
maiden at court before she became queen of
France. I was to escort her home to yet another
arranged marriage, another diplomatic
contract. She sobbed on my shoulder and confessed
her love for me."
"So did you take her home? I mean, did
she have to marry someone else first?" Deanie had
forgotten for the moment her own problems.
"Nay. We were married in Paris, in
1514."
Deanie sighed, leaning back against the boat.
"How romantic."
"Yes. It was. The king forgave us then, for
he too was a young blood like myself. I fear I was
not a good husband to Mary. I was too young, too
full of fire. I was not faithful, but she was a
good wife. We were married until her death seven
years ago this June. She was unhappy, Mary.
But gad, as a girl, she was a beauty. Her
hair dark as midnight, her eyes sparkled."
Deanie closed her eyes, imagining the obese
Henry as a dashing young prince and the
bloated Suffolk as his handsome companion. Both
had loved fiercely. How exciting it must have
been, two rogues, strutting in their power and
glory.
"Mistress Deanie?" Suffolk's voice
startled her.
"Humm?"
His voice was dry. "She looked like you. My
Mary, she looked like you."
The remainder of the journey passed in silence.
Only the water sounds, gentle droplets as they
sliced through the river, echoed in the night.
Deanie stood beyond the moat of Hampton,
staring up at the colossal palace. Resisting the
urge to go back to the boat where Suffolk was
waiting, she loosened the hood from her cloak,
letting her hair hang freely to her shoulders.
She peered beyond the small bridge.
It was not a real moat, this little stream surrounding
the building. It had been created by the original
builder of Hampton, Cardinal Wolsey, who
fancied the romance and beauty of a moat.
A guard appeared from the side of the building.
"Ho! Who goes?"
Deanie guessed that without the king in residence,
security would be rather lax. Perhaps the king secretly
hoped that invaders would storm the palace and
kidnap Queen Anne, thus making his own
dilemma a great deal easier to resolve.
She cleared her throat. "It's me,
Mistress Deanie Bailey. I have come to see
my cousin, the duke of Hamilton." To her own
ears, she sounded incredibly stupid, appearing at
three in the morning at the foot of a moat.
The guard grasped a torch and approached her
cautiously, squinting as he observed her
features by the orange glow of the flame. But he
didn't ask any further questions. "Come with me,"
he muttered, and she could smell the heavy odor of
wine on his breath.
He led her through the first three courtyards, not
saying a word.
She began to panic, wanting
desperately to ask him how Kit was, yet
afraid of the answer.
"Through there, to the left. The queen has been
caring for him," he said, leaving her to find her own
way.
There were far fewer torches on the walls,
evidence of the king's strange sense of
frugality. The halls were silent, and to the left
of the hall she found a door partially ajar.
Slowly, she entered. In the center of a small
room, illuminated only by a single candle, she
saw a figure lying motionless on a bed.
"Kit?"
There was no response. Beside the bed was a
chair, and she shrugged out of her cloak and sat
down, the legs of the chair scraping on the ground.
Reaching for the candle, she held it up to the person's
face.
It was Kit, lying so still she thought he might be
dead.
With a trembling hand she touched his forehead, hot
and dry to the touch. His dark hair was disheveled,
lying in a haphazard tumble about the pillow. The
gash on his forehead had been cleaned, or at least
wiped. Drawing her finger along his lean cheek,
she could feel the heat rise even above the growth of
whiskers.
"Kit, it's me. Deanie," she whispered,
hoping her voice didn't sound as frightened as she
felt. There was no reaction.
A peculiar fragrance wafted through the room,
musky and pungent. Distractedly, she glanced
around the room but couldn't find the source. She
returned her gaze to Kit, touching a strand of his
hair. His doublet had been removed. All she
could see beneath the coverlet was his shirt, streaked with
blood and dirt.
"I'm here, Kit." She leaned close,
speaking into his ear. The strange aroma was more
powerful now. She sniffed and realized it was coming from
his shirt. Gingerly she untied the laces at his
throat, watching his chest rise and fall with
swift, shallow breaths.
Suddenly she felt awkward and embarrassed,
unlacing his clothing as he lay unconscious. His
chest was broad and muscular, as she already knew from
their embraces. What she wasn't expecting was
chest hair, curly and black, covering the upper
portion of his torso. She touched it and quickly
pulled back. This wasn't right, it was indecent.
Yet she could not help but enjoy the feel of him,
the strength that radiated from him even when he
slept.
Then she saw the wound.
She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from
crying out. At the crook of his neck, where
Cromwell's man had struck him
twice with a steel-headed staff, was a large,
gaping wound. It looked as if his collarbone had
been broken, and his right shoulder was at an
unnatural angle. Dried blood caked in
black splotches surrounded the area, with jagged
raw edges revealing bits of cloth stuck to the
wound.
The odd odor was caused by some sort of salve
smeared all over his shoulder, glistening in the
candlelight. Careful not to disturb the wound, she
swiped at a smear with a fingertip. Up close it
was speckled and filthy. Perhaps it had been the work
of Cromwell, a poison to finish him off.
She reached behind for her cloak and gently dabbed
away whatever she could of the salve. Some was too
deeply entrenched in the wound for her to remove without
hurting him further. The light was poor, and she
wasn't sure if she had wiped enough. There was a
bowl of stagnant water on a table, but she
didn't want to risk using water unless it had
been boiled.
Her gaze returned to his face. Those strong
features, so vulnerable, filled her with a surge
of determination. She had felt curiously
indecisive before. Now she had a definite
goal: to get him well. She leaned over, staring
at his face up close, and kissed him on the
cheek. The whiskers were scratchy, his skin was
unnaturally hot, but it felt right.
Time was meaningless as she sat with him, murmuring
soft words, stroking his hair. Once she saw his
throat work, as if he would speak, but he remained
silent.
She had never taken care of anything
important. Now she was needed to save the life
of the most wonderful man she had ever met.
She would do it.
From the window, she could see a soft lightening of the
sky; it was a gentle gray rather than the
pitch-black of earlier.
Suffolk leaned into the room. She hadn't
heard his footsteps, yet she didn't jump when
she heard his voice.
"Mistress Deanie," he said, walking to the
bed. "We should go anon. As it is we shall not
make first daybreak." He looked down at
Kit, at the wound on his shoulder.
"Damnation." He felt Kit's forehead.
"He burns with fever."
"I know," she said quietly, her
eyes never leaving Kit's face. His left hand
lay next to hers, and she raised it to her lips,
pressing it to the side of her face.
And very softly, his fingers caressed her cheek,
briefly, tenderly.