Once Upon a Rose

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.