"I know," she whispered, her voice broken.
"You can't talk, but you know I'm here. I'm not
leaving, Kit. I won't go away."
Suffolk slowly backed out of the room. "I go
forth, Mistress Deanie." His voice was rough.
"Bid me luck, for betwixt here and Richmond
I must concoct the tale of my life for both the
king and Cromwell."
"Mistress Deanie, Mistress Deanie."
She was on the edge of a dream, a deep,
solid sleep. A voice was calling her in the
distance, strangely accented. She was slumped
forward, leaning against a bed, propped in a chair.
For a moment she thought she had fallen asleep in
her hotel room. On television was an old
Elke Sommer film, her clear German accent
making everyone else sound dull and ordinary.
"Mistress Deanie, pray awaken," the
voice pleaded.
With a jolt she opened her eyes, realizing where
she was. Queen Anne of Cleves, the fourth
wife of Henry VIII, was nudging her shoulder,
uncertain and hesitant.
"Your Majesty," Deanie gasped, rising
lopsidedly to her feet and simultaneously
trying to curtsy without dropping Kit's hand.
Queen Anne made a dismissive gesture and
motioned for Deanie to again take her chair. "The
duke: He fares better this morning?" The queen
was outlandishly garbed in gold brocade and
gemstones, her face framed by an angular
headdress shaped like a kite.
Deanie looked down. He seemed the same;
his unnatural pallor was more apparant in the even
light of morning.
"My own physician from Cleves hath tended
him." The queen reached over and touched Kit's
head. Deanie held her breath, overpowered by the
queen's aroma. "Is good. The fever lessens,"
she concluded with a brisk nod.
"He's been looked at by a physician,
Your Majesty?"
"Ya. His bone here," she said, gesturing to his
collarbone, "hath been split. Then
goes it down, and hurt the air going in and out.
My own Dr. Cornelius make the balm for the
wound." Queen Anne seemed enormously proud
of herself.
"Oh. Thank you." Deanie watched Kit as
his head turned slightly on the pillow. She was
about to ask what the ointment was made of, afraid
of the answer, when the Queen glanced about the room.
"We are alone?" she whispered, checking under the
bed with a sweep of her foot. Her heavy gown
prevented her from bending down.
Deanie nodded, and the queen pulled another
chair, one she hadn't seen the night before, next
to Deanie's.
"Englebert bade them leave, but I fear they
return."
"Englebert?" Deanie asked, completely
confused.
"My man, Englebert. From Cleves, when
I was girl." She leveled her hand to the height
of about four feet. Deanie wasn't sure if the
height represented Anne as a girl or
Englebert as a man. "They quoth to him they
stay, but Englebert, he say no. They no
stay."
Deanie was about to ask what the queen was talking
about, when the information dawned on her.
"Cromwell's men?" She lowered her voice.
"Were they Cromwell's men?"
The queen nodded eagerly. "They say, "We
stay." Engelbert know them from when we come first
here. He know they men of Cromwell, not men of
king. He say, "We tell king now." And
Cromwell men leave."
Deanie rubbed her thumb over the top of
Kit's hand, thinking. The hand was strong and sure.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, "that Englebert
--he's one smart cookie. If I were you,
I'd keep him around."
"Ja," she responded, the word coming out as
ya. "Englebert is cookie."
Deanie glanced up, inches away from the earnest
face of the queen. The royal bride was looking
at Kit with unabashed concern. Her broad,
flat hand skimmed his forehead. "Fever is
less?"
"I think so," Deanie agreed. "I hope
so."
"Dr. Cornelius come soon for to bleed
him."
"No"--Deanie tried to keep her voice
even--"I really don't think that's such a hot
idea. I was just thinking of boiling some water with some
bandages in it and changing those filthy rags on his
arm."
The queen clicked her tongue. "Dr.
Cornelius know about all things physick. He
say bleed the duke. He send for best barbers
to bleed duke."
"Barbers?" Deanie straightened. "You know,
those whiskers on Kit must be really uncomfortable.
Maybe they can shave them off. That would give them
something to do and make everyone happy. Right?"
The queen gave her a dubious look. "Dr.
Cornelius say we bleed duke."
"I say we shave his whiskers. I'll make
a deal with you, Your Highness. Give me five
minutes alone with the barbers and I'll convince them
to shave Kit instead of bleeding him. Okay?"
The queen's eyes narrowed, but her lips
curved into a grin. "Okay."
Deanie, her smile still in place, returned
her full attention to Kit. The queen, however,
folded her hands and spent the next half hour
practicing the words okay and cookie.
He was dreaming again.
That was the only explanation. He took a
deep breath, swallowing against the pain. His head
hurt, his shoulder hurt, his entire body felt
as if it had been pushed through a sieve.
The guttural conversations were still floating over his
head. This time there was another voice, gentle, an
edge of laughter to the tone. Yet she wasn't
laughing. The accent was American,
unmistakably Yankee. Not Yankee. It was
an accent from the American South. Harsher than
Vivian Leigh's vowels in her new movie,
Gone with the Wind. He remembered seeing
Miss Leigh on stage, all those plays. They
called her the "fame in a night" girl. She was
lovely, with large hands. Big hands for such a
slight woman.
The hands on his face were light, delicate.
There was a whisper. "I'm not going away, Kit.
I know you can hear me, and I'm not leaving you."
Did he imagine feeling a soft face wet with
tears? Was she crying for him?
Deanie. Of course. How could he forget?
He took another deep breath and could
hear the air come in. It sounded like a terribly
large amount of air, but he still needed more. He
couldn't seem to take in enough air.
There was another set of hands on his face, these
hard and masculine. There was something familiar about
the scraping he felt, then he realized he was being
shaved. He tried to speak, to form words to say "I
don't need a shave--I need more air!" but he
could not.
/>
Something else was happening. He could hear
Deanie's voice with a cajoling tone. He tried
to open his eyes, but they remained closed.
"I promise." There was a laugh in her
voice, and he could imagine her smile, those
eyes. God, how he wanted to see her.
"Okay, come over here," she was saying. He
heard the uncertain shuffle of feet on the
floor. They were following her to another part of the
room, away from his bed.
For a while he heard nothing. There was a sloshing
sound of water in a bowl, the grate of a chair on
the floor. And nothing.
"Ouch!" she shouted.
He had to help her. What were the barbarians
doing?
Another female voice said, "Okay!"
With a supreme effort, he opened his eyes. It
took a moment to focus, and the world tilted
crazily out of control before he could see. From his
barely opened eyes, he saw Deanie surrounded
by half a dozen barber-surgeons. They huddled
about her, their cloaks forming a tent, nodding in
serious but muted conversation. One of them was wielding
a large curved knife with a beefy hand, and he
had Deanie's long and slender bare leg in the
other.
It looked like a scene of pagan animal
sacrifice. He tried to get enough breath to shout,
to give her a chance to escape, when suddenly he
saw her toss back her head and laugh.
"No, I'm not kidding." She smiled. "Where
I come from, all the ladies shave their legs. You
have no idea how great it feels."
The Cleves queen nodded. "Okay. The men
say they no bleed duke, you keep your bargain.
Okay?"
There was relief in her voice now as Kit
shut his eyes. "Great. Just leave him alone, and
I'll let them shave my legs whenever they want
to."
Part of him wanted to laugh at this outrageous
woman who had struck such a deal with members of the
barber-surgeon guild. The sheer audacity of
her idea delighted him.
Another part of him, where his emotions were raw with
turmoil, wanted to weep.
Instead, he slept.
Chapter 9
"What mean you, she is gone?" the king demanded,
all traces of his recent good humor vanished.
Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk,
paused for a moment before elaborating. Judging from the
shade of crimson now flaming the royal
visage, he knew King Henry was more upset by the
absence of a comely woman than angry at an
errant subject.
"Your Highness, she feared bearing disease to her
most gracious king. After swooning here at
Richmond, her first thought upon awakening was of her
king's own health. She bid me help her
swiftly back to Hampton, where she could both
tend her cousin and keep Your Majesty from harm."
A low growl escaped the king's throat as he
looked down at his finely jeweled doublet. He
had worn it for her, for Mistress Deanie. Now
she was gone. His first instinct was to kick a dog, but
there were none about to kick. He stood with his legs
planted apart, his mighty arms akimbo, as if
reassuring himself and Suffolk of his imperial
power.
Suffolk's words then edged their way into his
mind. "She was concerned about our health, then." He
made it a proclamation, to allow Suffolk no
chance of changing the story.
"Verily she was," he confirmed. "I did
see Hamilton with mine own eyes, Your
Highness, and his sickness seems not of the infectious
sort."
The king nodded once, brisk steps striding to the
window. His broad back to Suffolk, he bounced
on the balls of his feet with surprising
buoyancy for a man of his girth.
"What manner of illness, then, keeps
Hamilton away? He is a hearty sort.
Never have I seen him bend to injury or disease."
The king's tone was light yet probing. Suffolk
realized the king suspected something other than the
usual plague or sweating sickness.
Suffolk had long before ceased being amazed by his
king's ability to decipher a situation. For all
his good-fellow pats on the back and displays of
pomp, King Henry was a shrewd judge of character.
He could size up a man's worth with the briefest
of conversations, and once his decision was made,
only rarely could it be altered. Unless, of
course, changing his mind would benefit his cause,
whatever it may be. At the moment, Henry's
cause was to find a new wife. Suffolk, from a
lifetime of hard-won experience, knew that nothing
could dissuade Henry from his path.
"I left Hampton early this morn, Your
Highness, ere the house began to stir. I know not
what the doctors say and judge myself not amongst
their ilk." Suffolk kept his voice even,
carefully choosing his words. "All I know is that
Mistress Deanie is in excellent health now,
and the swoon of yesterday was perchance from the lengthy
journey in the high heat of the noon sun.
Mistress Deanie's concerns are for her king and for
her cousin."
"In that order?" Henry inquired.
"I believe so, Sire," Suffolk said
calmly. He wanted to tell Henry of
Cromwell's part in Hamilton's illness, but
to do so would also require explaining the exact
relationship between Mistress Deanie and
Hamilton. Perhaps the king could tolerate the news
later, once his infatuation with Mistress Deanie
had faded. Perhaps then he could explain, gently,
tastefully. Not now.
Henry turned to face Suffolk, about to speak
again, when the chamber door flew open.
Cromwell, covered in spattered mud and dust from
his journey, swept into the room. His black
cloak billowed behind as he made a low bow.
"Your Highness," he mumbled, only just then
noticing the presence of Suffolk. Cromwell
nodded once to Suffolk, his thick eyebrows
dotted with flecks of soil. "Suffolk." It was
less a greeting than an observation.
Suffolk maintained a bland expression, biting
back the urge to accuse Cromwell, right before the
king, of ordering Hamilton's brutal beating and
blackmailing Mistress Deanie. Instead, he
gave a curt nod. "Essex."
The king crossed his arms. "I did not hear you
knock to gain entry, Essex."
For a fleeting moment, a rare
uncertainy crossed Cromwell's broad
features, a slight look of confusion. In eight
years he had simply entered the king's chamber,
especially when bearing urgent matters of state.
Now he was reprimanded, dressed down like a common
scullery maid, for behaving as was his custom.
"I wished not to delay the good news, Your
Highness," he announced with m
ore confidence than he
felt. What did the king know? There was something about
his stance, his unwavering glare, that alarmed
Cromwell. "All three bishops--Winchester,
Durham, and York--agree there is much cause
for annulment. God is withholding His blessings from this
marriage, and the king must be free to choose a wife
more of his liking, a wife to bear fruit, for the good
of the realm."
Instead of the jovial bearhug or slap on the
back he had been expecting, even preparing for,
the king said nothing.
"We go tonight to Hampton." Henry seemed
to be speaking to Suffolk, but his eyes never left
Cromwell's face.
"Hampton, Your Highness?" Cromwell's
tone was incredulous. "Why, we left Hampton
but yesterday."
"Very good, Essex." There was an unpleasant
chord to the king's voice. "I see your travels
have done nothing to weaken your mental
capabilities. We left Hampton but
yesterday, and tonight we return."
Cromwell's lips tightened as he bowed
once more. "Excellent, Your Highness. I shall
order the household staff to--"
"No." The king spoke without moving. "You need
not bother, Essex. I believe the duke of
Norfolk can handle the arrangements."
"Norfolk? But Sire, it has always been
my duty to discharge this task." Cromwell
swallowed. "Norfolk knows not how it is done."
"Norfolk can handle the arrangements." The
king's voice was low but unmistakably firm.
Beneath the cloak, Cromwell's hand clenched
into a fist. The ruby ring on his index finger bit
into his skin, leaving an indentation he did not
feel.
"Your Majesty." Cromwell bowed again,
backing from the room, feeling the heat of Henry's
and Suffolk's stares. He would not leave this way,
cowed by the king and his smirking duke. "Oh,
Sire." Cromwell's head snapped
up, his face stretching into an intimate, knowing
grin. Often he had spoken to the king thus, friend
to friend. "And how is Mistress Deanie? Is she
pleasing to the royal palate?"
The king's face remained impassive, and
Suffolk spoke: "You know not what happened,
then? Last night I did bear Mistress
Deanie back to Hampton, so she could care for
her cousin Hamilton."
"Hamilton?" Cromwell's voice warbled
in a shrill pitch before he could control it. "The
duke of Hamilton is not here at Richmond?
I knew not he was ill."
"We did not say he was ill, Essex."
Suffolk clasped his hands behind his back in an
effort to keep them from closing about Cromwell's
fat neck.
Cromwell's small eyes shifted before he
responded. "'Twas but a deduction,
Suffolk. You said Mistress Deanie was
attending her cousin. Logic led me to believe
he was ill."
"Good day, Essex," the king said without his
usual warmth.
Reining in his escalating rage--fury at his
own men, Hamilton, and above all, that Bailey
wench--Cromwell thundered from the chamber. Someone was
going to pay for this humiliation, he vowed. He would
see a head tumble, and what amusement it would
provide! Someone was going to bitterly regret
playing Thomas Cromwell, earl of Essex,
for the fool.
"My fool, my fool!" Queen Anne
clapped her hands in delight as the young man
tumbled. The bells on his toes and clipped
to his floppy red hat jingled as he rolled into a
standing position, arms spread wide to receive his
applause. The queen laughed merrily and turned
to Deanie, who sat quietly at her feet.
They were in the queen's chamber, playing an
interminable game called Blank Dice and
watching a tumbler who would have been given the hook
on "The Gong Show." All Deanie could think
about was Kit, still unconscious below in the small,
stifling room. Dr. Cornelius had ordered
her from Kit's side, promising to tend to the duke
with his own hands.
That's what had her so worried.
"My fool, he is okay, no?"
The queen was trying her best to amuse Deanie,
to keep her mind off Kit.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Deanie tried
to smile. "He's a regular laugh riot."
The queen raised her plucked eyebrows and
giggled. "A laugh riot? I shall recall that
phrase. It is to my liking. A laugh riot."
Englebert, the queen's footman, stepped
forward, bearing a silver tray filled with tiny
cakes. The queen took a handful, then gestured
to Deanie. "You have not ate a little even all the day
long," she urged. "You have some of these. My cook
make special."
Englebert pushed the tray under Deanie's
nose, and she closed her eyes in an effort not
to be sick. "No, thank you. They smell
delicious, though. Sort of like doughnuts."
"Doo-nots?" The queen was intrigued.
"What be those?"
"Oh, little pieces of fried dough. I used
to sell them in Nashville."
Englebert seemed as intrigued as the queen.
Only after she had gently steered the platter from
beneath her face did Englebert nod once and
back away.