Once Upon a Rose

"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.