The queen's footman was a short,
bullet-headed man of middle age and
unnaturally black hair. He moved in a
perpetual stoop, yet even in that stance he
seemed to serve no one unless he truly desired
the duty. His devotion to Queen Anne was
unquestionable. Since Queen Anne had made her
friendship with Deanie so obvious, Englebert
looked upon her with rare favor.
"Maybe you show cook how to make
doo-nuts, okay?" The queen gave Deanie
a look of such earnestness that she could not help but
smile in return.
"Okay," she said, her voice thick with
exhaustion and worry.
The tumbler rolled at their feet. He began
to tug at Deanie's skirt, making exaggerated
faces like a monkey. The queen thought his antics
hilarious, and even Englebert began to grin.
Encouraged, the tumbler pushed harder at
Deanie's knee. She swallowed against the tears
suddenly pricking her eyes. All she wanted was
to return to Kit, to sit by his bed even though he
was insensible to her presence. Instead she was forced
to endure the horrid little tumbler, his
ridiculous bells ringing with every tip of his round
head.
The corners of his lips turned down, and his
face puckered into a pathetic expression that
exactly mirrored Deanie's feelings. The
queen clapped in delight, turning to Deanie
to share the fun.
At once the queen stopped clapping.
"Enough." She turned to the tumbler, who shrugged and
rolled away, tucking himself under a table.
Deanie could only stare at her own hands,
clenched atop the sumptuous velvet gown.
"You go back to your cousin," the queen said. "You
know where from here he is?"
Deanie blinked, confused by the queen's odd
phrasing. Then she realized she was being dismissed,
allowed to return downstairs. A feeling of
gratitude washed over her. Impulsively,
she grasped the queen's large hand and kissed it.
"Thank you," she whispered. Then she stood
up, but before she left the queen's chamber she
sank into a low curtsy. For the first time the bow was
real, not a pretend imitation of court manners.
Deanie walked swiftly to the door, again
making a deep curtsy before she left. A
gentle smile spread across the queen's face.
It transformed her from a plain woman to one of
unique comeliness. She was not beautiful; instead
she wore an expression of welcome kindness.
As Deanie's long train disappeared into the
corridor, the queen turned to Englebert.
"Mistress Deanie, she is one okay
cookie." Then she clapped once for the tumbler
to begin again.
Deanie's eyes took a moment to adjust to the
darkness of the room. Although she could not see
precisely where the bed was, she knew Kit was
there. She could feel him, his presence, his very being.
The doctor had passed her in the hallway, his
lined face grave. Dr. Cornelius spoke
better English than the rest of Queen Anne's
household, but he was still hard to understand.
"The duke is better, mistress," he
intoned. "Much because of my ointment, I suspect.
It is the ground bee wings that help the most. How
came he by the wounds?"
Deanie didn't answer him. "Thank you,
Doctor," she mumbled, brushing past him in her
haste to see Kit. She felt the
doctor's eyes on her back, realizing how
strange she must look without a headdress, her
hair falling free and unadorned to her shoulders.
She closed the door to Kit's room behind her,
leaning against the heavy wood, gathering her thoughts.
From the odor she knew the doctor had applied more
of the foul salve. She had suspected he would.
In the corner of the room she had folded clean
strips of cloth.
The laundress had thought her mad, asking
to boil bandages as if they were to be used in a
broth. The queen, however, had given Deanie
permission to ask what she wished of the household.
They would do whatever she requested to aid in her
cousin the duke's recovery.
Opening the heavy drapery covering the single
window, she let a ray of sunlight into the room
so she could see Kit. She stood for a moment,
staring at his impassive form on the bed.
Although he was still unnaturally pale, an aura
of power somehow emanated from him. Even asleep,
he seemed bold and undeniably masculine.
She stooped and gathered the clean cloth strips,
careful not to make too much noise as she
returned to his side. The chair she had
occupied earlier was still in place, by the right side
of the bed.
His forehead felt cooler to the touch, his cheeks
already scratchy with a new growth of dark whiskers.
By the bed was a pitcher of water--also boiled by the
perplexed staff. She dipped a corner of the
cloth into the water and eased open the drawstring on
his linen shirt. Very gently, she cleansed the area
of the new layer of salve, the cloth becoming thick
with the speckled ointment as she worked.
Her hands moved mechanically. She felt
strangely detached, watching them go through the motions
of pressing the cloth against Kit's muscular
shoulder, then dipping fresh cloth into the water and
repeating the gesture. There was something familiar about
the movements, and she stared at her hands as she
worked.
Then she remembered.
Her mother. When she was eight and ill with the chicken
pox, her mother had sat by her bed just like this, pressing
cool cloths dipped in pink calamine lotion
against the itchy rash. Her hands, in that shaft of
light, looked exactly like her mother's. Why
hadn't she ever noticed it before?
She heard a woman sob, and for a
moment she was startled. It was her own voice, she
realized. Carefully, she completed the task of
caring for Kit, patting the wound dry and covering it
with his white shirt. But she couldn't stop crying;
her weeping almost choked her as she succumbed to the
misery.
She cried for Kit, she cried for herself, she
cried for her mother.
There was a hollow ache of emptiness, a
strange knowledge that she would never again return home
to all that was familiar. Balling her hands
into fists, she buried her face in the coverlet
by Kit's side, as if reassured by his warmth
and closeness. Her sobs came out in broken,
jerky breaths, leaving her drained and limp.
Then she felt a hand, large and warm, on her
shoulder. "Shush," said a male voice, rough and
dry. The hand continued to rub her shoulder, although she
could feel the hand tremble, a weak, shaky
gesture.
&nbs
p; "Kit?" She looked up, almost afraid she
had imagined it. She sniffed, and his eyes opened
very slightly, his parched lips formed into a narrow
smile. His hand remained on her shoulder,
motionless, as if forgotten.
"Oh, Kit," she said softly. Only then
did she know how terrified she had been that he would
never wake up. The fear had been there all
along, looming over every other thought. He still looked
like hell, but at least he was conscious. "Are you
all right?"
It was a stupid question, she realized immediately.
He remained very still for a long moment, and she
clasped the hand he had put on her shoulder between
her own two hands. Then, very slowly, he made a
motion with that hand: his fingers curved into a fist, and his
thumb went into the air in the old unmistakable
thumbs-up gesture.
"Can I get you anything?"
Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
With a great effort he opened his eyes, oddly
incandescent in the light. "Cromwell?"
"He went away, some trip for the king.
Suffolk knows everything, Kit. He helped me
get back here to you." She brushed a thatch of
hair from his forehead. "Your fever's down."
He did not reply, but his eyes closed again in
exhaustion. She reached for a fresh cloth, dipped
it in cool water, and touched it to his dry lips.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Not now, Kit. You need rest." She
slipped her hand into his, surprised by the strength
when he closed his fingers over hers.
"Soon," he murmured. "Soon." Then he
was asleep.
At once she was exhausted, her own eyelids
heavy. Yawning, she rested her head against his
side, their hands still entwined. For the first time in days,
she slept a peaceful, contented slumber.
The queen peered from her window, the remains of
her meal still on the tray. In the courtyard below she
saw two couriers dismount from their horses, their
Tudor green-and-white tunics proclaiming them
messengers of the king.
Several minutes later Englebert entered the
queen's chamber. "The king, he returns within the
hour, Your Majesty."
"He's coming back?"
"Yes." Englebert couldn't hide his
excitement. Perhaps the king's sudden return would
portend good news for his mistress. Perhaps the big
English sovereign would finally see Queen
Anne as the jewel all of Cleves knew her
to be.
The queen smiled. "Very well, Englebert.
We shall be ready to greet His Highness."
Englebert knew exactly what to do, and he
left the room with a low bow. There was much to be
made ready in an hour, and already he was listing the
chores in his mind. On his way to the kitchen, an
order to Scholsenberg the cook on his lips, he
was haulted by a young page.
"Mr. Englebert," the youth said, his pale
face betraying worry. "There are half a dozen
members of the barber-surgeon guild beyond the
moat. They say they come to attend Mistress
Deanie, sir. Other members of their guild
bade them come here. What shall I tell them?"
"Mistress Deanie?" Englebert waved the
boy off. "Be gone for now, young man. The king
arrives within the hour."
"The barbers are most insistent, sir." The
boy bit back the urge to cry.
"Then let them in to Mistress Deanie. She
is with the duke below."
The boy nodded and ran to inform the restless guild
members of Mistress Deanie's whereabouts. By the
time he reached them they had grown in number to nine,
and the boy wondered why on earth
Mistress Deanie had need of half the
barber-surgeons in the county.
With his good arm, he tried to pull her closer,
inhaling the fresh scent of her hair. She sighed
in her sleep and stretched alongside him on the
small bed. Even in slumber she moved from his
wounded shoulder, resting her head against the other
shoulder. The pain of her movement had awakened
him, but he was glad to be alert, relieved to find
her here.
Kit lifted his head and scanned the room. His
head throbbed with the motion, and he took a deep
breath to squelch the nausea. He was unfamiliar
with this room. From the angle of the light falling from the
window, as well as the tiny dimensions of the room,
he supposed it was one of the lower chambers used for
servants. Good. It would be easier for them to leave
unseen from this location than from his usual chamber
above, in the thick of palace activity.
He glanced down at Deanie, her face
drawn even in sleep. He almost loosened the
ties at the sides of her bodice to make her more
comfortable but felt the canvas corset underneath.
There would be no use in unlacing the ties, for the
corset would remain tight. Instead, he kissed
her forehead and closed his eyes.
Just as drowsiness was about to overtake him, the
clattering of boots in the hallway forced his eyes
open. He felt Deanie stiffen, and he closed
his arm about her more tightly.
"Kit?" she whispered, unable to mask the
terror in her voice.
"Be still," he said, his voice still rough and dry.
His lips touched her forehead, and she seemed
to relax a little.
The door banged open. Even in the single
shaft of light, they both recognized the bulky
form of Thomas Cromwell.
In a single movement the earl of Essex threw
the draperies open, causing Deanie and Kit
to squint against the sun.
"You defied me." Cromwell spat with ragged
fury. "Both of you defied me. Now you shall pay
the price."
With that the henchman who had wielded the staff
against Kit's shoulder entered the chamber, his face
registering excitement rather than anger.
Kit began to rise, but Deanie sat up first.
"We did not defy you, Mr.
Cromwell," she began. "I just wanted to make
sure Kit was being cared for. I will return
to Richmond with you, if that's what you want."
"You fool!" he hissed. "The king arrives
here soon. He will be most grieved to learn of the
duke's death, yet Mistress Deanie will be a
balm to his pained soul."
"You're the fool," Deanie replied
coolly. Kit, who had been about to speak,
turned in astonishment. Her voice was almost
unrecognizable, with a hardness he would never have
believed her capable of. "Do you think I will
become the king's mistress without Kit alive and
well? Forget it. If you so much as touch him, you
can find the king another woman."
"Then you shall die as well." Cromwell's
voice was firm; only his eyes, flickering
once to Kit, showed
a hint of uncertainty.
"Fine." She shrugged, rising to her feet.
"No!" Kit propped himself up on one
elbow, his lips white with pain. "Let her be,
Cromwell. Do what you will with me, but touch her
not."
"If anything happens to you, Kit, I don't
give a damn about myself."
"This is madness." Cromwell turned from the
two to his henchman, his finger beginning to rise in a
command, when the hallway was filled with the clattering of
footsteps. At once a young page peered in the
doorway.
"Mistress Deanie? I have over a dozen
barber-surgeons without, all here at your bidding.
Shall I send them in?"
"A dozen?" Cromwell's small eyes
darted to the boy.
"Well, sir, a few more just joined them. Word
has spread, sir, that Mistress Deanie has
frequent need of barber-surgeons, and throughout
England they come to Hampton. I know not why, but more
are coming by the hour."
"Oh, send them in!" Deanie's knees
gave way as she sat on the edge of Kit's
bed. She grasped his hand, and only by the cold and
damp feel of her hand did he realize how
frightened she had been.
Cromwell and his man backed away, forced from
the room by a strange assortment of men, of all
ages and sizes, all carrying satchels.
"This is not over," mumbled Cromwell.
But Deanie did not hear him. She was
already selecting the barber-surgeons to shave her
legs for the second time in less than twelve
hours.
Chapter 10
Deanie narrowly avoided a head-on
collision with the queen's tumbler as she slid into the
great hall, her slippers still damp from the eighteen
barber-surgeons who had just taken turns shaving
her legs. Her skin was stinging. One of the barbers
had been mortified when he accidentally nicked
her leg, and yet another barber was sulking below,
muttering bitter words about arriving too late to have
a turn.
When it was announced that the king had arrived,
Deanie ran from the room at full tilt. Her
last glimpse of Kit had been of him offering the
disappointed barber a chance to shave his legs, which the
man failed to find amusing.
She took her place beside a giggling Katherine
Howard and Cecily Garrison, sinking into the
deepest curtsy her much-abused legs would
allow. Deanie refused to think about what might have
happened had Cromwell not been interrupted by the
eager barbers. She glanced up to see
Cromwell glaring at her from across the hall.
Norfolk and Suffolk stood just behind the king,
Norfolk somber and dreary, Suffolk smiling.
His eyes lit upon Deanie, and he raised a
questioning eyebrow. She nodded once, with a brief
smile, and he seemed satisfied. Just before she
turned her gaze downward, Suffolk winked at
her.
The queen greeted her subjects with regal
grace, moving elegantly alongside her
husband. Unlike Deanie and the Englishwomen, the
queen wore a skirt that was rounded at the hem,
free of the treacherous three-foot trains that
threatened to hobble Deanie at every turn. Deanie
had been so impressed with the queen's managable
skirts that she had ordered a similar style from the
court clothier, Mr. Locke. Although Locke
had been surprised by her request--most of the other
courtiers had been snickering about the queen's
unfashionably foreign gowns--he
reluctantly agreed. Within the week, Deanie
too would be able to glide through the room without kicking
out her skirts at each direction change.
The king peered over the elegant
heads, as if searching for someone. He was
massively resplendent in his bejeweled doublet,
brilliant tufts of fine white linen peeking from
the embroidered slashes in the fabric. His wife
followed his gaze with palpable reverence, and more than
a little fear. Deanie longed to take the queen's
hand, to reassure her that all would be well in this
strange land. Deanie, above all, felt the
same trepidation about the unpredictable court.
Both were at the whim of a mercurial-tempered
monarch and his jostling noblemen.
"Ah! There she is." The king threaded his bulk
nimbly through the crowd to Deanie. The queen
hastened to follow, her face partially hidden by her
headpiece and demiveil. Henry's burly hand,
his nails cleanly squared, reached out to Deanie.
She had no choice but to take it.
"Mistress Deanie." For the first time she
noticed how rich his voice was, redolent with
mellow tones. "We are most concerned with the health
of our most favored subject, the duke of
Hamilton. How does he fare?"
There was nothing suggestive or lecherous about the
king's question. Deanie sensed genuine worry. For
once the royal eyes did not flit up and down
her figure as he spoke.
"Much better, Your Highness," she replied.
"I must thank the queen for her wonderful care of