Once Upon a Rose

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