Once Upon a Rose

above his elbows, exposing the corded muscles of

  his forearms.

  "How long have I been asleep?" Her eyes

  focused on the bare throat revealed by his open

  collar. His skin, flushed with the exertion of rowing,

  gleamed through the nearly transparent shirt.

  He grinned, looking very much like a pirate with

  brilliant teeth set against a black beard.

  Without thinking, she reached out and touched the hollow of

  his throat, her thumb feeling the throbbing pulse

  there. His grin vanished slowly, and he took a

  deep breath, leaning toward her as the oars rose

  above the water.

  "Faster, Hamilton!"

  Deanie jumped. Just behind her, lounging on the

  opposite end of the rowboat, was a much contented

  Suffolk. He still held a mug of ale in his

  grip, while the other hand dragged languidly in

  the water.

  "You said you needs be there before sundown,"

  Suffolk chastised. "Unless you row faster, we will

  miss it altogether. The sun lowers even now."

  Kit grunted in reluctant acknowledgment and

  began to row harder, harder still.

  "You're a big help," Deanie said

  to Suffolk. With a smile and a guiltless shrug,

  he took another swallow of ale. "The boat

  would hold but three. Hamilton said he would row

  if I but curbed my tongue so you could

  sleep. I did, as you can see. And you,

  Mistress Deanie, were drooling."

  She clapped her hand over her mouth, and both

  Suffolk and Kit laughed.

  "Be kind, Suffolk. I have seen you do far

  worse in your sleep, and even more atrocious

  deeds while awake," Kit said, winking at a

  mortified Deanie.

  "Aye, it is true. There! I see

  Hampton on the rise! God's blood,

  Hamilton, I believe we will make it."

  Deanie reluctantly pulled her gaze beyond

  Kit. And as Suffolk had said, Hampton

  Court Palace, its splendor bathed in the

  ethereal light of an afternoon sun, was in view. The

  twisting brick chimneys seemed to glow in the

  spring-time warmth.

  "You have the bottle?" Kit asked her,

  glancing over his shoulder to guide the boat.

  "Not anymore. It is empty," Suffolk

  announced with sadness.

  "Not that bottle." Kit shook his head in

  amused resignation.

  Deanie flashed a smile at Suffolk and

  turned to Kit, her tone more serious. "Last time

  I checked it was in my chamber at Hampton.

  It should still be there."

  He nodded once and returned to the business of

  moving the oars. Deanie was astounded at his stamina,

  at the strength it took to row the boat and its three

  adult passengers upstream the many miles

  to Hampton. He was only slightly out of

  breath, and Deanie could see that the shoulder wounded

  by Cromwell's men seemed to be giving him some

  trouble. He favored the other arm, and he rotated

  the painful shoulder as if trying to work away the

  stiffness.

  "Suffolk, you know what to do about the gunpowder?"

  "Why do you think I have had to quaff so much

  ale?" Suffolk muttered, shaking his head in

  disbelief. "Yes, my brain-addled friend. You will

  find two dozen bundles of gunpowder and wadding

  placed about the maze. I will, if given but another

  mug of this inferior brew, touch off the lights for

  you, and trust myself not to blow us all to the heavens."

  Then he paused, and an entirely different

  expression passed over his face. He seemed

  able to shake off the effects of drink like a cloak.

  He grew somber, staring into his earthenware mug.

  "I warn you, if the king is in

  residence, I will not do this thing for fear of harming

  him."

  "Oh, he won't be there," Deanie said. "I

  know he wasn't planning to return as long as

  Queen Anne remains."

  Suffolk seemed satisfied, carefully

  studying the empty mug as Kit steered the boat

  to one of the smaller docks. A man at the dock

  grabbed the ropes, and Kit stood up, pulling

  on his doublet as he took her hand.

  "What, Hamilton? Will you not assist me?"

  Suffolk rose unsteadily to his feet.

  "How much did he have to drink?" whispered

  Deanie.

  "I thought not much," he said as he lifted her

  over the water and placed her on land. "I did not

  count. I was too busy."

  "Rowing?"

  "No." He winced as Suffolk staggered through the

  water, headless that it was up to his waist. "I was

  busy watching you drool."

  She would have responded, but they didn't have time.

  The sun was beginning to sink at an alarmingly fast

  rate.

  "I'll run to get the bottle," she said,

  picking up the heavy hem of her gown. He

  nodded.

  "I will get the fireworks ready." He

  suddenly turned to her. "We're a little early for

  your Fourth of July celebration."

  "It's the middle of June." She smiled,

  pushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "We have a

  couple of weeks to go."

  "More like a couple of centuries," he mumbled,

  more to himself than to her. His eyes were focused on the

  maze just beyond, and the burlap bundles Suffolk was

  ordering a perplexed gardener to arrange.

  "I'll be right back," she said, touching his arm.

  He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, staring

  ahead. Abruptly he grabbed Deanie's

  wrist. "It's going to work, you know," he said. "I

  can feel it. It's the same way I felt before,

  when I first came here. That day I thought I was

  experiencing a premonition of my own death, but it

  was the journey here I was anticipating."

  With a shake of his head, as if to dislodge his

  tumbled thoughts, he gave her hand a squeeze.

  "We'd best get on with this."

  She was reluctant to leave his side. "I'm

  frightened," she murmured. It was as if a

  knowing breeze coursed through her; she had never said

  those words before. In all the triumphs she had

  managed in her life, the setbacks and the

  roller-coaster panics, she had never uttered those

  words.

  She was scared to death.

  Instead of coddling her, or calming her

  rampaging fears, he simply smiled. It was a

  sweet, sad smile. "I am too, my

  love," he breathed. "You had best get the

  bottle." Then he left to assist a badly

  reeling Suffolk, who was unintentionally dripping

  ale on the gunpowder bundles.

  Hefting the weighty velvet hem above her

  ankles, she ran to the palace. Part of her

  wanted to see Anne of Cleves one last time.

  The more sensible part realized she could do little to help

  her. She had already told Suffolk of

  Cromwell's advice to follow the king's whims.

  Seeing the queen would not help anyone.

 
The halls were virtually empty. Since the king

  was now lodged at Richmond, most of the more

  fashionable and ambitious courtiers had already

  begun the laborous shift to Richmond. It was much

  work, sending servants and lesser nobles ahead,

  folding rich clothes into the dome-lidded trunks.

  But to the courtiers, it was well worth the effort.

  The bottle was right where she'd left it. She

  grabbed the neck and paused, startled by a peculiar

  sense of having her middle cinched by a wide band.

  If all went as planned, this was the last she would

  see of this century.

  There was a pang in her throat, an undefined

  longing. She placed her hand over the low square

  neck of her gown and felt the pounding of her heart.

  Why did she have such terrible feelings of regret?

  Kit.

  It was because she associated this era--the smells

  and sounds and fingertip sensations--with one man. Without

  him it would have been simply a curious journey.

  It would have been like a well-designed historical

  theme park.

  But it was here, where violence and death and

  inscrutable absolutes were everyday occurrences,

  where she met Kit. How strange, she thought with a

  smile, that a place ebbing with such misery should bring

  her the one true joy of her life.

  She regretted leaving because she knew she would

  soon feel nostalgic. Kit would be at her

  side, his arms about her, and they would talk

  of this time, in the hushed whispers of a shared

  experience. These would always be their magical days of

  courtship.

  Without a second glance, she left the room.

  The seeds of her future were here. But the reality of

  her future was just beyond eyeshot, in a black

  beard and dusty doublet.

  It was time to begin her future.

  Had they planned for days, it could not have been more

  perfect.

  She reached his side, breathing hard through her

  mouth. Panting, she simply held the bottle

  up. He ran his knuckles over her flushed

  cheek and smiled.

  The preparations were completed. He reached out his

  hand to Suffolk, fumbling for words.

  "I ... we both thank you," he said at

  last. "We will be gone from this place, yet we will

  always remember you."

  Suffolk grunted. "I understand not where you go.

  I only hope you will achieve the happiness that so

  eluded you here."

  She almost spoke, wondering how much Kit had

  told him. He seemed to understand precisely what

  was going to occur within the maze.

  Suffolk nodded as if they were attempting a

  risky but entirely normal sea crossing. How

  could such a pragmatic man believe in

  miracles? Then it occurred to her that everyone here,

  with the exception of Kit and herself, had been raised

  with a sincere believe in witchcraft and magic, in

  fairies and worlds beyond reason.

  The funny thing was, they had been right.

  "Please, light them when I tell you."

  Kit's hand gripped hers as he spoke

  to Suffolk, one hand holding the future as he

  spoke to the past.

  "Oh, and remember to tell Queen Anne to do

  as the king requests. Cromwell has set it up

  so that, well ... I told you." She smiled at

  Suffolk. "And please watch after Princess

  Elizabeth. She is so little, and needs--"

  Kit's hand clamped over her mouth, and they

  all laughed.

  "It's time," Kit said, but they all knew it

  even without his words.

  The two of them walked into the maze, slowly,

  deliberately.

  A lone voice pierced the air.

  "Hamilton!" It was a growl of impotent

  fury.

  "Goddamn," Kit grumbled. "It's

  Surrey."

  They did not halt. Instead they walked faster,

  but Kit's hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

  "Suffolk! Now!" Kit shouted as they picked

  up their pace. They were not in the exact spot they

  needed to be but hoped that by the time they reached the center

  the bundles of gunpowder would be set.

  "Hamilton!" Surrey, his pale face a

  mask of fury, charged after them into the maze.

  "Faster, love." Kit handed her the bottle

  so he could grab her arm, half dragging and half

  carrying her to the center. Her feet skimmed the

  gravel path as she struggled to hold the bottle.

  The headdress, a small French hood,

  caught on a branch. Although her hair was ripped

  from her scalp, bringing tears to her eyes, she said

  nothing as her head snapped back for a moment. The

  headpiece, with a clump of chestnut hair, was

  left dangling in the shrubbery.

  The first explosion of powder boomed, and she

  gasped.

  "We're almost there," he breathed, covering her

  face with his open hand as a shower of gravel rained

  down. "Damn, what did he put in those

  packets?"

  Another explosion tore through the air. They had

  reached the center of the maze, and she threw her arms

  about his waist.

  Lifting the bottle from her hand, he wrapped his

  other arm around her shoulders. Two more bursts of

  gunpowder discharged some rocks, and Deanie closed

  her eyes, burying her face against his doublet. His

  heart thundered wildly against her ear, as loud and

  fierce as the explosions beyond the maze.

  Shielding his eyes from the sprinkling of dust and

  rocks, he then held the bottle high over their

  heads.

  Immediately, the ground began to tremble, from far more

  than the concussion of the explosives. A hum

  vibrated, low and mournful, rattling both of them

  to the core.

  She opened her eyes and saw the cobalt-blue

  light dart from the bottle, causing brilliant

  lines to bounce in angles all about them.

  "HAMILTON!" Surrey's voice peeled

  over the layers of explosions.

  "For Christ's sake!" Kit

  swore. His tone was pure annoyance, as if an

  irritating gnat had disturbed their privacy.

  Surrey stood less than six feet away,

  his sword pointed at them, his mouth open in an

  exaggerated expression of confusion. Then he

  closed his jaw and glared at Kit. Slowly,

  deliberately, he approached, the tip of his

  weapon directed at Kit's throat.

  Kit reached for Deanie's hand and raised it

  carefully, not wishing to disturb the laserlike

  beams. He slipped the bottle into her hands,

  wrapping her trembling fingers around the neck of the

  bottle.

  Deanie blinked, looking up at Kit. He

  cautiously dislodged her arm from his waist and drew

  his own sword.

  "No, Kit! Not now!"

  But Surrey had already lunged. Kit pushed

  her out of the way and countered Surrey's sword.

  Frantic, she tried to keep the bottle
above

  Kit's head, to maintain the pulsating prism that

  was flashing more violently now. Four more explosions

  rattled her very teeth, and still she stayed at his

  side.

  Surrey slashed the air, attacking the spots

  that seemed to dance before his eyes with a frenzied

  passion. Kit moved Deanie out of the way, his arm

  scooting her into the center of a tender bush. From the

  corner of her eye she saw the lash of

  Surrey's sword, and a bright line of crimson

  mark the top of Kit's arm. The black doublet and

  white shirt underneath shredded, hanging from the tip of

  Surrey's blade.

  The bottle was hot, and Deanie struggled

  to get back to Kit, who was countering Surrey with

  one arm while trying to protect Deanie with the

  other.

  There was a terrific roar. Deanie clutched

  at Kit and she saw his gaze, those strangely

  colored hazel eyes, flick to hers. An

  emotion passed through his eyes, even as she saw

  Surrey's merciless sword fly before him. Then

  his arm, bloodied, fell limp and his weapon

  clattered to the ground.

  She recognized the expression on his face.

  Pain? Regret?

  No. It was farewell.

  She screamed his name, but the roar continued,

  rampaging and unstoppable.

  The bottle slipped to the ground, and

  suddenly everything was dark.

  Suffolk arranged the last of the bundles,

  wondering when all the ducks and quails he had just

  sent flying would finally return.

  A figure in a rich blue cloak ran

  toward the maze waving a piece of paper. With

  annoyance, Suffolk realized it was Norfolk.

  He wished he had consumed more ale that afternoon, for

  facing Norfolk while sober was more than he could

  bear.

  "I have it! I have it!" Norfolk's thin face

  was animated, his eyes glistening in triumph.

  "What do you have, Norfolk?" muttered

  Suffolk. "A soul? I think not. What you do have

  is a demented son who just this minute chased

  Hamilton and Mistress Deanie into the center

  of the maze."

  Norfolk swished a hand, dismissing

  Suffolk's information with annoyance. "It matters

  not. What is in my hands is a warrant for the

  arrest of one Christopher Neville, duke of

  Hamilton, and his kinswoman Mistress

  Deanie Bailey."

  "On what charges?" Suffolk snatched the

  document from Norfolk's slender fingers.

  "Treason."

  "Nay! It is impossible!" Suffolk

  scanned the parchment. It was genuine, right down

  to Henry's seal.

  With that, Norfolk plucked something from his

  cloak. It was a strange sort of book,

  narrow, with glossy paper and color and tiny words.

  A Tourist's Guide to Hampton Court

  Palace.

  "This book tells of the death of our

  sovereign." Norfolk sniffed in self-righteous

  pleasure. "The name in the book belongs to Deanie

  Bailey. They worked in consort to end our

  glorious king's reign through witchcraft. A

  woman alone could not do this." Then Norfolk's

  eyes narrowed. "And what of you, my duke of

  Suffolk? What brings you to this place, with fire

  and explosion?"

  Calmly, Suffolk paged through the booklet,

  pausing once at a picture of himself, grizzled

  and old. There was also the wedding portrait of Mary

  Tudor and Suffolk, both flush with youth and

  love, her small hand resting in his. There were

  dates, but he did not want to look.

  He did not want to know.

  So this was their magic, he wondered silently.

  He hoped with all his heart they had returned

  home. They were not guilty of treason. If

  anything, they were guilty of but one offense:

  Love.

  His movements smooth, he watched Norfolk

  frown at the sod clumps that now pitted the

  lawn. While Norfolk scowled, Suffolk,

  gentle as a mother with a baby, reached for another

  taper. Smiling, he slipped the booklet under the

  final bundle and lit it.

  He escorted Norfolk several yards

  away, musing on the implications of the arrest

  warrant, when the explosion shattered the fragile

  calm.

  "What! What!" Norfolk sputtered, his

  face mottled and red. Then he leveled his

  malicious gaze at Suffolk. "Where is it?

  Where is my book? The king has not yet seen it,

  you villain. This is the proof of their treason!

  Henry signed the warrant based on my word! I

  told him it also saw an early death for Edward,

  the prince of Wales. He will never believe me

  without the proof."

  Smiling, Suffolk pointed to the air, silencing

  Norfolk in midsputter. Tiny pieces of

  blackened, charred paper twirled to the ground.

  "Come, Norfolk. Let us drink to a

  prosperous future."

  Norfolk stamped on the ground, unable

  to articulate the furious words that shattered his

  well-practiced veneer.

  Suffolk laughed and walked away. "I shall

  presently remove myself from the scene of the next

  explosion. From the blood in your face,

  Norfolk, it will be your head, and it will be very

  messy indeed. Good day."

  And with that Suffolk left in search of friendly