Once Upon a Rose

would appear just before he smiled. His doublet, of dark

  gray velvet, was of the simple style he

  preferred, with a narrow collar at the throat. The

  sleeves were slashed to reveal the white shirt,

  tied at the wrists and collar. His hose showed his

  legs, thick with muscles, the ever-present

  sword sheathed in black enamel resting on his

  thigh.

  Leaning on his elbow, he plucked the grass from

  his teeth, the tip chewed flat. It reminded

  Deanie of a cigarette, and she swallowed against the

  craving for nicotine that had been plaguing her for a

  week.

  "What did you ask?" His tone was insolent, a

  grin behind the voice.

  "Me?"

  He nodded, absentmindedly brushing a small

  clump of dirt from her hem. They had rarely

  touched each other, except for his offering of a

  courtly arm or her tapping his hand in excitement

  as they spoke. The single exception was when he

  kissed her forehead, a lapse in his customary

  control. Yet a tension ran between them, a strange

  awareness of each other that seemed to expand and

  intensify with each passing day. It was as if they were

  in ceaseless physical contact, alert to each

  other's every move. When he entered a room, she

  knew before looking up that he was there. When she

  retired with the other ladies of the court, he could

  feel her absence without being told she was gone.

  Deanie closed her eyes to remember her question,

  knowing she could not possibly gather her thoughts with his

  face so close, every detail becoming so

  familiar, so fascinating. She would never grow

  tired of watching him.

  As her eyes shut, her fine brows furrowed in

  thought, she missed the sudden gentleness in his

  expression. The harsh lines seemed to vanish as

  he studied her face, drinking in each

  feature: the light blue veins on her

  eyelids, the tiny freckles on her nose.

  He thought of the way her eyes would widen, brown and

  luminous, whenever he supplied her with yet another

  aspect of court life.

  She was vulnerable here, away from all with which she

  was familiar. For the first time since he had arrived

  at court ten years earlier, he felt

  overwhelmingly protective of another human

  being. Before he'd been unattached, unencumbered

  by the gentle strings of affection. His duty was to the

  king and to the families who called Manor

  Hamilton home. No other thoughts had softly

  plagued his sleep. No radiant smile had

  rewarded his smallest of gestures.

  Now there was Deanie.

  Everything about her was enchanting. The dichotomy

  of the dark-haired beauty was enthralling to him, a

  strength mingled with delicacy, a determination touched

  by uncertainty.

  Perhaps she trusted him simply because he alone

  knew of her past, where she came from, of the

  miraculous journey that had led her to England,

  to 1540 ... to him.

  It would mean nothing if he could not protect her

  from physical danger, from the very real perils of the

  court: the petty jealousies, the power-hungry

  courtiers who would ruthlessly destroy a life

  simply to enjoy more useless luxury.

  Sitting before him, she closed her eyes, as

  unaware of the menace swirling about her as she was of

  his own open expression. He realized with a jolt

  that he loved her. His breath caught in his throat

  as he mentally articulated the concept.

  I love her.

  Before he could ponder the revelation, make sense

  of the rush of emotions pounding through his veins, she

  opened her eyes, beaming.

  "I remember! I was about to ask you why the king

  made Cromwell the earl of Essex when he

  clearly can't stand the guy."

  Kit blinked, as if startled, and rolled over

  on his back. He closed his eyes against the sun.

  Against Deanie.

  He paused before he could answer, breathing

  heavily as if he had just run a great distance.

  Deanie watched his broad chest rise and fall,

  the unfamiliar look of confusion on his face.

  Kit, who seemed to know all there was to know about

  everything, suddenly looked as lost as a

  little boy at a state fair.

  He took one deep lungful of air, and

  once again his face wore the usual controlled,

  composed expression.

  "I believe he maketh Cromwell an earl

  so that his fall, when it occurs--and mark my words,

  it will," he said, raising an eyebrow to Deanie,

  "will be all the more dramatic and devastating because of the

  height."

  "You mean," she said softly, "he's setting

  him up just to knock him over?"

  He nodded once, and Deanie whistled through her

  teeth.

  Kit could not help but smile at himself, at the

  inevitable parallel his words had just drawn. Like

  poor beleaguered Cromwell, Kit wondered if

  he had unwittingly set himself up for a colossal

  fall.

  They lined the Great Hall, all the ladies and

  gentlemen of the court. Off the hall, on the

  domestic side of Hampton, the massive

  kitchen and all its wings--including the larder,

  dry-fish room, spicery, pastry room, and the

  buttery--lay in pristine order. The hundreds

  of servants stood in neat, motionless rows, as still

  and solemn as the scoured pots and neatly arranged

  spoons, awaiting inspection from the queen. Her

  jewel-studded slippers might not pad beyond the great

  hall, but, just in case, every attendant was scrubbed

  and ready.

  King Henry held Anne of Cleves at a

  formal distance, more regal than was absolutely

  necessary. His face did not betray his distaste, for

  above all, Henry took enormous pride in his

  ability to perform his royal duty with unfailing

  elegance and dignity. When he glanced at his

  bride, which he did as infrequently as possible,

  his pursed lips would twitch under the reddish

  mustache, and the great beard would tighten, as if the

  king were making a superhuman effort not to be ill.

  Deanie was in the low curtsy she had been

  practicing with another new lady-in-waiting, a

  chirpy, plump teenager named Katherine Howard.

  Deanie had been stunned to learn that Mistress

  Katherine, who reminded Deanie of a typical

  school cheerleader, was the niece of Thomas

  Howard, the creepy man who had been in the maze

  when she first met Kit. It seemed impossible that

  bubbly Katherine was in any way

  related to Norfolk, who had made clear his

  disapproval of Deanie by making peculiar huffing

  noises whenever he passed.

  Her eyes were lowered, just as Kit had

  instructed. She was not to look up until the queen

  addressed her directly. Deanie could not see

  her yet; she was lingeri
ng over each and every member of the

  court. The hall was stifling in the unusual afternoon

  heat, made all the more uncomfortable by the layers of

  heavy clothing. The windows were sealed against the threat

  of fresh air. She tried to take a deep

  breath, but the corset bound her ribs and the breath was

  stopped short.

  I'm going to faint, she thought with alarm.

  Kit stood directly behind her, bowing low

  along with all the other titled peers. Deanie, as

  a new lady-in-waiting as well as his cousin, was

  allowed the privilege of standing with their ranks.

  He saw her shoulders begin to slump forward, and very

  quietly, without disturbing the sword at his side

  or elbowing a grizzled duke standing barely a

  foot away, he reached toward her and firmly

  gripped her waist.

  She didn't jump at the sudden sensation of a

  pair of strong hands bracing her. It was as if she

  had been expecting his help. He steadied her for a

  few moments, her full weight in his grasp.

  He knew that if he let her go she would tumble

  to the ground.

  He also knew how completely she trusted him.

  It was the longest physical contact they had ever

  enjoyed, had ever allowed. The queen was approaching

  more quickly now, nodding to her ladies, graciously

  bestowing smiles upon her subjects.

  Deanie let the corner of her voluminous

  skirt fall and caressed one of his hard hands,

  giving a soft squeeze. He smiled, understanding

  her signal. With a returning press, he withdrew

  his grasp. The bones in her hand had felt fine and

  delicate in his, gentle hands to be cherished.

  Warmth flooded Deanie's face, a tenderness

  that threatened to bring a tear to her eye. And then,

  too late, she realized the queen was before her.

  Snapping back to reality, Deanie tried

  frantically to recall what she was to do next.

  Damn! They had practiced just that morning,

  Deanie and Mary and Cecily and Katherine.

  Then it came to her: She was to sink deeper into a

  curtsy. In her haste, she'd forgotten that she

  had let go of a corner of her gown to touch

  Kit's hand. The toe of her slipper caught the

  hem of her skirt, and in the blink of an eye,

  Deanie plopped unceremoniously to the ground.

  For a moment all was quiet, as a stunned,

  startled hush fell over the entire hall. One

  lady allowed a soft gasp to escape her mouth.

  Someone--probably Thomas Howard--snorted in

  disgust.

  Kit stepped forward to help her rise, placing

  a foot on the swirling train of her gown.

  Muttering apologies to the king and queen, he

  lifted her halfway to a standing position, when

  suddenly the material he was unwittingly standing on

  began to rise with its wearer. Both Deanie and

  Kit slammed to the ground, his sword clattering

  beside them.

  Deanie scrambled to stand, leaning on Kit's

  shoulder for leverage. With a dazed Kit still on her

  skirts, there was no hope.

  Suddenly a single booming laugh filled the

  hall. Henry, his face flushed with glee, threw

  back his head, pounded his hands together, and roared with

  genuine, unaffected laughter.

  "By God," he shouted, the peers beginning

  to smile among themselves, relieved at their

  sovereign's delight. "'tis the best jest we

  have seen in years! Ha! Mistress Deanie and

  Hamilton, we most heartily thank ye!"

  The king then dissolved into a fit of hilarity,

  tears streaming down his massive face, his

  bejeweled doublet shaking with unrestrained glee.

  At last Deanie and Kit were able to stand and

  face the queen.

  She was not at all what Deanie had

  expected. Instead of some foreign, exotic beast,

  Anne of Cleves--in spite of her

  strangely shaped headdress and high-necked

  gown, thick with gold thread and belted under ample

  breasts--was one of the most friendly, unabashedly

  kind-looking people Deanie had ever seen. She was

  certainly not attractive. Her nose was large

  and crooked, her skin slightly pockmarked, and

  her eyebrows, heavily plucked, rested over

  droopy eyes.

  But then she giggled, an infectious, girlish

  laugh, and clasped Deanie's hand.

  "Mistress Deanie," she said in her

  ponderous accent. "I too must give thee thanks

  for making my most gracious husband happy."

  Kit hastened to explain that his cousin was

  very new to the court and had yet to learn its ways.

  He apologized, bending over her hand, causing the

  queen, like every other female, to blush with pleasure

  at his charms.

  The king was still howling with laughter. The queen, before

  continuing the reception, whispered into Deanie's ear:

  "I hope, Mistress Deanie, that since we

  are both so very new at this court, we shall become

  special friends." Then she left to conclude her

  royal progress.

  Deanie, still startled by what had happened, felt

  herself smile. She liked the queen, no matter

  what the king or even Kit felt about her.

  Another thought crossed her mind: Even in a

  world of mucky, foul smells, Anne of

  Cleves sure did stink.

  One of the king's ministers was not in the Great

  Hall. His absence was a glaring omission, one the

  king had specifically planned, one the king

  particularly relished.

  Thomas Cromwell paced in his chamber,

  ignoring the plush, fur-trimmed collar that

  tickled his cheek. Downstairs the queen was receiving

  the other peers. Cromwell, as the newly titled

  earl of Essex, should have been there, beside Norfolk

  and Suffolk and Hamilton. Instead, the king had

  ordered Cromwell to work on the annulment

  proceedings, even as the queen, oblivious to her

  impending fate, played the role of genteel

  consort.

  It mattered not that the workings of England could grind

  to a halt at the king's every whim and fancy, that a

  fine day could find the king and his Privy Council

  galloping the countryside in search of a beast

  to slay for mere sport.

  Cromwell was not to be allowed the honor of

  receiving the very woman he had made queen.

  The quill in his hand snapped in two.

  Cromwell knew what the king's conduct toward

  him meant; he could read the ominous writing on the

  stone wall. He had seen his sovereign act this

  way before; his once-blazing enthusiasm for a

  subject could pivot overnight into deadly,

  sometimes irrational hatred.

  It had been that way for Anne Boleyn,

  another woman Cromwell had made queen.

  She had once been the center of the king's

  universe; then, within hours it seemed, Henry

  told of his loathing, how she had bewitched

  him, how the very sight o
f the woman he once adored

  made him physically ill.

  Like the quill in his hand, Anne Boleyn had

  ended in two pieces, her dark head separated from

  her slender body by the executioner's sword. At

  the time, members of the court had remarked on the

  king's marvelous kindness in hiring an expensive

  but expert swordsman from France to make his former

  wife's death swifter, and presumably less

  painful, than it would have been had he relied on a

  native headsman with a dull, thick English

  ax. Nobody dared to mention that Henry had already

  procured a divorce from Anne Boleyn. He

  had been free to marry again, free of his second

  wife. Her death had been a stroke of

  malevolent spite from an enraged sovereign.

  Others had been executed, good men, great men.

  There were too many to count now: Thomas More and

  Bishop Fisher and Lord Rochford. Like a spoiled

  child grown weary of a shiny new trinket, Henry

  would toss aside men, turning his back on those

  who had served him most faithfully.

  Cromwell knew the pattern. He had

  assisted the king on countless occasions, winning a

  conviction of treason here, usurping a peer's land

  and worldly goods there, always expeditious in condemming

  last week's favorite to the Tower.

  And soon it would be Cromwell himself.

  It was no fault of his that reports of the

  Cleves woman had been grossly inaccurate.

  His own ministers had attested to her beauty and

  wit, that she would be in every way a most perfect

  wife for the great Harry of England. If anyone was

  to blame for the deception it was that German artist

  Holbein, whose magnificent portrait of the

  sister of the duke of Cleves that had whet the king's

  considerable appetite in the first place.

  But the king became infuriated when Cromwell

  suggested that the culpability lay with the painter.

  "He is an artist, Cromwell," the king

  sneered. "I, above all, understand the artistic

  mind. 'Tis no fault of his." Unspoken,

  but implied by the king's glare, were the words "How

  canst thou, naught but a blacksmithy's son,

  know of art and beauty?"

  Cromwell had arranged the marriage, and now

  the king would find the means with which to make him pay.

  In his mind he envisioned the reception below, the

  bobbing ladies and bowing gentlemen, the eyes

  meeting in silent awareness that Thomas

  Cromwell, the earl of Essex, was absent. It

  would begin now, his slide to ruin.

  Who would take his place? The duke of

  Norfolk, Thomas Howard, would be eager as a

  puppy to please the king. He had managed

  to extricate himself from that disastrous niece of his,

  Anne Boleyn, by becoming her most vocal

  detractor once he saw the king had tired of

  her. By licking the king's boots, Norfolk was

  again in favor, backed by Catholics alarmed

  by Cromwell's dissolution of the monasteries.

  The king had been happy enough to take the riches

  of the dissolved monasteries. His lavish court had

  all but bankrupted England, and someone had to pay.

  The monies had replenished the royal coffers.

  Now the king blamed Cromwell. The Catholics

  blamed Cromwell as well, and they heaped on

  added reproach by throwing in Anne of Cleves, a

  follower of the heretic Martin Luther. Never mind

  that she had played the part of dutiful Catholic

  since arriving in England.

  Cromwell alone would be blamed, accused, and

  condemned.

  Now Norfolk was pushing another niece--how

  many did he have?--toward the king in hopes of

  securing permanent favor. Katherine Howard was

  but fifteen, pretty enough in a plump, sluttish

  way. He was right, that Norfolk. Whoever

  supplied the king with an antidote to the Cleves

  woman would reign supreme at court, topped

  only by the king himself.

  His fist came down on a stack of parchments,

  documents drawn up by his clerks to win an

  annulment. Once that was achieved, Cromwell's

  time would be up.

  Unless ...

  He recalled a few days earlier, in the

  king's chambers, the expression on Henry's

  face as he looked upon the new woman, that cousin

  of Hamilton's, the wench from Wales. The

  royal countenance had been hungry, lascivious.

  She was indeed extraordinary in appearance. The

  king liked women of spirit, with flashes of wit,

  women who could amuse his regal humor. He

  professed to love virtue in a woman, although

  what he really loved was gaiety and vivacity.

  Hope began to blossom in Cromwell.

  He would control Hamilton's cousin,

  present her to the king as a precious jewel on

  black velvet. It may actually work

  to his advantage, the Cleves union, for the king

  would be so eager to rinse the bitter taste of Anne

  from his mouth that any dainty tidbit would be all the

  more delectable.

  What was her name? Ah, Mistress Deanie

  Bailey. A common name, but it would be regal enough