Read Once Upon a Rose Page 10

once she shared the king's bed.

  Now it would be a game. Cromwell loved

  games; the higher the stakes, the greater his

  triumph. Mistress Deanie would be his pawn in

  this tournament of chess; Norfolk had Katherine

  Howard. And whoever captured the king would win.

  There was only one slight problem: Christopher

  Neville, the duke of Hamilton. He

  seemed inordinately fond of Mistress

  Deanie, above the realm of mere cousins. If

  indeed she was his cousin. The king was attached

  to Hamilton, which might pose another obstacle.

  Cromwell's face folded into a smile of

  anticipation. One way or another, the gallant

  Hamilton would be removed. It mattered not how,

  just as long as Cromwell had a clear shot at the

  Bailey wench. Hamilton was bright, more clever

  than most of the courtiers. It would take an even

  more clever man to best him, to win this ultimate

  tournament. Cromwell loved games, adored

  gambles. Whoever lost this game would surely

  forfeit his life.

  Thomas Cromwell, the earl of Essex, was

  again on familiar ground.

  Deanie tried to hide her yawn, turning her

  head slightly and placing a hand over her mouth.

  Even the three-legged juggling black bear,

  fascinating at first, now seemed old and dull.

  The trainer, cloaked in absurd patched hose

  and a red stocking cap with bells on the tip, tried

  to amuse the audience with a limp backflip. But

  he missed and slammed into Lady Alison

  Conyngham, who shrieked in horror. Deanie

  would have smiled at that bit of slapstick humor,

  but she was numb with exhausted boredom.

  Kit, of course, saw her stifled yawn,

  even as he was engaged in a discussion of jousting

  techniques with Charles Brandon, the duke of

  Suffolk. Poor Suffolk. He was a good enough

  fellow, Kit supposed, watching the once-handsome

  face betray a life of increasingly rich food

  and drink and increasingly less physical

  activity. Kit glanced down at his own

  hand, not realizing until then he had been tapping

  a finger impatiently. He stopped, not wishing

  to insult Suffolk. But he was still restless. The

  trestle table seemed to sway under the weight of the

  food piled on plates of silver and gold,

  goblets of wine, and leather-covered tankards of

  ale.

  The banquet, which had begun in the late afternoon,

  showed no signs of ending. The Hampton Court

  clock struck eight times, each ring echoing its

  melancholy chime.

  Everyone knew why the king was so reluctant

  to disperse the crowd. That would mean that he had to be

  alone with his queen, the woman chatting happily

  by his side in High Dutch and halting English,

  blissfully unaware of the terrible plans the king was

  at that very moment orchestrating. If she was lucky,

  it would be an annulment and disgrace. If not,

  well ... For her sake, everyone in the hall

  hoped it wouldn't come to that. She had shown herself to be

  a pleasant enough woman; there was no malice in those

  eyes of dung brown, not a sliver of ambition in

  her friendly nod.

  Kit was sharply aware of every move Deanie

  made, of every gesture, of every morsel of food she

  took and every comment she made to Mistress Cecily

  or Katherine Howard.

  Charles Brandon was slamming his hand on the

  table, forcing Kit's attention back to his dull,

  stale tale of a tournament a decade and a half

  old. Poor Suffolk. When into his cups, as

  he was tonight, he became a cloddish boor. Even

  hangers-on eager to ingratiate themselves in the

  royal ranks found him difficult to tolerate;

  the same jousting tales were recited over and over,

  every detail becoming just slightly inflated with each

  go-round. He pounded his fist on the table, causing

  filled goblets of wine to spill their contents like so

  much blood. Without turning his head, Kit knew

  that Suffolk's imaginary opponent had just been

  vanquished by one of his self-proclaimed

  brilliant maneuvers.

  In his youth Suffolk had wielded more charm--and

  eventually more power--than anyone else at court.

  The king had even forgiven him for eloping with

  Princess Mary Tudor, the king's own widowed

  sister. Now, like his sovereign, Suffolk rode

  tournaments only in his memory, wooed the fair

  ladies only in his heavy dreams.

  With a muffled sigh Kit shifted on the

  bench. Deanie leaned toward Kit's ear,

  whispering softly. "Isn't that the same story he

  told on Monday?" she hissed. "The one where

  he manages to single-handedly defeat the French

  knight with the lion on his shield?"

  Suffolk again pummeled the table, and a small

  fleck of spittle escaped the corner of his

  mouth. "Hamilton! Listen to me!" he demanded.

  "Now, Sir Jean de Coeur Lyon

  galloped upon his mighty stallion. But I,

  Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, was

  prepared to fight. ..."

  "God help us, Deanie," Kit murmured.

  "'Tis the long version."

  "What say you?" barked Suffolk.

  Instinctively, Deanie slid her hand upon

  Kit's thigh. "Oh, my Lord Suffolk," she

  purred. "My cousin asked me to pass the roast

  venison. Your tale has us all enthralled, and

  I did not hear him. Please--I mean, pray

  continue."

  Kit's hand folded over hers and he nodded,

  unable to speak for fear of laughing out loud.

  Deanie's face remained serene as she raised

  her eyebrows, urging Suffolk to continue, which he

  did with renewed gusto.

  "As I was saying ..." he droned.

  A large platter of venison, complete with

  hoof, was plopped before them. In surprise, she

  backed against Kit and her hand tightened in his

  grip. She almost laughed, but the warmth and solid

  feel of his hand stopped her. Slowly she turned

  her eyes to his, the constant sound of Suffolk's

  voice a blurred hum in the background.

  All of the Great Hall seemed to dissolve as

  her palm turned up in his. A jolt ran through

  her arm, a mild tingling sensation. From Kit's

  sudden stillness, she knew he felt it too.

  He stared ahead for a moment, then he faced

  Deanie.

  He was so close that she could smell him, a

  marvelous fragrance of leather and grass and a

  unique, masculine scent, primitive and

  undeniable. Her eyes took him in; she wanted

  every detail etched forever in her memory: the stray

  lock of hair that fell over his forehead, the

  cleft in his chin, the slight shadow of new

  whiskers, the solid angles of his face. Above

  all, his eyes--the strange, shining luster of

  greens and ambers, reflecting almost

  black in the flickering light of torches and

  candles
.

  Her breath stopped short when she saw his

  expression. The unwavering fervor was almost frightening

  and she would have backed away, but she felt utterly

  compelled to return the gaze. She realized that she

  had indeed forgotten to breathe, and when she opened her

  mouth, a squeaky hiccup escaped.

  It was loud enough to cause Suffolk to pause.

  "God's blood, what was that, eh?" Only the

  vaguest of smiles lifted the corners of

  Kit's mouth.

  Katherine Howard giggled into her napkin when

  Deanie hiccuped a second time, and Mistress

  Cecily handed her a full goblet of warm spiced

  wine.

  "Perhaps some fresh air?" Kit's voice was

  tight, and Deanie nodded, scrambling over the

  bench as he helped her to her feet. They walked

  slowly past the watching room off the great hall.

  Deanie, who usually paused to admire the

  wool-and-silk tapestry of "The Romance of the

  Rose," glided by as if it didn't exist.

  Both were unaware of the stares that followed them.

  Thomas Howard pretending to listen to an

  Italian diplomat, followed their every move with

  his lips thinned in concentration. His hand rose

  slowly to touch a jewel on his cloak, as if

  to reassure himself it was still there.

  The king, reaching for a honeyed almond, smiled

  to himself. Mistress Deanie, her back straight,

  her carriage graceful, her face more lovely

  than a fresh rose, was leaving the hall with

  Hamilton. His small eyes glimmered with a

  shrewd and knowing intelligence. Soon she would be

  leaving the hall on the arm of her king. Soon she

  would be his.

  The cool night air caressed their faces as

  they stopped in the courtyard. The music of the

  minstrels seemed far away; the laughing and

  table-pounding of the banquet wafted from the leaded

  windows as if from a great distance, distorted and

  muffled.

  Kit turned to face Deanie, the yard

  illuminated by blazing torches within. For a long

  moment they simply stared at each other, her

  hiccups forgotten. He drew his hand

  deliberately to her face and, with exquisite

  tenderness, brushed her silken cheek with his

  hard knuckles. "I've been wanting to do that,"

  he said hoarsely.

  His features were partially shadowed, and she reached

  up to touch his hair. It was coarse and thick, just as

  she had imagined it would be. The ends curled in

  her fingers, springing back when her thumb pressed

  them down. Her hand slid to his face. She

  slowly ran a trembling finger along the side of

  his lean cheeks, the hollow beside his mouth. And then

  she did what she had dreamed of ever since she first

  saw him: She stroked the fullness of his bottom

  lip.

  At once his arms closed around her in an

  embrace of stunning urgency. Ignoring the

  awkward tilt of her rounded headpiece, she

  wrapped her arms about his slender waist in

  response. Her eyes closed as if trying

  to block out everything but the sensation of being so close.

  Beneath his velvet doublet she heard the strong pounding

  of his heart.

  This is where I belong, she thought. Of all

  the strange events that had brought her to him, everything

  now made perfect sense. This one embrace

  made it all clear to her, and for the moment, they were the

  only two beings who mattered. She felt her

  knees give out, and he held her more tightly as

  she reached up and gripped his shoulders. The

  muscles under his clothing shifted, heavy and

  solid.

  "This is where you belong," he rasped, his voice

  thick.

  Had he heard her thoughts?

  "Kit," she breathed. With that she looked up

  at him, his eyes incandescent. His mouth descended

  upon hers, hungry, pleading. And she felt herself

  responding; that strange jolt she had experienced

  earlier at his mere touch threatened to consume her

  entire body.

  His mouth was just as she'd imagined it would be:

  strong yet soft, demanding yet supple. She was

  lost in a spiral, whirling in his arms, both

  safe and terrified at the same time. She stepped

  back, gasping.

  "Kit," she panted. "What are we going

  to do?"

  His eyes were foggy, and again he reached for her,

  pulling her close. "I know not," he muttered.

  "Dear God, I know not."

  But they both knew.

  It was sheer madness, utter folly--

  yet utterly right. She was no longer able to stand, and

  he was no longer able to support her weight. It

  was as if all strength and wisdom had fled him at

  the same time. As her knees collapsed he

  eased her gently to the ground, and somehow their lips

  were again joined, touching at first--lightly,

  delicately, then fiercely passionate, grinding

  together as if the world were melting.

  His hands caressed her leg through the velvet, then

  inched up the gown until the hem was clenched in his

  fist. She felt the cool night air, the

  prickly smooth grass at once on her thigh.

  And then she felt his hand, the hand she knew so very

  well.

  Her back arched, bringing her even closer to him,

  and deep in the back of his throat she heard a low

  groan.

  "Deanie."

  "Oh, please," she whispered.

  He hesitated a brief moment, and in that

  instant she clung to his body with unnatural

  ferocity, ignoring her headdress as it tumbled

  beneath her.

  "Kit."

  With the sound of his name on her lips, any chance of

  control vanished.

  All she wanted was to be close to him, to feel

  his powerful body next to hers. Every other desire

  was tossed to oblivion.

  "My Lord Hamilton!" The shout came from

  one of the king's young pages.

  For a moment they remained very still, the silence

  broken only by their ragged breathing.

  "Quickly," he rasped, pulling her as he

  rose to his feet. He was slightly unsteady,

  his hands still trembling as he began to adjust her

  skirts.

  Still dazed, she could only blink as he hastily

  replaced her headpiece and tucked a stray strand

  of hair into place.

  "Deanie." His voice seemed to come from a great

  distance.

  Before he could speak again, the sound of footsteps

  in the courtyard echoed harshly in their ears.

  "My Lord Hamilton," repeated the page as

  he emerged from behind a hedge. "There you are! And

  Mistress Bailey! The king doth require your

  presence within! Pray come! He desires to hear

  my lady's music."

  "Bad timing," she murmured, her

  voice shaky.

  He took a deep breath. "Later we must

  speak." He placed her hand through his a
rm.

  "When?" she whispered as the page approached.

  Kit did not address her. Instead he nodded

  toward the page. "Tell the king we will be within

  presently, as Mistress Deanie catches her

  breath."

  "My Lord." The page bowed, then left the

  courtyard.

  "Later we will speak," he repeated. "But now

  the king awaits."

  They began to walk toward the great hall, both

  lost in their own thoughts. "Kit, I just realized

  I don't know where you live. I mean, you don't

  just hang out at court all the time, do you?"

  He smiled. "After what just very nearly

  occurred, you want to know where I live?"

  She nodded. "Do you have your own home, or do you

  just follow the king?"

  "Nay, Deanie, I have my own estate,

  called Manor Hamilton. It's a smallish

  place compared to the royal palaces, but large

  enough, with servants and pages aplenty."

  "Does your sister live there?"

  He stopped, a strange cast to his eyes.

  "Why ask you of my sister?"

  "Because you said I reminded you of her," she

  answered, perplexed.

  "My sister is not alive." He looked down

  at her, and his eyes again softened. "Come. The king

  awaits."

  "I'm sorry," she stammered at last.

  But he said nothing as he led her back into the

  great hall.

  Then she stopped. "My God, Kit," she

  whispered. "I need a second." She swallowed

  and closed her eyes. "I'm about to play a gig

  for the king of England."

  The king clapped his hands as they entered. "Ah!

  Mistress Deanie! My lutist Van Wilder

  doth praise your skill on the guitar. Let us

  hear thee." The queen smiled and nodded, as if

  happy to see attention diverted from herself but

  unsure of precisely what the king was saying.

  Van Wilder, his glinting doublet garish under a

  red satin cloak, handed her Kit's guitar.

  She had to concentrate, she told herself. This was

  a show. Never mind what had happened in

  the courtyard.

  There was a murmur of conversation as she refused

  the chair he offered and looped the guitar over her

  shoulders. She had fashioned a makeshift strap

  out of an embroidered kirtle, and she winked at

  Katherine Howard's expression of shock.

  With a casual shrug, she tossed the

  three-foot train of her blue velvet gown

  over her right shoulder. There was a collective

  gasp from the women, which Deanie carefully

  ignored.

  "Good evening, ladies and gentleman," she

  began, the practiced words of her opening banter.

  "Oh, and king and queen." She did a swift

  curtsy, and the royal couple acknowledged her with

  regal nods.

  "Hope y'all have enjoyed the show so far."

  What was she saying? How could she call a troupe

  of mummers and a wrestling bear an opening act?

  Kit made a motion as if to come to her side, and

  she shot him a smile.

  This was the one thing she could do. For once, since

  landing in the maze, she was not in need of Kit. She

  was not waiting to be rescued.

  Most of the audience were intoxicated. This was the

  dinner theater from hell, she thought, the artificial

  smile still on her face. Once she had played

  a little honky-tonk in west Texas. There was

  chicken wire strung across the stage to keep the

  audience from throwing bottles at the performers. The

  place was so dangerous, she had used the phone with

  her back pressed against the wall, watching every

  patron like the potential felons they were.

  All in all, she wished she were back in west

  Texas.

  Swallowing once, she cleared her throat,

  finding the familiar chords on the slender neck

  of the strange little guitar. Without any further

  banter, she launched into the old standby of every

  female country singer unsure of the crowd: a

  medley of Patsy Cline hits. From "I

  Fall to Pieces" and "Crazy" to "Walkin'

  After Midnight" and finally "Sweet Dreams (of

  You)."

  At first she was tentative, unsure of her

  voice and the guitar in the vastness of the hammer-beam

  ceilinged hall. After four bars she realized the

  acoustics of the hall were spectacular; and her

  voice was rich and mellow, rising above the

  openmouthed audience.

  The more she played, the more the songs carried her

  away, and she began to stroll, making eye contact

  with her audience. Some stared at her with their eyes

  comically wide, while others squinted in

  bafflement.

  Damn, she thought. I'm good.

  The audience remained silent. Her mind

  whirled, trying to think of a logical reason.

  Perhaps since they had never heard the tunes before,

  there wasn't that spark of recognition and fond

  memory that usually prompted the most inebriated

  listener to leap to unsteady feet after the medley.

  So without waiting for more humiliating silence, she

  embarked on a tune that would be a number-one

  crossover hit for another singer in about four

  hundred and fifty years. It was her own

  composition, a rocking ballad titled "A