Read Once Upon a Rose Page 11

Strong Man's Weakness." Sure, whenever she

  imagined her own concert, she saved the number for

  later in the show. But with this audience, she wasn't

  sure how much of a show there would be. The bear and his

  colorfully dressed trainer were waiting for a sign

  to reenter.

  Their immobility bothered her the most. Like the

  seasoned small-club performer she was, she'd be

  damned if she'd let them get away with it. The

  eye-contact trick wasn't working, so she had

  to grind harder. Strolling from table to table, she

  reached over a platter of oysters and plucked the

  broad-brimmed velvet hat from the duke of

  Suffolk. Stunned at first, he began to smile

  groggily at the absurdity of the moment, pleased

  by the attention. Before he could comment, she grabbed

  another hat, this one belonging to an elderly man in

  somber garb.

  Unfortunately, the old guy was the new

  bishop of Winchester. But he was game, and he

  soon began to nod his now-naked head in time to her

  music. The next hat was Norfolk's.

  Deanie decided to skip him altogether. She also

  passed over women, knowing from painful experience how

  difficult the headpieces were to fasten to the hair.

  Their hats piled up on the edge of the table, she

  kept moving, kicking the hem of her gown out of her

  path each time she changed direction.

  She was aware that her voice was unusual to their

  ears. From what she had heard--placid women

  strumming limply on lutes, seated

  delicately on a heavy chair--they were

  accustomed to high-pitched, Deanna

  Durbin-type voices. But Deanie's voice

  was rich and deep and confident.

  Deanie also noticed that she sounded smoother

  than before and attributed the change to her not smoking

  cigarettes. High notes she had been forced

  to fudge back in Nashville, by shifting into a

  lower register, now came easily, soaring as she

  bent into the final syllable.

  She could usually gauge an audience easily.

  This crowd was different. The hatless ones seemed

  pleased, but others remained perfectly still. At

  different times throughout her performance, an intrepid

  drummer in the minstrels' gallery tried

  valiantly to play along, only to peter out

  into an uncertain tee-tum. A single wooden

  recorder tooted once before warbling into oblivion

  with the drum.

  The song ended, guitar strings vibrating the last

  resonant chord. And then there was the sound of one

  clap, strong and slow at first. The clapping grew

  faster and more furious. Deanie, blinking in

  astonishment at the bold clapper, turned toward

  the source of the solitary applause.

  The king of England.

  Chapter 6

  Taking a cue from their sovereign, others in the

  hall began to clap, some stomping approval, a

  few clanging pewter-and-silver goblets on the

  thick table boards like an inmate uprising at

  Leavenworth. A large hound, who had

  unceremoniously chewed his rear leg for fleas

  during her entire performance, shrugged from the hall,

  clearly annoyed by the commotion.

  Deanie was uncertain how to respond. With a

  swift curtsy and a mumbled "y'all have been a

  great audience," she began to back away. The

  guitar dangled from its strap, bumping her hip with

  every step.

  The king rose to his feet, a strangely

  animated look on his mammoth face. He

  lifted one beefy hand into the air, silencing the

  hall. He walked around the dais, passing a

  stupefied Norfolk and a benevolently smiling

  Queen Anne, her oblong headpiece shadowing

  her eyes.

  Kit began to move protectively toward

  Deanie, his wary hazel eyes fixed upon the king.

  Few noticed that his right hand was poised

  over the hilt of his sword. The voiceless,

  expectant tension had all eyes riveted on

  Deanie, her own stance uncertain as she stepped

  slowly toward Kit.

  Henry's height, well over six foot

  two, and his enormous gold-clothed girth

  reminded her of an oversized Christmas tree,

  garishly decked by zealous children with more humor than

  taste. She averted her stare from the gem-studded

  codpiece poking from the lavish folds of his doublet

  skirt.

  The king shook his head, clicking his tongue as

  he approached. His small mouth compressed into a

  compact pucker. She slammed into Kit's side,

  and both of them ignored her awkwardness when she

  stumbled on his foot, her gown causing her

  to slide along his leg. With nowhere else to go, she

  stood stockstill, unsure and more than a little

  alarmed. Could the king kill her? Behead her for not

  performing to his imperial satisfaction? She had

  heard of acts dying on stage but never being

  executed.

  "Mistress Deanie," the monarch whispered, his

  booming voice subdued and almost meek. He

  stopped several feet short of Deanie, and from the

  corner of her eye she saw Kit, solid and

  motionless as a stone wall.

  Forcing herself to look directly at the king's

  face, she felt her jaw drop in astonishment.

  The king of England had tears in his eyes.

  "Never--" His voice broke as he pulled

  her hand to meet his lips. "Never hath we heard

  such music, such poetry. Never. So simply

  wrought, yeah, so elegant." He brushed his

  damp mouth and crumb-dusted beard across the back

  of her hand. "Thou hath moved the royal heart with

  thy Welsh songs."

  With a brief squeeze of her hand, he bowed

  to her. Deanie grinned. Suddenly she liked the

  king. Heck, he was just another fan.

  Tilting her eyes to Kit, hoping to see

  grudging admiration on his face, perhaps even the

  glazed adulation of a newly won Wilma Dean

  Bailey enthusiast, she saw instead a flash of

  vexation. She had seen such a reaction before: in

  Vic Jenkens, in Bucky Lee Denton. It

  was something more than simple jealousy. They were

  threatened by her, as if her ability to create and

  perform music somehow detracted from their own

  talents. Vic and Bucky Lee did

  not like to share the spotlight with anyone, much less a

  woman. Deanie was momentarily stunned to realize

  that Kit was no different from the others.

  An irrational, childish impulse overtook

  her. How Kit must envy her, the skill she

  displayed on his guitar. He must play himself, but

  she had never heard him. He was probably no

  good at it, the jerk. Now he was ticked off at

  someone showing him up, especially in front of the

  entire court and the king.

  With calculated coyness, she turned her most

  dazzling smile on the monarch, the same smile

  she used at award ceremonies and press

&nbs
p; conferences. She was well aware that the king prized

  perfect teeth. Three months of extensive

  dental work had given her a smile brilliant

  enough to light up any video. Adding a dash of

  Tudor flourish, she curtsied low and gazed

  adoringly at Henry.

  She completely ignored Kit.

  The king's expression changed. For a few

  moments his face was blank with confusion, then something

  in his tiny eyes seemed to ignite. His whole

  body stiffened.

  "Mistress Deanie," he said gruffly. "It

  would be our greatest pleasure to visit thee in thine

  own chambers."

  Deanie was about to turn to Kit in bewilderment.

  Why was the king asking permission to wander about in his own

  palace? He had said "we," so she assumed he

  would take the queen as well.

  Just before she raised a questioning eyebrow to Kit,

  she remembered her anger. He stood completely

  motionless, and she knew he'd heard every word the king

  had just uttered. Good, she thought. Not for nothing was

  she a top performer in Nashville. Okay,

  maybe not exactly top, but close enough. Perhaps

  she was far away from home, but no man--not even

  Christopher Neville, the duke of Hamilton

  --could hold her down.

  "Your Majesty," she replied, not daring

  to glance at the king's face, "you are welcome at

  any time."

  Before she could speak another word, the king was

  clapping his hands, motioning to the minstrels. "A

  galliard! A galliard!"

  The hall was suddenly a bevy of activity, with

  serving boys shooing away dogs, the musicians

  scurrying into place in the gallery. The king winked

  once at Deanie and returned to his

  place on the trestled dais, a decided spring

  in the royal step. The ulcered leg was forgotten.

  The last two decades seemed to have melted away

  from the king.

  Courtiers could not help but notice that for the first

  time in recent memory, Bluff King Hal had

  returned.

  The ladies and gentlemen left their benches,

  some still chewing the remains of the banquet, others

  grabbing a quick swallow of wine. On the center

  floor they formed two straight lines, the men

  facing the women. Deanie wanted to see the dance,

  which was beginning to resemble her high school

  square-dancing lessons. She whirled to face

  Kit, smiling in anticipation. He grabbed her

  upper arm.

  "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she

  shrieked in protest, startled by how painful his

  grasp was even through three heavy layers of

  fabric.

  He did not answer. With a single swift

  motion, he pulled the guitar from her shoulders and

  handed it to a passing carver, who stood momentarily

  baffled, juggling a large platter of half-eaten

  venison, a heavy gold knife, and the instrument.

  Then Kit dragged her through a passage to the

  courtyard, the exact spot where they had shared a

  sublime interlude less than thirty minutes

  before. By the time he let go of her arm, her

  surprise had become fury.

  Without speaking a word, she turned on her

  heels to leave.

  "Hold," he ordered. She stopped, her

  rigid back toward him. He was close enough that she

  could hear him breathing, even over the music and

  laughter inside.

  She glanced down at her clenched fists, the

  sumptuous fabric covering her wrists,

  delicate lace trimmed in black. Then her

  eyes blurred with tears, hot and heavy. A

  knot formed in her throat, and although she tried

  to swallow it, it remained painfully in place.

  "You're just like the others," she murmured,

  unaware that she had spoken aloud. The hurt was

  too deep for her to care, and she began to pluck

  unmercifully at the lace cuffs, unraveling the

  fine needlework, not caring as she shredded the

  fragile material.

  "Deanie." He reached for her shoulder. This time

  his touch was gentle, the anger in his voice

  diffused. She did not pull away; she no

  longer had the energy.

  "You're just jealous." She sighed. "I've

  seen it before, Kit."

  "Canst thou not," he began, taut with swelling

  rage. He took a ragged breath and started over.

  "Listen to me. Follow my words." Lifting her

  chin, he saw the tears and, with a thumb, wiped them

  away. "In short, Deanie, you have just agreed

  to become the king's mistress."

  "What?" All traces of self-pity

  vanished. "You must be joking, Kit. The old

  guy just wants to bring his wife over to--"

  "His wife? When did he make mention of his

  wife?"

  She rolled her eyes, shaking her head in

  exasperation. "He said "we would like to visit,"

  or something like that. He's bringing someone, at any

  rate. He won't be alone."

  "Deanie." Kit held both shoulders now,

  forcing her to face him directly. "He employed

  the royal "we." Hath thou ... have you not heard

  of it?"

  A slow dawning closed over her expression.

  "Oh."

  "Yeah. Oh."

  For a moment they were silent. Then she brightened,

  almost enjoying the still-thunderous expression on his

  face. He wasn't angry at her talent,

  jealous of her ability to entertain. He was merely

  concerned for her reputation.

  "Hey, Kit. It's no big deal. I'll

  just apologize to the king, you know. Let him down

  gently. And then ..."

  "Nay."

  "Nay?"

  As if exerting supreme control, he closed

  his eyes and let out a deep breath. "The entire

  court saw the exchange," he said softly.

  "Did you not espy Norfolk's expression?

  God's blood, Deanie." The hazel eyes

  opened, then softened as he saw her bafflement.

  "Let me speak plainly: The king has asked you

  to become his mistress. You have accepted."

  She was about to speak when he held up a hand

  to stem her flow of denials. "Listen to me." At

  last she nodded, and he continued. "Before the entire

  court you have accepted. Now you must understand something.

  The king will not tolerate being made a fool. He

  can bear petty uprisings, foreign

  invasions, even stupidity on the part of his

  ministers. But he will never allow anyone--

  especially a woman--to make him appear

  buffoonish."

  "Awe, come on, Kit. It's not that serious,

  just a little misunderstanding."

  Kit made a fist, as if willing her by force

  to understand him, then let it fall between them.

  "Deanie," he said, his voice rough with meaning,

  "another woman quoth like words to me. She too was

  confident, and waxed happy that what had

  transpired between the king and herself was "just a little

  misunderstanding.""

&nb
sp; Deanie grinned. "Oh? Who was that?"

  "Her name," Kit said sharply, "was Anne

  Boleyn."

  By the time Deanie returned to her chambers,

  exhausted and stunned by what Kit had told her,

  she was eager to share the problem with Cecily

  Garrison. As both the sister and daughter of

  longstanding courtiers, she would certainly know if there

  were any way out of the situation. Perhaps Kit was just

  overreacting, jumping to conclusions because he had seen

  the king behave harshly with other women.

  But Cecily, and all traces of her, had

  vanished. Nor was sulky Mary Douglass

  anywhere to be seen. In an overcrowded palace,

  with well-bred courtiers and eager wanna-bes

  taking up every inch of surplus space, Deanie

  suddenly had her own room.

  For a moment she knew blind panic, a clawing

  fear that Henry would bound into the room at any

  moment, his glittering codpiece dangling before her

  eyes. Gripping the mahogany post of the bed, she

  leaned her forehead against the carved wood, aware of the

  sharp edges biting into her skin. Somehow, the

  physical pain calmed her, made her acutely

  aware of her surroundings.

  All was quiet. She could no longer hear the

  raucous clatter of the banquet below, the broken

  conversations of lovers escaping into the courtyard.

  She let go of the bed and reached for a muslin-covered

  bolster, hugging it close to her.

  She needed to find Kit.

  Placing her chin on top of the bolster, she sat

  stiffly on the bed. Her clothing made it

  impossible to get comfortable, but she didn't care.

  She had to get out of here, out of this palace. Kit

  had been right: The court was governed

  by rules beyond her comprehension. Arbitrary laws of

  behavior were set in stone. She was only now

  beginning to understand what a dangerous game she had

  been playing.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and she

  jumped. Could it be the king? She stood up, the

  bolster rolling off her lap and onto the thickly

  planked floor. Perhaps if she didn't answer,

  whoever it was would go away.

  There was another knock, more insistent this time.

  "Mistress Deanie?" whispered a soft

  voice. It was Cecily Garrison. She

  swiftly unlatched the door, and Cecily

  slipped into the room.

  Instead of simply chattering away, as she

  usually did, Cecily sunk into a low curtsy.

  "What are you doing?" Deanie asked

  incredulously, pulling Cecily to her feet.

  Cecily kept her head bowed, not meeting

  Deanie's eyes.

  "We are to depart next morn to Richmond,

  mistress," Cecily said. "I am to help you,

  should you require anything."

  "What? Cecily, what's going on here?"

  Deanie felt the fear return in an awful

  rush.

  Finally Cecily looked directly at

  Deanie. "Oh, Mistress Deanie, 'tis a

  great honor to bed the king."

  "No way!"

  Cecily continued, her expression one of

  respectful admiration. "The king is England itself.

  What England wishes, her humble subjects must

  be only too joyous to deliver. Let me

  assist you with your stays and laces, milady."

  Without further instruction, Cecily began

  unfastening Deanie's headdress and unlacing the

  ties down her back. Numbly, Deanie

  submitted, noting how Cecily averted her

  eyes from Deanie's nearly naked body. Once

  she was free of the confining clothes and alone, she could

  somehow reach Kit. He was on the palace

  grounds. He would know what to do. Perhaps she could

  return to the maze and travel back to her own time

  with Kit. Perhaps ...

  "Mistress Deanie, wilt thou require

  anything else?"

  She glanced at Cecily, a fleeting thought of

  asking for help in an escape plan. That wouldn't

  be fair. Cecily had no notion of how

  Deanie truly felt, deeming it a high honor

  to be chosen by the king. Everyone here was of the same

  mind, except for Kit. He alone knew what

  she was getting herself into, the torment she would

  endure. He had tried to warn her, but her

  stubborn, stupid arrogance made her turn on

  him like a German shepherd in a junkyard.

  "No, Cecily." She faked a smile.

  Cecily backed out of the room, as if Deanie

  had just been coronated.

  Alone once more, wearing nothing but the loosely

  flowing white nightshift, Deanie slumped into the

  bed. She stared at the flickering candle, watching the

  beige wax drip hot and thick. She had

  to think, find a way to leave before she was confronted

  by Henry.

  There was another knock on the door. Deanie,

  lost in her dismal thoughts, combed her fingers through her

  hair. "Come in, Cecily," she said

  distractedly.

  The door opened, and a man wearing a dark green

  velvet cloak and a black hat with a turned-up

  brim entered. Deanie pulled the coverlet to her

  chin as he walked boldly to her side.

  "Mistress Deanie," he said, bowing low.

  She knew who he was, although they had yet

  to be formally introduced. Thomas Cromwell, the