Read Once Upon a Rose Page 19

grip.

  "Did anyone see you?"

  "No. I went the other night--don't get

  mad. It was about three in the morning, and I put

  out the candle as soon as I found it. Did you know

  it gets dark at that hour? I almost walked into the

  brick wall about a dozen times."

  "I should be furious with you," he said, his hand

  closing around the bottle. "But I'm so damned

  relieved to see you. When Suffolk pressed me

  into one of his impromptu tournaments, I could

  hardly refuse. He had a very good point: It's

  not safe to be out of sight for long in this court."

  Her hand swept a thatch of hair from his

  forehead. "How are you feeling? I can't believe

  you're up."

  "I feel like hell," he admitted. Only

  then did she notice that behind the apparently healthy

  glow his skin bore a chalky whiteness. The lines

  beside his mouth and radiating from the corners of his eyes

  seemed deeper. "I couldn't stand being in that room

  one more day. Besides, I believe I'm on the

  mend."

  "Thanks to Dr. Cornelius and his magic

  ointment?"

  "No." He had stopped smiling. "Thanks

  to Wilma Dean Bailey and her magic love."

  The abrupt change in his tone took her

  by surprise. She raised her hand to her mouth.

  He gazed over her head, wary of curious

  courtiers. They were alone. Setting the bottle

  on the grass by the concealing shrub, he drew her

  to him, enfolding her in his arms. Although they ached from

  the punishing swordplay, her very nearness seemed

  to soothe away the pain.

  "Shall we try it tonight, at sundown?" His breath

  ruffled her hair as he spoke.

  "Maybe later," she murmured, her eyes

  closed in a dreamy haze.

  "Later? But we need--" His sudden laugh

  startled her. "Deanie, I mean, shall we try the

  maze later, not, well ..."

  Her face flushed and he nodded, unable

  to answer. Pressing closer, her arms closed about

  his waist. She linked her hands tightly behind him,

  as if preparing to be wrenched away.

  Kit rested his chin on her head, inhaling the

  fragrance of her hair. His eyes remained

  watchful as he listened for the telltale

  rustle that would signal an intruder into the

  boundaries of their private world.

  "It has to work, it just has to," she said at

  last, her lips moving against his chest.

  He said nothing, and she pulled back slightly

  and looked up. His fierce stare was fixed beyond her,

  his expression hooded and unreadable. He

  swallowed and his eyes shifted to hers. At once

  his face softened, melting into a gentle smile.

  "We'd best rejoin the fray," he

  murmured, bending down to pick up the bottle.

  He held it up to the light, the flower petals

  fluttering to the ground as it moved. "Should I be

  unable to speak with you, perhaps we should agree on a

  time to meet in the maze. How does six o'clock this

  afternoon sound?"

  Deanie tried unsuccessfully to repress a

  shiver.

  "Are you cold?" he asked, offering her his arm.

  "Yes." Her voice was subdued. "I've

  been cold since I got here."

  "Ah. There's a very good explanation for that."

  They emerged from behind the hedge, the sun barely

  warming the air. He spoke quietly, leaning

  toward her. "We are in the tail end of an ice

  age."

  "You're kidding."

  "No. It's a good ten or twelve degrees

  colder now than it was in the twentieth century.

  Haven't you noticed?"

  "I just thought it was all the palace creeps that

  made me feel so chilly."

  He grinned. "Well, they surely don't

  help."

  The duke of Suffolk waved from where yet more

  courtiers had gathered. "Hamilton, there you are.

  Come try your arm with Surrey."

  Kit held up a hand, indicating he would be

  right there. "Six o'clock?" His gaze held hers.

  "Six o'clock," she confirmed.

  "Hamilton!" He looked up just as

  Surrey tossed his sword, and he caught it with

  his left hand.

  With his right he passed Deanie the flowers and

  cola bottle. He brushed the back of his hand

  along the curve of her cheek. "Take care

  until six," he mumbled, then turned to join the

  men.

  "Of the bottle?" she asked, watching his broad

  back as he walked away. His dark

  curls barely reached the collar of the white shirt.

  He halted and very slowly turned to face her.

  "No." His shrouded expression revealed

  nothing. "Take care of yourself, Deanie. Take

  care of yourself."

  With that he hefted the sword in the unfamiliar

  hand and left her wondering what on earth his

  strange tone could have meant.

  The king was doing everything in his considerable power

  to impress Mistress Deanie in the music

  salon.

  "Ah, the clavichord," he announced as he

  stretched his great hands with a delicate flourish.

  He began one of his favorite tunes, each

  note vibrating in the air. He hazarded a

  peek at Mistress Deanie, who sat stiffly

  on the window seat, the gypsy guitar of

  Hamilton's resting as if forgotten in her lap.

  God's blood, but she was lovely! Her

  hair had much red in its chestnut hues. The

  setting sun seemed to cause her thick tresses

  to glow with warmth. She had a most distracting

  habit of looking out the window, and the king was

  determined to force her complete attention on his

  princely prowess.

  She had come willingly enough after the noon meal.

  Of course she sat with her cousin Hamilton at

  her side, and they seemed to enjoy each other's

  familiar company the way close family

  members often do. When the meal ended Hamilton

  seemed reluctant to leave her, even as the

  ladies retired to their own chambers.

  "Is it to your liking, mistress?" The king

  played the last few bars of the music.

  "Excuse me?" She seemed startled by his

  voice.

  The king pursed his lips, trying to control his

  impatience. His red beard had been trimmed

  earlier by one of the scores of barbers that seemed

  to overrun Hampton of late. One had snipped

  at his thinning hair, then frowned and put a plumed

  round hat on his head like a crown. The king was

  well aware of his encroaching baldness, and he

  resented a mere barber being privy to the knowledge.

  "The music, Mistress Deanie," he

  repeated. "Is it to your liking?"

  "It is just fine, Your Majesty."

  The king squelched the urge to scowl. Instead,

  he gave her one of his most dazzling

  smiles. He was proud of his teeth; they were

  mostly intact, and not as badly discolored as those

  of most men hi
s age.

  The song ended, and the king looked down with

  approval at the glittering rings on his fingers.

  "It is a composition of my own making," he said.

  "Really?" He had caught her attention now.

  "Why, it was wonderful, Your Highness."

  "Yes, it is rather wonderful." He stood up

  and approached her. "Mistress Deanie, would you

  favor our ears with another of your own

  compositions?"

  "Of course." She tried to smile. She had

  no idea of the exact time, but she knew it was

  rapidly nearing six o'clock. She would have to race

  to her room to retrieve the bottle before she could

  meet Kit in the maze. Her fingers faltered on

  the neck of the guitar, fumbling for a chord. She

  had no notion what she was going to play; she just

  wanted to make it short and fast.

  "Mistress Deanie." The king's voice was

  unexpectedly soft. "Is there something amiss?

  It does not escape our notice that you seem

  to be distracted."

  Deanie strummed a sour chord on the small

  guitar and appraised her situation with the king. She

  immediately dismissed the idea of telling him everything,

  of Cromwell and his strong-arm tactics.

  Cromwell would merely lash out with more speed and

  ferocity, since he would have nothing else to lose.

  Instead she chose her words carefully. "I

  fear, Your Highness, that I am not yet accustomed

  to the ways of the court. Everything is so

  unfamiliar, and I am afraid I will somehow

  offend a courtier--or worse, yourself."

  The king relaxed, sitting alongside her on the

  window seat. The jewels on his round hat

  reflected the sun, its rays bent through heavy

  leaded panes.

  "Did you know I wasn't supposed to ever

  become king?" The regal accent was gone from his

  voice, and he seemed more human, less

  overblown.

  "Really?" She put down the guitar, suddenly

  interested in what he had to say.

  A small laugh escaped his mouth, and he

  stretched his silk-hosed legs before him. A large

  red garter covered the spot where the ulcer ate at

  his limb. "I was merely the duke of York, the

  second son. My older brother,

  Arthur, now he was the true prince.

  "What happened to him?"

  Henry was more than a little surprised. Even in

  Wales, the story of his family was common knowledge. But

  he explained anyway. "Arthur was my father's

  favorite, named for the legendary king."

  "Oh, I get it! King Arthur." Deanie's

  eyes, fringed with impossibly long black

  lashes, were completely focused on Henry. It

  was a sensation he found enormously enjoyable.

  "Yes. Arthur was every inch England's fair

  prince. He was even wed to the fairest princess

  of Christendom: Katherine of Aragon, daughter

  of Ferdinand and Isabella."

  "The guys who sent Christopher Columbus

  to the New World?"

  Again, Henry laughed. "Indeed, the very ones.

  But only after my father, in one of his few instances of

  poor judgment, refused to finance the voyage. The

  explorer's brother, Bartholomew Columbus,

  came to England to beg funds from my father. It was not

  much he asked, but my father refused. He said it

  would not be profitable."

  Deanie, forgetting she was with the king, whistled through

  her teeth. "Man, I'll bet he sure

  regretted that move."

  "Not nearly as much as I regretted it. It

  is rather costly to finance a realm." His voice was

  light, and there was a distinct twinkle in his beady

  black eyes.

  "I'll bet," she agreed. "But what

  happened to Arthur?"

  "Ah. When he was a bridegroom of but

  fourteen tender years, he died."

  "No! I'm sorry. Oh, that's terrible.

  Poor Katherine."

  The king cleared his throat. "Well,

  Mistress Deanie, Katherine as a young woman

  was lovely. All of a sudden, I, simple

  Hal, was thrust into the position of prince of

  Wales. My poor father raced throughout Europe

  to gather the best tutors available. As the

  second son, you see, my education had been

  sadly lacking. Oh, it was suitable for a man of the

  Church, that bastion of second sons. But it was

  lacking for a king. Only by diligent study was I

  able to succeed."

  "In other words, you had to cram?"

  The king blinked, then nodded. "I suppose that

  is an apt phrase for the book-learning

  I experienced. Cram." He flicked an

  invisible speck from the rich silk of his doublet.

  "One of my tutors was Katherine, widow of my

  brother, Arthur. And when my father died, I was

  eighteen. Katherine was twenty-three. So I

  married her."

  "Wait a second--you married your dead

  brother's wife?"

  "Yes. Much to my regret, for God did not

  bless us with a living son. We were punished, you

  see. Punished for defying God's will. It is

  against theological teachings for a man to marry his

  brother's wife. The marriage was annulled."

  "How sad."

  The king frowned. "Yes. It was sad indeed."

  Deanie sensed that she should change the topic.

  "So how on earth did you learn to become such a

  wonderful king?"

  He seemed to expand within the confines of the immense

  doublet. "Ah. I believe God touched me with

  greatness."

  Deanie bit her lip, well aware that he was

  not jesting. In the corner of the room she heard the

  ping of one of the king's many clocks.

  "Oh, Your Highness," she said, counting the

  strokes. Six. It was six, and Kit was waiting

  in the maze.

  The king gave her a lazy grin. "Yes."

  There had been passion in her voice, and he liked

  the husky tone.

  "I must--" She stood up, an idea hitting

  her. "I must visit the privy," she whispered

  anxiously.

  The king straightened. "By all means,

  Mistress. Leave at once." A look of

  royal distaste crossed his face. He did not like

  to think of women having bodily functions. It was

  most upsetting.

  With a quick curtsy, his hand waving her on, she

  exited the music salon, propelling herself faster

  than the heavy skirts were ever meant to move.

  The earl of Surrey, Norfolk's son,

  waited for Hamilton to pass.

  It had been a day of humiliation for Surrey.

  He had called for swordplay with Hamilton,

  well aware that the man's shoulder had been

  severely wounded. He feigned surprise and

  concern, trying to console Hamilton when

  Suffolk, that bloated fool, told of the

  injury.

  Just as he'd expected, Hamilton said he

  could fight with his left hand. The ladies almost

  fell into a swoon of delight, and Surrey

  groun
d his teeth in an effort not to shout, to curse

  Hamilton. Who was he, after all? Who knew

  of his parentage? He appeared every inch the product

  of nobility, but his title had been bestowed by the

  king.

  Surrey stood straighter, hoping his nose was

  not overly red. Springtime always made him

  sneeze.

  He was going to defeat Hamilton. Before the

  court, before his father and Suffolk. Above all, before

  the ladies. Somehow, even his obvious good breeding

  and noble manners did little to attract the fair

  sex. Hamilton, rough and less dignified,

  seemed to have his pick.

  How had it happened? How had Hamilton,

  wielding his sword with his left arm instead of the right,

  managed to defeat him twice? His ears burned with

  humiliation. Some of the ladies had laughed.

  Hamilton had not, merely offered his hand after the

  final bout. He took it, of course. Had to.

  But he had wiped it as soon as Hamilton and

  Suffolk left for supper.

  Hamilton.

  Surrey jumped. Someone was approaching.

  Perhaps if he just slit Hamilton's throat,

  all would be well. No. Not yet. There were too

  many people who'd witnessed the mortifying defeat of

  Surrey not to cast vile suspicion upon his fine

  name should anything happen to Hamilton.

  "Kit?"

  It was Mistress Deanie. Surrey licked

  his lips. She was a beautiful wench. How would

  Hamilton feel if another man took her,

  had his way with her, then tossed her aside like so

  much rubbish? Ha. It would be good to see

  Hamilton suffer. It would be good to take

  Mistress Deanie.

  His father couldn't abide her. Of course, his father

  wanted his slut of a cousin Katherine Howard

  to become the next queen, to raise them all above

  their present noble position. They had survived

  Anne Boleyn, his other sluttish cousin. They

  would survive Katherine.

  "Kit?"

  The luscious Mistress Deanie was but half

  a dozen yards away. He could grab

  her, touch her fair--

  "Deanie!"

  Hamilton, curse his eyes, rounded the

  corner. Surrey backed away. Another

  time. He smiled in promise. Before he left

  the gardens, he blew Deanie a silent kiss.

  They entered the maze at a slow pace. Should

  anyone be watching from the palace or happen upon the

  couple, they would appear to be enjoying the waning

  minutes of daylight.

  "Calmly," Kit warned as he felt her

  tense. The Lady Longley and a red-faced

  groomsman emerged from behind a bush. "Good eve,

  Lady Longley." Kit smiled. Deanie

  merely showed her teeth.

  Lady Longley nodded and walked swiftly

  toward the palace, the groom chasing after her.

  Once within the maze, Deanie handed Kit the

  bottle. She had removed the flowers. It

  seemed stark and bare, the blackened peanuts

  rolling at the bottom.

  "It is almost time." He squinted toward the

  sun. "Was this about where you were?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Well, this is where I was standing, facing over

  there." His hand sliced the air, strong,

  decisive. He turned to her. "Are you all

  right? You are wearing a rather greenish complexion."

  He lifted up her chin.

  In the light his eyes were extraordinary, the

  greens and browns battling, creating the

  magnificent shade of hazel. She pulled her

  gaze away, trying to think. It was impossible with

  Kit so close.

  "Something's wrong," she said at last.

  He held the bottle above his head, testing.

  His other hand gripped her upper arm.

  A single shaft of light hit the glass,

  bouncing off in a blue light.

  "Deanie ..." he began, holding her

  tighter.

  Suddenly she reached up and pulled the bottle

  from his hand. The blue light vanished immediately.

  "What are you doing!" he shouted.

  She shook her arm free. "Something's wrong,

  Kit. This isn't right."

  With an explosive sigh he tried to grab the

  bottle back, but she jumped out of reach.

  "Goddamnit, Deanie."

  Her mind raced, and she covered her face with

  an unsteady hand, trying to come up with an

  explanation for what was wrong. Kit stood so

  close she could feel his warmth. She stepped

  back even more, needing to think clearly without the

  distraction of his presence.

  It came to her. "Anne!" She gasped. An

  awful dizziness swept through her, and she couldn't

  seem to think clearly.

  He caught her as she stumbled backward.

  "Deanie, look at me," he asked, his flash

  of anger gone.

  The sun set with one final burst of light.

  Kit led her to one of the stone benches in the

  maze, and she sat beside him, not daring to come in

  contact with his body. Taking a shaky breath, she

  faced him. "What happens to Queen Anne?"

  "For God's sake, Deanie, don't do that

  to me again." It was then she realized how shaken he

  was, taking great gulps of air and shooting her

  irritated looks.

  "What happens to Queen Anne?" she

  repeated, beginning to feel better by the moment.

  "So you want a history lesson?" he

  snapped. "Deanie, don't you remember the old