woman. Yet Deanie couldn't remember the
ghost's name. Blast, why hadn't she paid more
attention? For all she recollected, it could be
Deanie herself who would haunt the corridor for the
next five centuries.
Again she stopped, and this time there was a brief
whoosh behind her. She was being followed.
"Hello?"
As soon as she spoke she realized how
ridiculous she sounded. What did she expect,
a ghost to step from the shadows and introduce itself?
Or some evildoer to bow and explain why
he was following her into the dark reaches of the
palace?
Picking up her pace, she walked briskly
toward yet another hallway, not even bothering
to look into rooms as she passed. Her throat was
parched with fright, but she ignored the discomfort. Behind
her she felt someone else mirroring her every
move, faster or slower as she made her way to a
large double door.
Just before she was able to reach for a huge circular
doorknob, a hand pressed over her mouth.
"Be still, mistress." The voice was
unfamiliar. A man pinned her to his body,
tall and thin against her shoulder blades.
With a sharp jab, she elbowed his side. He
groaned but did not let her loose. Instead he
tightened his grip. "That was not wise."
Her arms were now held back at a painful
angle. She bit down on his hand with all her
might. He spat out a startled curse, and she
used his momentary shock to escape.
Taking two steps in blind, animal panic,
she made for the large door just beyond her reach. She
slammed the door behind her, her hands shaking,
searching in the dim light for a lock. There was none.
Her pursuer yanked on the door from the other
side. Using all her strength and the leverage of her
weight, she kept the door pulled shut. With a
frantic glance over her shoulder, she saw a
tapestry-covered table and a high-backed chair.
Upon the table was a single thick candle, its wax
dripping freely over the needlework. The rest of the
chamber was cloaked in shadows.
Stretching out her foot while still holding on to the
doorknob, she pulled the chair to her side and
jammed it at an angle beneath the doorknob. She
knew it wouldn't hold for more than a few
seconds and immediately dashed for the table, ducking under
the tapestry and praying that it wasn't a chest of
drawers--and that she didn't tip over the candle and
set the whole palace ablaze. Although at that
moment a roaring, out-of-control fire offered her more
safety than cowering under a table in a dead-end
room.
The table was, indeed, just a table, and there was
plenty of room for her to hide. Just as she heard
the chair crash to the planked floor, she pulled
the train of her gown farther under the table and tried
to still her ragged breathing.
"I know you are in here."
There was a triumphant sneer to his words.
Deanie tried to identify her assailant but could
not.
"Ah, methinks my beautious prey is
hiding." He gave a sharp, unpleasant
chuckle. "Perchance under the chair? No. No
room there. I espy a table. The flame yet
quivers atop, as if some unknown personage
disturbed its glow."
Deanie was about to speak, to crawl out before he
plunged a sword into the tapestry. Just as she
pulled the tapestry aside, another voice
pierced the air.
"Leave."
It was a single command, barked with authority.
"Who goes?" Her assailant's tone was
unsure.
"Thomas Cromwell, earl of Essex."
Deanie had known who the third person was before he
identified himself. His voice was etched forever in her
most vivid nightmares. "Be that young Surrey?
Sheath your weapon, pup."
Deanie's mind reeled. Surrey? Henry
Howard, Katherine's cousin and Norfolk's
scrawny son? She sank against the wall, her
hand over her mouth. Why would Surrey want
to follow her?
"Cromwell." Surrey was growing bolder by the
minute. "Are you again hiding in disgrace? The
true peers are below, with the king."
"That explains your presence here then."
Cromwell used the same mild tone he had
used with Deanie.
"Why you upstart cur!" Surrey sputtered his
anger. "You have nary a drop of noble blood in
your coarse veins! You ... you ..."
"Yes, Surrey?" Cromwell paused.
"Do I detect a slight impediment in your
speech? Too much blue blood breeds
imperfections. Such as your stuttering tongue. And
your comical swordplay."
"No!"
"You may leave, Surrey. Now. Before I
call for my men."
Deanie could imagine the mortified expression
on the younger man's face.
"You will soon be felled, Cromwell," spat
Surrey with a final rush of bravado. She then
heard the heavy door open and slam shut. In his
blast of shame, Surrey had forgotten
Deanie, still huddled beneath the table.
She remained still, waiting for Cromwell
to leave, hoping he had somehow remained ignorant
of her presence. If the chamber was divided by a
screen, or perhaps a small antechamber,
Cromwell might believe the earlier scuffling
to have been Surrey alone.
"You may come out now, Mistress Deanie."
Now real fear gripped her. Surrey was an
unknown quantity. With Cromwell, she knew the
danger she was in, the violence of which he was
capable. He had already caused Kit's agonizing
wound with the simple lift of a finger. She remained
silent, the terror causing her limbs to stay
motionless.
"Come come, mistress. You have nothing to fear."
"Yeah, right," she muttered aloud.
"I will repeat my request one more time.
Remove yourself from this ridiculous position
immediately. Or perhaps you would like one of my men
to assist you."
In an instant she crawled from under the table, her
headpiece catching on the leg, her knees
tangling in the yards of fabric of both the
tapestry and her gown. With an annoyed sigh,
Cromwell held the tapestry still as she struggled
to her feet.
For a moment they said nothing to each other. Deanie
stared at him, aware how very vulnerable she was, and
also aware how vulnerable Kit was down below. She
hoped he hadn't noticed Cromwell's absence
from the hall, silently prayed he was not at this very
moment searching for her.
"What were you doing?" Cromwell asked
simply.
Deanie blinked. The calm manner of his question
both surprised and alarmed her.
"Excuse me?"
"There
is a banquet below, as usual. The king
is there, as usual." Cromwell straightened.
"Lest you forget, we have a bargain, mistress.
What are you doing creeping through the halls?"
Crossing her arms and stalling for time, she tried
to think of an answer. Something that wouldn't lead
to even more trouble for both herself and Kit. Then it
hit her: the truth. There was nothing wrong with where
she had been going, or why.
"I was trying to find the kitchen," she said at
last.
"The kitchen?"
She nodded. "I know how to make something the king
would like. They're called doughnuts, and I'm
sure he would love them."
"Where is Hamilton?"
"He's below, watching those awful mummers."
"And he allowed you to go unescorted into the
kitchen?"
"No," she admitted, shaking her head. "He
thinks I went to the privy. The idea just hit me
downstairs. I saw the king turn his attention from
Katherine Howard to a tray of sweets and
realized how much the king would enjoy doughnuts. So
I decided to sneak down to the kitchen to tell
Scholsenberg all about--"
"Scholsenberg?"
"Oh, the queen's cook. Anyway, I just
thought--"
Cromwell held up a hand to stop her. "I
see." Slowly he turned his eyes to the single
candle, one finger tapping in the air as if an
entity of its own. He did not seem to be aware
of Deanie. For the moment he was in a solitude
imposed by his own thoughts.
Deanie did not like the silence. Cromwell's
efficient mind, spinning mayhem with just such
malignant concentration, had created far too many
disasters.
"May I ask you a question?" Deanie rushed.
He seemed startled and fixed his attention on
her face. With a brisk nod, he signaled her
to speak.
"These last few days, well, you've pretty
much left us alone. You almost killed Kit last
week, but you've stayed clear since then."
There was no indication on Cromwell's bland,
flat face that her words had penetrated. He
continued staring at her before answering.
"Would you prefer I complete the task?" He
spoke softly.
"No!" She gasped. "We just don't know
what to expect, and it's driving us crazy."
Cromwell lunged toward Deanie, his black
eyes glinting. She was about to scream when his arm
glided past her and gripped the candle on the
tapestry-covered table.
"Come here, mistress." For the first time there was no
malice in his voice, no threat behind each
syllable.
He led her to the back of the chamber. The candle
cast a yellow circle of light on the
furnishings as they walked. She realized she had
stumbled upon his private chambers, his personal
lair where he attended to business, both state and
personal.
There was a massive desk covered with parchments.
Holding the candle, not looking at her, he
gestured toward the stacks of thick paper, the
bottles of ink and bundle of quills. There was
a heavy seal made of either brass or gold and a
shaker. She knew the silver shaker was full of
sand to blot ink dry.
"These documents will both annul the king's
marriage and lead Queen Anne to the block.
They are almost complete, lacking but a handful of
easily purchased signatures."
Deanie was unable to speak, and Cromwell
continued. "Within the past several days there had been
a certain--well, thawing of the king's treatment of the
queen. My men say it began when you told him
how kind the queen had been to Hamilton, how she
nursed him with her own hands."
"It's true."
"She is not becoming a demanding shrew, as
Kathrine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn so
foolishly became." Finally he looked at her.
"I care not who is the queen, as long as the king
is content and my own position is secure."
"You mean it doesn't matter whether it's
Anne or Katherine Howard or me?" She
tried to keep the excitement from her voice.
"Nay, I did not say that. Should Katherine
Howard be mistress or queen, I shall be
destroyed. And mark my words, I will take you and
Hamilton and Queen Anne with me." He
glared at her in the darkness. "If you can persuade
the king to dislike the queen a little less, it will be
well for all of us."
She was about to ask him another question, to explain
what he meant, when he waved her off. "Go now.
Go in haste and make the king a most pleasant
treat."
Now was not the time to press the issue. She all
but ran from the room, holding her train in one hand,
the other stretched out in the pitch-black air,
hoping to stop herself from colliding with a wall or a
piece of furniture. Just before she reached the
door, she halted.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cromwell?"
There was silence, then an irritated
response. "Yes?"
"How do I get to the kitchen?"
A strange sound erupted from the direction of
Cromwell. Deanie realized it was a laugh--a
dry, humorless laugh. A shiver traced down
her spine. Even while laughing, the man gave
her the creeps. "Down the corridor, to the
left. Follow the scent from there."
"Thank you," she hazarded.
There was no response. She ran from the earl of
Essex as quickly as her feet could carry her.
Cecily Garrison returned to the Great
Hall, pausing only to curtsy to her sovereign
and his wife. She went directly to the duke of
Hamilton, who was waiting for her report.
"Did you find her?"
Kit was uncharacteristically anxious. The same
man who had coolly faced mortal danger in the
skies over England, who had just that afternoon risked his
well-deserved reputation as an unparalleled
swordsman by engaging in a brutal match with
Surrey--a lesser opponent but a healthy one
--was showing distinct signs of worry. And the
reason?
The failure of his cousin to return from the
privy.
"Nay, I did not," she responded.
Kit began to rise, not bothering to be charming
to Mistress Cecily or, for that matter,
to anyone in the court. Just as he began to bolt to the
passageway, his left hand hovering over the hilt
of the sword, he slammed into the figure of a
woman who seemed to appear out of nowhere.
"Kit!" she breathed.
"Deanie, for God's sake, where have you been?"
The mild commotion the pair created was quickly
upstaged by the queen's tumbler, performing a duet
with the three-legged brown bear.
With a firm grip he pulled her to their place
on the bench
. Once settled, she turned a
dazzling smile on him. "You'll never guess
what just happened!"
"I'll tell you." He spoke with his teeth
clenched, the color on his face high. "I almost
charged through the halls, sword drawn, searching for
you. Didn't I ask you not to disappear again?
Didn't I ask you, just this morning?" At last
he took a deep breath and looked at her.
Her eyes grew large, her complete attention
focused on him. All his anger seemed
to evaporate as he took in the sight of her.
He realized he was still clutching her arm, andwitha
gentle squeeze he released her.
"There is something white on your nose," he said
softly, reaching out and brushing a dusting of powder from
the bridge of her nose.
"Oh, that's flour." She rubbed the remaining
flour from her nose, leaving it reddened. Kit could
not help but smile.
"Look! Look at the king!" she whispered.
She was about to tell him about her meeting with
Cromwell but decided to wait until he had
calmed down.
"Why?"
"Just watch."
On the dais, Englebert, bowing humbly,
presented the king with a large golden platter
filled with round clumps of pastry. The queen,
peering nervously over his shoulder, saw the contents
of the platter. For a moment her face was blank;
then, as a slow smile eased her features, she
turned her eyes to Deanie.
"What is this?" the king's voice boomed. Then
he looked closer. His jeweled hand immediately
grasped one of the objects. He sniffed it once
like a suspicious dog, then took a large
bite, his small teeth gnashing in mechanical
speed. Then the motions slowed, and across the hall
Deanie held her breath, her hand closing over
Kit's forearm.
The king turned to the queen, his mouth still full.
"From you?" He pointed an accusing finger--the one not
holding the pastry--at Queen Anne.
Her face momentarily fell, and she nodded.
"Ja. They are called doo-nuts."
The king stared, still chewing furiously. And then he
grinned, his red beard sticky with honey. "My
queen! Excellent!" He reached for another
glazed doughnut, gesturing for others to join him.
Finally, like a precious gift, he offered the last
one to Queen Anne.
Englebert beamed.
Kit began to laugh. "You made doughnuts for
King Henry?"
Deanie nodded. "I wanted to make
sugar-coated, but did you know they don't have
regular sugar here? I had to use honey instead."
"You would fit right in with the NAAFI women."
He chuckled, wrapping his arm briefly about her
shoulders.
"The what women?"
He leaned closer. "They brought tea and
biscuits to the pilots, ladies with aprons and
those marvelous cigarettes."
"Like the USO," she murmured, enjoying the
weight and warmth of his arm. "Wait a minute:
You said cigarettes. Do you mean to tell me that
you made me explain what they were, making me
feel like an absolute idiot, and all along you
used to smoke?"
He raised his lush eyebrows and grinned. "Like
a chimney."
"Kit, tell me: When will I forget about
cigarettes? I mean, if we end up here, or
in a time without tobacco, when will I stop thinking about
them?"
Just then Englebert passed a tray of
doughnuts, and Kit took two, handing one
to Deanie. "Please, Kit," she pleaded,
kneading his sleeve. "When will I get over it?"
With deliberate languor he took a bite
of a doughnut, nodding in agreement with the king's
appraisal. When he swallowed, his face
became grave. "I'll tell you this much," he
whispered. "The first ten years are the hardest."
Her face fell tragically. And for the second
time that evening, the great hall was filled with the
laughter of the duke of Hamilton.
Chapter 13
The next day Kit and Deanie were forced to wait
until long after the fast was broken to speak. The
night before, she had been able to give him the gist of
her exchange with Cromwell, noting the quietly
puzzling change in his behavior.
"Now he's even more dangerous," Kit
concluded. "He knows that if the king marries
Katherine, he's finished."
"Why?" Deanie asked as they left the hall.
Before speaking she made sure no one was listening,
pressing against his arm as they walked. "She seems
nice enough. No rocket scientist, but a
sweet kid."
Kit laughed then. "The very idea of Katherine
Howard as a scientist ..." He shook his head.
"But it's not Katherine who threatens Cromwell
--it's her family. They're every bit as
ambitious as your Wallis Simpson."
"I don't have a Wallis
Simpson."
"You know, the divorced Yank who married our
Edward." When she still seemed perplexed, he
halted and coaxed her into a corner with a gentle
nudge. "Please, Deanie. Don't tell me
you have no idea who I'm taking about."
"I have no idea who you're talking about," she
confessed.
"The famous "woman I love" speech?"