Read Once Upon a Rose Page 27

drumming.

  The jailer had been considerate enough to provide

  a limitless supply of candles, which was another

  reason Kit believed he was not a prisoner of the

  king. Henry would never waste such a large store of

  tallow on a prisoner, no matter how favored

  he had once been.

  Another fact that led him to believe he was being

  held by someone else was the king's recent

  behavior. He was certainly not angry at

  Kit, for the king let his rage be known whenever a

  subject displeased him. No, someone with a very good

  cook was holding him against his will.

  He ran a hand over the new growth of beard,

  scratchy and uncomfortable, but certainly not

  intolerable enough to be called torture. His eyes

  watched the flame. He didn't even know what

  time of day it was; his dark, silent world gave no

  indication.

  His thoughts turned to Deanie, wondering if

  Suffolk had received his note. If so, it was

  possible she knew by now that he was being treated

  well. He just wanted to get the hell out of there

  without placing her in danger.

  Deanie.

  How would she look in an evening gown? Not one

  of those stiff, corseted monstrosities the women

  wore at court. No.

  He could envision her in something of satin, with a

  low-cut back, a Myrna Loy gown to show off

  her curves. No wooden headpiece, no

  layers and ties and leather bindings to hold a

  sleeve in place, but a delightfully

  machine-made dress.

  And how would her legs look in flesh-colored

  hose? So far he'd been the one to wear hose, and

  he grinned in the soft light, thinking of how his

  chums in the squadron would react if he asked

  them if his seams were straight.

  Deanie's hair could fall freely to her

  shoulders, loose and dark and gleaming in the sun.

  He would show her London, or what was left of

  it. London would see her, and the grimy eyes of the

  shell-shocked East Enders would squint at the

  sight of his Deanie.

  Maybe he could take her up in a plane,

  let her feel the thrill of flying in the clouds.

  "Duke? Another meal for you." His eternally

  cheerful jailer rattled the door and

  pushed yet another feast into the room.

  "Thank you," Kit said automatically.

  "Oh, wait."

  He could hear the man pause.

  "Did the message reach Suffolk?"

  "I don't rightly know, Sir Duke." Kit

  could almost envision the man scratching his head. "I

  believe it did, for it was not returned."

  "Thank you," Kit said again, not bothering

  to examine the irony of a prisoner thanking his

  jailer. "Oh, one more thing."

  "Yes, Duke?"

  He was almost afraid to ask. "Is my cousin,

  Mistress Deanie Bailey, also being held

  here?" He tried to make his tone conversational, so

  as not to insult the jailer, who seemed to have his own

  sense of honor and propriety.

  "No! Do you think we'd keep a lady in

  here? I'm surprised, Sir Duke, that you would

  even think of it! Why, I never ..." The man

  muttered to himself down the hallway.

  That was the answer Kit had been hoping for. The

  man was not a good enough actor to have responded with such

  force unless it was the truth.

  Ignoring the meal, which was rapidly growing

  cold, Kit settled upon the cot and, his hands

  linked behind his head, thought more about Deanie.

  She had managed to avoid performing another song

  at dinner by pleading a headache, which was in fact the

  truth.

  It was astounding how every meal of the king's was

  orchestrated with the precision of a theatrical

  performance and the solemnity of a religious rite.

  Even with but a few of his subjects to bear

  witness, the scores of servants wordlessly carried

  out their duties, from the royal napkin steward to the

  bearer of toothpicks. The king never thanked the

  silent army whose mission it was to keep apace with his

  every whim. Had he acknowledged each one, he would

  pass the day in a never-ending chain of thank-yous.

  The advantage of such a small court was that

  each course was served with astounding speed. With so

  few distractions, the king ate quickly and greedily,

  ignoring the bits of food that flew from his mouth as

  he gnashed his way through each tier of the menu.

  Finally it ended, and the women--Katherine and

  Deanie--were dismissed. Katherine seemed

  reluctant to leave, and she batted her lashes

  becomingly at the king. Upon second

  thought, the king asked Mistress Katherine to linger

  yet.

  Before he could call her back, Deanie

  slipped quickly from the chamber. He had officially

  dismissed them, so she simply pretended not

  to notice Katherine's maneuver. Just as she

  left, she saw a decidedly smug expression

  on Norfolk's narrow face.

  It was a relief to be alone, to walk through the

  halls without pretending restrained delight with

  court life. She was finally able to stop smiling.

  Her cheeks and lips ached with the artificial

  smiles she had flashed the king. He wasn't such

  a bad guy, she mused, rubbing her sore face.

  He just had no idea that a world existed beyond his own

  desires.

  The hallways at Richmond were not only

  empty, but far more modest than those at

  Hampton. This was already an old place, built

  years ago, before the more modern ideas of airy,

  spacious architecture became popular. Before

  Henry, who embraced all things modern, came

  to the throne.

  In a way, she liked Richmond better than

  Hampton. It was less imposing, more like a

  regular home than a self-conscious palace.

  She strolled through the halls with a very

  twentieth-century need to unwind and just think. She

  racked her brain for a way to get to Kit, even just

  to see him. She had to free him, for she had no

  intention of attempting a journey back to her own

  time without him.

  Then she saw a swish of fabric, green

  velvet, from the corner of her eye.

  At first she thought of Hampton, and the similar

  experience of wandering the halls alone and being

  confronted by Surrey. That thought quickly

  evaporated: Surrey was still at Hampton.

  There was no one here to harm or even threaten her--

  except for Norfolk. And he had seemed more

  than content in the presence of the king and Katherine.

  She entered the room where she had seen the green

  velvet, unquestionably the gown of a woman. The

  room was empty, with several small chairs and some

  papers on a window seat.

  "Is anyone in here?"

  For a few moments there was no response. Just as

  Deanie was about to leave, a tiny figure
stepped

  from the shadows of a sideboard.

  Deanie's first thought was that it was a

  midget, for she was dressed as a miniature

  adult. But it was a child, a little girl attired as

  formally as the highest-ranking courtier. On her

  head was a diminutive French hood, and her

  bodice was bound so tightly that it looked even more

  uncomfortable than usual. Her hands, dimpled and

  red as if she had tried to scrub them clean, were the

  only feature that seemed childish.

  The little girl sank into a curtsy, her eyes

  pinned on Deanie's feet.

  "Hi there," Deanie said, shifting into her

  coo-at-the-baby tone.

  The girl looked up, and Deanie immediately

  realized who it was. The red hair, the

  translucent eyebrows, the dark eyes--this was

  Princess Elizabeth.

  Her face was grave, too pinched and worried

  for a child so young.

  "I just had dinner with your father," Deanie said.

  The girl's face remained impassive.

  "Are you Katherine Howard?" The princess'

  voice did not sound like a regular kid's. It was

  full of uncertain authority.

  "Heck no," Deanie responded. "I'm

  Wilma Dean Bailey, but you can call me

  Deanie. All my friends do."

  A dawning expression crossed her features.

  "I heard you sing before."

  "Did you? Why, I don't believe I saw

  you."

  A very tiny smile, small as the girl herself,

  curved her lips. "I was hiding," she whispered.

  Then she straightened. "You will not tell, will you?"

  "Of course not." Deanie frowned. "I'm no

  stoolie."

  "You are no what?"

  "I mean I will not tell. I promise."

  The princess seemed satisfied. She looked

  up at Deanie, her eyes glinting with the same

  unnerving intelligence as the king's. "Why are you so

  sad?"

  Deanie was about to deny it, when the princess

  continued. "Your songs were all sad, nothing

  happy. I am only allowed to sing religious

  songs in Latin, or happy hunting songs. Why

  are you so sad?"

  "Well, for one thing I don't know any

  Latin or happy hunting songs," she

  admitted. "But I suppose you're right. I am

  sad."

  "Why?"

  Deanie cleared her throat. "Because I miss

  someone."

  The girl nodded eagerly. "I knew that was the

  cause! You sounded just like me." With the

  lightning-swift subject changes of all children,

  she pointed to the papers on the window seat. "I

  drew some pictures today."

  "Did you? May I see them?"

  The princess narrowed her eyes in speculation.

  "You are just being nice because I am a princess."

  She spoke as if she knew it to be the truth but

  wanted someone to contradict it.

  "Well, maybe that's part of the reason,"

  Deanie admitted. "Mainly, I want to see

  your drawings because everyone else in this house is

  insufferably dull, and I'd rather draw with you than

  yawn with them."

  Elizabeth's mouth dropped open, and then she

  clapped her childish hand over her mouth and

  giggled. It was the first truly natural gesture

  Deanie had seen her perform. She half skipped

  over to the window seat and grabbed her drawings.

  When her back was turned, Deanie saw that the

  gown was frayed and much too small for a girl of

  Elizabeth's size. The back was stitched in

  delicate-yet-entirely-noticeable attempts

  to repair the garment; the thread was slightly darker

  and sewn in jagged patches. It was also obvious that

  the hem had been let down several times, then

  finally lengthened by a few inches of blue fabric.

  In an effort to make the repair job less

  apparent, as well as lengthen the sleeves, the

  same blue fabric circled her cuffs.

  How could the princess be clothed in such

  threadbare gowns when her father spent a fortune on

  his embroidered undergarments alone?

  She returned with her drawings and handed them

  shyly to Deanie.

  "Let's get closer to the candle, so I can

  see them better," she muttered, glancing at the

  top picture.

  Deanie had no idea what to expect. She

  imagined a real princess would draw the same

  sort of pictures other kids drew, of

  silly-faced dogs and smiling suns. She

  cleared her throat, ready to praise the

  imprecise lines of an elf or crude stick

  figures.

  Instead she saw landscapes,

  beautifully rendered. "No way," Deanie

  exclaimed without thinking. She shuffled through the

  pile, but they were all of the same quality,

  exquisitely drawn with pen and ink. The

  details were astounding, every leaf and rock shaded as

  to appear three-dimensional. One of the drawings

  did indeed have an animal, but it was a very

  realistic rabbit peeking from beneath a fallen

  branch. Even the animal's fur, the differing

  textures in the fuzzy ears and the sleek back,

  was done so expertly that she could almost pet it.

  "You did these?" Deanie realized her mouth must

  have been hanging open in stupid befuddlement. "These

  are amazing. I mean it--these are about the best

  drawings I've ever seen."

  Elizabeth clapped delightedly and nodded,

  her face reddened with the unfamiliar pleasure of

  genuine praise.

  "I did! I did draw them these past long

  days, when I have not been allowed to venture forth from

  this room. I did them from this window, looking down

  at the grounds through the glass." She peered

  critically at the one in Deanie's hand. "I

  saw the hare but a moment, yet I recalled him

  in most every feature. His nose looked wet."

  She crinkled her own nose in unconscious

  mimicry of the animal. "I did not know how

  to make his nose look wet in my drawing."

  "Princess Elizabeth, you are a natural

  artist," Deanie marveled. Then she looked again

  at the girl, who was still appraising her own work.

  "What do you mean? were you forced to stay inside,

  even during the beautiful weather?"

  The girl straightened and said nothing, as if

  weighing all possible answers. When she faced

  Deanie directly, her expression was one of

  disarming honesty. "Yes. My father, the king, did

  return unexpectedly to Richmond. He forgot

  that I was here, and I have been banished to this room.

  He would not wish to see me. In this remote wing

  he is most unlikely to stumble upon me."

  "That stinks," replied Deanie without thinking.

  The princess looked shocked, as if she had

  rehearsed the reaction frequently. Then she

  began to giggle again, both hands clamped over her

  mouth.

  "You're right, Mistress Deanie," she

  whispered. "I think it stinks too
."

  A large woman garbed in black suddenly

  appeared in the doorway. "Lady

  Elizabeth," the woman snapped, with a brief

  glare in Deanie's direction. "It is well

  past the hour of prayers and bedtime."

  "Thank you, Lady Bryan," the little girl

  replied solemnly. "I will be there anon."

  The woman left, and Deanie leaned closer.

  "Why didn't she call you Princess

  Elizabeth?"

  "Because I have been all but disowned." She began

  to gather the pictures neatly, brushing off a

  speck of dried ink from one drawing. "My father had

  my mother beheaded. Then the next lady he married

  Queen Jane"--the girl made a sign of the

  cross--"tried to bring us together, but she died."

  "Do you remember your mother at all?"

  The child beamed. "I do! She was ever so lovely,

  with long dark hair all the way to her waist, and

  her eyes were brown--much as yours are. I

  remember her laughing all the time, and running after

  me in a garden. I know not which garden it was, but

  I know it was so because it is so clear in my mind."

  Deanie reached out and touched Elizabeth's soft

  cheek, feeling the delicate skin only a child can

  have. At first the girl stiffened, unaccustomed to being

  caressed. Then her forehead creased, as if in

  deep thought. "I do remember my mother," she said

  emphatically.

  "Your mother would be very proud of you, Princess

  Elizabeth."

  "Do you think so?"

  "I know so."

  The girl stared at Deanie. Then, with a swift

  curtsy and a small smile, she began to leave.

  "Oh, wait a minute, Princess."

  She paused and faced Deanie, an inquiring

  expression on her face.

  "May I please have a few of those drawings?"

  For a moment she hesitated, then shrugged and handed

  Deanie the whole stack. "They are for you,

  Mistress Deanie. Thank you for the praise."

  Her back stiff, she left the room with

  regal bearing. Only when she reached the door

  did she turn back to Deanie, and she gave a

  childish wave of her hand before ducking through the

  door.

  Deanie sat alone in the room for a long time,

  flipping slowly through the drawings, and thinking again of

  Kit.

 

  Chapter 17

  The king saw her immediately, seated in the courtyard

  directly below his apartments. He hastened to dress

  and join her before the rest of the house stirred, before

  Norfolk could cast one of his disapproving

  grunts, before even Suffolk--beloved

  brother-in-law though he was--could overwhelm with

  his forceful presence.

  He checked his appearance in the glass, his

  privy stewards clucking in pleasure at the

  sight of their master. He knew his looks were at

  their best this morn; he had consumed neither drink

  nor food to excess for these past few days.

  Henry may not be as handsome as Hamilton, but

  by God he was king, and that should count for something in the

  eyes of a maid.

  A momentary frown crimped his forehead. Where

  was Hamilton? Subjects had disappeared from

  court before, certainly. In those unfortunate

  cases, Henry had known very well where they had

  vanished to: usually a remote corner of the

  Tower. Or the bottom of the Thames.

  This was different. He liked Kit, enjoyed his

  company as much as his excellent sport. He

  sincerely hoped nothing had happened to his friend, and

  that he would soon return to court hale and

  healthy.

  In the meantime he was more than aware of

  Hamilton's cousin. With Kit at court, she

  seemed to ignore all other men, including--most

  vexatiously--the king himself. Even as he prayed

  heartily for Hamilton's return, he prayed

  it would take but a few more days. He certainly

  wished no harm to befall Hamilton. But should

  divine providence keep Hamilton from court,

  well so be it. He would take it as a sign, a

  message from the Lord himself that Henry was to pass some

  time in the presence of the lonely Mistress

  Deanie.

  Straightening his imposing shoulders, he tilted

  his head to observe his reflection in the hand

  mirror. In truth, it was becoming ever more

  difficult to appear the way he wished to look.

  His helpful tailors had broadened his back

  to make his waist appear more slender. And if the king

  tipped his head slightly to the side, the

  unsightly double chin, a recent acquisition,

  became all but invisible. He would tilt his head

  thusly when speaking to Mistress

  Deanie.

  When his toilet was completed, he dismissed his

  servants and checked once more in the courtyard.

  She was still there, alone, sitting under a tree and

  drawing. What a fetching picture she made of

  herself, even in the Germanic gown. He had quite

  forgotten his own queen, the wife he was beginning

  to despise less the more time he spent away from

  her.

  He made his way outside quickly. Just before he

  entered the courtyard, he made a swift

  inspection of his gold-hued doublet. It would never do