Read Once Upon a Rose Page 28

to appear before a maid with bits of food flecked

  on one's doublet.

  Deanie brushed a piece of grass from the red

  folds of her gown, awaiting the arrival of the king.

  She knew with absolute certainty that he would come

  lumbering out the door in a matter of minutes.

  All she needed was a little time alone with him, without

  Norfolk or even well-meaning Suffolk.

  Perhaps she could straighten out this entire mess with a

  few well-chosen words.

  Unfortunately, she wasn't exactly sure

  what she was going to say. She somehow needed to free

  Kit, reunite the little princess with her father, and

  convince the king to spare his wife.

  The key to winning over the king was to bend with his

  moods. She couldn't exactly plan a speech

  without first discovering his humor. The drawings in her

  hand rattled as she looked them over once more.

  Her eyes took in the landscapes, the trees and the

  wet-nosed rabbit, but all she could really see was

  Kit.

  Had it only been three days since they were

  together? She could recall every detail, the weight and

  warmth of his arm around her shoulder, the wistful

  expression on his face as he looked toward the

  night sky.

  When she first heard that he was taken to the Tower,

  she was furious with herself for wasting that night. They

  had said virtually nothing to each other. For most of the

  time they hadn't even looked at each other, just

  stood side by side, or sat on the lawn touching

  hands.

  Now she realized how perfect it had been.

  There was nothing they could say, no words that could convey

  how they had been feeling that night. Conversation would

  have been superfluous. And maybe, just maybe, it

  would have broken the enchantment.

  He had to be safe and well. Surely she

  would feel it in her heart if he was not.

  "Mistress Deanie!" The king limped toward

  her, waving a large hand as if she might not see

  him. Very unlikely that she could possibly miss

  his entrance. Not only were they the only two people in the

  yard, but the jewels of his doublet and round plumed

  hat caught the sun with the brilliance of a hundred

  flames.

  She smiled and waved back, rising to her feet

  to drop into a curtsy as he approached. Only

  as she watched his difficulty in walking did she

  realize there was no chair or bench for him to sit

  upon. She herself had been on the grass. She had

  been used to sitting with Kit, who could spring to his

  feet and bring her with him.

  "Your Majesty," she began. "Shall we go

  inside, or have someone fetch a chair?"

  The king was delighted. He had half expected

  her to leave. It wasn't until she mentioned the

  chairs that he realized she meant to stay. With a

  gruff swat of his hand he gestured to the grass.

  "Nay, Mistress Deanie. Whatever gives

  comfort enough to you will serve me as well." He took

  her hand. After a moment of hesitation, she realized

  he was assisting her back to her place on the

  grass.

  Once she was again seated, he lowered himself beside

  her, his gouty joints creaking in protest. It was

  obvious the effort caused him a great deal of

  pain. His thin lips became almost invisible with the

  strain. But in a surprisingly short time, he was

  settled on the grass. His ulcerous leg was

  stretched to the side, as if bending it would be

  unbearable.

  "I'm sorry, Your Highness. We should have

  called for chairs."

  "Nonsense!" He grinned, a single feather from

  his hat dipping over his left eye. "It has

  been years since I have had the chance to sit upon the

  ground. As a boy I sat in this very yard, gazing

  at the heavens."

  He was in an exceptionally good mood. They

  both knew it, and both suspected it had more than

  a little to do with springtime and romance. And the

  possibility of ...

  "Did you sleep well, Your Majesty?"

  His eyes became almost comically heavy-lidded as

  he perused her. "Tolerably well, mistress.

  Tolerably well."

  This was not going in the direction she had planned.

  She needed to change the topic; something neutral.

  "Have you ever had a dog?"

  The lascivious smirk fell from the royal

  visage like a loose brick. "A dog? Why,

  yes. I believe as a boy I did have a hound

  or two." Then he smiled, this time a sweet

  smile of childhood memories. "I loved one

  dog. His name was Lancelot, for he was brave and

  strong. That is the reason for the shameful number of

  dogs at court. Every year or two I issue a

  proclamation banishing all hounds, other than

  ladies' lapdogs, from Hampton and

  Whitehall and every other palace. Then I see a

  cur who reminds me of old Lancelot, and I

  forget all about the proclamation."

  Okay Bailey, she thought. Now was her chance.

  "What a wonderful childhood you must have had,

  Your Majesty," she began.

  "Yea, it was. My father was stern, but my mother

  was soft and kind."

  "It's important for a child to feel loved by his

  or her parents, Your Highness."

  He did not reply but raised a suspicious

  eyebrow.

  "Could you tell me about your children?" Her voice

  was beginning to waver. "You have three, Your

  Majesty?"

  "I have a son, Edward." The king kept his

  face bland, but his eyes betrayed his

  suspicions. He spoke carefully. "Edward

  is a fine son. Perhaps a trifle frail, so

  I keep him away from the diseases of court."

  "Edward has sisters--"

  "Mary is my eldest child," he cut her off.

  "She is a young woman now, and unfortunately

  follows her mother in temperament and looks."

  "And where is she?"

  "Mary is elsewhere," he said cryptically.

  "I see you have done some drawings, Mistress

  Deanie. May I see them?"

  "I met your daughter Elizabeth, Your

  Highness. She is a wonderful child, bright and

  curious and full of ..."

  He raised his eyes to her slowly, and she

  faltered. Never had she seen an expression of

  such cool fury. She had gone too far too

  quickly. He began to heft himself up, and she reached

  out a hand and touched the sumptuous quilted satin of

  his sleeve.

  "Please stay, Your Highness," she

  groveled. "Forgive me. I talk too much."

  The king stopped and looked at her, as if

  pondering the worth of staying. Perhaps it was simply

  too much work to lift himself from the ground. Perhaps he

  wanted to regain his earlier good humor. Without

  saying a word, he lowered himself back onto the

  grass. But he did not speak to her.

  Her upper lip was perspiring, even though it was

>   cool in the yard. She had to be careful. There

  wouldn't be a second chance.

  "What a lovely day it is, Your

  Majesty."

  He remained silent.

  "What is your favorite thing to do in weather like

  this, Your Highness?" She was beginning to sound like the

  hostess of a children's program. "I like to take

  long walks."

  Again he remained stubbornly silent. He

  refused to look in her direction; instead he

  feigned great interest in the root of a tree that

  poked just above the surface of the lawn. With his

  jeweled fingers he poked and prodded at the root,

  digging away at the dirt, pulling the bark with his

  well-manicured nails.

  She was about to give up when he spoke.

  "I like to hunt."

  "Oh, hunting?" She folded her hands over the

  drawings. "What do you like to hunt?"

  Again there was a long pause before he answered.

  "All manner of game." His attack on the

  defenseless root seemed to let up. "I

  especially love to bring down a stag, or a

  wild boar. The bigger the beast, the greater the

  feeling of triumph. Your cousin is an

  excellent hunting companion."

  "Kit?"

  "Indeed." The king smiled and looked at

  Deanie. "He does remind me of myself in my

  youth. I watch him on a hunt, and wonder who

  is the less tamed, Hamilton or the beast."

  He chuckled. "Usually I vow it is

  Hamilton."

  She had a hard time envisioning Kit as a feral

  hunter. Mostly she had seen his gentle side.

  Of course, he did what was expected of him in

  this time, and that meant hunting animals and jousting on

  horseback and even engaging in battle. It was

  also difficult to imagine him as a pilot, dashing

  to a plane when the alarm sounded, dressing

  for flight as he ran.

  It hit her then: Kit had to leave with her.

  She did not think he could survive in this time.

  Deanie had upset the delicate balance he had

  been forced to maintain in order to endure the

  brutality of this existence. Already she had seen him

  falter, think too much instead of instinctively

  raising his sword.

  She had eliminated the edge he had honed

  during the past decade.

  The king was still speaking. Slowly, she turned her

  attention back to what he was saying.

  "... wherever he is. Norfolk claims to be

  searching, mistress. Do not worry, for we shall find

  your cousin. God's will, he will be well in body

  when we do."

  "Wait a minute, Your Majesty. You mean

  you really have no idea where Kit is?"

  "Isn't that what I just said?" He began

  to pluck at the root again. "Women. Every one is

  the same."

  It took her a moment to process the information.

  The king, whatever faults he may have, had not

  imprisoned Kit. Was that good or bad? The

  bottom line was that Kit was still missing. He would

  not have left willingly.

  She took a deep breath. So far this conversation

  had been a disaster, although at least she'd garnered

  some information on Kit.

  "Well, Your Majesty. Not every woman is the

  same," she began coyly.

  He stopped pulling on the tree root, which was

  now a pathetically frayed lump of wood.

  "Yes, mistress?"

  "There is one woman who is devoted to her king

  beyond all else, who will do whatever her sovereign

  commands." She lowered her voice so that he had

  to lean close to catch her words.

  "Is there?" The leer returned in full force.

  "Yes. She is gentle and good, and dotes upon

  the king. Her days are spent anticipating his

  wishes."

  He began to breathe loudly, and a slight wheezing

  sound whistled through his nose.

  He could barely speak. "Yes?"

  "And her name, Your Highness, is Anne of

  Cleves."

  The king looked as if he had been jolted by a

  live wire. "Bloody hell!" He glared at

  Deanie and again began to rise to his

  feet. "This is turning out to be a day fraught with

  disappointment." He grunted as he stood

  heavily on his feet. "My hose are ruined,"

  he accused both Deanie and the ground.

  "I'm sorry, Your Highness, if my honesty

  disturbed you. But I--"

  "Cease your prattle, mistress! My head

  pounds with your frivolous words," he sputtered.

  "By God, you have the ability to make Katherine

  Howard seem as learned as Erasmus himself."

  Deanie stood up without his assistance, gathering

  the drawings. She bit her lip, aware that one of

  her unfortunate fits of laughter was about

  to overtake her. She concentrated on the drawings,

  busily arranging them in an imaginary order

  to keep herself from losing control. Something about the king

  of England, stomping about in baggy stockings, seemed

  howlingly funny.

  "Well?" He planted his hands on his hips,

  towering over her like a malicious elm. "Have you

  nothing to say?"

  She bit her lip harder and shook her head,

  silently willing him to leave. Now. Before she

  began to laugh.

  "You tremble, Mistress Deanie. Do you fear

  your mighty king?"

  Oh please, she prayed. Just leave. Take

  those baggy stockings and leave before ...

  "Look at me, mistress," he commanded.

  She glanced up, and their eyes met. And she

  began to giggle. She saw an expression of

  incredulous wonder on his face before her vision was

  blurred with tears. The drawings fell from her

  grip and floated to the ground, and still she laughed.

  And then something astounding happened.

  The king began to laugh.

  At first he simply stared at Mistress

  Deanie as if she had been stricken with an

  infectious illness. He watched her clutch at

  her drawings as they whirled to her feet, grasping

  at air. Then she laughed harder.

  He suddenly remembered being in church as a child,

  and the old priest conducting the regal service

  belched. He too had been overcome with

  laughter, and his mother scowled, which made him laugh

  all the harder. As he began laughing with

  Mistress Deanie, all the weight and cares of the

  realm seemed insignificant. He was just a

  man, laughing in the springtime sun with a very pretty

  woman.

  It felt wonderful.

  Windows flew open as servants peered in

  stunned marvel at their king, laughing like a

  carefree schoolboy with Mistress Deanie.

  After they had recovered from their initial shock, they

  too smiled. No one had seen or heard the

  exchange that had led to the scene, but they enjoyed their

  king's happiness.

  Finally their giggles faded, and both wiped their

  faces of tears.

  "I'm
so sorry," she gasped, clutching her

  aching sides. "I don't know why, but sometimes I

  lose control like that."

  The king sniffed and shrugged, a smirk still on his

  face. "We have that in common, Mistress

  Deanie. Here." He bent down and retrieved the

  drawings, feeling relaxed and content. He glanced

  at the top paper, and the smile vanished from his

  face.

  "Mistress Deanie, you have not been forthcoming.

  Not only do you excel in music, but you possess

  a most artistic hand." He shuffled through the

  drawings, nodding in approval.

  "Oh, I didn't draw those," she admitted

  cautiously.

  "You did not?" He continued looking at them.

  "Well then, who did?"

  "Your daughter."

  He stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Mary?

  Nay. She cannot render a landscape, or even a

  chair. I have seen her efforts." He shuddered at

  the thought.

  "Elizabeth." Deanie swallowed, all

  sense of mirth gone from her voice. "Your

  daughter Elizabeth drew those. She was in her

  chamber upstairs."

  He stared straight ahead, over the paper in his

  hands.

  "She is very much like her father, Your Highness."

  He looked at her, not anger on his face but

  bewilderment. Deanie continued: "She has the eye

  of an artist, and the heart of a prince."

  Without speaking, he straightened the drawings and

  put them under his arm. He crooked his other arm for

  Deanie to take, and she did. Together they walked

  back into the palace.

  When they reached the door he finally spoke.

  "Thank you, Mistress Deanie." He touched

  her shoulder for a moment, staring at his own hand. "I

  believe I have found something most rare in

  a woman."

  Deanie held her breath. "What is that?" she

  asked at last.

  "A friend," he said simply. And he walked

  down the hallway, his daughter's drawings still under

  his arm.

  She couldn't wait to speak to Suffolk.

  "He's not in the Tower!" Deanie sideswiped

  the duke just after the midday meal, forcing him into an

  anteroom.

  "Good God, woman!" he sputtered as she

  closed the door. "What ails you?"

  "I spoke to the king this morning, and he has no

  idea where Kit is. Is that good or bad?"

  Suffolk stroked his beard in thought. "I do not

  believe Norfolk has the power to act without the

  king's authority," he mused. "And I do not

  believe Norfolk would do this, not before his niece

  is secure on the throne."

  "So where is he then?"

  "I still believe him to be safely ensconced in

  the Tower," he said at last.

  "How could he be in the Tower if the king did not

  put him there?"

  "Ah, my dear. Sometimes the king, well, he

  occasionally forgets who is in the Tower. In truth,

  it is so confusing it would take a full-time minister

  simply to keep track of the occupants."

  Deanie was stunned. "You're not kidding," she

  said, astounded. "He puts people in jail and

  doesn't remember? Isn't there someone who can

  remind him?"

  "Indeed," Suffolk stated, neatly turning the

  subject. "Why, Countess Salisbury has

  languished there these past two years, and she's

  likely to remain there until she dies. Since

  she's well-nigh seventy years old and in ill

  health, she may not have long to wait."

  "That is atrocious." Deanie was sickened, not

  only for the poor woman in the Tower but newly

  frightened for Kit. "What has this Salisbury

  woman done to be locked up for so long."

  Suffolk seemed surprised. "Do you not know?

  She is a close relation to the king--a cousin, I

  believe. He fears there may be those who wish

  to usurp his crown and make her into a puppet

  queen. She has already seen the rest of her

  family executed or killed in battle."

  She had seen cruelty in this time,

  instances of savage behavior--such as the ease with

  which Cromwell ordered Kit's beating. But somehow

  she had seen them as isolated incidents, not

  likely to occur again.

  But she had been wrong. Kit had tried

  to tell her of the violence of court life, the

  dangers there. She hadn't understood, hadn't

  listened to his words. It had seemed so

  unbelievable that gentlemen in embroidered doublets

  could turn around and order a helpless woman to the

  Tower.

  There was nothing to say, nothing to lessen the sick

  feeling in her stomach. Now more than ever she

  wanted to leave this time. Kit had been right: Just

  about any place else was better than staying here.

  There was a murmur of voices in the

  corridor. One of the king's stewards knocked

  once and opened the door.

  "Mistress Deanie?" His face was mottled

  in panic. "Mistress, please come. We need

  your help."

  The first thought that flashed through her mind was of

  Kit; that he had been found and he was hurt.

  Suffolk stayed her with an outstretched hand.

  "What goes?"

  The steward grimaced. "There are more than

  fifty members of the barber-surgeon guild below,

  and all wish an audience with Mistress