Read Once Upon a Rose Page 29

Deanie."

  "For crying out loud!" mumbled Deanie.

  "Don't they have anything better to do than shave

  my legs?"

  "It appears not, mistress," said the duke,

  winking at her.

  "All right. Tell them I'll be right down."

  The grateful steward bowed and slipped out

  quickly, not wishing to give Deanie a chance to change

  her mind.

  Resigned to her fate, she stepped to the window

  and stared down at the scores of burly men milling

  about in the courtyard. Suffolk stepped by her side

  and chuckled.

  "They are a virtual army," he muttered,

  shaking his head in amusement.

  Deanie was about to agree, when she stopped.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said they are a virtual army," he

  repeated.

  "An army," she said softly. "My own army

  ..."

  "Mistress Deanie," Suffolk warned, "I

  like not your tone."

  She answered him with a beaming smile.

  "Tell me what is churning in that mind of

  yours," ordered Suffolk.

  But Deanie said nothing. She simply nodded

  at him and left the antechamber with an alarmingly

  light step.

  After a brief pause, Suffolk began

  to follow her through the door. "I am getting too

  old for this," he mumbled to himself as he straightened

  his sword.

  Before he could make it to the courtyard, he was

  stopped by Norfolk, who informed him that the king

  needed his counsel on urgent business. Suffolk

  had no choice but to go with Norfolk.

  He was not particularly worried. After all,

  what harm could befall Mistress Deanie in the

  few short minutes during which he would be closeted

  with the king?

  If he weren't so damned well fed and rested,

  he wouldn't be so damned annoyed.

  "I will repeat my question," Kit said between clenched

  teeth. "Who is holding me?"

  "Now now," soothed his tormentingly cheerful

  jailer. "How's about another slice of

  pheasant?"

  "I do not want pheasant." Kit realized

  he was sounding like a petulant child. "I want

  to leave this place."

  "Now why would you want to do that, Sir Duke?

  Is not the cooking to your liking? Is the wine off?"

  "The cooking and the wine are more than agreeable."

  "Why thank you, Duke. I will go and inform

  Cook, and pleased as Punch he will be, let me

  tell you."

  "No!" Kit wiped a hand over his mouth in

  exasperation. "Please, just tell me where I

  am."

  "You are in a lovely place, really."

  A noise very much like a growl escaped Kit's

  throat, and he heard his jailer back away.

  "Now, now, Sir Duke. Why would you want

  to leave here and go back to that nasty court?"

  Kit was about to speak when something about the jailer's

  words made him halt. He bit back the

  venomous urge to shout. Instead, he softened his

  voice. "You do have a point there, my good man,"

  he coaxed.

  "Yes I do, Sir Duke. All those evil

  people, God help us, running about, mucking about where

  they have no right. Yer better off here, that's what

  I say."

  "I suppose you're right." Kit tried

  to keep his voice calm. "I am just concerned about

  my cousin."

  "Mistress Deanie? Awe, don't you

  worry about her, Sir Duke. He'll watch out

  for her."

  "He will, won't he?" Kit willed himself

  to relax. "He has always been a good friend to me."

  "The flower of manhood he is!" The jailer

  stopped and sucked in his breath, as if he could

  suck back his words from the air. "By God, I

  had best see to my chores."

  Kit sat heavily on the cot, fury surging

  through him. Now it all made sense, his

  well-meaning, confoundedly meddling friend. The flower of

  manhood.

  Blast him to hell!

  From below the cellar, the entire house was racked

  by a single bellowing voice.

  "SUFFOLK! DAMN YOU, I'LL GET

  YOU FOR THIS!"

  The servants, the kitchen staff, the stable boys

  and laundresses and gardeners all stopped,

  exchanged perplexed blinks, and returned to work.

  It was always an adventure working in the

  household staff of Charles Brandon, the duke

  of Suffolk. Always an adventure indeed.

  Chapter 18

  The plan wasn't quite worked out yet. There were a

  few minor details missing, a very few

  trivial items that needed to be fine-tuned.

  For one thing, Deanie had no idea where the

  Tower of London was located. Of course it was

  in London, and it was a tower. But that was all she

  knew.

  Finding London was also something of a problem. The

  last time she was there it had been marked with

  reflecting road signs and tourist kiosks.

  She'd been lounging in the back of a large,

  American-style, air-conditioned bus, her

  headphones plugged into the rough tape of a new

  CD, and had paid absolutely no attention

  to landmarks or directions.

  Once at the Tower, Deanie had no

  further strategy. That was it. She had an

  imprecise notion of storming through the Tower gates

  with a gang of barbers and exiting with an extra

  barber--namely Kit. If she could find that

  woman, the countess of Salisbury, she would

  grab her as well. Nothing mattered other than

  getting Kit out of there as soon as possible.

  Assuming Deanie and her makeshift army of

  confused barbers could actually locate the right town

  and the right tower, finding Kit within the walls of said

  tower was also going to be rather exciting. She had

  convinced the barbers that she was going on a mission of

  mercy to shave and bleed some of the more unfortunate

  occupants of the Tower. They knew she had become

  a favorite of the king's and did not dare question her

  authority.

  Deanie added an extra incentive: If they

  followed her occasionally strange-sounding orders,

  she would give them permission to shave her legs as

  much as they wished. She further promised to make

  hair-free legs en vogue at court, thereby

  providing them with an intriguing sideline.

  "What if men decide to have their legs shaved as

  well?" The question came from a massive young man

  named Yerkel. He seemed to have no first name, no

  last name. Just Yerkel.

  "Here, here!" shouted an enthusiastic barber with a

  disfiguring growth on the side of his face. "I will

  not shave a gentleman's limbs."

  "No. I think you're all safe. I don't

  think men would like it." She tried to sound convincing, but

  she herself wasn't so sure. Men in 1540 did

  wear stockings, after all.

  The trick was to persuade the barbers that going to the

/>   Tower had been their own idea, a

  guild-sponsored charity mission. After a few

  moments of heated debate, they agreed to allow

  Deanie to go with them.

  Surprisingly, to the barbers, the Tower itself did

  not conjure frightening images, no apparitions of

  Vincent Price or looming shadows. Only

  recently had it been used as Henry's jail.

  Before, it had simply been a royal residence,

  like Nonesuch or Richmond. Since it was much

  older--it had already been standing for hundreds of

  years--the building was well fortified from the days of

  ever-changing kings and hostile invasions. After the more

  recent imprisonments of Anne Boleyn,

  Thomas More, and a handful of other executed nobles,

  it was just beginning to garner its sinister

  reputation.

  They had left immediately, the barbers on their

  mounts and Deanie on Fancy, the same horse

  she'd ridden weeks earlier from Hampton. She

  didn't want to wait a minute for Suffolk

  to follow, or for anyone else to discover her

  plan. Even running back into the palace

  to change into more suitable riding attire was out of the

  question; she surely would have been stopped.

  They were but a few miles from London, continuing

  on the muddy Thames-side path that traveled from

  Hampton to Richmond.

  She now understood why Suffolk had called the

  road dangerous. Even in the full sun of a

  spring afternoon, she caught sight of half a dozen

  undesirable, suspicious-looking characters, all of

  whom seemed capable of the most vile of crimes.

  Only when the potential felons seemed to be

  following at an alarmingly close pace did she

  realize they were reinforcements for her army. The

  extra barbers joined them on the road, casting

  curious glances at her ankle when the skirt of

  her red velvet gown became caught on the

  saddle.

  London was still nowhere in sight, or even on the

  horizon. She felt as if they had been

  traveling for hours. Even as they entered a

  village, there were no indications that the great

  metropolis of London was near.

  The village was sprawling, hundreds of

  half-timber houses and single-story cottages

  sprinkled along a gentle rise. Some of the

  homes boasted glass windows and brick

  chimneys; others had nothing but oiled linen covering

  the windows.

  The more modest dwellings had no chimneys at

  all. Instead they had gaping holes in the roofs.

  Since it was now spring, most of the roof holes were

  covered with lengths of thatch or wooden boards or

  more oiled linen, anything else that might keep out the

  rain.

  Cattle meandered at a leisurely pace through

  the muddy streets, making them more evil smelling

  than even the Thames-side road. Nothing was

  paved, and the streets were dangerously slick with

  animal excrement, rotting garbage, used

  bathwater, and the tossed-out remains of household

  privies.

  The buildings became progressively larger

  and more impressive, the gardens smaller

  as the houses were packed closely along the

  streets both broad and narrow. There seemed to be

  no plan to the village, no sense of zoning

  commercial buildings from the residential ones.

  She caught sight of a wide bridge spanning

  the river. The amazing thing about the bridge was that it

  was an actual street, boasting two parallel

  rows of houses, some as tall as three stories.

  They were pointed and spiraled, triangular and

  square.

  A chiming in the distance signaled the hour of

  two. Deanie turned to Yerkel, taking a deep

  breath through her mouth to avoid the surrounding stench.

  She had become used to the odors of the court, but this

  was another level of stink she could never have

  imagined.

  "Where are we?"

  Yerkel, whose single expression seemed to be

  one of bland resignation, lifted his blond

  eyebrows. "We are in London, Mistress

  Deanie."

  Deanie was about to respond, but instead held her

  tongue. What had she been expecting?

  Piccadilly Circus with candles? Signs

  pointing the way to Heathrow?

  At once a vile gust of wind blasted past

  them. Deanie gagged. Yerkel gazed calmy as

  she struggled against the urge to wretch.

  "Yonder are the tanners," he explained with the

  air of a bored tour guide. "The fishmongers and the

  butchers ply their trades together, so their smells

  do not poison all of London. The bear-baiting

  pits lay there as well, if you enjoy the sport.

  So are the baths, the stews, and so forth."

  He smiled in benign contentment.

  "Where is the Tower?"

  Without speaking, he nodded in the direction of a

  brick structure.

  While she was instantly relieved that Kit was

  not imprisoned in a more horrifying building, it was

  something of a disappointment. She had been expecting

  a dramatic Gothic castle, black and

  sooty, covered with chains and the remains of

  tortured victims, faces contorted in silent

  screams of eternal agony.

  Instead it was almost cheerful, the gray bricks

  edged with lighter trim, impressive turrets

  on every corner. The clustered towers made the compound

  resemble a Disney creation.

  The only hint of foreboding was the

  well-armed guards standing with rigid authority at

  the gate. They held staffs much like those of guards

  at Hampton, and their determined expressions

  appeared even more fierce because of the iron helmets

  worn low on their foreheads.

  The closer they got, the less cheerful the Tower

  appeared. Most of the expansive windows were

  covered with spiked bars. They rode over a

  small arched bridge to the main entrance. From that

  angle Deanie could see the river entrance, the

  so-called Traitor's Gate, through which so many of

  Henry's enemies had made their one-way

  journey.

  The large guard, standing with his muscled legs

  apart, did not seem to notice Deanie and the

  barbers. He did not seem to move a muscle,

  not even to blink.

  "Hey," Deanie called as her horse

  broke away from the pack. The barbers remained a

  few feet behind in a shifting cluster. The guard

  gave no response to her greeting. "Good day,"

  she tried again. "Um, we've come here to shave the

  prisoners."

  With that statement the guard's steel-blue eyes

  slid to her face. Still he remained silent,

  impassive as a log.

  "You see, we're all here to make the

  prisoners a bit more comfortable. It's the little

  touches that add up." What was she saying? Next

  she'd go on about a chocolate on the pillow and a

  complimentary Continent
al breakfast.

  Although it seemed impossible, the guard appeared

  even more solid than a few minutes earlier.

  She heard the clip-clop of hooves behind her

  and turned to see Yerkel, his face partially

  obscured by the cowl of his cloak, approach on his

  oversized horse. She tried to gesture him

  back to the rear. The last thing she needed was

  Yerkel's brooding presence by her side.

  "Good day, Robert," Yerkel said to the guard.

  "Good day to you as well, Yerkel," the guard

  muttered without looking up.

  "You two know each other?"

  Yerkel said nothing, but the guard nodded, a

  gesture so slight she would have missed it had she not

  been alert.

  "Yerkel," she whispered. "Can you get us

  inside? Bribe him, threaten, promise him just

  about anything--just let us get inside."

  Yerkel remained silent, but he

  dismounted from his horse and walked over to the guard.

  They exchanged a few words, a very few words, and the

  guard's eyes widened, and he looked Deanie

  up and down. Finally he nodded once and called

  to someone inside the gates. The man inside

  called to another unseen person, their shouts echoing

  against the brick walls.

  "What did you tell him?" Deanie hissed

  to Yerkel, who was motioning to the other barbers

  to dismount.

  Yerkel did not respond. Instead he patted

  his horse and began to walk through the open gates.

  "Please, what did you say? It had to have been

  a threat, perhaps a dire warning. Did you threaten

  to fight with him? Please, Yerkel."

  He stopped, his massive shoulders straight,

  his rounded blond head still. "The truth?" His tone

  was ominous, and Deanie was again reminded what a

  barbaric age this was.

  She nodded, bracing herself for the savage warning

  Yerkel must have imposed.

  "I told Richard that should he allow us to pass

  within the Tower gates to shave some of the prisoners,

  we will divide with him any coins we are given."

  "That's it?" She was unreasonably let down.

  "You guys promised to share the tip?"

  "That was not all." Yerkel's voice took on

  a menacing edge.

  Her eyes widened. She needed to know what

  bloodthirsty method Yerkel had employed

  to gain entry. She may need the technique

  later.

  "I told him that should he allow us to pass

  unhindered, I will ask Mother to make a beef

  pudding."

  "Mother?"

  "Richard is my older brother," he

  concluded, nodding to his sibling as they passed through

  the gates.

  "Oh." She looked over at the guard, trying

  to imagine a large, doting mother silently stirring

  a kettle. "Can you ask him where the duke of

  Hamilton is?"

  Yerkel shrugged, handing Deanie the reins to his

  horse, and returned to his brother. After a few

  more brief words, Yerkel walked back

  to Deanie.

  "My brother says the duke of Hamilton

  is most likely at court with the king or at his own

  estate, Manor Hamilton."

  "No, no," Deanie corrected. "Tell

  him it's perfectly all right, we know Kit's in

  here."

  "My brother says he is not."

  "No offense," she said, studying Richard's

  solid and unyielding form. "But is it possible that

  he just doesn't have everyone's name straightened out?"

  Yerkel gave a half shrug of acknowledgment.

  "It is possible."

  "Well, then." She sighed. "I guess it's

  about time for us to begin shaving the prisoners."

  "Only their faces," he warned. "I will not

  shave the leg of a man, or the arm either."

  Andwiththe limb issue settled to Yerkel's

  satisfaction, they began searching for Kit.

  "Hamilton! God's blood, move that

  carcass of yours!"

  Kit jumped from the cot at the sound of the

  voice, the clattering of a sidearm becoming louder

  as Suffolk approached.

  "So has he told you, Suffolk?" Kit

  warned. "Has my jailer told you that I intend

  to kill you? I shall enjoy every moment, you

  black-hearted whoreson."

  "Hold, Kit. We do not have time for this." The

  rusty lock clicked open and light flooded the

  cell. "Mistress Deanie's in the Tower."

  "What happened?" His anger vanished as he was

  released from the room. He bolted down the hall

  with Suffolk, paying little attention to the stone

  corridor or the startled servants.

  "I must apologize, my friend," Suffolk

  panted. "I thought to only help you, the both of

  you."

  "Tell me, what happened?"

  "I took you here, to my own estate, as I

  garner you have deduced by now. The rumors were running

  thick and fast that you would attend Cromwell in the

  Tower. I wanted to remove you from danger, and had

  to move quickly, while the king was yet away at

  Richmond."

  "Did Deanie know of this?"

  "Nay. I underestimated her, Kit. I

  told her naught of my plan, feeling she would be

  safer if she acted the part of the grieving cousin."

  "Poor Deanie," he mumbled, squinting against

  the unaccustomed sun. "The Tower, Charles.

  Tell me how she was arrested, and why." He