above his elbows, exposing the corded muscles of
his forearms.
"How long have I been asleep?" Her eyes
focused on the bare throat revealed by his open
collar. His skin, flushed with the exertion of rowing,
gleamed through the nearly transparent shirt.
He grinned, looking very much like a pirate with
brilliant teeth set against a black beard.
Without thinking, she reached out and touched the hollow of
his throat, her thumb feeling the throbbing pulse
there. His grin vanished slowly, and he took a
deep breath, leaning toward her as the oars rose
above the water.
"Faster, Hamilton!"
Deanie jumped. Just behind her, lounging on the
opposite end of the rowboat, was a much contented
Suffolk. He still held a mug of ale in his
grip, while the other hand dragged languidly in
the water.
"You said you needs be there before sundown,"
Suffolk chastised. "Unless you row faster, we will
miss it altogether. The sun lowers even now."
Kit grunted in reluctant acknowledgment and
began to row harder, harder still.
"You're a big help," Deanie said
to Suffolk. With a smile and a guiltless shrug,
he took another swallow of ale. "The boat
would hold but three. Hamilton said he would row
if I but curbed my tongue so you could
sleep. I did, as you can see. And you,
Mistress Deanie, were drooling."
She clapped her hand over her mouth, and both
Suffolk and Kit laughed.
"Be kind, Suffolk. I have seen you do far
worse in your sleep, and even more atrocious
deeds while awake," Kit said, winking at a
mortified Deanie.
"Aye, it is true. There! I see
Hampton on the rise! God's blood,
Hamilton, I believe we will make it."
Deanie reluctantly pulled her gaze beyond
Kit. And as Suffolk had said, Hampton
Court Palace, its splendor bathed in the
ethereal light of an afternoon sun, was in view. The
twisting brick chimneys seemed to glow in the
spring-time warmth.
"You have the bottle?" Kit asked her,
glancing over his shoulder to guide the boat.
"Not anymore. It is empty," Suffolk
announced with sadness.
"Not that bottle." Kit shook his head in
amused resignation.
Deanie flashed a smile at Suffolk and
turned to Kit, her tone more serious. "Last time
I checked it was in my chamber at Hampton.
It should still be there."
He nodded once and returned to the business of
moving the oars. Deanie was astounded at his stamina,
at the strength it took to row the boat and its three
adult passengers upstream the many miles
to Hampton. He was only slightly out of
breath, and Deanie could see that the shoulder wounded
by Cromwell's men seemed to be giving him some
trouble. He favored the other arm, and he rotated
the painful shoulder as if trying to work away the
stiffness.
"Suffolk, you know what to do about the gunpowder?"
"Why do you think I have had to quaff so much
ale?" Suffolk muttered, shaking his head in
disbelief. "Yes, my brain-addled friend. You will
find two dozen bundles of gunpowder and wadding
placed about the maze. I will, if given but another
mug of this inferior brew, touch off the lights for
you, and trust myself not to blow us all to the heavens."
Then he paused, and an entirely different
expression passed over his face. He seemed
able to shake off the effects of drink like a cloak.
He grew somber, staring into his earthenware mug.
"I warn you, if the king is in
residence, I will not do this thing for fear of harming
him."
"Oh, he won't be there," Deanie said. "I
know he wasn't planning to return as long as
Queen Anne remains."
Suffolk seemed satisfied, carefully
studying the empty mug as Kit steered the boat
to one of the smaller docks. A man at the dock
grabbed the ropes, and Kit stood up, pulling
on his doublet as he took her hand.
"What, Hamilton? Will you not assist me?"
Suffolk rose unsteadily to his feet.
"How much did he have to drink?" whispered
Deanie.
"I thought not much," he said as he lifted her
over the water and placed her on land. "I did not
count. I was too busy."
"Rowing?"
"No." He winced as Suffolk staggered through the
water, headless that it was up to his waist. "I was
busy watching you drool."
She would have responded, but they didn't have time.
The sun was beginning to sink at an alarmingly fast
rate.
"I'll run to get the bottle," she said,
picking up the heavy hem of her gown. He
nodded.
"I will get the fireworks ready." He
suddenly turned to her. "We're a little early for
your Fourth of July celebration."
"It's the middle of June." She smiled,
pushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "We have a
couple of weeks to go."
"More like a couple of centuries," he mumbled,
more to himself than to her. His eyes were focused on the
maze just beyond, and the burlap bundles Suffolk was
ordering a perplexed gardener to arrange.
"I'll be right back," she said, touching his arm.
He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, staring
ahead. Abruptly he grabbed Deanie's
wrist. "It's going to work, you know," he said. "I
can feel it. It's the same way I felt before,
when I first came here. That day I thought I was
experiencing a premonition of my own death, but it
was the journey here I was anticipating."
With a shake of his head, as if to dislodge his
tumbled thoughts, he gave her hand a squeeze.
"We'd best get on with this."
She was reluctant to leave his side. "I'm
frightened," she murmured. It was as if a
knowing breeze coursed through her; she had never said
those words before. In all the triumphs she had
managed in her life, the setbacks and the
roller-coaster panics, she had never uttered those
words.
She was scared to death.
Instead of coddling her, or calming her
rampaging fears, he simply smiled. It was a
sweet, sad smile. "I am too, my
love," he breathed. "You had best get the
bottle." Then he left to assist a badly
reeling Suffolk, who was unintentionally dripping
ale on the gunpowder bundles.
Hefting the weighty velvet hem above her
ankles, she ran to the palace. Part of her
wanted to see Anne of Cleves one last time.
The more sensible part realized she could do little to help
her. She had already told Suffolk of
Cromwell's advice to follow the king's whims.
Seeing the queen would not help anyone.
The halls were virtually empty. Since the king
was now lodged at Richmond, most of the more
fashionable and ambitious courtiers had already
begun the laborous shift to Richmond. It was much
work, sending servants and lesser nobles ahead,
folding rich clothes into the dome-lidded trunks.
But to the courtiers, it was well worth the effort.
The bottle was right where she'd left it. She
grabbed the neck and paused, startled by a peculiar
sense of having her middle cinched by a wide band.
If all went as planned, this was the last she would
see of this century.
There was a pang in her throat, an undefined
longing. She placed her hand over the low square
neck of her gown and felt the pounding of her heart.
Why did she have such terrible feelings of regret?
Kit.
It was because she associated this era--the smells
and sounds and fingertip sensations--with one man. Without
him it would have been simply a curious journey.
It would have been like a well-designed historical
theme park.
But it was here, where violence and death and
inscrutable absolutes were everyday occurrences,
where she met Kit. How strange, she thought with a
smile, that a place ebbing with such misery should bring
her the one true joy of her life.
She regretted leaving because she knew she would
soon feel nostalgic. Kit would be at her
side, his arms about her, and they would talk
of this time, in the hushed whispers of a shared
experience. These would always be their magical days of
courtship.
Without a second glance, she left the room.
The seeds of her future were here. But the reality of
her future was just beyond eyeshot, in a black
beard and dusty doublet.
It was time to begin her future.
Had they planned for days, it could not have been more
perfect.
She reached his side, breathing hard through her
mouth. Panting, she simply held the bottle
up. He ran his knuckles over her flushed
cheek and smiled.
The preparations were completed. He reached out his
hand to Suffolk, fumbling for words.
"I ... we both thank you," he said at
last. "We will be gone from this place, yet we will
always remember you."
Suffolk grunted. "I understand not where you go.
I only hope you will achieve the happiness that so
eluded you here."
She almost spoke, wondering how much Kit had
told him. He seemed to understand precisely what
was going to occur within the maze.
Suffolk nodded as if they were attempting a
risky but entirely normal sea crossing. How
could such a pragmatic man believe in
miracles? Then it occurred to her that everyone here,
with the exception of Kit and herself, had been raised
with a sincere believe in witchcraft and magic, in
fairies and worlds beyond reason.
The funny thing was, they had been right.
"Please, light them when I tell you."
Kit's hand gripped hers as he spoke
to Suffolk, one hand holding the future as he
spoke to the past.
"Oh, and remember to tell Queen Anne to do
as the king requests. Cromwell has set it up
so that, well ... I told you." She smiled at
Suffolk. "And please watch after Princess
Elizabeth. She is so little, and needs--"
Kit's hand clamped over her mouth, and they
all laughed.
"It's time," Kit said, but they all knew it
even without his words.
The two of them walked into the maze, slowly,
deliberately.
A lone voice pierced the air.
"Hamilton!" It was a growl of impotent
fury.
"Goddamn," Kit grumbled. "It's
Surrey."
They did not halt. Instead they walked faster,
but Kit's hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
"Suffolk! Now!" Kit shouted as they picked
up their pace. They were not in the exact spot they
needed to be but hoped that by the time they reached the center
the bundles of gunpowder would be set.
"Hamilton!" Surrey, his pale face a
mask of fury, charged after them into the maze.
"Faster, love." Kit handed her the bottle
so he could grab her arm, half dragging and half
carrying her to the center. Her feet skimmed the
gravel path as she struggled to hold the bottle.
The headdress, a small French hood,
caught on a branch. Although her hair was ripped
from her scalp, bringing tears to her eyes, she said
nothing as her head snapped back for a moment. The
headpiece, with a clump of chestnut hair, was
left dangling in the shrubbery.
The first explosion of powder boomed, and she
gasped.
"We're almost there," he breathed, covering her
face with his open hand as a shower of gravel rained
down. "Damn, what did he put in those
packets?"
Another explosion tore through the air. They had
reached the center of the maze, and she threw her arms
about his waist.
Lifting the bottle from her hand, he wrapped his
other arm around her shoulders. Two more bursts of
gunpowder discharged some rocks, and Deanie closed
her eyes, burying her face against his doublet. His
heart thundered wildly against her ear, as loud and
fierce as the explosions beyond the maze.
Shielding his eyes from the sprinkling of dust and
rocks, he then held the bottle high over their
heads.
Immediately, the ground began to tremble, from far more
than the concussion of the explosives. A hum
vibrated, low and mournful, rattling both of them
to the core.
She opened her eyes and saw the cobalt-blue
light dart from the bottle, causing brilliant
lines to bounce in angles all about them.
"HAMILTON!" Surrey's voice peeled
over the layers of explosions.
"For Christ's sake!" Kit
swore. His tone was pure annoyance, as if an
irritating gnat had disturbed their privacy.
Surrey stood less than six feet away,
his sword pointed at them, his mouth open in an
exaggerated expression of confusion. Then he
closed his jaw and glared at Kit. Slowly,
deliberately, he approached, the tip of his
weapon directed at Kit's throat.
Kit reached for Deanie's hand and raised it
carefully, not wishing to disturb the laserlike
beams. He slipped the bottle into her hands,
wrapping her trembling fingers around the neck of the
bottle.
Deanie blinked, looking up at Kit. He
cautiously dislodged her arm from his waist and drew
his own sword.
"No, Kit! Not now!"
But Surrey had already lunged. Kit pushed
her out of the way and countered Surrey's sword.
Frantic, she tried to keep the bottle
above
Kit's head, to maintain the pulsating prism that
was flashing more violently now. Four more explosions
rattled her very teeth, and still she stayed at his
side.
Surrey slashed the air, attacking the spots
that seemed to dance before his eyes with a frenzied
passion. Kit moved Deanie out of the way, his arm
scooting her into the center of a tender bush. From the
corner of her eye she saw the lash of
Surrey's sword, and a bright line of crimson
mark the top of Kit's arm. The black doublet and
white shirt underneath shredded, hanging from the tip of
Surrey's blade.
The bottle was hot, and Deanie struggled
to get back to Kit, who was countering Surrey with
one arm while trying to protect Deanie with the
other.
There was a terrific roar. Deanie clutched
at Kit and she saw his gaze, those strangely
colored hazel eyes, flick to hers. An
emotion passed through his eyes, even as she saw
Surrey's merciless sword fly before him. Then
his arm, bloodied, fell limp and his weapon
clattered to the ground.
She recognized the expression on his face.
Pain? Regret?
No. It was farewell.
She screamed his name, but the roar continued,
rampaging and unstoppable.
The bottle slipped to the ground, and
suddenly everything was dark.
Suffolk arranged the last of the bundles,
wondering when all the ducks and quails he had just
sent flying would finally return.
A figure in a rich blue cloak ran
toward the maze waving a piece of paper. With
annoyance, Suffolk realized it was Norfolk.
He wished he had consumed more ale that afternoon, for
facing Norfolk while sober was more than he could
bear.
"I have it! I have it!" Norfolk's thin face
was animated, his eyes glistening in triumph.
"What do you have, Norfolk?" muttered
Suffolk. "A soul? I think not. What you do have
is a demented son who just this minute chased
Hamilton and Mistress Deanie into the center
of the maze."
Norfolk swished a hand, dismissing
Suffolk's information with annoyance. "It matters
not. What is in my hands is a warrant for the
arrest of one Christopher Neville, duke of
Hamilton, and his kinswoman Mistress
Deanie Bailey."
"On what charges?" Suffolk snatched the
document from Norfolk's slender fingers.
"Treason."
"Nay! It is impossible!" Suffolk
scanned the parchment. It was genuine, right down
to Henry's seal.
With that, Norfolk plucked something from his
cloak. It was a strange sort of book,
narrow, with glossy paper and color and tiny words.
A Tourist's Guide to Hampton Court
Palace.
"This book tells of the death of our
sovereign." Norfolk sniffed in self-righteous
pleasure. "The name in the book belongs to Deanie
Bailey. They worked in consort to end our
glorious king's reign through witchcraft. A
woman alone could not do this." Then Norfolk's
eyes narrowed. "And what of you, my duke of
Suffolk? What brings you to this place, with fire
and explosion?"
Calmly, Suffolk paged through the booklet,
pausing once at a picture of himself, grizzled
and old. There was also the wedding portrait of Mary
Tudor and Suffolk, both flush with youth and
love, her small hand resting in his. There were
dates, but he did not want to look.
He did not want to know.
So this was their magic, he wondered silently.
He hoped with all his heart they had returned
home. They were not guilty of treason. If
anything, they were guilty of but one offense:
Love.
His movements smooth, he watched Norfolk
frown at the sod clumps that now pitted the
lawn. While Norfolk scowled, Suffolk,
gentle as a mother with a baby, reached for another
taper. Smiling, he slipped the booklet under the
final bundle and lit it.
He escorted Norfolk several yards
away, musing on the implications of the arrest
warrant, when the explosion shattered the fragile
calm.
"What! What!" Norfolk sputtered, his
face mottled and red. Then he leveled his
malicious gaze at Suffolk. "Where is it?
Where is my book? The king has not yet seen it,
you villain. This is the proof of their treason!
Henry signed the warrant based on my word! I
told him it also saw an early death for Edward,
the prince of Wales. He will never believe me
without the proof."
Smiling, Suffolk pointed to the air, silencing
Norfolk in midsputter. Tiny pieces of
blackened, charred paper twirled to the ground.
"Come, Norfolk. Let us drink to a
prosperous future."
Norfolk stamped on the ground, unable
to articulate the furious words that shattered his
well-practiced veneer.
Suffolk laughed and walked away. "I shall
presently remove myself from the scene of the next
explosion. From the blood in your face,
Norfolk, it will be your head, and it will be very
messy indeed. Good day."
And with that Suffolk left in search of friendly