Their eyes met as she took his hand. "I will not
leave you behind," she said with determination. "I think
we should give the maze a try. It seems to me
we ought to be able to get a round-trip fare out of
those old bushes."
He smiled, and Deanie felt herself swallow
hard. Even injured and recovering from illness, he
was absolutely devastating. His voice was rich,
compelling. "The maze it is, then."
"Do you think the soda bottle's still there?"
"I would think so. Hardly anyone goes there
since Anne Boleyn was beheaded--it's thought
to be bewitched."
"And it is." With a sigh she looked down at
their entwined hands. They seemed to fit together
perfectly. "What if we do end up in some
strange time?"
"Frankly, Deanie, we'd be better off
almost anywhere else. My guess is that we can
only go forward, since the maze is just a decade
old now. When I arrived it was new. As long as
we move ahead, all should be well."
"What if we can't find the bottle? Do you still
have the goggles?"
"Ah. The goggles. Of course I still have them
--back at Manor Hamilton. For years I
carried them with me, stepping into the maze every chance I
got, but nothing ever happened. I kept on
returning, with or without the goggles. Force of
habit, I imagine. Maybe I didn't
want to leave badly enough until now."
She stiffened. "Holy cow, Kit! If someone
else finds that bottle before us, we may never be
able to get out of here."
"That thought crossed my mind."
"I should go right now, with a candle--"
"No, Deanie, not now. You would be too
noticeable with a candle. Besides, you couldn't see
well enough. Why don't you wait until
morning?"
"Morning will be even worse. The servants are
up and about at dawn, including the gardeners."
"Then wait until tomorrow afternoon, and I'll go with
you. We can say we are perambulating for my
health or some such nonsense."
She was about to argue, to mention that he might not be
well enough to go out tomorrow, or the next day, and that every
minute lost offered another passerby the chance
to stumble upon the bottle. Instead, she just nodded.
"Fine," she said, avoiding his gaze.
There was a strong knock on the door. "Come
in," Kit answered, giving Deanie's hand a
quick squeeze before returning it to her lap.
A large woman entered, garbed in a rough
pleated skirt and a Germanic headdress peaked
at the top. "Mistress Deanie? The queen
bids you good night, and I am to see you to your
chambers."
Deanie stood up. "Thank you, Mother
Lowe." She turned to Kit. "Have you met the
queen's head of the ladies-in-waiting?"
He shook his head, astonished by the size of the
woman.
Mother Lowe nodded curtly and muttered, "Ya,
Duke," before she turned to the door.
"Believe it or not, she's shy," confided
Deanie in response to Kit's raised
eyebrows.
There were mumblings outside the room, all in
German. Englebert entered.
"Sir," he said, bowing to Kit, "we have
placed four of our guards from Cleves outside
your chamber for your comfort. We do not want barbers
to come at night, no?"
Deanie smiled at Englebert. "Thank you,"
she whispered warmly, giving him a swift hug.
In return he blushed.
"Will you be okay?" Deanie asked Kit. There
was so much more she wanted to say, so much had happened
in the past few hours. But between Mother Lowe and
Englebert and the guards, it was impossible. She was
being forced to leave, and they would have no more time alone.
At least not tonight.
His unwavering gaze caught hers. Somehow, with
just his eyes--reflecting dark green in the
candlelight--he conveyed every emotion she herself was
feeling. Her breath halted in her throat, and she
placed her hand instinctively over her heart.
At the exact same moment, Kit raised his
own hand and rested it over his heart.
"Mistress Deanie?" Mother Lowe loomed in
the threshold, and Deanie backed away.
"Good night," she said softly, her voice
betraying her shattering love.
"Good night," he returned, his voice echoing
a promise, a pledge.
And with that Mother Lowe pulled a shaken Deanie
up to the safe quarters of the other
ladies-in-waiting.
Something woke him.
Perhaps it was all the spiced wine he had consumed
or the extra helping of dove pie. More than
likely it was his seething anger. He would not allow
unthinkable.
He threw open the heavy draperies on his
bed. It was cold this night, and his fire had been
allowed to dwindle into glowing embers. His
feet--noble feet--felt the chill as they touched
the floor.
He walked to the window. Not that he was expecting
to see anything, not at this hour. Just as he was about
to go back to bed, the room lit only by the vague
moon, something caught his eye.
By God, there was someone in the maze!
He could see a flickering light, a candle
wavering. Whoever it was must be very close to the ground,
perhaps on hands and knees.
He threw on his surcloak, which had been
resting on a chair by the window, and walked, as
quietly as possible out toward the maze. Doors
that never squeaked seemed to be in need of oil this
evening, planks that were ever silent now seemed
to announce his every movement.
Finally he reached the back garden, creeping
along the grass to avoid crunching the pebbles.
As he got closer, he heard a voice coming
from the maze.
"Come on, come on. I know you're in here."
Ah! Mistress Deanie!
His first instinct was to push through the yew shrubs
to confront her, but he quickly tossed that thought
aside. Perhaps he could learn more by just watching her.
She was rummaging with great intent, and he was
nearly consumed by curiosity.
"Yes!" Mistress Deanie hissed,
delight evident in her voice.
She immediately snuffed the candle, and he watched as
she scurried back to the palace. It was
impossible to determine what she was carrying.
Silently, he entered the maze himself, feeling
a path to where Mistress Deanie had been.
Nothing. He suddenly realized the idiocy of his
impulsive trip outside. It was cold, and he
was barefoot--his tender feet assaulted by every
rock and slip of sharp stone. Besides, he was almost
blind in the dim light.
Harrumphing at himself, he turned to leave when
his foot slid on something. He reached down and
picked up some papers.
Shoving them into his cloak, he ran back
to his chamber as quietly as possible. Breathing
hard, he closed his door and lit a taper on the
last glow of the fire.
He pulled out the papers and gasped. What was
this? What manner of witchcraft?
The papers, slick and smooth as glass, were
bound together. Upon each page were paintings,
paintings of such fine quality he felt he could
reach out and enter the work.
There were printed words, strange and even,
unlike anything he had ever seen, and he owned
over a dozen books. Holding the candle, he
read what he could.
It was all about the court, about Henry and his
wives.
Then he almost cried out, for there was a portrait
of himself! He was to begin sitting for the painting this
week; Holbein had completed the rough sketches.
But here it was, completed, filled in with lush
colors.
Further in the book were paintings of court
women, some identified as Henry's wives. But
they were not his wives!
His hands trembling, he saw his name with a date
--a date in the near future. Was someone wishing
him dead?
And then he saw something that made him nearly
cry out in fear. Toward the back of the book was a
painting of the king. He was old and bloated, and the
date was 1547.
Someone was practicing witchcraft and
predicting the death of the king.
He flipped the book over and looked at the
cover. The words were strange and unfamiliar.
A Tourist's Guide to Hampton Court
Palace.
His palms sweating, he shoved the booklet under
his mattress.
Mistress Deanie had placed the booklet
there, he was sure of it. Not only was she guilty
of witchcraft, she was guilty of a far greater
sin: high treason.
He pulled the drapes on his bed shut,
wondering what could be done with this new information.
By dawn his pulse had slowed, and on his face was
a confident smile.
Before breaking the fast, he had decided how
to use his new information. Very soon the entire court
--perhaps even the king--would bend to his every whim.
At last he would secure his rightful,
God-given place in the realm.
Chapter 11
It was hopeless.
There was no way for Deanie to hide the cola
chambers. It was too large to slip under her belt
or tuck within the embroidered false sleeve of
her gown. She tried to fold it under the flowing
lappets of a gable headpiece, but one glimpse
of herself in the distorted, speckled mirror caused
her to yank it off in disgust. The sight of a
lady-in-waiting sporting a headdress plumed
with a Coke bottle was more bizarre than anything
Andy Warhol could have dreamed up.
So she settled on carrying the bottle in the
open. Her first thought was to fill it up with ale and
hope no one noticed her strutting through the
palace corridors with an open bottle of
beer.
She nixed that idea because the dried-up,
blackened peanuts still rattled in the bottom.
Although she was fairly certain the nuts had nothing
to do with her passage through time--and as far as she
knew Kit did not travel with his goggles full
of peanuts--she didn't want to alter the
bottle for fear it might upset a delicate
balance.
It was a glance outside the window, the spring
sun beaming on the garden, that gave her the
inspiration she'd been seeking. She simply
walked decorously through the grounds, nodding gently
at the passing courtiers, and grabbed stems of
roses as soon as they passed. By the time her
stroll was completed, there were so many
brilliant-hued flowers rioting from the innocuous
bottle that no one noticed the plain glass
carafe.
She had kept her possession of the bottle a
secret from Kit for four days, watching as he
recovered from the wounds and fever. Like a tethered
puppy, he wanted nothing more than to leave his
chamber, and only the combined efforts of Suffolk and
Englebert and the queen and, above all, Mother Lowe,
kept him in the room.
By her third day he paced the chamber
restlessly, vowing to get past the Germanic guards
and mumbling disjointed curses about their parentage.
Deanie used every ounce of charm to cajole and
reason with him, urging him to stay in place until
he had recovered.
"You think you've had a rough time?" She had
finally lost the frayed remains of her temper.
Hands on hips, she cornered Kit, who had
been forcing open the window in hopes of escaping to the
garden.
"I've had my legs shaved a dozen times,
come to fisticuffs with the laundress who refused
to bring your bandages to a complete boil, and been
forced to block Dr. Cornelius from bleeding you every
chance he gets. Humor me, Kit. Hang
around here just a couple more days--or at least
until you can jump out of the window without hurting
something."
He glared before finally laughing and agreeing with her
logic.
For days she resisted the urge to run to him,
to whoop with joy over her triumph of retrieving
the missing soda bottle. Besides waiting for Kit
to recover, she had two other reasons for waiting.
The first reason for her sedate manner was that she
was once again housed in the wing with the other
ladies-in-waiting. She had been given the
same room as before, the same room in which
Cromwell had made his threats and wounded Kit.
There was no physical evidence of that mayhem.
Still, the very motion of entering the chamber caused her
stomach to tighten with apprehension, making it
impossible for her to forget what danger they still
faced.
The second reason for her hesitation was that
Kit would be furious with her for risking everything
to find the bottle on her own. Even as she
searched in the dark, she realized the stupidity of
her actions. She just wanted to find the damn thing so
they could get on with their plans. Without the
bottle, their most likely escape route was
blocked.
As she toted the flowers to Kit's room, she
felt as if she held the very key to their future
together.
She was prepared to find him awake, perhaps being
shaved by a new flock of barbers. Even the sight
of him still asleep, allowing his exhausted and
battered body some much-needed rest, would not have
alarmed her.
The last thing she expect
ed was to find him gone,
vanished as if he had never set foot in the
small chamber.
The bottle nearly slipped from her hands when
she realized he was not there.
"Kit?" she whispered, as if in a hospital
ward. There was no answer. The guards from the night
before were also missing. The only items in the stark
room were the few furnishings: the small bed, two
chairs, a table. The cloth bandages and
her boiled water were nowhere to be seen.
to control her fear. There was probably a
perfectly logical explanation for his absence.
Maybe he was having breakfast with Suffolk or
the King. Perhaps Mother Lowe, whom she had seen
twice that morning, had decided to change his
room.
But wouldn't Mother Lowe have mentioned something
to Deanie? She'd had ample opportunity, and
her English wasn't that bad.
A more likely scenario crept into her mind.
Cromwell. She could almost feel the heat of his
anger, the rage he struggled to contain in the great
hall. He had men who would do anything for a coin.
They relied on his commands and power, not on their own
tattered conscience.
Kit was a strong man, but he was not yet
recovered from his beating.
"Kit?" There was still no answer.
She walked calmly from the room, her head
erect. She would not run, she would not scream his
name.
With her knees growing ever more unsteady, she
glided through the halls, peering into each room as she
passed. There were over a thousand rooms at
Hampton, and she vowed to search each one until
she found Kit.
She walked for almost an hour, her anxiety
mounting by the minute. The rest of the court seemed
to be enjoying the grounds, and she could hear occasional
snatches of laughter from the gardens and the tilting
yard as she passed.
The roses were pressed so close to her body
they began to wilt from the heat. Feeling
light-headed, she recalled that she hadn't eaten
since the previous day. Her plan had been to have
breakfast with Kit.
She was walking in circles now, not really
seeing into the chambers as she passed. Finally she
went outside, hoping to find Englebert or Mother
Lowe or someone who could tell her where Kit
was.
A large circle of courtiers stood in the
tilting yard, chatting among themselves, occasionally
erupting into spontaneous applause. There was a
metallic clanking sound from within the crowd, and she
recognized the noise as swords clashing.
As she approached, the circle opened to let
her in. A few of the women stared at
Deanie, her face ashen, carrying a large armful
of limp flowers.
"Hamilton, your cousin approaches. It
seems she has been busy plundering the gardens of
their every bloom!"
The voice belonged to Charles Brandon, the
duke of Suffolk. In the center of the circular
audience were several young men engaged in a show of
swordsmanship.
One of them--using his left arm--was Kit.
He handed Suffolk his sword and walked
immediately to her side. He appeared to be disarmingly
healthy, wearing nothing but a loose-fitting shirt
and hose. Even in her relief, Deanie saw the
hungry stares from some of the women.
"Cousin, for me!" Kit said as he reached her
side, gesturing to the bouquet. Many of the courtiers
laughed and returned to their conversations, or watched
young Surrey begin to battle Brandon.
"Where the hell have you been?" Kit demanded as
he placed a brotherly arm about her shoulder. He
glared down at her, a brilliant smile fixed
on his face, his eyes flashing dangerously.
"Goddamnit, Deanie, I've looked everywhere
for you. Don't you ever disappear like that again."
"Where have I been?" she repeated
incredulously. "I've only been searching through that
entire stupid castle for you. When you weren't in
your room, I thought something had happened to you.
Oh, Kit." Her voice broke, and through his
anger he realized how frantic she looked, the
way she hugged the soggy flowers to her chest.
With a swift glance around to make sure they were not
being watched too closely, he guided her behind a
hedge. There she fell against him, suddenly unable
to support herself.
"Where did you go?" she asked against his shirt.
"Englebert woke me early this morning. He
said he saw Cromwell conferring with some of his men
and thought it might be a good idea for me to switch
to another room. I thought he would have told you."
She shook her head, her feeling of dread just
now beginning to ebb. "No. I'm glad he
didn't, because one of Cromwell's guys might
have followed me to you." She backed away, a
small smile playing at her lips. "You were
right, by the way. These roses are for you."
She handed them to him, and he was about to speak when
he realized what the container was. "How did you
..."
"Don't ask." She pushed them into his