schoolyard chant?"
"What schoolyard chant?"
"About Henry and his six wives. My sister
taught it to me, so I would remember the order in
which they came. What kind of education did you have?"
"A very bad one. Just tell me, Kit: What
happens to Anne?"
His hand reached down and folded over hers. "It
goes "Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced,
beheaded, survived.""
Deanie began to count on her fingers. "Could you
repeat that?"
He did, and she stopped on her fourth finger.
"Kit, Anne is his fourth wife," she said
quietly.
"Yes."
"Henry will divorce her."
Kit nodded. "Cromwell will arrange an
annulment."
"It's up to Cromwell?"
Again he nodded. "Deanie, what's wrong?"
"Cromwell," she said at last. "If we
leave, I don't think Anne will just be
divorced. Now that we're here, everything is
different. Cromwell is furious,
Kit. What if we somehow have changed history?
Even worse, he's scared to death. Couldn't you
tell the other day in your room? The man's at a
breaking point."
Kit remained silent, and she continued.
"If we leave, who do you think will bear the
brunt of his rage? He needs someone to blame--
you know that better than I do. He'll take it out
on Anne. She'll be his logical target.
He'll be backed into a corner and see Anne as
the reason. He'll make sure she's beheaded.
It will be our fault!"
He said nothing for a few moments, then he
raised her hand to his lips, brushing her
knuckles with a kiss. "You're right, Deanie.
But in truth there's nothing we can do."
"We can't let that happen." She snatched her
hand away, but the warmth of his lips still lingered.
"Deanie, we can't possibly attempt
to change the workings of the court."
"Why not?"
"For Christ's sake, don't be such a
Yank." He kicked a pebble, then turned
to her. "This is not Boston in the eighteenth
century. There is no concept of democratic
justice here, no way to enlighten their narrow
beliefs. For all our purposes, we are in the
Middle Ages. People are burned for witchcraft
and sorcery. And much as it hurts your American
notion of equality, women rank somewhere between a
decent plough horse and a sturdy pair of
boots."
"But ..."
"Use your eyes and ears, Deanie," he
continued. "How the hell can we save a queen who
was destined to fail by either death or divorce the
moment Henry laid eyes on her?"
"She saved your life."
He was about to speak but halted.
"You just don't like her because she has a German
accent," Deanie hissed, her eyes radiating
such fury he straightened.
"Deanie, you're getting hysterical."
"The Germans lost, Kit. They lost the
Second World War and lost it big time." She
swallowed, trying to get herself under control.
"Anne is not a Nazi, she's just some poor
woman from Cleves with an ambitious family.
And she nursed you with her own hands, did her very
best to see that you survived. And how are
we going to thank her? By letting her die?"
In the silence he looked to the sky, wondering
if he had, indeed, condemned Anne for the sins of
her countrymen, distant relatives who would not be
born for another three and a half centuries. In
fact, Anne herself would have no children. She would
leave no one to rise against England in the faraway
future.
"The sun is gone," he said mildly. "We
can do nothing more tonight."
"You are wrong, Kit." Now she placed her
hand within his. His fingers automatically folded
over hers. "We can do something tonight. One person
is more powerful than Cromwell. Henry. Perhaps
if he likes his wife even a little, he wouldn't
go along with Cromwell's plans so easily."
"It matters not how insane Cromwell's
plans are, how unnecessarily vindictive.
I've seen the king agree with Cromwell's
plots simply because they suit the king's own
desires. Now Henry wants Anne gone, and the
king has a remarkable ability to deny any
culpability, at least to himself. It's useless,
Deanie."
"Maybe," she began, "we can make sure
Anne keeps her head. After all," she said
softly, "without her, you wouldn't have my heart."
"Unfair." He groaned. Then with a sigh,
he stood up. "Mistress Deanie, do you wish
us to play matchmaker between the king and his wife?"
She nodded eagerly and stood alongside him,
their hands still clasped.
"God help me, I believe I'm going
to live to regret this." Kit tossed the bottle
into the air, catching it easily with one hand. And
together they walked back to the palace, both lost in
their own thoughts.
Chapter 12
The king was in buoyant spirits at the evening
board. His face, flushed with wine and good humor,
radiated a peculiar excitement. All
present benefited from his joyous mood, from the
lowliest page to Thomas Howard, the duke of
Norfolk, whom many in the hall failed
to recognize. He was wearing a most unfamiliar
disguise: a pleasant expression. Several
commented behind concealing hands that Norfolk should pull out
the camouflage for the next royal mask,
for no one would guess that behind the anemic but genuine
smile was the most noble duke of Norfolk.
Even the presence of Queen Anne didn't
seem to disturb the king's air of joviality. She
sat quietly, slipping tiny bits of food
into her mouth and trying not to bring undue attention
to herself.
Kit was exhausted, saying little and eating even
less.
"You should go to bed," Deanie whispered as
Charles Brandon once again retold the tale of the
duke of Hamilton beating young Surrey in the
tilting yard.
Kit acted as if his attention were riveted on
Suffolk's every word, but from the corner of his mouth he
was able to speak to her. "Not tonight, with Cromwell
perched like a bird of prey. And until the king
retires, I must play the part of dutiful
subject."
"I'm sure the king would understand. He saw with his
own eyes how sick you've been. Come on,
Kit. I'll stay here and distract their attention
from your absence."
"That's the problem." He leaned close to her
ear. "I fear leaving you with the king and Queen
Anne. Lord only knows what plans you have
fermenting in that mind of yours."
"How much trouble could I get into in a single
evening?"
"Please, Dean
ie." A slight smile
deepened his cheeks as his thumb rubbed the rim of his
goblet. "It seems the king has ordered mummers
for this evening. I can always take a nap then."
"They're that boring?"
He raised his eyebrows, nodding
halfheartedly at a woman who sat on the other
side of the room, staring at Kit with an intense
expression on her face. "The mummers give
new meaning to the word dull."
"Who is she?" Deanie asked of the woman.
The torchlight reflected off his hair as he
faced her. "Ah. I see your plan now: You
are going to keep me awake by interrogation. I
believe such treatment violates the rules of the
Geneva Convention."
"Seriously, Kit. She looks as if she's
about to devour you with her eyes."
"I wouldn't put it past her," he mumbled.
A strange feeling knotted Deanie's
stomach, and she straightened her back.
The woman was still watching Kit, her lips parted
slightly. Deanie suddenly averted her eyes
to her lap, glancing at the ornate tufted
bodice of her gown, idly tracing an
embroidered flower with a finger.
Other women had stared at Kit with the same
expression, a hazy, wanton quality.
Earlier she had failed to notice how many
feminine eyes batted as he passed, how their
faces became still when they caught his attention.
She had been in such a whirl herself, with new
sights and smells and sounds at every turn, that it
had never occurred to her that he was the center of much
of the court's focus.
Her hand crept up over her bodice, and she
felt her flesh beneath the canvas corset, so
familiar, so confoundedly ordinary. She imagined
Kit speaking to Suffolk, describing her body
as they thrust with swords.
"She brings new meaning to the word dull."
Suffolk would chuckle with understanding.
"Deanie, do you feel ill?"
Jolted, she flushed when she realized Kit
had been speaking to her. Katherine Howard and
Cecily Garrison exchanged puzzled shrugs
across the table.
"Have you ever been in love before?" she blurted,
trying to lower her voice.
A stupefied expression spread across his face
as he took in her words. The question seemed to come from
nowhere, and he shook his head slightly in
astonishment, mystified by her train of thought.
"Yes," he answered at last, returning his
It hit Deanie what that unpleasant knot in
her stomach was: jealousy. Never before had she
experienced the tug of genuine envy. Sure, she
had watched with awe as other women soared to the top
of the charts with their songs or conquered a restless
audience with a perfect set. But it had never touched
her private life, never entered her relationships
with men.
She was jealous.
"Were you in love with that woman over there?" It
was as if she could no longer control her words, she
so desperately needed to know.
"With Bessie Carpenter?"
Unable to speak, she merely nodded.
"Good God, no."
A strange sense of relief
uncoiled within her, and she took a deep breath.
"I don't believe I could truly love a
woman from here, from all this." His hand made a
dismissive gesture, as if flicking the court
into oblivion like a pesky fly. "Their minds
baffle me, with too many absolutes, too many
ideas taken for granted that I could never accept.
I would have to counterfeit a life for myself, to play
an endless role."
Lost in his own thoughts, he continued as if
Deanie wasn't there. "To a certain extent,
I've had to do just that: to construct a background.
The thought of falling in love with a woman and having
to play that role twenty-four hours a day, each
day of the year, is overwhelming. Can you imagine the
burden? Relentless, crushing ..." She watched
his jaw clench. "No, Deanie," he concluded.
"I could never love one of these court ladies."
He gave her a vague, amused smile.
"Who was she, then?" She knew she should quit
while she was ahead, but some inner demon was pushing
her forward. "The woman you were in love with?"
Crossing his arms gingerly because of the tender right
shoulder, he regarded her, appraising the look of
eagerness on her face. "It was nothing, years
ago. Certainly not a grand passion. More of a
schoolboy crush, really."
Her mouth dropped involuntarily, and she
closed it as soon as possible. Of course she
had always heard rumors about British men, about
those remote boys' boarding schools where that sort
of thing went on. She had watched enough
"Masterpiece Theatre" episodes
to recognize his upper-crust accent. Still, she was
taken off guard by his admission.
She sat straighter, trying to act as
nonchalant as possible. "Oh, I see. What
was his name?"
Kit turned to her, a look of total
bewilderment on his face. "What was whose name?"
"The schoolboy you had a crush on."
For a moment he said nothing. Then a dawning
understanding lit his gaze. "You mean you think I
..."
"It's okay, Kit." She pressed a
sympathetic hand upon his forearm. "I'm in show
business. That sort of thing goes on all the
time."
"Deanie, I was engaged to be married once.
We thought we were in love; she was my
friend's younger sister. She was not, it seems, my one
grand passion."
Something seemed familiar about the last phrase,
but Deanie ignored it. For the next several
moments the great hall of Hampton Court,
presently occupied by the most resplendently
powerful men in England, rang with the raucous
timbre of the duke of Hamilton's laughter.
The idea was so simple, she was almost ashamed not
to have come up with it before.
It was after Kit had stopped laughing, when he
finally caught his breath and explained that he had
been in love with the younger sister of one of his Oxford
chums, that the notion came to her as swiftly and as
powerfully as a summertime storm.
The queen's man Englebert, watching with wary
glances as Cromwell slipped from the hall, had
brought the queen a platter of sweets. The king
had his back to her, raising a goblet of wine
to Katherine Howard. Something caused him to spin
about, to face Englebert. It was the fragrance of
sweets. The king would toast Katherine Howard
only after his craving for something sugary had been
satisfied.
Doughnuts.
The king would go crazy over doughnuts. Deanie
had a sudden vision of King Henry VIII
stepping into a Krispy Kream, raising a chubby
royal finger, and buying the entire stock.
Glazed, chocolate frosteds, jelly-filleds,
bismarks, crullers--the man would have a field
day.
Deanie knew how to make doughnuts, and the king
would love them. If the king received doughnuts from
Queen Anne, his exuberance over every bite might
very well spill over to her. She may not be able
to win the king's heart, but she could most certainly
lay claim to his stomach. And with Henry, both were
equally vital to his happiness.
Surely he would not behead a source of
doughnuts.
Just as Deanie was about to tell Kit of her
plan, the mummers began to perform. The king had
apparently signaled them to begin, although she had not
seen him issue the command.
Unable to speak because of the floor show, Deanie
watched the half dozen mummers go through their
slow-motion routine, pausing as they fell into each
pose. They wore brightly colored
robes, all with face-concealing hoods. There
seemed to be some order to what they were doing, although
to Deanie they just seemed to be striking random
positions.
She slid Kit a look of understanding and saw his
lips tighten in an effort not to grin. The mime's
old trick of the glass wall or the steps to the
basement would be a welcome relief.
Then an even more brilliant idea came
to her. While all eyes were focused on the
mummers, she could sneak into the kitchen with
Scholsenberg, Anne's cook, and explain how
to make doughnuts. The basic dough was simple,
and similar to the batter they already used. The king was
in such a uniquely good mood, it would be a shame
to pass up this chance. Who knew when the
capricious royal temper would again be so
accommodating?
She rose slowly to her feet, careful not
to call attention to herself. Kit clamped a firm
hand over her wrist and began to stand, but she shook
her head and, with an embarrassed shrug, nodded
toward the door leading down the hall to the privy.
As she left the feast alone, three alert
sets of eyes scrutinized her every step.
One belonged to Kit. Another belonged to the king,
who wondered why all women seemed to spend an
inordinate amount of time traveling to and from the
privy.
The third belonged to a gentleman of the court who
deemed it his new duty to follow the Bailey
wench wherever she might go. He was clever. While
everyone else watched her departure, he crept
in the opposite direction, slipping through the door
on one side of the hall--by the king's watching
chamber--while Mistress Bailey left through the
main door.
No one noticed his quiet exit.
In three weeks since she'd arrived at
Hampton, Deanie had finally learned not
to instinctively reach for a light switch whenever she
entered a room. Katherine Howard had once
caught her groping along a wall, and she had
blushed, explaining that in Wales even the finest
paneling could not compare to the excellence of the royal
walls.
Before three weeks ago, she had never paused
to think of the difference that bright, even lighting made
to a room. Without the luxury of a
lightbulb, nighttime corridors and empty
rooms become darkly mysterious, places where
shadows flutter and flinch.
The minstrels below were playing an unfamiliar
tune. Deanie supposed it was one of the king's more
recent compositions. He had a fairly good ear,
but he would never make it on Music Row. As
she swept through the hallway, she had another
mental image of Henry in twentieth century
Nashville, this time with a secondhand
tape-recorder, his demo tapes being cut off
by an impatient producer after fifteen
seconds.
She could imagine his crimson-and-purple
fury, ordering the offending producer to the block.
Most producers would simply yawn and wish
Henry good luck at another label.
That's when she realized she was lost.
Everything was suddenly silent; the minstrels had
either stopped playing or she had gone beyond earshot.
There were so many hundreds of rooms she had never
been near, even during her quick pass-through searching
for Kit, that she hadn't the faintest idea which wing
she had entered.
Trying to squelch the sudden urge to yell for
help, she backtracked to where she had just been and
peeked through an open chamber door. Could she
recall a room with a single torcher and a tapestry
of St. Sebastian? Nothing seemed familiar.
Just as she began down the hall again, she had the
distinct impression that she was being followed. She
stopped short, but there were no other sounds. It was
clearly just her imagination.
She turned down another hall and gasped, her
hand flying to her throat. This particular hall was
indeed familiar--from the original tour she took
with the crew before the first day of shooting the video. The
guide had said the hall was haunted by the ghost of a