The morbidly curious could not help but light
upon the duke of Hamilton. Norfolk and his
minions fueled the reports, eagerly adding
whatever morsel would cast weight to the rumors of the
handsome duke's impending doom.
Hamilton played his part well enough, acting
every inch the charming courtier at the evening meal. The
only noticeable difference was his marked reluctance
to be separated from his cousin, Mistress Deanie.
A few shrewd observers noticed the
physical contact they seemed compelled to maintain
constantly. When he spoke to another gentleman
across the board, his arm remained firmly,
boldly, about her shoulders. When Katherine
Howard engaged them in light conversation, Mistress
Deanie's hand rested lightly upon his thigh.
Some thought it was nothing more than the aftereffects
of the now-celebrated frolic in the maze. Others
saw something deeper, more poignant in the intensity
of their closeness.
The meal ended, and the ladies-in-waiting gathered
in a cluster about their queen. Anne seemed
disturbed, her eyes following Kit and Deanie
with a keen curiosity.
The duke of Suffolk at last rose to his
feet, planting an amiable hand on
Hamilton's shoulder before leaving the hall.
"Take care, friend," he muttered. He had
remained unusually silent through the meal, a
different man from the gregarious merrymaker who could
turn every occasion into his own drunken celebration.
Tonight he sipped little from his goblet, ate even
less.
Deanie approached the queen, her head bowed.
"Your Majesty, may I remain a
while longer with my cousin?"
The queen seemed to be weighing the matter, then
she nodded once, as if indisposed to grant her
servant's wish. The ladies removed themselves from
the hall with grave dignity. Deanie caught the
flicker of a smile from the queen before they swept
through the arched doorway.
There were but a handful of people remaining in the hall as
Kit reached for her hand. "So far, so good." He
grinned.
"Maybe the rumors are all false," she
said hopefully. "Norfolk seemed calm tonight,
didn't he?"
He did not answer. "Let's go outside for
some fresh air." The servants had commenced the
frantic sweeping and cleaning of the hall, gathering
pitchers and plates and shooing the dogs from
underfoot.
The sky was beautifully clear, the stars adding
eloquent flashes of light to the lush hue. They
said nothing in the darkness. It was a comfortable silence,
brimming with words unspoken, sentiments raw with
untried bounds.
She shifted her gaze to his profile, the
sharp angles of his face stark even in the gentle
blue illumination of the moon and stars. He did not
seem aware of her watching him, lost in his own
thoughts. Suddenly a small smile appeared, the
lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
"I want to fly again," he whispered.
For a few moments she simply concentrated on
his features, the way the night bathed his face in
its tender glow. Slowly, without breaking the
spell, she leaned her head against his shoulder. And
together they stood beneath the timeless stars, dreaming of a
future they hoped would be theirs.
It was just after midnight when the duke of
Hamilton walked alone through the proud halls of
Hampton Court Palace. Deanie was
safely in her chamber, the snores of the other
ladies-in-waiting testifying to an uneventful
evening.
He had handed her the soda bottle, staring at
her face as if committing every feature to memory.
"Good night." His voice was tight.
Later she wondered why they didn't speak more,
why they didn't flee to some distant shore. She
was acutely aware of every sound and sensation, the
dampness of the corridor, the crackle
of a wall torch. A lock of dark hair tumbled
over his forehead, but she didn't brush it aside.
She felt as if a heavy weight pressed upon
her chest.
"Good night," she responded, mechanical,
hollow. Her fingertips brushed the warmth of his hand
as she took the bottle.
And then he left, placing distance between them with his
sure, clean strides. She wanted to call out,
to stop him for just one more touch, one more word.
He too wanted to halt, to stay the night beside
her. To be by her side, to know she was there.
The footsteps behind him were silent. Even if the
men had not been commanded to take extra care, Kit
would never have heard the warning sounds through his own
churning thoughts.
And when the club came down, ushering him
into darkness, he wasn't surprised, just
strangely empty.
when they had the chance?
The moment she awoke, after a brief, fitful
sleep, she knew what had happened.
She paced in her chamber, fully dressed
since a little after five in the morning. Just before
eight a note from the queen was delivered.
"The Duke of Hamilton was last night
taken to the Tower. AC."
A handful of words. Nothing violent, a
simple statement of fact. No surprises.
"The Duke of Hamilton was last night
taken to the Tower. AC."
They had expected this, even last night under the
traitorous luster of the stars. He had known then,
and so had she.
Deanie rushed to the queen's chamber.
Englebert let her in immediately, without his usual
formal protocol. The queen sat by the window,
looking out upon the garden.
"It is so very pretty, the flowers and the green,
Mistress Deanie." She sighed. "Yet it
covers terrible things."
"Please, tell me what happened, Your
Majesty."
"The duke last night was set upon by four men.
Some people saw it, but who exactly saw I know not.
He was hit from behind, over the head with a whack."
Deanie sank into a chair, her face betraying
numb disbelief.
"Shall I continue?" The queen spoke in a
softer tone. Deanie stared straight ahead for a
few moments, her eyes glazed and unseeing, before
she nodded for the queen to go on.
"We have been told the duke then fell and was
carried away by the men. He never uttered a single
word. Englebert believes the duke did not wish
to have any more company in the Tower and feared very much the
thought of you being taken."
"Has anyone seen Norfolk?" It was
painful to speak.
"Yes, and this is the strangest thing of all:
Norfolk seemed surprised. He knew not the
duke was to be taken, not so soo
n."
Deanie rubbed her hand over her eyes.
"Does anyone know what Kit's been charged
with?"
The queen hesitated before answering. "The word
is that the duke is accused of conspiring with
Cromwell."
"What?" Deanie straightened, the numbness
beginning to ebb. "You know that's crazy, Your
Majesty."
"I know, that's what I tell Englebert, but
he says people talked of how he refused to beat
Cromwell, even when given the chance. They say
'twas most strange and unnatural for a man who
was said to have been harmed by another man not to wish him
great harm in turn."
"Great. So he's locked in the Tower for the grand
crime of failing to beat a defenseless man."
Deanie stood up abruptly, folding her hands.
"Will there be a trial?"
"No. No trial, Mistress Deanie.
He will suffer the same fate as Cromwell."
"Not if I can help it," she said. "Where is
the king?"
The queen shrugged. "No one tells me where the
king is, but some say he is at Richmond."
Then she gave Deanie a pointed stare, as if
observing her for the very first time.
"Mistress Deanie, I heard about you and the
duke in the maze."
Deanie flushed, trying to think of something to say,
but the queen continued as if she had been discussing the
weather. "I also watched you two last evening at the
meal, the manner in which you spoke and conversed. I
must apologize."
"Excuse me?"
"Yesterday, I did not believe what
you told me, of the bees and the birds. But I think
about it, mistress. Holy cow, I think all
night about it, and now I do believe you."
Deanie smiled, an expression that didn't
seem to fuse with the way she was feeling. "Your
Majesty, I would never kid about something like that."
The queen returned the smile, and she crooked
her finger for Deanie to come closer. "Now I am
truly glad not to have attracted the king's
attentions," she mumbled into Deanie's ear.
The king rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk,
knew precisely what his sovereign was thinking
of. His niece Katherine waited below, clothed in
the newest designs from Mr. Locke. He had
spared no expense, enveloping her in the richest
clothing his beleaguered finances would allow. He had
considered the velvet and silks an investment, for
if Katherine could indeed snare the king, the Howard
family would once again rank supreme.
This time, with pliable Katherine instead of willful
Anne Boleyn, Norfolk himself could
intelligent or overly educated; indeed, she was
barely able to read or write. But Katherine
knew how to entice a man, especially a
grossly obese monarch who had grown more
difficult to please with every added year and pound.
The king was grooming himself like a peacock.
Norfolk watched him preen with all the
deliberate satisfaction of a young stud. What
did he see in the mirror? Surely not the
image the world viewed as Henry of England.
Norfolk knew, as did all the other
successful courtiers, that the key to preserving
one's career was to maintain the king's own illusions.
To Henry, he was still the youthful prince, the pride
of Europe, unrivaled in athletic skills,
learning, and manly beauty. In short, the ideal
prince, fit for any story book or young
girl's dreams.
Norfolk cleared his throat, a bid to gain the
king's attention. The king seemed not to notice,
intent as he was on his own reflection. He held
only a hand mirror now; no longer did he
wish to seek his full form in the unforgiving glass
of a long mirror.
"Your Highness," began Norfolk. The king
simply raised one nearly transparent
red eyebrow in acknowledgment. Norfolk took it
as a sign to continue. But the king spoke instead.
"How is the temperament at Hampton?"
"Your Highness?"
"After Cromwell's arrest," the king said
irritably. He hated that about Norfolk, his
stubborn inability to follow Henry's
lightning-swift subject changes. One thing about
Cromwell: He could always anticipate the
king's fluctuations. Norfolk was confoundedly
deliberate and plodding. He elaborated.
"Cromwell was arrested yesterday, Norfolk.
You were at Hampton when it happened, and perhaps you
may illuminate us as to the court reaction."
"Oh, I see," mumbled Norfolk. "In
truth, Cromwell's arrest was no great
surprise, Your Majesty. Many who had watched
the low-born cur had expected, even
anticipated his eventual stumble."
"Was there great sadness?" The king wanted
to know, to gauge when best to return. He wished
to avoid the unpleasant scene of Cromwell's
arrest, but he was already chafing at Richmond.
Hampton Court was by far his favorite home.
"Nay, no sadness for Cromwell."
Norfolk spoke carefully, as he had
practiced during the barge ride to Richmond.
He kept his voice neutral. "I will confess,
however, that there was a great deal of surprise over
the sudden arrest of Hamilton."
The king frowned, setting the mirror to rest in his
ample satin lap. "Hamilton? Never did
I order the arrest of Hamilton. There must be
some mistake. You must have heard the facts
awry."
Norfolk tensed. This is what he had feared.
Of course he wanted Hamilton out of the way,
but it was too early in the plan. Hamilton was
yet too popular, and his sudden and unexpected
arrest would only garner more supporters. Then the
duke's cousin would come into play, and the king's eyes
would rest favorably on her exquisite
figure. Damnation. Katherine was too plump and
too insipid to keep the royal attention if
Mistress Deanie should become available.
Damnation.
"We like Hamilton," muttered the king. "He
is in truth one of my favorites." His small
eyes lit momentarily on the dour form of
Norfolk before he continued. "Someone
else has abducted him, and I mean to find out
whom. They shall pay dearly. If they harm
Hamilton, they shall forfeit their life."
Norfolk hoped to keep his face bland, but he
flinched at the king's tone. When he spoke
thusly, low and calm, he was far more dangerous
than when he ranted and roared.
"I will seek whatever answers you shall require,
Your Majesty."
Henry tapped his finger on the now-forgotten
glass. "How fares Mistress Deanie?"
"Your Highness?"
The king did not repeat his quest
ion. "Send her here
at once, Norfolk. I wish her in my
presence on the morrow."
"But Your Majesty." Norfolk smiled,
spreading his hands in a gesture of reasoning
supplication. "Below waits an eager young maid,
hoping to make her most beloved king the merriest
sovereign in Christendom."
"Then we shall allow her the opportunity," the
king said mildly, rising to his feet with a grunt.
"And I shall expect Mistress Deanie at
Richmond on the morrow."
Norfolk knew he had just been dismissed.
slender straw by which he could alter the king's mind,
cause him to forget Mistress Deanie.
"Your Majesty, may I say--"
"Good day, Norfolk."
The duke bowed and left the royal chambers,
silently cursing whoever it was who had stolen the
duke of Hamilton.
The last thing Norfolk could afford, other than
more lavish clothes for his dim-witted niece, was
an unexpected loose end.
He was growing accustomed to waking in unfamiliar
surroundings with a headache severe enough to rouse the
dead.
Kit opened his eyes, for a moment thinking he had
gone blind. He could not see his own hand, or the
room in which he was imprisoned. Then he saw a
flash of light from a distance of a dozen feet, a
slender shaft from under a door.
There was a strangely familiar fragrance, of
must and damp and soil, and he determined he was below
ground.
Wouldn't they keep him above ground in the Tower?
Slowly he sat up, holding a hand
over the top of his head as if it would split in
two. With a thick breath he paused, elbows
resting on his knees, head in his hands, willing the
throbbing pain to cease.
For a long time he remained in the position, his
eyes closed even though he was in almost complete
darkness. The lump on his head was achingly tender,
yet he knew the injury was not serious.
Then he thought of Deanie.
He hoped it was a brilliantly sunny day,
that she would enter the maze and return to her own time.
Would she remember him? Perhaps her memory of their
weeks together would be erased. In a way he hoped
so, for it would be easier if she did not remember
him.
"Please don't forget me," he murmured,
startled by the sound of his own voice. Had he said
that?
He took a deep breath and wondered what was
happening to him. Not the sudden captivity, not the
confounding events at court. He had faced far
worse in this time, had come up against political
intrigue and savage actions with almost tiresome
regularity. The Kit of the past ten years was a
man of unthinking action, of knee-jerk
response.
And last night, when confronted by men who took
him, he capitulated as meekly as a lamb.
Two months ago such a response would have
unthinkable. Two months ago he would have struck
back at his assailants with unwavering ferocity.
Two months ago he was not in love.
He bit out a curse in the darkness, his head
pounding. He was thinking too much, pondering his every
action in terms of its effect on Deanie. In this
court, that was more than perilous. It was well nigh
suicidal.
Yet he had no other choice. One rash
gesture or word could mean death for either of them.
All of the mechanisms he had developed in a
decade of living at court were meaningless.
Suddenly he was exhausted, tired of playing a
role he had never before bothered to question. And he had
Deanie to consider now.
Again, he tried his voice. "Hello?" It
echoed against the moist stone walls. He could
smell their wetness, slick and slimy. Was
hello a word in 1540? His mind was not
functioning; he seemed to forget all the details
of living in this time.
He had nothing to lose by calling out again.
"Hello?" His voice was stronger now. "Am
I in the Tower of London?" The question seemed
ridiculous, but he needed to know the answer.
From the other side of a thick door he could hear
a clattering sound.
"Good morn', Duke," replied a cheerful
man. "I 'ave food, sir. Close yer
eyes and I'll shove it on through. We don't
want the light hurting your head now."
"Where am I?"
"Mind, 'ere it comes." The door shot open,
but before Kit could push his way through, it slammed
shut again.
He blinked at the sight before him. There was a
tray piled with covered dishes, and a single candle
still flickering from the journey to his cell. From the
scent he could tell it was a veritable feast: meats
and pastries and a round loaf of bread jutting from
beneath a linen cloth. There was also a large jug of
wine. Clearly his captors had no wish to starve
him. If this tray were any indication, they may
wish to give him an advanced case of gout.
He wasn't hungry, but he ate from habit.
As he shifted, he realized his sword was still
by his side. What sort of prison was this, where