they gave the prisoner lavish meals and allowed
him to keep his weapons?
The food was, as he expected, delicious.
The roast chicken was prepared exactly as he
preferred it, with a crust of herbs and salt. The
wine, too, was excellent, good enough to be poured
without the spices that masked the flavor of an
inferior beverage.
When he had finished, he stretched on the cot.
The candle still illuminated the cell, but it didn't
seem to be a prison at all. Indeed, it
looked more like the cellar of some great house or
estate.
"Hello?" he shouted once more.
"Was your meal good, Duke?" The cheerful
voice had returned.
"Yes, it was," Kit replied, feeling very
much as if he were speaking to a waiter in one of
London's better prewar restaurants. "Where
am I?"
"Never worry, Duke. You are safe as
safe can be 'ere."
"This is not the Tower," he said, a statement rather
than a question.
The response was a short bark of a laugh.
"May I send a note to someone?"
"Well now, that depends." The unseen man was
clearly thinking. "Give it a try. It cannot
'urt."
Several minutes later the door opened, but
Kit remained calmly seated on the cot.
Until he knew exactly where he was, he
would not make any attempt at escape. He
wasn't concerned with his own fate, but he did not
want repercussions from a rash act to harm
Deanie.
The solicitous man pushed a quill, several
sheets of parchment, and a small bottle of ink under
the door.
"Candle 'olding up, Duke?"
"Yes, it is," Kit answered, pulling the
light toward him. "Thank you."
After thinking for a few moments, Kit began
writing a note to Suffolk. He would not risk
Deanie.
Suffolk,
I seem to be held by persons unknown, in
a place as yet unknown. Forgive me for asking
of you a great favor. Could you help Mistress
Deanie with a strange endeavor? She has need of
someone to light small bundles of gunpowder about
the maze at Hampton. Think me not insane.
She alone will know what to do within the maze.
Should she remain at court, please take
care of her until such time as I am able to attend
to her myself. Should fate dictate otherwise, and
I am not able to return, use any monies from
my own estate to help her.
Finally, let her know I am well cared for
at the present time, and love her above all
else.
I thank you, my good Friend.
Hamilton
When he had completed the note, he pushed it
through the door.
"Who does this note go to, Duke?"
Kit had clearly addressed the letter; he
realized the guard could not read. "It is to go
to Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk."
There was a pause before he replied, "I will
see what I can do, Duke."
"Thank you," he said. Suddenly his
head began to ache once more, and he closed his
eyes, exhausted, hoping the note would somehow reach
Suffolk, and that Deanie could somehow reach her own
time.
Chapter 16
The duke of Norfolk glared sullenly as
Mistress Deanie was led into the courtyard at
Richmond. He stood at an angle, so if
by chance she should look up she would not see his
visage in the window.
She had been allowed the extraordinary
privilege of making the journey from Hampton
Court in the royal barge. The little fool did not
realize the meaning of the gesture. Only the king's
closest, most intimate friends were blessed with a ride
on the royal barge, the sumptuous floating
palace that Henry used with princely delight.
Her common backside rested against tufted
velvet, her plebeian feet trod the rich
carpet.
Norfolk had yet to be invited upon the royal
barge.
He hated the Bailey wench, despised the
way she smiled at Suffolk, the bloated
idiot. He held her hand with courtly pride,
as if she were the queen of Sheba. His insipid
niece would not compare favorably with Mistress
Deanie's dark, slender beauty, set off this day
by the deep crimson of her gown.
And then, unexpectedly, he grinned.
Mistress Deanie, who would soon be trotted
before the king like a prize filly, was clothed in the
plain manner of homely Queen Anne.
Indeed, her red velvet gown was remarkably
similar to the one worn by Anne in the disastrous
Holbein portrait that had so misled the king.
Although she wore a French hood instead of the
clumsy gabled piece of the Cleves mare, there was
no train to swirl behind in luxurious folds, no
fitted bodice to entice a manly eye.
The king, upon seeing Mistress Deanie, would
first lose his appetite for the wench, and then, with
thrilling predictability, lose his majestic
temper.
The duke left his excellent view by the
window. He was unwilling to risk missing what
promised to be a most amusing scene.
Suffolk held Deanie's hand as they strolled
regally through the courtyard. Both were aware of
Norfolk, who mistakenly thought he was hidden
by the glare of the thick, uneven glass. He was
wrong.
"Why in God's name are you attired thusly?"
Suffolk asked, a smile pasted upon his face.
He had been at court long enough to have mastered the
ability to speak without altering his diplomatic
expression.
"What's wrong with how I'm dressed?"
"Do not act the innocent, my dear. You are
wearing a gown of unfortunate Germanic
tailoring. The king will not be pleased. Mind your
step."
Deanie did not reply. From the moment
Suffolk helped her off the barge she had been
conscious of being followed by unseen eyes. The
courtyard was strangely silent, yet she felt
the heat of curious, hidden stares.
"Kit's in the Tower," she whispered. "I'm
going to get him out."
Suffolk halted momentarily, then continued as
usual. "My dear, just how do you propose
to release him from the Tower?"
"I'm going to do some big-time royal rear-end
kissing." She smiled, nodding to a page who
emerged from the side entrance. A moment later the
duke of Norfolk walked steadily from the main
arched door, his hands folded within the large fur
cuffs of his robe. His clothing, always of superior
quality, had become even more opulent in the past
few weeks.
"Ah, Suffolk and Mistress Deanie."
Norfolk stood as if he alone
were the master of the
palace. "Allow me to--"
"Suffolk!" The unmistakable boom of the
king's voice seemed to rattle the windows and
bricks. "Mistress Deanie!" He walked with
an awkward gate, a slight wince when he
placed his enormous weight on the leg with the
ulcerated thigh. His white satin hose bore an
embroidered garter to cover the many layers of
bandages, and he wore a large amount of
cologne to mask the wound's foul odor.
He stopped cold, and the cheerful expression on
his swollen features became hard and unyielding.
"What are you wearing?" His voice became a
growl.
"How generous of you to notice, Your
Highness." Suffolk bowed at the waist.
"By God, it's been years since you've found me
in the very least bit attractive."
The king's tiny eyes, glinting like black
pellets, flicked to Suffolk. Norfolk,
watching from several feet away, was unable to resist
the quiver of a thin smile.
Then, to everyone's astonishment--including the
king's--Henry began to laugh. "Charles, you
mule! Now that the ladies don't find you
irresistible, you seek approval of your old
friend? Ha!" His well-stuffed doublet rolled with his
chortle. The smile faded from Norfolk's
face.
"Mistress Deanie, now I am able to see
how the gown should truly be worn, and it is indeed
a gratifying vision. Now come within. We shall have
food and drink and merry times."
"Your Majesty." Norfolk's tone was
brisk. "My niece Katherine shall join you."
"Fine, fine," the king answered distractedly,
turning his back on Norfolk. As Suffolk,
Mistress Deanie, and the gaily dressed king
entered the palace, Norfolk watched with bitter
hatred.
He vowed, for the tenth time that day, to become the
most powerful man in England.
It was his duty. He alone, through the grace of
God, was worthy.
The king seemed oblivious to the strained tension in
the chamber. He was delighted to be once again in
amusing company, for Richmond was dull indeed
compared to the lavish routine of Hampton.
Richmond still bore the severe lines of his dour,
disapproving father, a man of little humor and even
less thirst for the worldly pleasures of life.
The twenty-foot ceilings were inlaid with
Henry's initials entwined by a Tudor rose.
More than once Deanie looked up and counted the
panels, reminding herself of when she used to count the
Katherine Howard giggled incessantly,
speaking rapidly and leaning in a conspiratorial
fashion toward the king. He nodded, flattered by the
way her plump hand concealed her meaningless words from
the others. Norfolk seemed on the verge of
interrupting her, alarmed by how base her behavior
seemed even to his own encouraging eyes. The king
seemed not to notice.
"Mistress Deanie." The king spoke over
Katherine's voice, but she did not seem to be
distressed. "How fares your cousin,
Hamilton?"
Completely taken aback--she had just counted the
forty-eighth ceiling panel--Deanie tried
to gauge if the king were playing one of his cruel
games. She shot a glance at Suffolk, and he
too seemed startled by the question.
"Thank you for asking, Your Majesty. When I
last saw him two days ago, he seemed to be
well." She added a neutral smile and shifted
against the carvings on the high-backed chair.
"Do we know where he is?" The king stroked his
beard in thought, his eyes never leaving Deanie's
face.
From the corner of her eye she saw Suffolk
straighten and Norfolk lean closer. Only
Katherine, who was reaching for yet another handful of
honeyed figs, was not hanging on every word.
"No, Your Highness." She almost left it at
that, but some unseen force drove her forward. "I
thought you might know."
"Me?" His face slackened into a perplexed
question mark. "How would I know where that rascal has
gone?" The king tossed a wrist to the honeyed
figs, eyes twinkling as his fingers collided with
Katherine's hand in the gold bowl. "Well, we
shall all watch and listen, and try to reassure
ourselves that he has come to no harm. Is that not
correct, Norfolk?"
He jumped when his name was called. "Of
course, Your Majesty."
"Well, Norfolk? Do you know where
Hamilton is?" The king could barely hide his
annoyance, and he concentrated instead on another
fig.
Deanie bit her lip, resisting the urge
to scream at the king. Why was he doing this? Everyone
knew Kit had been taken to the Tower of
London. Had the royal amusements grown so
thin that the king was forced to resort to this callous
behavior?
A steward entered the room and bowed to the king.
"Your Highness, there is a missive just arrived
for the duke of Suffolk."
"Ah, Charles." The king seemed to forget the
previous conversation. "You may take the
message. I assume it comes forth from that troubled
household of yours."
"My household is surely troubled, Your
Grace," Suffolk agreed as the servant handed
him the note. For a brief moment his face
changed, tightening into concern before he again relaxed
into his usual contented half smile. "The trouble
is now with the dairy cows, who seem to have gone on
a rampage. All will be well soon, Your
Highness." He folded the note and slipped it
into his doublet.
"Very well." The king then remembered Deanie.
"Good mistress, favor our ear with one of your
Welsh songs."
She blinked as if he had asked her to do a
handstand. Music. It had once been so vital
to her, the most important thing in her life. Now
it seemed a worthless substitute for real
emotions. Until Kit, music had been her
only passion. Had her life been that empty?
"Mistress Deanie." Suffolk raised his
voice, not unkindly but to reach her. She had
seemed lost in her own thoughts. "The king wishes
for a song."
She turned to Suffolk and suddenly felt
lost. She gripped her hands together to stop them from
visibly trembling. What the hell was she doing,
chatting away over honeyed figs while Kit was
rotting in the Tower?
"I don't remember any songs," she said
flatly.
"Come now," soothed Suffolk, urging her with a
pointed glare. "I recall you singing a song about
an addled mind."
"Yes!" The king clapped in agreement. "And
about losing one's limbs. The words were most
peculiar, but the
y pleased us."
The servant who had delivered the message
to Suffolk returned with a familiar guitar. The
back was pieced together with squares of wood,
alternating light with dark to produce a
strangely modern geometric pattern. Tied
to the neck and base of the instrument was a sash, so it
could be looped across her shoulders.
It was Kit's guitar.
"Where did this come from?" She stroked the wood
gently, as if it were Kit himself.
"It was sent from Hampton," replied
Norfolk, irritated by the king's lack of
interest in his niece, who was examining the seeds of a
half-eaten fig as if it held the mysteries of the
universe.
Deanie sang the songs they requested--
"Crazy" and "I Fall to Pieces"--with less
emotion than she used in ordering a pizza. But
her audience did not seem to notice, and on the
last verse the king's voice was raised with her,
blending with a force that left the royal eyes damp
with tears.
At last Suffolk had Deanie alone,
cornered in one of the short corridors of
Richmond.
"The note was from your cousin." He spoke
quickly, without preamble or his usual flowery words.
"He is being held but treated well."
"Where is he?" She wanted to grab him by the
lapels, but he had no lapels. "When can we
get him out?"
Suffolk grasped both her wrists in one of his
large hands to prevent them from going about his neck.
"He is being treated well," he repeated
slowly. "He sends you his love."
"What? What does he think this is, a
postcard from camp? Let me see the note."
"Nay," he replied, relieved to have her hands
captive. "I have destroyed the note for obvious
reasons."
"Goddamn it, Suffolk! Why did you do
that?" Her eyes filled with hot tears, and she
wanted to strike someone, but he gripped her
wrists more firmly.
"The less you know, the better for your safety,"
Suffolk said with authority.
"Don't give me this "Father Knows Best"
stuff. Tell me where he is! In the Tower,
right?"
"Calm yourself." He lowered his voice. "He
wrote that he loves you above all else,
Mistress Deanie. That is all a maid needs
to know."
"Hell, I'm not a maid!" Suffolk
flushed, but she continued, trying to sound convincing but not
hysterical. "Please understand. Kit and I need
to be together and to go to the maze at Hampton. In
order to be together, he must be released from the Tower.
Now, if you would simply tell me where he is,
which part of the Tower, I will leave you alone."
"He wrote of the maze."
Deanie stared at him, not sure what
to believe.
Suffolk dropped her hands and walked
away, a clenched fist tapping against his other hand as
he thought. "He told me to help you, to ignite
small bundles of gunpowder while you are in the
maze. He said you would know when to do it, and that--"
"He said that in the note?"
Suffolk nodded.
"That means he doesn't think he'll get out.
He must be in the Tower." The feelings of blind
panic she had been trying to crush began
to surface again, and she took a deep breath.
"He wished me to reassure you," Suffolk
continued. "Should he not return--those were his words--
I am to care for you, and you are to receive all of the
monies from his estate."
"I don't want anything from his estate." She
felt as if the walls were closing in around her.
"I want him."
Suffolk opened his mouth, about to tell her that
Kit himself did not know where he was being held. But
the less she knew the better. And she couldn't
ask the servant who'd delivered the message where
he had come from, for it was simply left on the
threshold, according to the staff. Let her believe he
was in the Tower, and she was less likely
to attempt something foolish.
"I have known Kit for a long time," he said
gently. "Since he was a young man, all legs
and fire and spirit. He came to court a youngster, and
now he is one of the bravest and best men in
England."
Deanie wiped her eyes with an inelegant
hand, and he continued.
"I can truthfully say, Mistress Deanie,
that he loves you a great deal. He wishes you
to be together, but barring that happy possibility, he
wishes you to be well alone. Few men love so
much that they dare to envision their sweethearts without
them." He lifted her chin. "I know I never have.
So do as he requests; he risked much to send the
missive to my hands. Trust him--and by proxy,
me--and all may soon be well."
She was about to protest, to run straight to the
Tower and release Kit, but realized that she must
find another way. Suffolk was doing his best, she
knew that. So instead of kicking him in the shins and
escaping, she gave him a genuine smile.
"Thank you. I'll try my best."
Somehow, neither of them truly believed her.
His head had finally stopped its ceaseless