to appear before a maid with bits of food flecked
on one's doublet.
Deanie brushed a piece of grass from the red
folds of her gown, awaiting the arrival of the king.
She knew with absolute certainty that he would come
lumbering out the door in a matter of minutes.
All she needed was a little time alone with him, without
Norfolk or even well-meaning Suffolk.
Perhaps she could straighten out this entire mess with a
few well-chosen words.
Unfortunately, she wasn't exactly sure
what she was going to say. She somehow needed to free
Kit, reunite the little princess with her father, and
convince the king to spare his wife.
The key to winning over the king was to bend with his
moods. She couldn't exactly plan a speech
without first discovering his humor. The drawings in her
hand rattled as she looked them over once more.
Her eyes took in the landscapes, the trees and the
wet-nosed rabbit, but all she could really see was
Kit.
Had it only been three days since they were
together? She could recall every detail, the weight and
warmth of his arm around her shoulder, the wistful
expression on his face as he looked toward the
night sky.
When she first heard that he was taken to the Tower,
she was furious with herself for wasting that night. They
had said virtually nothing to each other. For most of the
time they hadn't even looked at each other, just
stood side by side, or sat on the lawn touching
hands.
Now she realized how perfect it had been.
There was nothing they could say, no words that could convey
how they had been feeling that night. Conversation would
have been superfluous. And maybe, just maybe, it
would have broken the enchantment.
He had to be safe and well. Surely she
would feel it in her heart if he was not.
"Mistress Deanie!" The king limped toward
her, waving a large hand as if she might not see
him. Very unlikely that she could possibly miss
his entrance. Not only were they the only two people in the
yard, but the jewels of his doublet and round plumed
hat caught the sun with the brilliance of a hundred
flames.
She smiled and waved back, rising to her feet
to drop into a curtsy as he approached. Only
as she watched his difficulty in walking did she
realize there was no chair or bench for him to sit
upon. She herself had been on the grass. She had
been used to sitting with Kit, who could spring to his
feet and bring her with him.
"Your Majesty," she began. "Shall we go
inside, or have someone fetch a chair?"
The king was delighted. He had half expected
her to leave. It wasn't until she mentioned the
chairs that he realized she meant to stay. With a
gruff swat of his hand he gestured to the grass.
"Nay, Mistress Deanie. Whatever gives
comfort enough to you will serve me as well." He took
her hand. After a moment of hesitation, she realized
he was assisting her back to her place on the
grass.
Once she was again seated, he lowered himself beside
her, his gouty joints creaking in protest. It was
obvious the effort caused him a great deal of
pain. His thin lips became almost invisible with the
strain. But in a surprisingly short time, he was
settled on the grass. His ulcerous leg was
stretched to the side, as if bending it would be
unbearable.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness. We should have
called for chairs."
"Nonsense!" He grinned, a single feather from
his hat dipping over his left eye. "It has
been years since I have had the chance to sit upon the
ground. As a boy I sat in this very yard, gazing
at the heavens."
He was in an exceptionally good mood. They
both knew it, and both suspected it had more than
a little to do with springtime and romance. And the
possibility of ...
"Did you sleep well, Your Majesty?"
His eyes became almost comically heavy-lidded as
he perused her. "Tolerably well, mistress.
Tolerably well."
This was not going in the direction she had planned.
She needed to change the topic; something neutral.
"Have you ever had a dog?"
The lascivious smirk fell from the royal
visage like a loose brick. "A dog? Why,
yes. I believe as a boy I did have a hound
or two." Then he smiled, this time a sweet
smile of childhood memories. "I loved one
dog. His name was Lancelot, for he was brave and
strong. That is the reason for the shameful number of
dogs at court. Every year or two I issue a
proclamation banishing all hounds, other than
ladies' lapdogs, from Hampton and
Whitehall and every other palace. Then I see a
cur who reminds me of old Lancelot, and I
forget all about the proclamation."
Okay Bailey, she thought. Now was her chance.
"What a wonderful childhood you must have had,
Your Majesty," she began.
"Yea, it was. My father was stern, but my mother
was soft and kind."
"It's important for a child to feel loved by his
or her parents, Your Highness."
He did not reply but raised a suspicious
eyebrow.
"Could you tell me about your children?" Her voice
was beginning to waver. "You have three, Your
Majesty?"
"I have a son, Edward." The king kept his
face bland, but his eyes betrayed his
suspicions. He spoke carefully. "Edward
is a fine son. Perhaps a trifle frail, so
I keep him away from the diseases of court."
"Edward has sisters--"
"Mary is my eldest child," he cut her off.
"She is a young woman now, and unfortunately
follows her mother in temperament and looks."
"And where is she?"
"Mary is elsewhere," he said cryptically.
"I see you have done some drawings, Mistress
Deanie. May I see them?"
"I met your daughter Elizabeth, Your
Highness. She is a wonderful child, bright and
curious and full of ..."
He raised his eyes to her slowly, and she
faltered. Never had she seen an expression of
such cool fury. She had gone too far too
quickly. He began to heft himself up, and she reached
out a hand and touched the sumptuous quilted satin of
his sleeve.
"Please stay, Your Highness," she
groveled. "Forgive me. I talk too much."
The king stopped and looked at her, as if
pondering the worth of staying. Perhaps it was simply
too much work to lift himself from the ground. Perhaps he
wanted to regain his earlier good humor. Without
saying a word, he lowered himself back onto the
grass. But he did not speak to her.
Her upper lip was perspiring, even though it was
cool in the yard. She had to be careful. There
wouldn't be a second chance.
"What a lovely day it is, Your
Majesty."
He remained silent.
"What is your favorite thing to do in weather like
this, Your Highness?" She was beginning to sound like the
hostess of a children's program. "I like to take
long walks."
Again he remained stubbornly silent. He
refused to look in her direction; instead he
feigned great interest in the root of a tree that
poked just above the surface of the lawn. With his
jeweled fingers he poked and prodded at the root,
digging away at the dirt, pulling the bark with his
well-manicured nails.
She was about to give up when he spoke.
"I like to hunt."
"Oh, hunting?" She folded her hands over the
drawings. "What do you like to hunt?"
Again there was a long pause before he answered.
"All manner of game." His attack on the
defenseless root seemed to let up. "I
especially love to bring down a stag, or a
wild boar. The bigger the beast, the greater the
feeling of triumph. Your cousin is an
excellent hunting companion."
"Kit?"
"Indeed." The king smiled and looked at
Deanie. "He does remind me of myself in my
youth. I watch him on a hunt, and wonder who
is the less tamed, Hamilton or the beast."
He chuckled. "Usually I vow it is
Hamilton."
She had a hard time envisioning Kit as a feral
hunter. Mostly she had seen his gentle side.
Of course, he did what was expected of him in
this time, and that meant hunting animals and jousting on
horseback and even engaging in battle. It was
also difficult to imagine him as a pilot, dashing
to a plane when the alarm sounded, dressing
for flight as he ran.
It hit her then: Kit had to leave with her.
She did not think he could survive in this time.
Deanie had upset the delicate balance he had
been forced to maintain in order to endure the
brutality of this existence. Already she had seen him
falter, think too much instead of instinctively
raising his sword.
She had eliminated the edge he had honed
during the past decade.
The king was still speaking. Slowly, she turned her
attention back to what he was saying.
"... wherever he is. Norfolk claims to be
searching, mistress. Do not worry, for we shall find
your cousin. God's will, he will be well in body
when we do."
"Wait a minute, Your Majesty. You mean
you really have no idea where Kit is?"
"Isn't that what I just said?" He began
to pluck at the root again. "Women. Every one is
the same."
The king, whatever faults he may have, had not
imprisoned Kit. Was that good or bad? The
bottom line was that Kit was still missing. He would
not have left willingly.
She took a deep breath. So far this conversation
had been a disaster, although at least she'd garnered
some information on Kit.
"Well, Your Majesty. Not every woman is the
same," she began coyly.
He stopped pulling on the tree root, which was
now a pathetically frayed lump of wood.
"Yes, mistress?"
"There is one woman who is devoted to her king
beyond all else, who will do whatever her sovereign
commands." She lowered her voice so that he had
to lean close to catch her words.
"Is there?" The leer returned in full force.
"Yes. She is gentle and good, and dotes upon
the king. Her days are spent anticipating his
wishes."
He began to breathe loudly, and a slight wheezing
sound whistled through his nose.
He could barely speak. "Yes?"
"And her name, Your Highness, is Anne of
Cleves."
The king looked as if he had been jolted by a
live wire. "Bloody hell!" He glared at
Deanie and again began to rise to his
feet. "This is turning out to be a day fraught with
disappointment." He grunted as he stood
heavily on his feet. "My hose are ruined,"
he accused both Deanie and the ground.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness, if my honesty
disturbed you. But I--"
"Cease your prattle, mistress! My head
pounds with your frivolous words," he sputtered.
"By God, you have the ability to make Katherine
Howard seem as learned as Erasmus himself."
Deanie stood up without his assistance, gathering
the drawings. She bit her lip, aware that one of
her unfortunate fits of laughter was about
to overtake her. She concentrated on the drawings,
busily arranging them in an imaginary order
to keep herself from losing control. Something about the king
of England, stomping about in baggy stockings, seemed
howlingly funny.
"Well?" He planted his hands on his hips,
towering over her like a malicious elm. "Have you
nothing to say?"
She bit her lip harder and shook her head,
silently willing him to leave. Now. Before she
began to laugh.
"You tremble, Mistress Deanie. Do you fear
your mighty king?"
Oh please, she prayed. Just leave. Take
those baggy stockings and leave before ...
"Look at me, mistress," he commanded.
She glanced up, and their eyes met. And she
began to giggle. She saw an expression of
incredulous wonder on his face before her vision was
blurred with tears. The drawings fell from her
grip and floated to the ground, and still she laughed.
And then something astounding happened.
The king began to laugh.
At first he simply stared at Mistress
Deanie as if she had been stricken with an
infectious illness. He watched her clutch at
her drawings as they whirled to her feet, grasping
at air. Then she laughed harder.
He suddenly remembered being in church as a child,
and the old priest conducting the regal service
belched. He too had been overcome with
laughter, and his mother scowled, which made him laugh
all the harder. As he began laughing with
Mistress Deanie, all the weight and cares of the
realm seemed insignificant. He was just a
man, laughing in the springtime sun with a very pretty
woman.
It felt wonderful.
Windows flew open as servants peered in
stunned marvel at their king, laughing like a
carefree schoolboy with Mistress Deanie.
After they had recovered from their initial shock, they
too smiled. No one had seen or heard the
exchange that had led to the scene, but they enjoyed their
king's happiness.
Finally their giggles faded, and both wiped their
faces of tears.
"I'm
so sorry," she gasped, clutching her
aching sides. "I don't know why, but sometimes I
lose control like that."
The king sniffed and shrugged, a smirk still on his
face. "We have that in common, Mistress
Deanie. Here." He bent down and retrieved the
drawings, feeling relaxed and content. He glanced
at the top paper, and the smile vanished from his
face.
"Mistress Deanie, you have not been forthcoming.
Not only do you excel in music, but you possess
a most artistic hand." He shuffled through the
drawings, nodding in approval.
"Oh, I didn't draw those," she admitted
cautiously.
"You did not?" He continued looking at them.
"Well then, who did?"
"Your daughter."
He stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Mary?
Nay. She cannot render a landscape, or even a
chair. I have seen her efforts." He shuddered at
the thought.
"Elizabeth." Deanie swallowed, all
sense of mirth gone from her voice. "Your
daughter Elizabeth drew those. She was in her
chamber upstairs."
He stared straight ahead, over the paper in his
hands.
"She is very much like her father, Your Highness."
He looked at her, not anger on his face but
bewilderment. Deanie continued: "She has the eye
of an artist, and the heart of a prince."
Without speaking, he straightened the drawings and
put them under his arm. He crooked his other arm for
Deanie to take, and she did. Together they walked
back into the palace.
When they reached the door he finally spoke.
"Thank you, Mistress Deanie." He touched
her shoulder for a moment, staring at his own hand. "I
believe I have found something most rare in
a woman."
Deanie held her breath. "What is that?" she
asked at last.
"A friend," he said simply. And he walked
down the hallway, his daughter's drawings still under
his arm.
She couldn't wait to speak to Suffolk.
"He's not in the Tower!" Deanie sideswiped
the duke just after the midday meal, forcing him into an
anteroom.
"Good God, woman!" he sputtered as she
closed the door. "What ails you?"
"I spoke to the king this morning, and he has no
idea where Kit is. Is that good or bad?"
Suffolk stroked his beard in thought. "I do not
believe Norfolk has the power to act without the
king's authority," he mused. "And I do not
believe Norfolk would do this, not before his niece
is secure on the throne."
"So where is he then?"
"I still believe him to be safely ensconced in
the Tower," he said at last.
"How could he be in the Tower if the king did not
put him there?"
"Ah, my dear. Sometimes the king, well, he
occasionally forgets who is in the Tower. In truth,
it is so confusing it would take a full-time minister
simply to keep track of the occupants."
Deanie was stunned. "You're not kidding," she
said, astounded. "He puts people in jail and
doesn't remember? Isn't there someone who can
remind him?"
"Indeed," Suffolk stated, neatly turning the
subject. "Why, Countess Salisbury has
languished there these past two years, and she's
likely to remain there until she dies. Since
she's well-nigh seventy years old and in ill
health, she may not have long to wait."
"That is atrocious." Deanie was sickened, not
only for the poor woman in the Tower but newly
frightened for Kit. "What has this Salisbury
woman done to be locked up for so long."
Suffolk seemed surprised. "Do you not know?
She is a close relation to the king--a cousin, I
believe. He fears there may be those who wish
to usurp his crown and make her into a puppet
queen. She has already seen the rest of her
family executed or killed in battle."
She had seen cruelty in this time,
instances of savage behavior--such as the ease with
which Cromwell ordered Kit's beating. But somehow
she had seen them as isolated incidents, not
likely to occur again.
But she had been wrong. Kit had tried
to tell her of the violence of court life, the
dangers there. She hadn't understood, hadn't
listened to his words. It had seemed so
unbelievable that gentlemen in embroidered doublets
could turn around and order a helpless woman to the
Tower.
There was nothing to say, nothing to lessen the sick
feeling in her stomach. Now more than ever she
wanted to leave this time. Kit had been right: Just
about any place else was better than staying here.
There was a murmur of voices in the
corridor. One of the king's stewards knocked
once and opened the door.
"Mistress Deanie?" His face was mottled
in panic. "Mistress, please come. We need
your help."
The first thought that flashed through her mind was of
Kit; that he had been found and he was hurt.
Suffolk stayed her with an outstretched hand.
"What goes?"
The steward grimaced. "There are more than
fifty members of the barber-surgeon guild below,
and all wish an audience with Mistress