tried to keep the dread from his voice,
tried to remain calm.
"Oh, she was not arrested."
Kit stopped, pulling Suffolk to an abrupt
halt with him. "What?"
"She stormed the Tower, Kit. Entered on her
own free will with a pack of barbers, intending to free
you."
"She broke into the Tower? That ridiculous,
empty-headed ..."
"Here's your mount. Forgive me, Hamilton.
I did what I thought was best."
Kit, his harsh features a mask of intensity,
paused and smiled at Suffolk, a brief,
fleeting smile. "I know that, friend. were the
positions reversed, I daresay we would be
galloping away from my own estate, at this very
moment."
Together, with their hastily banded group of men, they
raced to the Tower of London.
They had shaved at least two dozen men, some
less alert than others. Some did not even
appear to realize they were being tended to. One fought
back with blind fear when he saw Yerkel approach
with a glinting straight razor. Only later, when
he had been calmed, did he understand he was not
to be tortured or executed.
She could not believe the conditions these men were forced
to endure. Although a few of the chambers were fairly
well furnished, she quickly realized those were
mainly the newcomers. By the time the days had
stretched into weeks, and the months to years, the
once-noble courtiers became forgotten by all,
including their own families. Life ground on
outside the Tower walls, while the captive
inhabitants were forced to endure the cruel
boredom of imprisonment.
Every door held the possibility of Kit.
She would hold her breath as Richard, watching them
with unflattering intensity, allowed them into the
chambers.
She was beginning to give up when Richard led them
to a corner chamber. The key to this room was more
ornate, the door itself was more massive.
This might be it.
The door swung open with a heavy thud, and
Deanie entered. There was but little light in the dim
chamber. In the center of the cell was an oversized
desk covered with papers.
"Kit?"
Her voice bounced off the stone walls, sounding
hollow and unnatural. From a darkened corner
came a low chuckle, mirth without humor.
"Who is it?" Her question was not answered.
Instead, the man laughed some more.
"Mistress Deanie." The man emerged from the
shadows, and Deanie instinctively stepped back.
"How very kind of you to visit. Forgive my
squalid lodgings."
"Cromwell."
"Indeed."
She could see him more clearly now. He still
wore the elegant clothing of his recent office,
but the fur collar and cuffs were matted, and the cloak
had dark patches of soil and grease. Although he
was not wearing a hat, his dark hair clung to his
round head as if it were still tamped down by a
fashionable bonnet.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. The barbers did
not enter the cell, but the guards watched warily.
She began to leave, moving backward as if not
comfortable turning her back on the prisoner.
"What brings you to the Tower?" he asked
mildly. "You have not been arrested."
"I was just leaving."
"I see. You were simply walking through the
pleasant Tower corridors, and decided to pay
an old friend a visit."
She had reached the door, about to turn and flee.
"Wait." His voice was less a command than a
plea. She paused, comforted by the sight of the
barbers, who were discussing which level to enter next.
"How fares the queen?"
Deanie squinted, wondering what game
Cromwell was playing.
"Of all the things I have done, I regret that
the most." He seemed to be talking to himself. "My
intention was not to deceive the king, nor to harm an
innocent from Cleves. I thought they would find a
fair measure of happiness."
Cromwell moved toward the desk piled with
papers. "He makes me work yet, forces me
to labor for the annulment. There are indeed grounds for
this annulment, real ones. It is the last thing I
will do for him. I hope that one day he will recall
my toil, even in here."
He seemed lost in his own world, as if Deanie
had vanished. She made another movement
to leave. His eyes, suddenly clear, focused on
her once again.
"Tell her to agree," he said softly.
"Tell who to agree to what?" She was torn
between wanting to leave and wanting to know what he was
talking about.
"The queen. I am making provisions for her
well-being. Tell her not to quarrel, not to demand
more. There will be humiliation, of course, but better
humiliation alive than pride dead. The king will
want this done with, and will not stop to think about how
generous he is being with Queen Anne. By the time
he does know, he will not change the settlement.
He will have been complimented on his kindness, a thing
he relishes."
Deanie watched his face. Gone was the ruthless
ambition, the constant drive she had seen before.
Now he was calm, resigned.
"I'll tell her," Deanie said.
"Thank you."
Again she started to leave. She could feel the heat
of his stare on her back. Without turning, she
spoke. "Why were you so cruel to me and Kit?"
"Mistress?" His voice was incredulous, and
she spun to face him.
"Why did you try to kill him? Why did you
want to see us apart?"
Cromwell remained still for a moment, weighing her
words. "It was not my intention to be cruel." He
glanced back to his desk. "I did what I
felt was best for the king. He did not want the
Cleves union. I thought to offer him a choice.
But you, the two of you, would not allow it." Then he
shrugged. "It was too late. I did not know it,
but it was already too late for me."
"Is he here, in the Tower?"
"Hamilton?" Cromwell seemed
surprised. "Nay. Not as I know."
She grappled for something to say but could think of
nothing.
"I did my best." Cromwell frowned and
plucked at his cuffs. "Always I did my best
for the king. I learned from Wolsey how to bend the
law to suit a royal whim. It seems I
neglected to follow Wolsey's last lesson,
the most important one. I did not learn from his
fall. I thought I would be different, but just as
Cromwell replaced Wolsey, Norfolk will
replace Cromwell. Not for long. Norfolk
is not clever enough to keep apace. His nobility will
prohibit his success."
It was time to leave. The guard slowly
closed the door, and Cromwell, still staring at his
desk, made no notice.
"Mistress Deanie," he said.
The door was almost closed, and she halted the
guard's arm on the lock.
"Yes?"
Cromwell cleared his throat, as if deciding
whether or not to speak. "Watch yourself, mistress.
You and Hamilton. Get yourselves as far from this
shore as you can. Go now. Go far, and do not
delay."
The heavy door swung shut. The barbers and the
guard said nothing but exchanged curious looks
over Deanie's head.
"I don't think Kit's here," she said
to herself, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. "Do
you want to call it quits?"
Yerkel shifted his leather satchel to the other
hand, his gaze involuntarily sliding down her
leg.
"I am not tired. Are you men tired?"
"I am not tired," seconded the barber with the
facial growth.
"Hell," she muttered. "I suppose I'm
going to have my legs shaved again."
Yerkel thought for a moment. "Perhaps we should give
some of the prisoners a healthful bleeding. Then we
can shave your legs." He blushed when he said the
word legs.
A new guard suddenly bustled into the hall,
breathing hard from climbing up the steps. He bowed
to Yerkel's brother. "Sir, below are two
dukes. They have men, and wish to gain entry."
The guards discussed the situation, but Deanie
paid no attention. She was bone-tired, depressed
after seeing the prisoners--most of whom seemed to have
done nothing more serious than be born into the wrong
family--and needed to think.
If Kit was not in the Tower, where the hell could
he be?
"I have never liked this place," Suffolk
mumbled. He sniffed with distaste as a guard held
them at the gates, waiting for an answer to their
request to enter. "Even when the king and I were
boys, and the Tower was a place where sovereigns
awaited their coronation, it made me uneasy."
"Perhaps it was the tale of the lost princes."
Kit tried to peer beyond the guard, but he could see
nothing.
"Perhaps. The king's father spoke often of the two
princes, murdered by their uncle."
"Who was in turn murdered by the king's father,"
Kit added distractedly.
"Watch your step, Hamilton," Suffolk
warned. "You are my friend, but above all I serve
the king. Richard fell in battle; there was no
murder. My own father died on Bosworth
Field."
"I apologize."
Suffolk said nothing. He knew the king's
better than anyone. But he would not hear a word
raised against the Tudors, would not allow disparaging
comments to be uttered in his presence. Not of serious
matters. To Suffolk as well as to the world, such was
the stuff of treason.
"Damn it, where is she?" Kit spat.
The gate opened, and a dusty group of men leading
their horses began to exit. Kit passed an
impatient hand over his face, surprised by the
full beard he had acquired. He had
forgotten. How long had it been since he had
...
He saw a flash of red in the center of the
passing men.
Without seeing more, without even seeing a face or
a form, he knew who it was.
"Deanie!" He cupped his hands over his mouth
so his voice would carry.
The flash of red stopped. The clatter of
horses' hooves blanked the sound of a single
voice, and the flash of red continued.
"DEANIE!"
This time she handed the reins of her horse to a
hulking blond youth.
"Kit?" Her call was distant, and she was
looking about.
He charged toward her, brushing past startled
barbers and their horses.
She seemed so small, her back turned,
calling his name in the wrong direction. Had she
always been so small? In the red velvet German
gown, the sleeves tightly laced, she seemed like
a doll, a dash of brilliant color in a
swirling beige world.
His arms gripped her shoulders, and even under the
layers of fabric he could feel her shoulder
blades. Then he turned her around, and she faced
him.
Kit. Her mouth formed his name, but no noise
came out.
His hair was dark and tossled, and his face was
covered with a fierce beard, but his eyes, green
slivered with brown, seemed lit with an inner
fire. She reached up and threw her arms about his
neck, her own eyes closed against the sudden rush
of tears.
Just to feel him, the iron grip as he lifted
her off the ground, his long fingers splayed against her
back and shoulders, caused her head to spin. His
familiar scent, the soft bristle of his beard
against her face. She swallowed, inhaling against the
crook of his neck, feeling his warm breath as he
kissed her temple.
"I was so afraid I'd never see you again,"
she cried. That had been her fear, unspoken,
silent. She had wondered if she would ever feel
his touch. Ever hear his rich voice ...
"Deanie." His tone was tight, warring with the
overwhelming desire to hold her forever.
She felt herself sag against him. Her relief
was crushing, almost painful.
Then his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding and
shattering. Her hand, which had been clutching at his
powerful back, clenched into a fist, then, ever so
slowly, unfolded.
There was a noise, like buzzing in her ears. He
pulled away from her mouth, cradling her head with a
broad hand. Their eyes met, focused only on
each other, and for the first time in days, he grinned.
She stared at his mouth, the lips that had just left
hers. His impossibly white teeth, the one
crooked bottom tooth.
Someone whispered, a distant sound, and another
cleared his throat, a faraway shuffling. The
buzzing she had heard was the hiss of conversation.
She blinked. Only then, as she peered past
Kit's shoulder, did she realize they were
surrounded by dozens of onlookers: horses,
barbers, guards, tradesmen with carts, curious
housewives.
"Many pardons." She recognized the voice
as Yerkel's. "But would the duke be wanting a
shave?"
Deanie ran a finger over his jaw, the lush
beard. It made him look dangerous, a ruthless
pirate. He caught her hand and kissed it,
closing his eyes as he did.
There was a smattering of laughter.
Kit opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow in the
direction of the duke of Suffolk.
"What did you say?" he asked, but his eyes
had returned to Dea
nie.
"I simply noted that should they wish to give you
a shave at this very moment, you would end up bald as
Caesar," answered Suffolk with a good-natured
chortle.
"Caesar?" Deanie smiled up at Kit.
"The salad guy?"
The onlookers watched in wonder as the pair
managed to laugh even as they kissed.
Chapter 19
Everyone thought they were mad.
Deanie and Kit had been together a scant few
minutes when they proclaimed a driving need
to journey to Hampton.
"Hampton?" Suffolk spit out a mouthful of
ale. The guards, upon realizing the exact
identities of the august dukes, had produced
ale, cheese, and bread for all to partake of before
they left the Tower. The three sat on a low
fence, their makeshift bench. Deanie nibbled
guiltily at the coarse bread, wondering if their
impromptu picnic would mean hunger for some of the
prisoners.
She had not been able to stop looking at Kit,
at his sure and solid movements, the
protective arm he would drape around her
shoulder. Now that they were together, and it felt so very
right, an extraordinary sense of belated terror
made her knees weak.
They had come so close to losing each other. Had
she stayed within the Tower gates but a few extra
moments, if she had left through the side gate as
they had originally planned, they would have missed
each other.
The bread was hard to swallow.
Kit and Suffolk were still debating the matter of
going to Hampton.
"Richmond is closer by miles," Suffolk
emphatically pointed out. "And the king wishes to see
you, Kit. He has been sore put to discover
your whereabouts."
"I am flattered. But we need to travel
to Hampton, and we need to get there before
nightfall."
"Before nightfall! Already it is well
past the hour of four."
Deanie leaned closer to the conversation. Although she
addressed both, she was clearly speaking to Kit.
"The sun sets at about six, right?"
"Later." Kit shifted, pulling her closer,
her shoulder pressed to his chest. A delicious
thrill ran through her at his touch. She wondered,
distractedly, if it would always be like this, if she would
always take such delight in his nearness. He
spoke, and she felt his voice rumbling against
her. "It is spring, so the sun stays up longer.
We have until seven, perhaps later."
Suffolk made a fist in frustration. "You will
not be dissuaded, then." Kit and Deanie, in
perfect unison, shook their heads. "I will go
ask the guard where a boatswain may be had."
He stalked off, muttering under his breath as he
took a sip of ale.
After days of uncertainty and tormenting
anxiety, Kit and Deanie were finally alone.
For a moment she did nothing but relax in the
circle of his arms, unconsciously falling into the
rhythm of his breathing. There were some things she wanted
to say. She needed to tell him how she had felt
without him, how her life before all of this meant
nothing to her now. All she needed was Kit. He
was all that mattered.
She was safe here. She sighed, drowsiness
overtaking her. It had been impossible to sleep
before she found Kit. Now she was safe.
His hold on her tightened as her eyes
fluttered shut. Gently he kissed her forehead.
Should he tell her now? He wondered, watching as
she drifted off to sleep.
He had done much thinking in his jail cell; there
had been little else to occupy his time. Deanie had
been the center of his swirling thoughts. Wherever they
went, no matter where they eventually settled, he
hoped they would be together. Of course he would give
her time alone, for she had forged a life for herself,
just as he had forged one in this century. It would
take some adjusting. Yet he knew they could
make a go of it, wherever they were.
One of the barbers began to approach Kit,
offering to give him a shave. But the barber halted,
transfixed by the tender expression on the duke's
strong face. His harsh features softened as he
stared down at the woman in his arms.
They would speak later, Kit thought, noticing the
dark smudges of gray under her eyes.
She could use a nap, no matter how brief.
A slight smile of recognition lifted the
corners of Kit's mouth, for he too had been
unable to sleep.
Then the barber heard the duke speak in a low,
rasping voice: "My love."
And the barber wisely decided to choose another
occasion to ask the duke of Hamilton if he would
like a shave.
She had a dream she was gliding.
There were splashy water sounds in the distance, but
she felt no urgent need to wake up. The sun
warmed her limbs, and she took a deep breath,
contented and lethargic.
Then, rudely, something cold and wet dripped
on her face. With a gasp she sat up.
"The boat! Don't rock the boat!"
Shielding her eyes, she saw Kit, working a
clumsy pair of oars. His doublet was removed,
and the white linen sleeves of his shirt were rolled