"'Tis simply a Welsh fashion."
"She sayeth the bewitching lacings be called
Velcro." Mistress Cecily hoped the
duke would not notice how damp her palms had
become. She had never been this close
to him, although she had indeed tried to gain his attention
many times.
"Yeah, 'tis true enough. A Velcro is
a Welsh rodent, a vermin of unusual ferosity
with prickly skin."
After that Mistress Cecily left Deanie's
clothing alone, never commenting on the strange
fabric or the odd design. Instead, she
helped Kit procure a wardrobe for Deanie,
including a reed-and-canvas corset, some
quilted under garments to keep her skin from rubbing
against the bindings, sleeves that could be worn with two
new brocade bodices, and several round,
wimplelike headdresses called French
hoods. They had long folds of cloth hanging
down the back called lapets, which could be left
alone or pinned neatly to the side of the
headdress.
Deanie had been helpless at first, not understanding
how the clothes were to be worn. They were all
separate, reassembled and tied together before each
wearing. There were holes in the corset, which wasn't
nearly as uncomfortable as she had feared. The
holes were to tie layers of starched petticoats in
place. Mistress Cecily, eager to impress
Kit, assisted happily, clarifying the finer
points of fashion that Deanie's remote Welsh
upbringing had caused her to miss.
Two details of court clothing fascinated
Deanie. One was the long train of cloth that
dragged behind every female of rank. Kit explained
that only women of substantial means could afford
such a luxury of swirling cloth about on the
floor.
"Are you a man of means, Kit?" Deanie
asked, practicing the current court posture and
walk. Every step involved kicking out to clear the
cloth from treading feet, causing the hips to sway.
Kit had been watching her appreciatively,
enjoying her surprising ability to mimic the other
court ladies precisely, down to the haughty
carriage of the head and the stiff, straight spine.
"What was the question?" He crossed his arms and
stepped back, neatly missing her blue velvet
train.
"I asked if you are a man of means. I
mean, you must have some money to afford all these clothes
for me." She tossed a handful of cloth to her other
hand, and walked back across the room.
"I have funds enough, from Manor
Hamilton, my estate, and from other sources.
Very nicely turned, Deanie."
Another thing that startled Deanie was the complete
lack of underwear other than the smock and a pair of
linen hose. She had expected drawstring
drawers, perhaps even bloomers. But even the finest
of ladies wore absolutely nothing else under
their skirts. It took some getting used to, and
she was in constant terror of pulling her train too
high or of falling down a flight of stairs.
"In truth," Mistress Cecily confided,
"that is exactly what most gentlemen of the court
are waiting for. They pray for a misstep, and
position themselves thusly, to gain the best view."
Suddenly court did not seem so very foreign after
all.
Mary Douglass, Deanie's other bedmate,
remained stubbornly sullen, glaring at Deanie
from under stubby lashes. Cecily said that Mary, like
so many other women at court, had fallen prey
to her cousin Kit's charms. Although, she hastened
to add, "he hath done nothing to encourage the
chit."
Deanie sympathized with Mary. She too
felt a giddy delight when in Kit's presence,
a euphoria at just being by his side. And while
part of her reveled in the new, strange feelings,
another part warned her of the dangers of falling for a
man like Kit. Now was not the time to become so
vulnerable. Her own pathetic track record
demonstrated how unreliable the male sex could
be.
In spite of the turbulence of her new life--
learning the ways of the royal court, adjusting to a
foreign way of speaking, eating peculiar foods,
and comprehending that she would probably never see her
mother or her home again--Deanie had one constant and
exquisite thought. Before she fell asleep each
night, wedged between two unbathed women with hairy
legs, she remembered that in the morning she would
see a smile of dazzling whiteness with a slightly
crooked tooth at the bottom.
The duke of Hamilton was not easily
impressed.
Nevertheless, watching the facility with which Deanie
memorized names and titles and positions at
court, the correct forms of address and deference,
gave him an unfamiliar sense of pride.
"It's nothing, really, Kit," she
said late one afternoon, reaching back to loosen one of
her laces. They ran on either side of her gown,
and Kit had told her the clergy called the side
lacings the "Gateways to Hell." "I've done
so many Nashville parties and concerts, I can do this
kind of stuff in my sleep. I can tell you every
producer's name, his label, his wife or
girlfriend or boyfriend's name, the kind of car they
drive, and where they go to church. All that information
comes in handy."
"'Twas years before I could master a quarter
of the titles. Here, let me help you." He
guided her to a massive chest of drawers standing in
a corridor. With experienced fingers, he let out
the lacings, careful to fasten them again. "Is that
better?"
She sighed. "It sure is. If I could
only get rid of this damned corset."
"Alas, cousin, I do not decree the
fashion."
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath
and rubbed the back of her neck with her hand, still
bandaged from when she'd touched his sword. He
watched the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the
gown of dark green velvet. The embroidered
corset top peeked from above the bodice, and the
sleeves, tied at the shoulders, had matching
blue embroidery. Upon her head was a French
hood, the lappets flowing down her back. It was
a simple style that only a woman of rare
beauty could wear. Deanie was such a woman.
"I don't know about you, but these dogs are
barking." She opened her eyes, her lips curving
into a soft smile.
"Dogs? I hear no hounds."
"No, I mean my feet hurt. These stone
floors are about as comfortable as asphalt in
July."
A group of courtiers swept past, intent on
their private conversation. Deanie was still astonished
how crowded Hampton Court was. Every
threshold marked a favorite lounging spot,
each chair held at least one courtier eager
to curry favor.
And it was a motley crowd indeed, with
dignitaries speaking every strange language
imaginable, cloaked in their native clothes,
sweeping through the airy hallways of Hampton.
One man in particular struck Deanie as an
oddball: a square-jawed fellow with an
angular beard and Moe Howard haircut. His
clothes, though made of a fine fabric, were always
covered with drips and smears of
brilliant-colored paint, fiery reds and rich
blues and dulcet yellows. The man's eyes
had a wild, ever-shifting expression. He was also
the only courtier Kit seemed to actively
dislike.
"He is admired greatly by the king for his
artistic skills, although I trust him not," Kit
said, pulling Deanie from the man's path as he
charged down the hallway toward the royal chapel.
"He is German, a painter. Hans Holbein
by name."
"Has he ever painted you?" Deanie asked,
watching the man stop abruptly, throw his hands
into the air, and run back through the door he had just
come from, again narrowly missing Deanie with his
gesticulating arms.
"No," he replied, irritation evident in his
voice. "I could not tolerate his guttural
ramblings whilst he worked."
She looked down at her hands, twirling one
thumb over the other. "Oh. I guess I must
sound awful to you, the twang and all," she
murmured.
She had not been fishing for compliments, and
wasn't even sure Kit had heard her, when she
felt one of his powerful arms glide about her
shoulder. "Nay, Deanie. To me, your voice
is like music."
Her eyes met his, questioning, wondering if he
was making fun of her. Before she could speak, he
kissed her forehead. "Let me show you the music
salon," he said softly. "Perhaps you may enjoy
some of the instruments."
He guided her through the corridor, his hand on
the small of her back. Both nodded at passing
courtiers, Kit providing a running commentary.
"Lady Cowen hath a most profond affection
for her stud master. ... That gentleman in the
soiled buskins? Ah, he is Sir William
Wade, known for his peculiar penchant for plundering
table linens. He was once discovered without so much as
a stitch of clothing, rolling the laundresses'
basket. Yonder lay a massive wardrobe of
cherry wood, twice pilfered by servants.
'Tis a problem to find manservants of
honorable character."
"Wow. Even here, I suppose good
help's hard to find."
"Exactly." Kit smiled, allowing her
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the
sun-drenched corridor to the darker,
wood-paneled room. And when she did, she
gasped.
In every corner, upon every table and chair, were
musical instruments. She glanced toward the heavy
russet drapes covering the window.
"To give the musical tones a more pleasant
sound," Kit answered her unspoken question. With
reverence, she touched the closest instrument. It was
large and stringed, shaped like a swollen gourd. The
neck was bent back. It gave the appearance of a
rounded woman gazing at the sky.
"A lute," he said. "That one belongs to the
king's lutinest, Phillipe Van Wilder."
"I know. I played a fake one during the
video shoot, but it was nothing like this. Nothing at
all."
There were keyboard instruments. Kit identified
each one as she reached it. "A clavichord.
Spinnet. Organ." Some had black keys,
one was a double keyboard. All were ornately
carved, covered with gilt or romantic paintings
of angels or the Virgin Mary. Returning to the
stringed instruments, she continued touching them, not
actually picking them up. These were museum
pieces.
"Mandolin, lyre," he continued. And then she
saw it.
"Guitar," they said in unison.
It was smaller and more narrow than the type she was
used to, but the shape was unmistakable. "Oh,
Kit," she breathed.
"Would you like to play?"
She leaned closer, not daring to touch it yet.
"Holy cow!" She whistled. "How many strings
does this thing have?"
"The usual--five pairs. A total of
ten."
"A ten-string guitar?" She straightened,
wiping her palms on her skirt. "Man, I'd
love to see Lee Roy Parnell get his hands
on this guitar."
"Why don't you play?"
Deanie shrugged. "I don't know. This thing's
probably worth a fortune."
"No. 'Tis worth a few
shillings. At least, that is what I paid for it."
"It's yours?"
He nodded, handing the instrument to her. The back
was an incredible design of geometric cubes,
three dimensional in appearance. The neck was
fretted--as far as she could tell with the same
number of frets as on a modern guitar. The
head was bent back at a graceful angle, as
if in repose and listening to chords played on its
strings.
Kit strode to a corner and returned with an
ornately carved chair of dark wood with a high
back and no arms. There were faces all over the
chair, weird gargoylelike leers and grins.
"Geeze," she muttered. Even through the wooden
corset and layers of undergarments, she could feel the
sharp bumps and indentations of the wood. "Haven't
y'all ever heard of a nice, smooth-backed
chair?"
"In a royal household?" Kit looked
offended. "Never!"
Settling the guitar on her lap, she savored
the weight of the instrument, the satiny feel of the
varnished wood. "This is gorgeous, Kit. Where
did you get it?"
"From a Spanish trader, a gentleman who
provided the late Queen Katherine with many of her
goods." He made the sign of the cross at the
former Queen's name.
After some slight hesitation, she began strumming
the instrument. The tone was sonorous and rich,
surprisingly deep considering the smallish size
of the guitar. Just as she was about to play another
chord, a sharp pain stung her injured hand.
Kit knew immediately what had caused her
to stop. "Your wound," he said softly. "I am so
sorry, Deanie. Please, let me have a look
at it."
He examined the palm of her hand, intent on the
cut from his sword. "I think it will heal nicely
if you just keep it clean. Don't muck it up with
any of those balms or salves of the court
physicians. They mean well, but God only
knows what the ingredients are. Eye of newt,
most probably."
Her eyes met his, a strange expression
on her face. "Be there something wrong?" he
asked.
Withdrawing her hand, she rested it on the neck
of the guitar. "Just now, Kit, you sounded
different. I mean, you didn't use those confounded
thees and thous and talk backwards."
"I know. I am trying to mimic your speech
patterns, so you can understand me more clearly." He
took the guitar away and placed it against a
wall. "I speak several languages,
Deanie. Yours is most strange, but easily
learned."
"Oh." She stood up, smoothing the folds of
her gown. "It must be like speaking pig latin:
sort of familiar, but not. Right?"
"Thou cannot be serious. Pigs can speak Latin
in your time?"
Deanie chuckled, looping her arm through his.
"Never mind, Kit. I'm starving. Do you
suppose we can get something to eat? Preferably
something without a head or feet?"
"I believe I saw some bread and cheese beyond
the larder. Would that satisfy thy hunger? Or
does cheese speak in your time as well?"
Laughing, they left in search of lunch.
Chapter 5
Finally, after more than a week spent living at
the court of Henry VIII, Deanie was to meet
the queen.
There was an extraordinary frenzy of activity
about the palace. Tapestries were beaten and
rehung, panels of richly carved roses--the
Tudor rose--were polished to a lustrous
gleam. Flower garlands were laid over every mantle
and doorway, accompanied by a furious sweeping
of the hallways and chambers and brick-vaulted
passageways. Fresh rushes were scattered on
the floor of the great hall, over those drenched in
wine, food, and dog urine. A new crop of
ladies-in-waiting, from the queen's native
duchy of Cleves, arrived overnight to prepare
the way for the bride.
To everyone who had witnessed the barely restrained
fury of the king, it was clear that he was not looking
forward to his wife's arrival. He lashed out with
increasing frequency at his closest ministers,
especially Thomas Cromwell, who, in a
surprise move that stunned the court, had just been
elevated to the rank of earl of Essex.
The king had taken to physically hitting his
newest earl, slapping and kicking him like an
ill-used cur. Embarrassed witnesses told
of the king whacking Cromwell's shoulders and head,
and of Cromwell ducking sheepishly back to his
own quarters after such beatings.
"Why did the King make Cromwell an earl
if he hates him so much?" Deanie asked as they
sat in what had become their favorite spot, the
Cloister Green courtyard. Others stayed away
because of the king's apartments, and the excellent view the
royal eyes had of the yard. Kit and Deanie
felt it was worth the privacy, gambling against the
off chance the king would be watching.
Her gown, of deep blue velvet with a low,
square neckline, bordered with tiny flowers of
black-and-red embroidery, fanned out behind her where
she sat on the grass. She shifted, the tightly
laced corset pinching her sides, trying to get
comfortable. It was a losing battle. The queen was
to arrive at any moment, and Deanie, along with the
rest of the ladies-in-waiting, had to be ready.
She lifted a finger to scratch under the rounded
headpiece, a French hood studded with pearls,
showing a crown of dazzling dark hair parted down the
middle.
The shortness of her hair, concealed under the
headpiece, had elicited comments from Mistress
Cecily Garrison and Mary Douglass. Both
women assumed Deanie had been in a convent, for
only nuns wore their hair shorn. Most
ladies never cut their hair, letting it flow
well past their waists when free from the confining
headdresses.
Kit, again coming to Deanie's rescue, had
heard the gossip and neatly put an end to it
by mentioning how distressed she had been when her hair
fell out during her illness. The court ladies,
and even some of the men, felt a surge of sympathy
for the lovely young maid who had survived the throws
of brain fever. Instead of making her an oddity,
her shoulder-length hair made her an object of
compassion. And Kit and Deanie relished his
terrible pun: that poor Mistress Deanie had
been "distressed" at being "detressed."
Kit chewed on a piece of grass in the
courtyard, watching Deanie in her fruitless
effort to get comfortable, tugging on the knotted
laces of her bodice, running a finger under the
square neckline to loosen it. He
grinned, the blade of grass tilting up with the
motion.
"Well?" she asked again, a little breathless from
her exertions.
From his expression, the sharp angles of his face
augmented by his smirk, she knew he hadn't paid
attention to her. But she couldn't even pretend to be
annoyed. She too had found it increasingly
difficult to follow his words. Instead, she would
notice the way the sunshine played off his hair,
or how the dimples in those lean and severe cheeks