Once Upon a Rose Page 5

introduce Thomas Howard, third duke of

  Norfolk."

  "Hey, Tom." Deanie smiled.

  Christopher Neville winced.

  "Nay, coz," again he was speaking with his teeth

  clenched. "His name be not--"

  But Deanie tried to soothe the old guy herself.

  "Oh, sorry. Howard, is it?" Another

  strained silence. "Howie?"

  The pressure on her arm, where Christopher

  Neville was twisting her, caused her last words

  to dissolve into a howl of pain.

  "My cousin hath of late been ill with the brain

  fever," Neville said quickly. At that the men

  stepped back. "Thank the Almighty, in His

  Magnificence my cousin hath been spared, but the

  plague hath left her mind simple and

  childlike."

  The men exchanged glances while Deanie held

  her tongue. This Christopher Neville seemed

  to think it was important to play this little game.

  She wondered if they were dangerously--even

  criminally--insane. Like everyone in the

  industry, Deanie knew the mental toll a

  life in show business could exact, especially a

  failed life in show business. From the smell of the

  actors, they were none too successful. She was

  wary, but she felt sorry for them and decided

  to play along. Given a choice between the aromatic

  actors with yellow teeth and the dashingly insane

  Christopher Neville, she would stick with

  Neville.

  "Hamilton," the older man said at last.

  "The king doth require your company at his board.

  There is to be music this eventide, for His

  Majesty doth wish to forget the Cleves union.

  Wilt though come, sir?" There was something to his

  speech, a cruel inflection, that made Deanie

  scoot even closer to Neville.

  "Yeah. I come anon." He rubbed her back

  briefly, and with all the strangeness that had just

  transpired, Deanie felt a rush of

  gratitude. "Cousin?" He crooked a powerful

  arm in her direction. After only a slight

  hesitation, she slipped her arm through his.

  Thomas Howard's shifting eyes fixed on the

  bloody cloth wrapped around her hand. "A

  mishap, dear cousin?" He accentuated the last

  word.

  "Ah, yeah," Neville answered, without

  missing a beat. "My dear cousin, overjoyed by the

  meadows, so gentle from the Welsh rocks, rode

  my mare this noon without her gloves. Her tender

  hands, I fear, were bitten by the reins."

  "Right," she mumbled.

  They were exiting the maze, but there were no

  turnstiles or painted signs to proclaim it

  "closed." Gone were the camera reflectors and the

  trailers; every piece of video equipment had

  vanished, along with the parking lot and the highway that

  had snaked beyond the maze. There were no London

  lights in the distance, illuminating the horizon.

  Even in the moonlight, she could see nothing but

  the eerily lit palace. The serpentine chimneys

  that had earlier been free-standing, their buildings

  long gone, were now attached to the palace, odd

  brick spirals spewing black smoke. The

  palace looked like a sprawling medieval

  village, roofs at haphazard levels,

  gargoyles perched atop one of the slate flats.

  Some rooms were dark, others glowed with what could

  only be torch- or candlelight, flickering

  softly in the blackness.

  Beyond the palace were hills and scrubby trees,

  and on a distant rise she could see the ghost of a

  cottage with a thatched roof.

  The grass beneath her feet was lumpy and uneven,

  not the smooth, mechanically cut lawn she had

  walked over earlier. Her slippered foot

  stepped into something soft, and she realized the grounds

  were covered in animal droppings. Clumps of

  earth were tossed everywhere, as if a pack of grazing

  cattle or sheep had spent the past season

  frolicking on the lawn.

  Christopher Neville held her tightly as

  she felt herself sway. Into her ear, so softly

  only she alone could hear, he whispered,

  "Welcome to 1540, sweet cousin."

  Chapter 3

  Deanie had lost the power of speech. Even had

  she been able to muster a voice above a squeak,

  there was nothing for her to say, no words that could

  possibly convey the magnitude of what had

  happened.

  Christopher Neville was not insane. Deanie

  knew he had spoken the truth. Somehow, in

  defiance of every bit of rationality, and mocking the

  established laws of physics, she had just been

  thrown back to the year 1540.

  It wasn't just the appearance of the men or the way

  they spoke. Nor was it the landscape details--

  the chopped-up lawn and the young bushes in the maze

  and the vanished parking lot--that convinced her.

  Instead it was something indefinable, an elusive

  quality to the very air surrounding her, that told her

  she was more than four centuries from home. The

  atmosphere was thick, an almost suffocating

  heaviness when she breathed.

  She stared straight ahead at the reddish brick

  palace they were approaching, her sense of smell

  assaulted by dozens of odors she had never before

  experienced. There was a pungent fragrance wafting

  from the chimneys, sticky-sweet and smoky, with the

  bitter stench of singed hair. Another scent, like that

  of damp animals, seemed to emanate from the men

  with Thomas Howard, and she realized it was their

  clothing. The furs and woolens reeked

  atrociously in the murky closeness of the evening.

  Christopher Neville was speaking to her, his

  voice low and intimate. The harsh angles of his

  face lent him an almost savage

  countenance, yet his tone conveyed nothing but kindness.

  "You may call me Kit, which is the name used

  by those who know me best, including the king. You must

  know of my history, or 'twill arouse

  suspicions most vile. Canst thou hear me?"

  Deanie turned to him, and something in her

  expression caused him to halt, pulling her to an

  abrupt stop. Without taking his extraordinary

  eyes from hers, he called to the other men.

  "Gentlemen, please convey to His Majesty

  my eagerness to share his board, yet my gentle

  cousin is most overwrought at appearing before her

  most gracious king. 'Twill take but a moment

  to allay her fears."

  There was a murmuring of assent, and the men shuffled

  off, their broad-toed slippers crunching on the

  pebbled walk.

  Christopher led her along a vine-covered

  wall to a bench set in an alcove. Deanie

  vaguely remembered the stone bench, weathered

  by pollution-drenched rains and smoothed by centuries

  of use, covered with the open cosmetic bag of the

  makeup artist hired by Nathan. Now it was new,

  the edges of the stone sharp, the flo
ral design of the

  legs clear and fresh.

  Her knees gave way just as he eased her

  onto the bench, and a powerful hand steadied her at the

  small of her back. Settling beside her, his

  heavily muscled thigh resting against her trembling

  knee, he watched her eyes, brown and large.

  In dim profile, he took in her

  features: the small nose and softly sculpted

  cheekbones, eyelashes so thick they cast a

  shadow even in the faint light from the palace. A

  strand of shoulder-length hair, dark silk with a

  gentle wave, fell against her throat, and he

  resisted the urge to brush it with his fingertips. She

  seemed too delicate, too fragile to be of

  this world, a gossamer angel from above.

  "How the hell did this happen?" she hissed,

  at once shattering his fantasy. His mouth

  betrayed the barest of smiles, a flicker of

  amusement at the ferocity of her voice.

  "Oh, this is funny, is it?" There was a sharp

  anger reflected in her eyes. Gone was the lost,

  doelike bewilderment of a few moments earlier.

  "I have a show to do, Mr. Kit--which, by the way,

  is the most sissified name I've heard since

  Johnny Cash sang about a boy named Sue--

  and, well, this is not funny. Not one

  bit." Her voice began to waver from defiance

  to uncertainty, and she swallowed. "Oh," she

  said, a tiny cry. "Oh ... how?"

  With a roughened index finger, he tilted her face

  toward him, and he could see for the first time the

  sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her

  nose.

  "I know not," he said at last, and as her eyes

  narrowed in irritation, he repeated himself. "I do

  not know."

  For a long moment she remained very still, then her

  shoulders slumped and her hands fell into her lap.

  "Oh," she said again. The bluster had once again

  vanished from her voice.

  Christopher Neville glanced down at her.

  She seemed achingly vulnerable. Deliberately,

  with slow, gentle movements, he wrapped a hand

  over one of her small, cold fists.

  "There is something about this maze," he said

  calmly. "It hath ... has ... properties,

  I understand not. I believe it to be magical,

  supernatural."

  "In other words," and there was a small smile

  in her voice, "you know not."

  "Aye." He chuckled, a warm, resonant

  sound.

  She suddenly straightened. "You don't seem

  surprised. Have other people come through there?"

  From the palace came strains of music: the

  full tones of a hide-covered drum,

  high-pitched flutes, and a richly timbred

  lute. Laughter pierced the music, and the sounds of

  metal clanking on a stone floor. Somewhere within

  the brick walls, a dog barked.

  Kit stood up and offered his arm. "The king

  awaits." His strong features tightened into an

  enigmatic smile. Deanie secured the bandage

  on her hand and rose to her feet. He took her

  hand and placed it on his forearm. She clung to him,

  leaning close to his body. For the time being,

  Christopher Neville, duke of Hamilton,

  was literally her only friend on earth.

  The great hall was gleaming under the torches and

  candles big around as small trees. The uneven

  light cast looming shadows, leaving the corners

  dark while the center of the room glowed with fiery

  warmth. There were long planks covered with

  golden-hued pitchers and round loaves of bread.

  Food was being heaped generously onto rough

  trenchers and more elegant bowls and plates by young

  boys barely out of childhood, all bobbing and

  serving with humble efficency.

  In spite of the fires and torches, it was damp

  in the hall, a bone-chilling dankness that seemed

  to permeate every square inch of the vast room. The very

  walls, of stone and wood, radiated chilled

  moisture. It was more comfortable outside than within.

  Men and women swathed in richly colored

  fabrics were seated at the trestle tables, hoisting

  goblets dripping with wine or ale, laughing

  riotously among themselves. Above the din, in a loft

  jutting high over the hall, were musicians

  clothed in green-and-white tunics, playing song

  after song without rest.

  It was a scene of organized chaos: great

  joints of meat and more dainty platters being raised

  over hatted and elaborately dressed heads,

  dogs roaming the hall at will, grateful to receive

  bones tossed by smiling gentlemen. One woman with

  very black teeth threw back her head and laughed

  raucously, while her companion flicked some

  sort of dried fruit into her mouth. Another man

  speared a piece of bread with a small jeweled

  dagger, using the weapon as a fork.

  Deanie tried to flee, but Kit held her

  firmly, propelling her toward a raised dais

  where the most enormous man she had ever seen was

  pounding his fist on the table. Everything about him was

  oversized and exaggerated, as if he had been

  inflated to make everyone else seem trivial

  by comparison.

  Thomas Howard, the duke of Norfolk, was

  at the large man's right, speaking furiously, his

  lips moving with frenzied speed. The big man

  seemed to ignore Norfolk, intent as he was on

  making the most noise possible by slamming his

  jewel-covered hand on the table. His clothing,

  sumptuous beyond anything Deanie could imagine, was

  studded with gems and gold brocade, adorning a

  burgundy doublet slashed in a geometric

  pattern so that the white of his underblouse could gleam

  through. Upon his head was a round hat, feathered at the

  brim, with clusters of pearls that quivered as he

  roared approval at a twirling dancer.

  The man's face was extraordinary, covered

  with a brilliant close-cropped red beard, and a

  surprisingly small mouth under the fleshy nose.

  His eyes, beneath thin reddish brows, were tiny and

  heavy lidded, fringed by lashes so fair they

  seemed nonexistent. Draped behind him was a

  massive tapestry depicting a joust and a

  galloping herd of unicorns, and on the table was

  another tapestry, but Deanie could not identify the

  pattern. The raised table was the only one in the

  hall with any covering; the rest were bare wood.

  Kit was speaking to her, his voice low. With the

  commotion surrounding them, she missed most of his

  words. He was giving her some information on his

  background: that he had risen from the rank of

  squire to duke in less than ten years, that he

  had become a favorite jousting partner of the king's.

  He also enjoyed the royal sport of tennis and

  often joined the king in the music salon.

  Deanie nodded, watching as a dignified

  gentleman bowed to the large man, snapped out a

  massiv
e square of linen, and tied it biblike

  around the man's neck.

  She began to giggle as they paused, her arm still

  looped through his. "It's like all-you-can-eat night

  at the Sizzler's," she whispered to Kit, who

  only frowned in response.

  "Hold your tongue, Mistress Deanie,"

  he warned. "Should the king require speech of thee,

  be brief. Say nothing above the barest of

  revelations."

  Deanie again nodded her understanding, staring in

  amazement as the large man lifted what appeared

  to be the entire leg of some animal to his face,

  and he launched into the joint with tiny yellowed teeth

  and pulled off an enormous mouthful of flesh.

  There was a smattering of applause and he grinned,

  chewing openmouthed, dribbling slightly in his gusto.

  The large man, Deanie realized, her stomach

  doing a queasy flip, was King Henry VIII.

  This was not some dinner-theater production or an

  elaborately presented theme park. This was the

  real thing, complete with flea-bitten dogs and

  wine-soaked rushes on the floor.

  They had reached the dais, and Kit seated them

  at one end of the tapestry-covered board.

  Immediately, young serving boys appeared, clanking

  metal plates and pouring thick wine

  into ornately carved goblets.

  She watched the glint of light bounce off her

  goblet for a moment, trying to overcome a sudden

  urge to become ill. The odors, overpowering in the

  garden, were oppressive in the moist warmth of the

  hall. Everywhere she turned her head, new and

  evil fragrances threatened her unsteady

  stomach. Each dish carried its own spicy or

  pungent or greasy smell. The serving boys,

  some with food-spattered clothing, leaned close enough

  for her to distinguish the pastry bearers from the meat

  bearers by their stench alone.

  Deanie decided to breathe through her mouth, but even

  that offered little relief. She peeked into her goblet.

  Red wine, heavy and sweet, rose to the brim,

  swirls of sediment floating on the surface.

  "I hate to be difficult," she said, leaning

  toward Kit's ear and conscious of his leg pressed

  against hers on the bench, "but may I please have some

  water?"

  "No," he replied, and he returned the

  greeting of a red-nosed man in a funny blue

  cap.

  "No?"

  "Cousin, the water is unsafe in England,"

  he said at last, as if repeating the most obvious

  of facts. "Be it from the Thames or from a

  well, 'tis most foul and carries disease. Use

  it only for bathing, and then at your own peril."

  "Oh," she murmured. "That explains why

  everyone smells so ..." She stopped as Kit

  grinned, the hollows in his cheeks again becoming

  elongated dimples. "Not you, of course," she

  added hastily. "Everyone else is a little, eh,

  well ..."

  "Overripe?" he suggested.

  She returned the smile, her nausea

  forgotten, and was struck by a sudden, irrational

  desire to touch his face, to feel the cleft of his

  chin or trace the contour of his face. Was his skin

  smooth or scratchy where a shadow of whiskers

  made it vaguely darker? Then she looked

  into his eyes, the strange pale irises rimmed

  by black, the ebony lashes. The smile

  gradually faded from his face as he met her own

  unwavering gaze.

  "Why are you being so nice to me?" Her voice

  sounded as tremulous as her knees felt.

  At once his eyes slid from hers, and he cast

  his eyes downward. In profile his features were

  sharp, his nose almost hawklike. The effect was

  one of unmistakable masculinity. He didn't

  answer for a moment. Then he spoke: "Because I

  know how it feels to be an outsider."

  Although his accent was still thick with the strange

  British intonations, his words were almost normal

  to her ears.

  "Kit! Hath thou no greeting for thy blessed

  sovereign?" The king's voice boomed over the

  dais. At once Kit stood up, his

  simply-cut doublet contrasting favorably with the

  gaudy fur- and feather-trimmed clothing of the other

  men. He bowed at the waist, then turned

  to Deanie.

  "Rise, cousin," he whispered, lifting

  Deanie to her feet. Mechanically, she followed

  him to the king. Kit bowed again, one arm folded

  by his side, the other outstretched before him.

  Deanie did the same.

  There was a muffled silence in the hall. All

  eyes were focused on her.

  Suddenly the large man exploded with laughter.

  "Excellent, mistress!" he shouted, clapping

  his greasy hands. "Thou art most adept in the art

  of mimicry. Why, my fool Will Somers shall be

  in peril of losing his position!"

  Everyone in the hall applauded and laughed with the

  king, although Deanie couldn't see what was so

  funny. Kit was fighting back a smile, and he

  cupped his hand under her elbow.

  "If it doth please Your Majesty, this is

  my cousin, Mistress Deanie, newly arrived