Once Upon a Rose

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by Judith O'Brien

Their eyes met as she took his hand. "I will not

  leave you behind," she said with determination. "I think

  we should give the maze a try. It seems to me

  we ought to be able to get a round-trip fare out of

  those old bushes."

  He smiled, and Deanie felt herself swallow

  hard. Even injured and recovering from illness, he

  was absolutely devastating. His voice was rich,

  compelling. "The maze it is, then."

  "Do you think the soda bottle's still there?"

  "I would think so. Hardly anyone goes there

  since Anne Boleyn was beheaded--it's thought

  to be bewitched."

  "And it is." With a sigh she looked down at

  their entwined hands. They seemed to fit together

  perfectly. "What if we do end up in some

  strange time?"

  "Frankly, Deanie, we'd be better off

  almost anywhere else. My guess is that we can

  only go forward, since the maze is just a decade

  old now. When I arrived it was new. As long as

  we move ahead, all should be well."

  "What if we can't find the bottle? Do you still

  have the goggles?"

  "Ah. The goggles. Of course I still have them

  --back at Manor Hamilton. For years I

  carried them with me, stepping into the maze every chance I

  got, but nothing ever happened. I kept on

  returning, with or without the goggles. Force of

  habit, I imagine. Maybe I didn't

  want to leave badly enough until now."

  She stiffened. "Holy cow, Kit! If someone

  else finds that bottle before us, we may never be

  able to get out of here."

  "That thought crossed my mind."

  "I should go right now, with a candle--"

  "No, Deanie, not now. You would be too

  noticeable with a candle. Besides, you couldn't see

  well enough. Why don't you wait until

  morning?"

  "Morning will be even worse. The servants are

  up and about at dawn, including the gardeners."

  "Then wait until tomorrow afternoon, and I'll go with

  you. We can say we are perambulating for my

  health or some such nonsense."

  She was about to argue, to mention that he might not be

  well enough to go out tomorrow, or the next day, and that every

  minute lost offered another passerby the chance

  to stumble upon the bottle. Instead, she just nodded.

  "Fine," she said, avoiding his gaze.

  There was a strong knock on the door. "Come

  in," Kit answered, giving Deanie's hand a

  quick squeeze before returning it to her lap.

  A large woman entered, garbed in a rough

  pleated skirt and a Germanic headdress peaked

  at the top. "Mistress Deanie? The queen

  bids you good night, and I am to see you to your

  chambers."

  Deanie stood up. "Thank you, Mother

  Lowe." She turned to Kit. "Have you met the

  queen's head of the ladies-in-waiting?"

  He shook his head, astonished by the size of the

  woman.

  Mother Lowe nodded curtly and muttered, "Ya,

  Duke," before she turned to the door.

  "Believe it or not, she's shy," confided

  Deanie in response to Kit's raised

  eyebrows.

  There were mumblings outside the room, all in

  German. Englebert entered.

  "Sir," he said, bowing to Kit, "we have

  placed four of our guards from Cleves outside

  your chamber for your comfort. We do not want barbers

  to come at night, no?"

  Deanie smiled at Englebert. "Thank you,"

  she whispered warmly, giving him a swift hug.

  In return he blushed.

  "Will you be okay?" Deanie asked Kit. There

  was so much more she wanted to say, so much had happened

  in the past few hours. But between Mother Lowe and

  Englebert and the guards, it was impossible. She was

  being forced to leave, and they would have no more time alone.

  At least not tonight.

  His unwavering gaze caught hers. Somehow, with

  just his eyes--reflecting dark green in the

  candlelight--he conveyed every emotion she herself was

  feeling. Her breath halted in her throat, and she

  placed her hand instinctively over her heart.

  At the exact same moment, Kit raised his

  own hand and rested it over his heart.

  "Mistress Deanie?" Mother Lowe loomed in

  the threshold, and Deanie backed away.

  "Good night," she said softly, her voice

  betraying her shattering love.

  "Good night," he returned, his voice echoing

  a promise, a pledge.

  And with that Mother Lowe pulled a shaken Deanie

  up to the safe quarters of the other

  ladies-in-waiting.

  Something woke him.

  Perhaps it was all the spiced wine he had consumed

  or the extra helping of dove pie. More than

  likely it was his seething anger. He would not allow

  them to carry out their vile plans. It was

  unthinkable.

  He threw open the heavy draperies on his

  bed. It was cold this night, and his fire had been

  allowed to dwindle into glowing embers. His

  feet--noble feet--felt the chill as they touched

  the floor.

  He walked to the window. Not that he was expecting

  to see anything, not at this hour. Just as he was about

  to go back to bed, the room lit only by the vague

  moon, something caught his eye.

  By God, there was someone in the maze!

  He could see a flickering light, a candle

  wavering. Whoever it was must be very close to the ground,

  perhaps on hands and knees.

  He threw on his surcloak, which had been

  resting on a chair by the window, and walked, as

  quietly as possible out toward the maze. Doors

  that never squeaked seemed to be in need of oil this

  evening, planks that were ever silent now seemed

  to announce his every movement.

  Finally he reached the back garden, creeping

  along the grass to avoid crunching the pebbles.

  As he got closer, he heard a voice coming

  from the maze.

  "Come on, come on. I know you're in here."

  Ah! Mistress Deanie!

  His first instinct was to push through the yew shrubs

  to confront her, but he quickly tossed that thought

  aside. Perhaps he could learn more by just watching her.

  She was rummaging with great intent, and he was

  nearly consumed by curiosity.

  "Yes!" Mistress Deanie hissed,

  delight evident in her voice.

  She immediately snuffed the candle, and he watched as

  she scurried back to the palace. It was

  impossible to determine what she was carrying.

  Silently, he entered the maze himself, feeling

  a path to where Mistress Deanie had been.

  Nothing. He suddenly realized the idiocy of his

  impulsive trip outside. It was cold, and he

  was barefoot--his tender feet assaulted by every

  rock and slip of sharp stone. Besides, he was almost

  blind in the dim light.

  Harrumphing at himself, he turned to leave when />
  his foot slid on something. He reached down and

  picked up some papers.

  Shoving them into his cloak, he ran back

  to his chamber as quietly as possible. Breathing

  hard, he closed his door and lit a taper on the

  last glow of the fire.

  He pulled out the papers and gasped. What was

  this? What manner of witchcraft?

  The papers, slick and smooth as glass, were

  bound together. Upon each page were paintings,

  paintings of such fine quality he felt he could

  reach out and enter the work.

  There were printed words, strange and even,

  unlike anything he had ever seen, and he owned

  over a dozen books. Holding the candle, he

  read what he could.

  It was all about the court, about Henry and his

  wives.

  Then he almost cried out, for there was a portrait

  of himself! He was to begin sitting for the painting this

  week; Holbein had completed the rough sketches.

  But here it was, completed, filled in with lush

  colors.

  Further in the book were paintings of court

  women, some identified as Henry's wives. But

  they were not his wives!

  His hands trembling, he saw his name with a date

  --a date in the near future. Was someone wishing

  him dead?

  And then he saw something that made him nearly

  cry out in fear. Toward the back of the book was a

  painting of the king. He was old and bloated, and the

  date was 1547.

  Someone was practicing witchcraft and

  predicting the death of the king.

  He flipped the book over and looked at the

  cover. The words were strange and unfamiliar.

  A Tourist's Guide to Hampton Court

  Palace.

  His palms sweating, he shoved the booklet under

  his mattress.

  Mistress Deanie had placed the booklet

  there, he was sure of it. Not only was she guilty

  of witchcraft, she was guilty of a far greater

  sin: high treason.

  He pulled the drapes on his bed shut,

  wondering what could be done with this new information.

  By dawn his pulse had slowed, and on his face was

  a confident smile.

  Before breaking the fast, he had decided how

  to use his new information. Very soon the entire court

  --perhaps even the king--would bend to his every whim.

  At last he would secure his rightful,

  God-given place in the realm.

  Chapter 11

  It was hopeless.

  There was no way for Deanie to hide the cola

  bottle long enough to reach Kit's

  chambers. It was too large to slip under her belt

  or tuck within the embroidered false sleeve of

  her gown. She tried to fold it under the flowing

  lappets of a gable headpiece, but one glimpse

  of herself in the distorted, speckled mirror caused

  her to yank it off in disgust. The sight of a

  lady-in-waiting sporting a headdress plumed

  with a Coke bottle was more bizarre than anything

  Andy Warhol could have dreamed up.

  So she settled on carrying the bottle in the

  open. Her first thought was to fill it up with ale and

  hope no one noticed her strutting through the

  palace corridors with an open bottle of

  beer.

  She nixed that idea because the dried-up,

  blackened peanuts still rattled in the bottom.

  Although she was fairly certain the nuts had nothing

  to do with her passage through time--and as far as she

  knew Kit did not travel with his goggles full

  of peanuts--she didn't want to alter the

  bottle for fear it might upset a delicate

  balance.

  It was a glance outside the window, the spring

  sun beaming on the garden, that gave her the

  inspiration she'd been seeking. She simply

  walked decorously through the grounds, nodding gently

  at the passing courtiers, and grabbed stems of

  roses as soon as they passed. By the time her

  stroll was completed, there were so many

  brilliant-hued flowers rioting from the innocuous

  bottle that no one noticed the plain glass

  carafe.

  She had kept her possession of the bottle a

  secret from Kit for four days, watching as he

  recovered from the wounds and fever. Like a tethered

  puppy, he wanted nothing more than to leave his

  chamber, and only the combined efforts of Suffolk and

  Englebert and the queen and, above all, Mother Lowe,

  kept him in the room.

  By her third day he paced the chamber

  restlessly, vowing to get past the Germanic guards

  and mumbling disjointed curses about their parentage.

  Deanie used every ounce of charm to cajole and

  reason with him, urging him to stay in place until

  he had recovered.

  "You think you've had a rough time?" She had

  finally lost the frayed remains of her temper.

  Hands on hips, she cornered Kit, who had

  been forcing open the window in hopes of escaping to the

  garden.

  "I've had my legs shaved a dozen times,

  come to fisticuffs with the laundress who refused

  to bring your bandages to a complete boil, and been

  forced to block Dr. Cornelius from bleeding you every

  chance he gets. Humor me, Kit. Hang

  around here just a couple more days--or at least

  until you can jump out of the window without hurting

  something."

  He glared before finally laughing and agreeing with her

  logic.

  For days she resisted the urge to run to him,

  to whoop with joy over her triumph of retrieving

  the missing soda bottle. Besides waiting for Kit

  to recover, she had two other reasons for waiting.

  The first reason for her sedate manner was that she

  was once again housed in the wing with the other

  ladies-in-waiting. She had been given the

  same room as before, the same room in which

  Cromwell had made his threats and wounded Kit.

  There was no physical evidence of that mayhem.

  Still, the very motion of entering the chamber caused her

  stomach to tighten with apprehension, making it

  impossible for her to forget what danger they still

  faced.

  The second reason for her hesitation was that

  Kit would be furious with her for risking everything

  to find the bottle on her own. Even as she

  searched in the dark, she realized the stupidity of

  her actions. She just wanted to find the damn thing so

  they could get on with their plans. Without the

  bottle, their most likely escape route was

  blocked.

  As she toted the flowers to Kit's room, she

  felt as if she held the very key to their future

  together.

  She was prepared to find him awake, perhaps being

  shaved by a new flock of barbers. Even the sight

  of him still asleep, allowing his exhausted and

  battered body some much-needed rest, would not have

  alarmed her.

  The last thing she expect
ed was to find him gone,

  vanished as if he had never set foot in the

  small chamber.

  The bottle nearly slipped from her hands when

  she realized he was not there.

  "Kit?" she whispered, as if in a hospital

  ward. There was no answer. The guards from the night

  before were also missing. The only items in the stark

  room were the few furnishings: the small bed, two

  chairs, a table. The cloth bandages and

  her boiled water were nowhere to be seen.

  Gripping the bottle harder, she tried

  to control her fear. There was probably a

  perfectly logical explanation for his absence.

  Maybe he was having breakfast with Suffolk or

  the King. Perhaps Mother Lowe, whom she had seen

  twice that morning, had decided to change his

  room.

  But wouldn't Mother Lowe have mentioned something

  to Deanie? She'd had ample opportunity, and

  her English wasn't that bad.

  A more likely scenario crept into her mind.

  Cromwell. She could almost feel the heat of his

  anger, the rage he struggled to contain in the great

  hall. He had men who would do anything for a coin.

  They relied on his commands and power, not on their own

  tattered conscience.

  Kit was a strong man, but he was not yet

  recovered from his beating.

  "Kit?" There was still no answer.

  She walked calmly from the room, her head

  erect. She would not run, she would not scream his

  name.

  With her knees growing ever more unsteady, she

  glided through the halls, peering into each room as she

  passed. There were over a thousand rooms at

  Hampton, and she vowed to search each one until

  she found Kit.

  She walked for almost an hour, her anxiety

  mounting by the minute. The rest of the court seemed

  to be enjoying the grounds, and she could hear occasional

  snatches of laughter from the gardens and the tilting

  yard as she passed.

  The roses were pressed so close to her body

  they began to wilt from the heat. Feeling

  light-headed, she recalled that she hadn't eaten

  since the previous day. Her plan had been to have

  breakfast with Kit.

  She was walking in circles now, not really

  seeing into the chambers as she passed. Finally she

  went outside, hoping to find Englebert or Mother

  Lowe or someone who could tell her where Kit

  was.

  A large circle of courtiers stood in the

  tilting yard, chatting among themselves, occasionally

  erupting into spontaneous applause. There was a

  metallic clanking sound from within the crowd, and she

  recognized the noise as swords clashing.

  As she approached, the circle opened to let

  her in. A few of the women stared at

  Deanie, her face ashen, carrying a large armful

  of limp flowers.

  "Hamilton, your cousin approaches. It

  seems she has been busy plundering the gardens of

  their every bloom!"

  The voice belonged to Charles Brandon, the

  duke of Suffolk. In the center of the circular

  audience were several young men engaged in a show of

  swordsmanship.

  One of them--using his left arm--was Kit.

  He handed Suffolk his sword and walked

  immediately to her side. He appeared to be disarmingly

  healthy, wearing nothing but a loose-fitting shirt

  and hose. Even in her relief, Deanie saw the

  hungry stares from some of the women.

  "Cousin, for me!" Kit said as he reached her

  side, gesturing to the bouquet. Many of the courtiers

  laughed and returned to their conversations, or watched

  young Surrey begin to battle Brandon.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Kit demanded as

  he placed a brotherly arm about her shoulder. He

  glared down at her, a brilliant smile fixed

  on his face, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  "Goddamnit, Deanie, I've looked everywhere

  for you. Don't you ever disappear like that again."

  "Where have I been?" she repeated

  incredulously. "I've only been searching through that

  entire stupid castle for you. When you weren't in

  your room, I thought something had happened to you.

  Oh, Kit." Her voice broke, and through his

  anger he realized how frantic she looked, the

  way she hugged the soggy flowers to her chest.

  With a swift glance around to make sure they were not

  being watched too closely, he guided her behind a

  hedge. There she fell against him, suddenly unable

  to support herself.

  "Where did you go?" she asked against his shirt.

  "Englebert woke me early this morning. He

  said he saw Cromwell conferring with some of his men

  and thought it might be a good idea for me to switch

  to another room. I thought he would have told you."

  She shook her head, her feeling of dread just

  now beginning to ebb. "No. I'm glad he

  didn't, because one of Cromwell's guys might

  have followed me to you." She backed away, a

  small smile playing at her lips. "You were

  right, by the way. These roses are for you."

  She handed them to him, and he was about to speak when

  he realized what the container was. "How did you

  ..."

  "Don't ask." She pushed them into his

 

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