any misunderstanding, I shall repeat. Do as I say.
When the king casts his eye upon a maiden"--he
looked her up and down--"or whatever, she can
scarce disregard his will. You shall be his, Mistress
Deanie. Thou hath a brace of choices:
to capitulate unwillingly, and hear of the duke of
Hamilton's death, unfortunate and tortuous.
Or you may follow my instructions. Do as I
command. Come to the king when he beckons--not before.
Let him believe he is the mighty conqueror,
welcome him with your soft arms open wide. Thou
shall become his mistress, perhaps even the queen. And
sing high my praises. In short, secure my
good favor in the king's grace, and we shall
all profit. Turn away from my good counsel,
and thou shall go to thy grave knowing that stubborn pride
and girlish whims caused the agony and death of a
favored duke. And your grave will not be long in
waiting; a charge of heresy shall be made against thy
person. Disobey me, and a heretic's death shall be
your ultimate reward."
Deanie tried to recall what she had said
to Cromwell, but she could not remember her exact
words. It didn't really matter. She had
agreed to follow Cromwell's commands. She had
no other choice.
The earl of Essex had added another caveat:
Should she tell the king what had transpired, or
should the king hear through the court gossips--and here
Cromwell had folded his hands under the fur cuffs
as he spoke--the duke of Hamilton would meet
with an untimely and painful end. Everyone already
believed he was ill. No one would be surprised
by his sudden death. Of course the king would be
saddened, but then he would find another favorite,
another virile young man through whom he could
relive his lost youth.
In the distance ahead Deanie could see the
stragglers in the first cluster of the royal caravan,
the way-pavers, the warners who informed all ahead,
from Hampton to Richmond, of the king's imminent
arrival. Then came the second wave, the peers
and other courtiers, a veritable moving banquet of
wine and sweetmeats and chatter. Finally, bringing
up the rear, were the carters and the household staff,
the cooks and pages and keepers.
And somewhere behind those, following the last cow being led
by a cheeseman's son, was Kit, left with a
dishonored queen and her skeleton staff of
foreigners. And of course half a dozen of
Cromwell's minions, ready to convince the duke
of the wisdom of Cromwell's plan.
Deanie wiped the perspiration from her upper lip
again. When Katherine Howard offered her a skin
filled with spiced wine, she declined. She knew
she would not be able to keep a single swallow down.
But instead of confessing to the fear gnawing the pit of
her stomach, she shot Katherine one of her
brilliant smiles.
Just as Cromwell had instructed.
The odor was unbearable. It was a potent stench
of unwashed bodies and grease and spices, some
overly sweet, others bitter and foul.
There was a hand on his forehead, gentle, soothing.
In the back of his mind he thought of Deanie.
What had happened? He could see her face, the
luminous eyes, the red mark where Cromwell had
hurt her. Damn it, he hadn't brought any of
his own men. What folly had overtaken him
to confront Cromwell without assistance?
But of course he hadn't known the depths of
Cromwell's plans, the extent of his
desperation. Deanie had been out of his sight for no
more than twenty minutes when he realized they would
have to leave, to flee England if they were to have any
chance of a life together. After that night, it was already
too late for them. The king had set his sights on
Deanie. Once the royal mind was made up,
there was no changing it. He had broken with the Church
in Rome for the sake of a woman. No, it was time
for them to leave. Perhaps go to Calais or
Madrid.
Where was Deanie? He tried to curb his anger,
furious at his own foolish actions. Since
arriving at court he had never taken a rash
step. Every move he made, every syllable uttered
had been carefully considered. Never had he let
down his guard. Even with women--especially with
women--he had been cautious, watching his intake
of wine, circumspect in the most intimate of
situations.
He heard a moan, and he wondered if the
noise had come from his own throat. He tried
to move his head but was stopped by a bolt of pain,
crackling, exploding, more intense than any in his
memory.
The soothing hands were still there. They were not
Deanie's. These hands were larger; Deanie's were
small. Delicate.
Then he was flying.
In his mind he could see the ground below: farms and
stone fences and lone horses and cattle grazing.
quiet and simple.
Then he saw iron tracks and a puffing
locomotive. From above he could hear only the
roaring sputter of his own engine and the wind. Down
through the clouds, tiny as a child's toy, the train was
chugging away, filled with children fleeing the dangers of
war. The smallest refugees, forced to leave their
mums and dads. Then he saw the distant smoke
of London, the dome of St. Paul's
Cathedral. Big Ben. Landmarks,
landmarks. If he could see them, so could the enemy.
Training. They had been training for the mission--
how to keep the enemy from shopping at Harrod's, his
fellow Royal Air Force pilots had all
dubbed it. How to keep Herr Himmler from taking
in a show at the Gaiety. They had laughed,
smiling at each other over those precious few
cigarettes. Then they were told how to get home,
how to refuel. The last part was a formality, a
bit of comfort for the green ones who still thought there was a
chance of returning alive. They had yet
to experience empty chairs at the officers'
mess, belongings hurridly bundled off before
evening. The odds were hopelessly, ridiculously
against them, but they paraded about the barracks with all
the dash and swagger of a Gilbert and Sullivan
officer.
The mission was nothing short of suicide.
Kill the enemy, kill themselves. Perhaps save
England.
This was his last sortie, after a summer and
autumn of being on alert twelve hours, sometimes
fifteen a day. In August he had flown seven
sorties in a single day. Number seven, a
lucky number. One last twenty-four-hour
furlough.
He borrowed another chap's motorcycle--
what was his name? They had read history together at
Oxford. Took his motorcy
cle, even his
goggles, and rode, driving the rickety cycle,
heedless of the shameful waste of petrol.
Where was he? In the air he would know. On the
ground, with all the signs and markers plucked from the
soil to confuse marauding Germans, he was lost.
Then he saw the chimneys of Hampton and wandered
there, goggles in hand, to the maze. Wandered for
hours, it seemed, clutching the leather and glass
goggles, knowing what the next hours would most
likely bring.
Above, he heard the familiar buzz of
planes, the exploding shells falling outside of
London. He had flown over Berlin, just as the
Germans now circled over London.
There was a heavy feeling in his stomach. Not
fear, exactly; just a swelling knowledge that he was
breathing his last. He'd had that feeling before, of
course. Before every sortie there was a sharpening of his
senses, a keen awareness that made every movement
exaggerated and uncomfortable.
This time it was different, more intense.
Before he had been too exhausted to mentally
calculate his odds, flying by instinct alone,
shooting an enemy plane by swooping down from the
clouds. Dorniers and Heinkels, the plodding but
effective German bombers. Earlier in the
summer it had been Stukas, but the Germans
realized how slow they were, how easy for a new
RAF pilot to cut his teeth on.
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, every
movement etched with prickly detail. Yet the
hours had raced by with stunning speed. This time it was
different.
He took note of his every gesture. When he
stopped to tie his shoe in the maze, he wondered
if this knot would be his last. He stretched his
fatigued arms over his head and stood looking at
the old yew bushes. Reaching in his breast pocket
for the last of his cigarettes, he could feel his own
heart beating steadily. How odd, he thought, that the
steady beat would be stilled. It hardly seemed
possible.
He checked his watch. It was time to get back,
time to prepare for this last mission. If all went
well, he would survive to train the next crop
of pilots. He had already been uncommonly
lucky. Number seven in a single day.
Then the strange, pulsating beam of light,
blue and effulgent, bounced off the goggles. The
rumbling roared like a hundred bombers, a
sickly tremor of the very earth. In his surprise,
his mind spun the possibilities. Did the
enemy possess an earthquake machine, the
product of a twisted Nazi mind?
Diabolical. Dastardly. Once he had
been close enough to a Messerschmitt escort
plane to see the pilot. Their eyes locked at
five thousand feet in the air, and they shared an
instant of recognition. There was intelligence in the
Luftwaffe pilot's eyes, a glint of
humor. It hit him heavily, like a low blow:
Joined the local flying club as a lark. In
another time, another year, they would be friends.
Now they were meeting at five thousand feet, and
in an instant he had shot down his German
doppelg@anger, blinking as the Messerschmitt
spiraled into flames, the wind shrieking against the
wings like hell's banshee.
Far away he heard a groan. His? Then
a woman's voice, deep and
guttural.
German. The enemy.
Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank,
serial number. All he had to say, all they
could make him say. Goddamn Hitler.
Goddamn Nazis. Wish to God the Yanks
would join in. Wish to God his Spitfire would
hold up.
Name, rank, serial number.
"Neville, Christopher. Captain.
Royal Air Force, nineteen-forty." That was the
year, not his serial number. What was his serial
number? "Fifteen forty," he mumbled. No.
That was the year, not his serial number. Then his
voice faded out. He tried to ask where he was.
Had his plane gone down behind enemy lines?
The German woman was speaking. Goddamn
Nazi. Goddamn Hitler. Where was Deanie?
Then all vanished into black velvet
nothingness.
Chapter 8
The twisting four miles from Hampton Court
to Richmond palace passed with inane languor.
It seemed to take hours. Without a watch,
Deanie had no idea how much time had actually
passed. She supposed she was probably
hungry but wasn't sure. Her whole body
seemed anesthetized, emotionless.
Even in her detached state of mind, she was
aware of the magnificence of the countryside.
Richmond Park was a startling combination of wildly
lush forest and carefully pruned gardens. From the
corner of her eye she caught sight of a
long-limbed stag leaping over a hedge, its
graceful movements unnoticed by anyone else in
the caravan.
Katherine and Cecily were discussing men,
whispering from beneath their cupped hands like a couple of
students in gym class.
"Thomas Culpepper? Nay, I like him not,"
hissed Cecily Garrison. "He thinks too
highly of his own charms."
Katherine Howard nodded eagerly. "What you
say, 'tis true. But surely his face is
worth looking upon if his character can be forgotten. Yet
in my mind no man can compare with the duke of
Hamilton." Cecily tried to shush her friend, but
Katherine was oblivious to the hint,
happily reveling in her own fantasies. "I
do hope he recovers from his illness soon,
Mistress Cecily," she continued, her vapid
eyes glazed with her own thoughts. "Is there another
man so handsome or pleasingly mannered? Ah, and so
manly too. Not foppish, like so many of the young
bucks of the court."
Finally she noticed the strained silence and,
blinking, turned to Cecily, who was now glaring in
anger. With an embarrassed swallow, Katherine
turned to Deanie.
"Pray forgive my prattle about your cousin,
Mistress Deanie. He is a respected
peer, and deserveth not to be named with the base-born
Culpepper."
Deanie, her face a ghastly white, simply
nodded and turned away. Her orders from
Cromwell had been clear. But how on earth would
she manage to carry them out?
Just then they turned into the gates of Richmond
palace. Straightening in the saddle, wondering if
her leg would be permanently hooked in the
position, she strained to see the palace itself.
Why hadn't Nathan Burns picked this as the
sight of the video? It was also of brick, with
chimneys and smoke stacks, but this palace was more
manageable. About a third the size of
Hampton, it resembled a
private college
rather than a royal residence.
They rode into a quadrangle, sta2oys and
servants rushing from every corner to assist the ladies
in dismounting, steadying a few of the more inebriated men.
The moment her foot touched the cobbled ground,
Deanie had but one thought.
She had to get back to Kit. Somehow, as
soon as possible.
"Mistress Deanie." A beefy hand
grasped her own, and she peered into the bloodshot
eyes of Charles Brandon, the duke of
Suffolk.
"Thank you," she murmured. She was about
to back away when she paused. "My Lord," she
produced one of her best smiles, and Suffolk
thought she did not wish to discover. He bowed.
"Is Cromwell, the earl of Essex, within?"
Deanie tried to sound casual, but something in her
voice made Suffolk straighten. His eyes were
now keen, appraising. She had to be careful.
"Cromwell? Nay. The king this
morn hath sent Cromwell on a journey of
state business. May I be of service?"
She didn't wait for him to complete his offer.
"He's gone? He's not here or at
Hampton?" Oh please, she prayed. Let it
be true.
A sta2oy took the reins of her horse.
She watched him go through a gate, noting where the
stables were, then turned back to Suffolk, who was
watching her with an intelligence she did not think
he was capable of.
"And the king?" Her voice was strained.
"He waits within, attended by the royal
surgeon. The journey pained his leg, and he
may rest."
An idea formed in Deanie's mind, and she
almost smiled at the thought. She would faint. She
would fake an illness, which would buy her precious
time.
"My Lord," she said weakly, willing her hand
to tremble as she grasped Suffolk's sleeve.
It was not difficult: She was terrified. Should this
fail, she would place Kit--and herself--in even
greater danger. "I fear I am unwell."
With those words, Mistress Deanie Bailey
swooned into the brocaded arms of the duke of
Suffolk. In the commotion that followed--the ordering
of a litter to carry her within, sobbing Katherine
Howard attesting to how unwell she had seemed
during the ride from Hampton--no one noticed the
slight smile animating Suffolk's mustache.
The king peered over his physician's shoulder,
anxious for the task to be completed.
"We bid you haste, Dr. Butts." He
gritted his teeth against the pain as the cloth covering
his leg was pulled back, making the ulcerating
sore throb. The physical discomfort was nothing
new. But His Majesty's light mood was.
Dr. Butts took a deep breath through his
mouth, trying to avoid the stench of the festering thigh, and
changed the dressing as swiftly as possible. He
certainly did not wish to bait the king's
well-known temper.
"Your Majesty, 'twill be but a moment."
His hands flew deflty over the large royal
limb, noting that the wound was unchanged. No
worse, but certainly no better than the day before.
Would it ever heal? It had already plagued the king for
years, ever since that jousting incident. It
was a miracle that the king had survived. Nobody
realized how severe the injury had been, how
deeply the opponent's lance had cut into the king's
thigh. Only the fevers that followed, the recurring
bouts of delirium, had revealed the true
nature of the injury. The best of modern medicine
had been employed, from leeches and bleeding
to exotic ointments and fervent prayer. Nothing had
helped. The wound remained unhealed.
The king grunted, whether in impatience or
pain, the physician was not willing to hazard a
guess.
There was a knock on the door. "Your
Majesty?"
The king smiled, recognizing the voice. "Come
in, Suffolk, come in."
The door swung open, and Charles Brandon
entered. "Your Majesty." He bowed.
Henry gestured him to rise. "Come come,
Suffolk. Hath she arrived?" He was as eager
as a small child.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Suffolk
straightened. "She hath arrived, and betimes
fainted."
"Fainted?"
"Yes." Suffolk was unable to keep the
laughter from his voice. "She fainted into my arms,
Your Majesty."
"God's blood, Charles. It's not
amusing." Henry slapped Dr. Butts on the
back. "Enough. Be gone." The physician,
noting the irritation in the king's tone, was only
too happy to flee.
"Think thee she has the same malady as her
cousin, Hamilton?" The king sat heavily on
his chair, kicking the footstool away with his good
leg. The footstool skidded across the floor,
tipping on its side when it hit the heavy
oak-paneled wall.
"I know not, Your Highness. She rests in
chambers across the yard."
"Aye," the king spat. "And we would much
prefer she do anything but rest in this very chamber."