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