from Wales."
The King nodded. Without warning he stood up,
leaned over the board, and kissed her squarely on
the lips. He tasted of oily wine, his beard
well lubricated with flecks of animal fat.
She was about to wipe her mouth, but Kit, as if
sensing her intent, gripped her hand.
"Forgive my poor cousin," he said. "She
is but a weak woman, and Your Majesty's great
honor doth render her mute." He shot her a
warning glance, and Deanie bristled.
"Hey, I can so talk--"
Kit yanked her hand, and she was silenced.
"Your Majesty," he continued, "if thou doth
permit me, I will speak plainly. My cousin
hath but recently been taken with a brain fever,
and--"
The king backed away, a look of horror
passing over his swollen features as he wiped his
mouth with the back of a beefy, bejeweled hand. "A
brain fever?"
"You may be of good ease, Your Majesty. The
fever 'twas not of a virulent sort. Indeed, it
cometh from a mighty blow to her head."
"Ah! Very well, my good fellow
Kit." Relief was evident in his piggy black
eyes. Again he grinned a greasy smile,
hungry and lascivious. Deanie squirmed under
his slow perusal, acutely aware of the cheapness of
her clothes, the false luster of the plastic seed
pearls, the itchy Velcro fastenings.
The king, a massive bib still tucked into the
neck of his doublet, strode around the dais, stopping
in front of Kit and Deanie. His colossal
legs, large as tree trunks and covered with
gold-colored hose, were planted solidly
apart, arms akimbo, in a stance of entrenched power.
Suddenly he clamped Kit on the back with such
force it would cause most men to stumble. Kit stood
as firm as his sovereign.
"Doth she desire a position at court?"
Kit pulled Deanie closer to his side.
"'Twood be an honor of which she dares not dream,
Your Highness. I would be forever in your debt."
"Excellent! 'Tis done then." The king
laughed once more, his eyes raking her with obvious
pleasure. "She be not right in the head, faithful
Kit? Excellent! She shall favor the court with
her grace and attend on the Flanders Mare.
Ha! At last these royal eyes will have their fill
of womanly beauty."
An unreadable expression passed over
Kit's features hard and almost defiant. In
an instant, he was smiling again at the king, and
Henry marched back to his board. Deanie and
Kit were dismissed as the king waved to a serving boy
with a pitcher of spiced wine.
Kit led Deanie back to their place at the
far end of the dais, threading past a pair of
brightly garbed jugglers and a dozen servers bearing
meats, pastries, dressed birds, and bread.
"You are to be a lady-in-waiting to Queen
Anne," he whispered into her ear after they were again
seated. "'Tis a great honor, Mistress
Deanie. But be aware, the king doth seek means
to find another queen. Do not ally yourself too
closely with the present queen, lest you suffer a like
fate."
"You mean he wants to dump her?" Deanie
asked, incredulous.
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Why? What has she done?"
Kit took a swallow of wine before answering.
"His Majesty sayeth the queen doth stink."
He held the goblet to his lips, muffling
his words, so that Deanie alone could hear him.
"He should talk," she grumbled.
Only by the shaking of his broad shoulders,
quaked by silent laughter, could Deanie know he
had heard her.
The banquet passed in a lavish blur,
course after course placed before her glazed eyes.
Some of the dishes, such as savory meat pie made
of wild boar and a whole fish covered with herbs,
seemed more edible than others. Then there were dishes that
ranged from strange to disgusting: platters of
sharp-smelling pigs' feet, tiny headless birds
served with their claws intact to keep them balanced
on the plate.
The longer Deanie sat at the table, the more
undeniable her journey seemed. The smells and
sounds and startling colors pressed into her mind with
ceaseless intensity. She was actually in 1540, in
the court of one of the most feared monarchs in
history.
Every time she felt herself panic, she would
notice Kit, the solid feel of his leg against
hers, his strong hand on her wrist emphasizing a
point. His steady stream of conversation helped her
remain calm, kept her from fleeing the hall in
confusion and terror.
Finally she began to speak, blinking at each
new sight. The sound of her own inane chatter
seemed the only thing she could control.
"You know," she said to Kit, eating another
small hunk of brown bread--the only food she
felt brave enough to try--"I once had a date
with a guy who loved to hunt. He picked me up
in this old truck and made me sit on a
burlap bag filled with dead ducks. I mean,
all these plates of dead birds just reminded me
of the Dead Duck Date."
"Dead Duck Date?"
She nodded, swallowing the piece of bread.
"All I could think about were the little duck beaks
poking me. I haven't been able to eat duck
since then. The more a meal looks like what it was when
it was alive, the less inclined I am to eat it,
if you know what I mean. Give me chicken
nuggets or a hamburger any time."
He smiled briefly, as if aware that what
she had just said was meant to provoke an amused
response, though not quite sure why. After another
sip of wine, he leveled his gaze at
her. "Hath you any accomplishments?"
"What do you mean?" She adjusted the
ridiculous headdress, which was listing to the right.
"Canst thou ply a skillful needle, or
argue theology, or make music?"
"Oh." She grew thoughtful. "I can sew. I
used to make all of my own clothes in high
school." His face brightened, and suddenly she
wanted very much to please him. "But I need a
sewing machine," she added quietly. "I can't
sew worth a darn by hand." Then she smiled.
"Hey, get it? "Can't sew worth a darn."
It's sort of a bad pun."
"Yes. I see." He contemplated the
designs on his goblet.
"Hey, but I can sing."
Kit's eyebrows arched. "Canst thou?" His
voice was dubious.
"Of course. And I can write songs. That's
why I'm here--in England, I mean. I'm a
pretty big deal back home. Well, I
hope to be, at least after the duet with Bucky
Lee Denton hits the airwaves. As a
writer, I've won three CMA awards and
two Grammys, all for othe
r people's songs, of
course. Some of the big names, you know." She took
a deep breath and continued: "And guess what?
I've even played at the Grand Ol' Opry,
but I'm not a member. At least not yet. I was
just a guest." Deanie beamed. "Does that answer
your question?"
Kit, his face a mask of utter bewilderment,
rubbed his chin pensively. "I fear, Mistress
Deanie, I recall not the question."
Deanie's shoulders sagged. "Oh. You're not
impressed." She shook her head, careful of the
headdress. "I can sing," she said at last in a
small voice.
"Ah, excellent!" Then the smile vanished
from his voice, and he paused before continuing. "I
need to ask of you ... something of great importance."
He cleared his throat, his eyes fixed upon her
face with unnerving intensity. "The present queen
be not of England born. She speaketh High
Dutch."
"So?" Deanie shrugged.
He spoke deliberately. "Doth thou speak
a Germanic language?"
"Me? No way Jos`e." She giggled.
"I took a year of Spanish in high
school, and all that did was help me order at the
Taco Bell. I don't know anyone who took
German. It's too hard."
There was still a palatable tension in him; one of his
hands was clenched in a fist of such force that his
knuckles were white. "Tell me," he said,
trying to sound casual, but his voice was tight as his
posture, "doth--do many people speak German in your
time? Is it an international language?"
Deanie was mystified by his passion. "No.
I mean, I guess the Germans do, but they
usually stay in Germany. We only get a few
tourists from there, at least in Nashville. You can
always spot the Germans: They wear baggy shorts
and black socks with sandals. Why do you ask?"
For a moment he remained motionless, staring
straight ahead but clearly not seeing what was before
him. A muscle leaped convulsively in his jaw.
His fist remained clenched.
"Thank God," he said at last, his words an
explosive sigh. He seemed to relax a little,
still oblivious to his surroundings. "All these
years, I've wondered. Thank God."
He bowed his head as if in prayer, resting his
forehead on the palm of his hand. Then he
straightened, his eyes once again clear, and smiled
at Deanie. She realized it was the first true
smile she had seen from him, free of turmoil,
free of tension. His teeth were very white, but one
bottom tooth was crooked, a little out of line with the
perfection of the surrounding teeth.
Something about that one imperfect tooth stirred an
untried emotion deep within her, and she was unable
to breathe. She clamped her hands together, resisting the
urge to run her thumb over the fullness of his
bottom lip. Her palms were damp and cold, and
all she could do was stare at him.
"Art thou ill?" There was concern in his voice,
tempered by a new-found lightness.
"Nope." Her reply was a dry croak.
A tooth, she thought, her hands still pressed
together. I think I am falling in love with a
crooked tooth.
Just then a slender woman in a deep green
gown and an angular headpiece curtsied before
Kit. He smiled at the woman.
"Ah, very good, Mistress Cecily. This is
my cousin Mistress Deanie Bailey, who is
to be a maid of the queen's household. Deanie,
this is Mistress Cecily, daughter of the
Lady Sellers and sister of Elizabeth
Garrison, much beloved lady-in-waiting to our
departed Queen Jane, mother of our most exalted
prince of Wales." At the mention of Queen
Jane, both Kit and the young woman made hasty
signs of the cross. "Now she awaits Queen
Anne."
Deanie smiled at Mistress Cecily, then
turned to Kit. "So, what's she waiting for?"
Kit exchanged bewildered shrugs with
Mistress Anne "What dost thou mean,
cousin?"
"You just said you're all waiting on the Queen.
Well, what's holding her up, and when does she
get here?"
"Ah ..." Kit cleared his throat, and
Mistress Cecily flushed crimson, glancing
to her side as if wondering who else may have
heard what Deanie had just said. "Doth thou
recall not what I sayeth earlier? About the
king?"
There had been so much information thrown at her in the
past few hours that Deanie had to close her
eyes for a moment, struggling to recall what Kit
had mentioned. At once she remembered: that the king
was not pleased with his new queen and would soon be
seeking another wife.
"Oh, I get it." She leaned forward, and
both Kit and Mistress Cecily moved
closer. "So she's not here? The queen, I
mean." Kit nodded once. From the corner of his
eye he saw Thomas Howard watching the three
huddled together, an appraising glare on his lined
face.
"He must really hate her," Deanie mumbled,
feeling sorry for an unwanted queen she'd never
even met.
Kit suddenly rose to his feet, pulling
Deanie with him. His hand was strong and sure on her
elbow. "Mistress Cecily will show thee to thy
quarters, cousin. Thou hath had a most unusual
day and should be in bed anon."
At the other end of the dais the king stood up,
clapping his hands in time with a group of musicians
who had just begun to play. Deanie had barely
noticed the music. Kit gave her arm a
brief but reassuring squeeze before he handed her
over to Mistress Cecily.
"Good night, coz," he whispered, his mouth so
close to her ear she could feel a
strange, tingling vibration.
She gave him an uncertain smile as
Mistress Cecily pulled her through an arched
door to the left of the dais. Deanie had one
final glimpse of Christopher Neville,
duke of Hamilton, as he turned toward a
group of laughing women, his handsome face
reflecting pure delight in their company. He
did not look back at Deanie.
As if reading her thoughts, Mistress Cecily
chuckled at Deanie when they entered the long
corridor. "Your dear cousin hath won the heart
of every lady at court, be they maid or married."
Deanie did not reply. They walked down the
hall, through a labyrinth of polished wood
floors and lush tapestries. Away from Kit,
she felt lost and frightened, swallowing against a
rising knot in her throat. This was real. She was
actually here, with people who had been dead for more than
four hundred years. The young woman holding her
hand was dead. The king of England was dead.
Christopher Neville was dead.
Mistress Cecily giggled.
"I fear the
duke hath won the heart of his cousin as well,"
she said lightly.
Again, Deanie said nothing. But as they entered a
small, almost bare chamber far from the din of the great
hall, Deanie turned to her companion. With a very
tight smile, she said, "I fear you are right,
Cecily."
It wasn't the clock radio that woke her the
next morning, nor the familiar smell of
coffee, nor a wake-up call from the front
desk. In her nether-sleep she had half
expected to be back at the Dorchester Hotel,
in her own suite, with the surly figure of
Nathan Burns pacing the carpet and bemoaning his
film career that never was.
Instead, she awoke to a sharp kick from a
hairy leg.
With a gasp she sat up, clutching a linen
nightshift under her chin. The thick red curtains
on the bed sealed off all but a slender shaft of
sunlight. Even with that tiny ray, she could see
who was in bed with her. To the right was Mistress
Cecily Garrison, her back turned
to Deanie, her knees tucked against her curled
body. To the left was a complete stranger, a
large woman with dark hair who was snoring
like a longshoreman.
Yesterday had not been a dream.
"Holy cow, I'm really here." Her voice
sounded strange, abnormally loud against the silence
of the bedchamber. Trying her best not to wake
Mistress Cecily or the slumbering newcomer,
Deanie slipped through the slight opening in the bed
drapes, closing the fabric as soon as she was
on the other side.
The floor was cold against her bare feet, and
her first instinct was to return to the bed. Just as she was
about to throw the curtains back to enter, she heard a
snort from within. Somehow, that single sleepy wheeze
changed her direction. Rubbing her eyes, she
took a deep breath and faced the room.
It seemed even smaller than it had the night
before, when, under the glowing light of three candles,
Mistress Cecily had handed her a nightgown.
Deanie had managed to hide her surprise at
the sleeping arrangements; she hadn't expected
to share a room, much less a bed, with another
person. The new woman must have arrived after
Deanie had fallen asleep. There was something
disconcerting about waking up in bed with a complete
stranger, especially a complete stranger of the
same sex with hairy legs and an apparent
adenoid condition.
Tentatively, she took in the details of the
room, her arms crossed protectively under her
breasts. The furnishings were spare: just a
leather-back chair, a massive dome-topped
trunk, and a couple of small tables bearing
black-wicked beige candles. The leaded windows
distorted the light, their thick, uneven panes
covered with bubbles and swirls. On one wall was
a rug, rich with burgundies and royal blues,
and another held an immense fireplace, cold
now but still smelling of burned wood and smoke.
There were no protective screens or shields
to keep sparking embers from leaping into the center of the
room.
In the corner was another small table with a
pitcher of water, and Deanie dipped her hands
into the water and splashed her face, reaching for a
small square of off-white cloth folded beside the
water. It was scratchy and not very absorbent, but
she scrubbed her face dry the best she could. The
water was bracingly cold. Although Deanie was
thirsty, the stagnant odor kept her from drinking.
She also recalled Kit's warning not
to drink the water.
Kit.
Pausing as she refolded the cloth, she
wondered if she had dreamed Kit or if he was
as real as the rest of this world. Had she imagined his
magnificent eyes, the curl at the ends of his
hair, the one crooked white tooth?
There was a soft knock on the door, and she
jumped. Calming herself, she walked to the heavy
door, not wanting to wake up Mistress
Cecily and the stranger. She slowly turned the
latch and opened the door.
"Deanie?" It was Kit.
She swung the door wider, unable to hide her
excitement at seeing him. In the full light of
day he was even more striking than by torchlight. He
wore what appeared to be the same doublet and
hose, but the shirt was fresh, a brilliant
white, with full cuffs tied at the wrist and a
starched collar tied at the throat. His hair was more
unruly, the curls damp and tight against the vast
shoulders. The black-enameled sword and sheath were
on his left side, and in his right hand was a cloth
bundle.
"Hey." She smiled. He peered over her
shoulder, raising one full eyebrow in a silent
question.
"They're still asleep," she whispered. Then she
moved closer. "Who's the gal with the hairy legs
and big snore?"
His burst of laughter seemed to explode in the
silence of the corridor. Holding a finger to his
lips to silence him, she tried to keep herself from
laughing out loud as well. He cleared his throat
and spoke into her ear. "That would be the Lady Mary