Falling For Henry (4 page)

As William went through the guard room and into the palace proper, a warm feeling crept over him. Even if he couldn't help Father just now, at least he could care for this animal, and, God willing, return it to health. It was too young to be alone in the forest. He wondered what had happened to its mother. Likely hunted down with all the other wolves in England. William shuddered. He hated the thought of any living thing suffering. But had he done the right thing? It could mean disaster if he were caught.

William scratched at a spot on his neck. Blasted fleas, eating him alive in the few hours he managed to sleep. When God created fleas, it must have been an accident. Wolves, now, they were part of the chain of everything. Without natural predators, other species would swell their ranks. Rabbits, even deer, would overrun things. As far as the wolves went, William thought superstition was to blame for their bad reputation. He'd heard stories about wolves, of course—what farmer hadn't? He also knew that his father had never actually lost a sheep to a wolf. Stories and fear could make people do terrible deeds.

There had been a cunning woman consulted in the village about the missing royal communion cloth. He'd heard the servants talking about it, gossiping about how this woman was a known sorcerer, and surely she could say who stole it. She was the same cunning woman the palace had consulted about the sweating sickness, when it seemed a few courtiers were getting sick a fortnight ago. William shivered. He loathed illness as much as Prince Henry did, and hoped he himself would never be affected, but, unlike the Prince, William never shunned those who needed a strong shoulder or a cup of ale. Jesus himself had never turned his back, and so nor would he—a lowly follower. Of course, the Prince had to take care because his was an important life, and someday many people would depend on his rule. William's life was less significant, he knew. Still … it was significant to him.

“Farm Boy!” said Prince Henry, grinning broadly when William entered the study. “You're late. I thought we might have to send the hounds out for you!”

“Sorry,” William responded, grateful for the Prince's goodwill. He scratched the spot on his neck, now bloody, and then brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Good hunting this morning?”

“Yes, very excellent hunting, my friend. We hung one big buck and spied two others.” William felt a quick rush of envy at the Prince's prowess, although he himself didn't care much for hunting. Somehow, in his company, the Prince made everyone feel this way—lucky to be looked upon kindly, and in awe of his presence. William wasn't sure how he did it.

“I'll be out again tomorrow—hope we do as well,” Henry continued. “Saw a wolf, too, horrible mangy creature. Took a shot, but somehow its carcass eluded us. I'll have to pay a visit to MacQueen on Saturday and see what he has to say for himself.”

William sat down and didn't reply. The Prince's loathing of wolves was based on superstition and not on any real evidence, quite unlike the way Henry usually formed his opinions. Best not to talk about it, for one couldn't contradict the heir to the throne. All of God's creatures had a right to dignity, and wolves were no different, in spite of their perceived threat to the King's lands. William considered the cub, concealed in the shed, and tightened his mouth in a firm line. It might be one of the last wolves in England for all he knew. Alone and separated from its family. For a moment, William thought of his own family and how, just as the wolf was alone, he himself was alone, here at court—small and powerless. Just then the door opened and three other boys stormed in, followed hot on their heels by the tutor.

“All right, young masters, take a seat, take a seat,” said the elderly teacher, rubbing his hands together, the white hairs on his thumbs bobbing up and down. William wondered joylessly if perhaps this old scholar wasn't descended from a troll, or worse.

“Before the conjugations we'll have the definitions,” continued the tutor enthusiastically, white froth already appearing in the corners of his mouth. “And anyone not responding will write out lines.”

“I'd rather lie in a ditch and be bowled with turnips,” muttered William. Henry shot him a wink and the other boys sent each other agonized glances.

“Vocare!” the tutor crowed, pronouncing the “v” as a “w” as with all Latin words.

“To call!” the boys said in unison.

“Pugnare!”

“To fight.”

“Videre?”

“To conquer,” said two of the boys, faintly, while the others remained silent.

“Wrong!” sang the tutor. “Videre, vides, vedet, vedemus … to see! You see?” he grinned at his own lofty pun, displaying blueish gums with uneven yellow teeth.

“We'll start with that conjugation,” he said firmly. “On paper, twenty times over, begin!”

William groaned inwardly. The definitions were tedious, but having to write out conjugations was even worse. He knew better than to show his discomfort, as he had often experienced the tutor's quick temper. William often got a beating on account of the Duke, for if Prince Henry was caught in error, the other boys—and William in particular—were required to take, on Prince Henry's behalf, the blows of a stout stick. No one, as far as he knew, disciplined the Duke of York. Being a prince had some advantages, although William himself would not have appreciated the fussing Prince Henry bore over his person.

William's mind darted back to the old woman and the servants' tales. They'd said she was a cunning woman for sure, and could prevent cows from giving milk, and cause ewes to die in labor. William was suspicious of these accusations. His farm background told him that animals often strayed from human requirements—nature's way of extracting power from humans, or so his father said. Still, if she could bring back the Church's communion cloth, that would be a blessing.

Now he picked up his pen and dipped the nib into the ink, tapping it gently so it wouldn't blot. As he started with the conjugation, he thought of the wolf cub and nodded to himself. First, he'd better get through Latin and French, tedious as they were. And hunting practice, where he would have to struggle with the bow and arrow. Prince Henry was the best hunter and thus the bar was high for the rest of them. But after the evening meal, William would go back and see what he could do to help the cub. Possibly the wound had poisoned the whole of the creature, and it would already be dead. But possibly it could be mended. Under every ill, there was something—a wound, or a festering sore—feeding the trouble. He knew you had to cure the underlying cause before you could make things right.
Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,
he thought wryly, steeling himself for the task that lay ahead.

4
The invitation

AS KATE GOT off the bus at King's Cross, she kept thinking about the incredible experience she'd had. As with a complicated math problem, she turned the details over and over in her mind, hoping things would balance. The explanation—that she'd come across a movie set—went quickly out of favor. Things did not die on movie sets, and that deer was definitely dead. Dead as a doornail, Gran would say. She shuddered at the memory of its fallen form, its final attempt to rise, and then the sense of life extinguished. And the young man's glittering eyes at his triumph over the poor creature. Could she have stumbled on a traditional hunt of some kind? In a part of London she'd not seen before? These ideas did not seem plausible, but there had to be a good explanation. Suddenly, she heard a low voice behind her.

“You're home early, aren't you, luv?”

It was Hal, a boy from the sixth form, striding up beside her. He was a few years older than she was and totally cute. She'd seen him around the school and she knew all the girls admired him. Once, at the school's tube stop, he'd teased her about being too fond of a library book. She remembered the incident clearly because of the way the other girls responded.

“Look at Big Apple,” Cynthia had whispered, her mean little eyes dancing. “Has she always been that red?”

“Ever since she fell off the tree,” Tiffany responded.

If they were jealous then, they'd be really jealous now, thought Kate. What could she say to this guy? She wished she could think of something smart. He seemed to be coming from the King's Cross tube station and she wondered what he was doing. She'd never seen him in this neighborhood.

“Do you live around here?” she blurted.

“No, but I'll walk you home.” He seemed to be assessing her, his eyes roving from her feet to her head.

She started walking and he kept step beside her, putting a hand on the small of her back.

“A nice afternoon if it doesn't rain,” he said. As if in answer, a few drops fell, and then a few more, until it was drizzling steadily and Kate picked up her pace. What could she say to this guy? And why was he walking with her?

“See you,” she said, finally, stopping in front of her building. She agonized at her awkwardness, but Hal was looking up at the etched stonework, the carved words
London House for Overseas Graduates
standing out clearly in the dusky afternoon light.

“Funny name for flats,” he said.

“It's university apartments,” she said, and then, using the British term, “Flats. It's a residence for people who already have a university degree from somewhere else.”

“You don't say,” he said. “So what degree do you have?”

“Oh! It's not me,” she said. “It's my sister. Willow. She finished her B.A. from New York State, and then she worked as an understudy in the Blue Man Theater Company, and now she's studying here at RADA.”

“The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts,” said Hal. “Blimey. And the Blue Man troop? They're famous world over! Did she shave her head and paint it blue and everything?”

“Yes,” said Kate, trying to relax. “It looked really funny, all bumpy where her hair used to be, and the blue paint was pretty radical. She's still got short hair, but nothing like it used to be.”

“Must have been quite a sight,” he said. “Like a blue Sno Cone.”

“Well, not exactly,” said Kate, her awkwardness returning. Whatever Willow did to her looks, she always managed to be chic and artsy. Kate took a furtive glance at herself, at the way her coat puffed out over her wool skirt making her look about two hundred pounds.

“She's doing
Henry VIII
,” she blurted, grabbing for a thread of conversation.

“She's playing Henry?” asked Hal.

“No, of course not!” said Kate before she realized that Hal was teasing, and then she felt silly for missing the joke.

“I've often thought of trying my hand at acting,” he continued.

Kate stared at him, unable to think of what to say next.

“All the men in my family have been good-lookers,” he said, winking at her. “I suppose I'd be a natural talent.”

“Oh, it takes—” Kate started and stopped. She was going to say it takes more than looks, but that wouldn't sound very polite. “Willow likes acting,” she amended, feebly. “A lot.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “In fact,” Kate went on, desperately, “she … she really loves acting.” Why couldn't she think of something amazing to say, something that would make him fall madly and hopelessly in love with her forever? Instead, her mind was as soggy as the gray sky overhead.

“Today's Friday, isn't it?” he said. “I'll pick you up at seven if you can be ready on the dot,” he continued, his grin carving a charming dimple into one cheek.

It wasn't a question, but Kate, blushing wildly, started to answer.

“Well, I can't tonight—”

“Of course you
can
,” said Hal, and looked at her with his twinkling blue eyes. “The question is whether you
will
. I think you should—unless you have something better to do?” His gaze seemed to see right into her brain, and the dull evening that stretched before her. “But maybe you're busy with one of your stuffy books.
The Properties of Physics
, maybe?”

Kate opened her mouth but no words came out. How had Hal remembered her library book? It must have made quite an impression.

“Do you … I mean, have you read …” Kate began.

“I have a good memory for things I like,” Hal interrupted, as if reading her mind.

“Do you like physics?” she asked, stupidly, hearing him snort with laughter.

“Only in principle,” he responded. “I don't like books as much as the people who carry them about. Come on, then, it's Friday night. You know you've got nothing better to do. I'll meet you at the corner at seven.” And that settled it. They had a date. A date! Kate wished she could think of something interesting to say.

“Don't be late, now. Seven sharp,” Hal told her. He stepped forward—was he going to kiss her? Then Kate somehow lost her balance and toppled against the black iron fence that surrounded the front garden. She righted herself just in time to catch another wink and a grin before Hal turned and sauntered back the way they had come, eventually disappearing around the corner.

Her legs felt like limp spaghetti. He was so good looking! And so much older. And … and she was so dismal. She wished she were like Willow: tall, slim, stylish. But, she sighed, she was only herself. Dumb and dumpy.
Dumpty!
she christened herself wryly.

Tonight, she resolved, brushing her wet cheek, she'd be more fun. Boys liked it if you acted cheerful. She had seen the other girls giggling at school, flirting with guys they liked. She practiced a small giggle out loud. It sounded so squeaky that she despaired of it ever impressing Hal. “Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear,” Gran would say. Sighing, Kate opened the gate, wishing she could just jump in the shower and come out a different person.

She wondered if Hal had been waiting for her at the station. She knew he didn't live around here because he always took the tube in the other direction, so he must have been hanging around King's Cross for some purpose. The thought of him lurking in the shadows gave her an odd feeling. But how else was he to find her? They hardly ever saw each other by chance. A warm rush of pleasure filled her chest and her heart beat faster. He was at least two years older and all the girls at school were crazy about him. But why would he be interested in her? She picked the dirt out from under her thumbnail. Maybe he just had a thing for short, plump redheads. As she stood thinking about how cute he was—his red-gold hair, his broad shoulders—her eye fell on the withered roses that hung their heads against the fence.