Rose was beginning to feel a bit over-warm when the Doctor spied someone coming along the road that led to the grand building that dominated the landscape.

"Finally!" he exclaimed. "We can go talk to them and get some idea of where we are!"

"Doctor, I'm getting' a bit tired…OK if I go sit in that garden?" Rose asked, pointing to a nearby walled enclosure.

"Just don't wander off, all right?"

"I won't," she promised, with all good intentions, as usual.

The Doctor strode purposefully up to the approaching heavily-laden wagon. "Hello! I'm the Doctor. I've been out walking and got a bit turned around. Was wonderin' if you might be able to tell me were I am?"

One of the fellows walking beside the wagon chuckled merrily. "You've managed to wander onto the grounds of the Palace of Placentia, lad."

"Greenwich, then," the Doctor murmured.

"The King is in residence…lucky his guards didn't catch you."

"Aye!" one of the men walking behind the wagon added. "We're to be the royal entertainment this night!"

"Traveling players, are you?" the Doctor asked.

"John Goodfellow and Company," the first man introduced himself.

"What're you playing, then? A bit of Shakespeare? Marlowe, perhaps?"

"Who?"

"It's a bit of a pageant about the Battle of Bosworth Field," the driver of the wagon explained. "The King likes his family history, he does. Just as long as it's not too recent."

"This one probably don't even know what Bosworth Field is," one of the other players jeered. "Look at how he's dressed! Probably from so far out in the hinterlands he don't even know what king we're talkin' about!"

"Hush, Toby!" Master Goodfellow scolded.

The Doctor smiled blandly. "Well, since you mention it…"

John Goodfellow studied him carefully. "You're a strange one," he said thoughtfully. "You know that the Palace of Placentia is in Greenwich, but not the year, or the King's name? Very well, then. 'Tis the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and forty, in the reign of His Majesty, good King Henry the Eighth."

"God save the King," the driver intoned automatically, and the others echoed the sentiment with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"His Majesty is in residence with his new wife -" John Goodfellow began.

"-who he's lookin' to make his old wife," Toby interrupted.

"Hold your tongue, if you fancy keeping' it," the driver groused.

"Right then," the Doctor said suddenly. "I'll be off." He turned quickly and walked briskly back toward the garden where Rose was (hopefully) waiting for him. King Henry the Eighth - 1540 - a wife he was dissatisfied with…that would be Anne of Cleves, which meant he already had his eye on Catherine Howard, a pretty girl of about the same age as Rose. Definitely not a good time or place for her to be wandering alone.

Rose was glad for the shade of the small, enclosed garden. The grass was pleasantly damp and the air was fragrant with the herbs that grew there. She felt something soft and warm twine around her ankles and smiled delightedly at the black and white kitten. "Hello, puss-cat." She stooped and picked up the small animal, who promptly started to purr.

"Oh, what a darling!"

Rose turned to see a pretty girl about her age, perhaps a year or so younger, dressed in an elaborate gown and headpiece.

"Is he yours?" the girl asked, holding out her hands for the kitten.

"No…um, my lady," Rose added, belatedly bobbing an awkward curtsy. "He just wandered up to me."

"I love kittens! I wonder if I could take him back upstairs? I don't think the queen would mind, she's really rather nice, but Lady Rochford's a grumpy old cow!" She eyed Rose appraisingly. "You're the first person my own age I've seen since I arrived. Do you live here?"

"No, I'm travelin'. Just got here myself."

"My name is Catherine Howard. How are you called?"

"Rose."

"That's pretty," Catherine said, cuddling the kitten. "Would you fetch me some sweets? And perhaps sit and talk to me a while? It's so boring up there."

"Sure. Why not?" Rose agreed, curious as to why this girl who was dressed as a princess would want to talk to her. And something about that name was nagging at her memory.

Following directions she'd been given by a gardener, Rose made her way to the bustling palace kitchen. "Um, hello? The lady in the blue gown? Miss Howard? She asked me to fetch her some sweets."

"That's 'Lady Catherine' to you," one of the cooks scolded severely. "How they expect me to serve royalty with this kind of help is beyond me."

"Never mind her, luv," a motherly looking woman said conspiratorially to Rose, beckoning her over. "We all have to start somewhere. Just remember, when in doubt, it's always 'my lady.' I just feel sorry for that poor, motherless girl, that's what. Bein' ogled by a man old enough to be her grandfather." She handed Rose a plate filled with small, daintily iced cakes and a snowy white linen napkin. "Run along now, dearie, and don't forget to curtsy!"

The Doctor scanned the area where he'd left Rose, but couldn't spot her. He thought he'd seen a flash of blonde hair in the garden, but that girl had been attired in full court regalia. Why did they never, ever listen? Don't wander off. Not that difficult of a concept. Especially here, in a time and place with actual plague, and the Inquisition, and kings who liked to cut people's heads off, among other things. Oh, and let's not forget, one very particular king with a wandering eye.

That thought stopped him short. A bitter, broken, old man, enthralled with a pretty young girl. It hit a little too close to home.