Francis muttered to himself as he tipped the flickering candle to light the remaining wicks. “Damn orders. Leaves me to sleep on a damn stump while he rides into the damn night. Pay no heed to thieves and assassins, mind.”
“All good, Lord Warwick?” I said.
He ignored the question and threw open a cupboard, checking over the pewter plates and cups. “You should have ample provisions. The chambers are regularly made ready for the Princess Catherine.”
“How is Kit?” I said, a flicker of fear in my gut. The last time I’d seen Nick’s eight-year-old sister, the traitor Mathew Fox had nearly murdered both of us.
“By all accounts, the princess is well. Lodged at Kenilworth Castle and quite safe, grace be to God.” Francis stood watching me for several moments while rubbing his trimmed goatee. When he spoke again, his tone was brusque.
“It may be the king’s pleasure to seek holy matrimony with your person, Mistress Grace, and I yield myself to the will of our good and gracious king. However, I speak for the Privy Council, and indeed all the peers of the realm, when I say that this union does not come without surprise.”
Heat flooded my face. “I think we’re all a bit surprised,” I said in a small voice.
I instantly regretted the missed opportunity to sound more confident, but Francis was already making his escape.
He offered a small bow before he passed through the oaken doors. “I shall have a lady’s maid sent in haste to prepare your person for the feast. We cannot delay in announcing to the noblemen that their new queen is to be the daughter of a departed physician whom they have not had the pleasure of meeting.”
His suspicious eyes didn’t break from mine as he backed away, leaving my palms sweaty. I was getting the impression that my old mate Francis would’ve preferred Nick to marry the frosty French princess, Henriette.
But thinking about Nick’s loving words kept me from falling into panic as I explored the drawing-room, warmed by the signs of Kit’s previous stay here. A collection of carved horses, lions, crocodiles, and a spiky porcupine was piled inside a toy cart. A play castle stood guard beside it, dressed with wooden figurines of knights and ladies. I made a mental note to ask Nick if his sister could come to Hampton Court Palace so we could hang out again and she could read me poems that she’d translated from Latin.
Smiling at the thought, I meandered through the series of chambers, finding a dining chamber, another drawing-room with pallet beds for servants, a small garderobe with a medieval-style toilet, a dressing room, and a bedchamber with a hand-painted map of England on the wall. It was all a serious step up from my pokey old room at the Palace of Whitehall.
After placing the blue-diamond ring safely inside a jewelry coffer, I stripped to my smock and climbed into the four-poster bed hung with embroidered textiles. The silk bed sheets smelled like orange blossom.
My heavy eyelids closed without effort, sparking an image of Mom watching me. She stood smiling with her back against the laminate kitchen counter, a mug of milky tea in her hand. I’d never have moved so far away from her had it not literally come down to her or the boy I loved. My chest pinched, and I turned over, sinking my cheek into the feather pillow. I refocused my mind on Nick, remembering the way he’d flirtatiously kissed my palm on the rocky sand beside the river…the way his mouth had moved to my fingers, his soft lips skimming them one by one. The memory of his mouth near the blue-diamond ring sent my stomach into free fall. Through all the anxiety about being back in Tudor England, I’d forgotten that the enchanted ring was acting super weird last night! It had never taken more than one try to carry us through time like that before.
I rolled onto my back and gazed at the wooden beams intersecting above the bed. What if something was wrong with the ring? I still knew hardly anything about it, and why it even traveled to my time. What if its magic had finally conked out and I was here for good?
You are here for good, Emmie. You agreed to marry a Tudor king and become a sixteenth-century queen, even though you’re an eighteen-year-old from the twenty-first century who has no idea how to do those things. And you’ve been here for what feels like three minutes, and he’s already left you alone.
The thoughts kept coming, and it was a miracle I fell asleep at all.
Firm fingers jiggled my arm, stirring me from a restless sleep. My eyes opened to meet a ruddy-faced girl with a tangle of red curls escaping her lopsided hood. She curtsied, silky beige skirts fluffing around her.
“My lady, I am Mistress Bridget Nightingale, here to assist you. With your permission, it will honor me to serve you as a true and faithful subject.” Her squeaky voice was cute. She could’ve been a cartoon voice-over artist.
“Oh, hi, good morning,” I mumbled through sticky lips.
“Forgive the correction, but is afternoon, my lady. It is time to make ready for the feast where His Majesty will present you to his most favored noblemen.” She heaved me out of bed with the grip of a gorilla before handing me a silk robe.
“Thanks,” I said, throwing the robe over my shoulders and trailing her through to the drawing-room, even though the idea of being presented to the aristocrats made me want to hightail it back into the bed.
“I am still to make ready your chambers,” said Bridget. “Forgive me; there was no forewarning of your arrival.” Her cherry lips offered a nervous smile.
“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry.” It’s not like you knew a time traveler from the New World was heading your way. It’s cool, Bridge.
She brushed her hands on her skirts and shoved open the oak doors, nearly toppling over. I hurried to help her, and together we struggled to hoist a wooden pushcart strapped with a humungous chest down the stone steps and roll it inside. Bridget didn’t want me to trouble myself, but I insisted. Anything to feel like less of a queen-to-be and more of a normal person.
“Would you care for some water?” she said, sounding breathless. “Lord Warwick said that you favor it.” She grimaced, accenting the peach rouge on her round cheeks.
“Water sounds perfect, thank you.”
Sweeping a ginger curl off her neck, Bridget reached into a shelf at the base of the pushcart to retrieve a pewter jug. After pouring me some water, she guided me into a fringed chair. Next to appear from her bottomless pushcart was a cheese tart, a bowl of sugared strawberries, and a plate of freshly baked macarons. The sight sent butterflies to my stomach. Nick had remembered my weakness for macarons. My skin flushed hot at the thought of seeing him. How many hours had it been?
I sat and chewed the crisp meringues, feeling utterly useless as Bridget guided the pushcart into the dressing room. She soon reappeared, clutching a shimmering silver-colored gown embroidered with falling feathers. Artful slashes in the silver satin revealed blush-pink silk fabric underneath.
“You may choose any cloth you desire for the feast, but I much prefer this one,” she said, grinning through crooked teeth. All at once, I loved Bridget and could tell she would be a great help to me in navigating this court.
“It’s stunning,” I said, jumping to my feet. The perks of becoming a queen were beginning to show themselves.
I ate three macarons in a row while she dressed me piece-by-piece, beginning with several petticoats and one of those ridiculous hoop skirts. The fabric had been warmed by the fire and smelled faintly of lavender.
“How long have you been at court?” I said a little timidly. My instinct to make conversation with Bridget was matched by my fear that she’d ask questions about my life that I wouldn’t know how to answer.
“I was blessed to join His Majesty’s service in the year last.” Bridget tied on my skirts with the speed of an expert. “My father is the king’s Master of the Horse.”
She began attaching the sleeves of my dress, which felt heavy and expensive. It was a relief to have the company of someone fluent in all things sixteenth century.
“Thanks for helping me,” I said. “It’s good to have a friend here.”
Her wh
iskey-colored eyes widened. “My lady, it pleased me to no end to learn of your arrival. To speak plainly, when the Princess Henriette of France was in the king’s heart and lodged at Whitehall, she had little interest in English ladies for her household. Furthermore, Princess Henriette’s French maids were rumored to have desires of the most carnal nature. I wish to become a queen’s maid of honour.” She blushed. “I may then find a husband of mine own.”
“You’re looking for a hubby?” I smirked.
She giggled. “Most heartily. Is it just I, or are the noblemen becoming more handsome by the year? The Earl of Warwick steals my breath away.” I tried not to chuckle at her crush on the hot-tempered Francis Beaumont. “As does the Earl of Surrey and the gentlemen company he keeps.” A blush crept across her cheeks. “And, my lady, I cannot even speak of the magnificence of His Majesty. The king is the most divine person on which I have ever laid mine eyes. You are wedding pure beauty itself.”
Our cheeks blushed in unison. “And that’s no lie,” I said.
She tugged the silk kirtle over my head, lacing it so tightly that I gasped.
“So are there any courtships on the horizon for you?” I teased, trying to breathe.
“Heavens, no, for I am tainted. I fear I will never marry at all.” She sucked in a breath. “My cousin, Agnes Nightingale, is a known practitioner of the dark arts. It does not please the king, which is why my cousin was not granted permission to come to court and remains in Buckinghamshire.”
“Wow. I’m sorry to hear that.” In my time, magic was more of a party joke than a capital offense.
She reached for a velvet box, recovering her smile. “His Majesty had these sent while you were at rest.” She lifted the lid, unveiling a necklace of sapphires set in white diamonds with dangling earrings to match. Making jewelry had gotten me through plenty of hard times in my life, and I could’ve hyperventilated with excitement at the sight of the precious gems.
“Fortunately, our beloved king has never been enamored of ruffs,” Bridget said, fastening the cold gemstones around my bare neck. “I find that all ruffs do is hide the jewels.”
“And make people look like frilled-necked lizards,” I added.
She laughed politely at the joke she couldn’t have understood. I was pretty sure that Australia and its creepy animals were still blissfully unaware of European existence in this time.
I stood before a cloudy mirror. As cumbersome as the outfit was, the cushiony swarm of layers felt comforting…like the real me was buried so deep within the dress that I could hide from the nobles while presenting the facade of a Tudor queen. I’d seen how Princess Henriette of France had charmed the English courtiers with her stately Renaissance dances and fluent English, Spanish, and Latin—what would they think of Emmie Grace from Hatfield, Massachusetts? How would Nick feel about me if I failed to win over the peers of the realm?
These people are going to eat you alive.
Bridget tore an ivory comb through my hair. “Forgive me,” she said, frowning at my knotted curls. Once she’d separated the strands, she wove my hair into a waterfall braid and draped it with a delicate web of diamond flecks. The final touch was a sprinkling of perfumed oil over my head.
“My lady,” she said, spinning me to face her. “I am unable to accompany you to the feast, but I must speak my conscience and caution you.” Her expression sobered. “There has been much despair at court since Princess Henriette returned to France. While the gentlewomen could hardly bear the princess, the men adored her—a common tale. But mostly because of what Henriette represented...hope. For an alliance with France, but more so for an undisputed heir. A royal prince for the people to love.” Her kind eyes turned grave. “I admit that I know little of your kin, but I know you are not a blood royal. That puts you in danger of dislike by the noblemen. Do not let them frighten you, and never trust them. One alone may seem harmless, but together, they could make you vanish like smoke. Do you understand?”
When my mouth fell open, Bridget sank to her knees. “Oh, I beg your forgiveness, my lady. I have said too much. It is my greatest fault.”
I guided her back up. “No, Mistress Nightingale, thank you,” I whispered, already trembling.
2
The last time a perimeter of guards escorted me to the king’s quarters inside a Tudor palace, I’d been suspected of treason. Today, I felt like Beyoncé being ushered to the stage. I caught glimpses of passing courtiers gawking at me in my glittering gown as we ascended a staircase into the more secure areas of court. I swallowed a balloon of nerves. You got this, Emmie.
My layered dress swished noisily along an L-shaped gallery before we crossed the Great Watching Chamber and entered the Presence Chamber. A gilded throne with a crimson cushion sat on a dais beneath a golden canopy embroidered with the king’s royal arms. It might’ve looked cartoonish had Nick been perched on the throne holding a scepter, but instead he stood casually beside the smoldering fireplace, inspecting a crease in his palm.
He glanced up and lurched toward me, cupping my cheeks. “I missed you without end,” he said, pulling me close. The palace smoke was sitting heavy in my throat, and I gladly breathed in his scent of springtime and roses.
I could barely look at him without blushing. His claret-colored doublet and coat were slashed to reveal contrasting streaks of cobalt blue lined with gold. From the shimmering crown that circled his chestnut hair all the way down to his shining boots, he was a polished jewel in itself. See, Emmie? Everything’s going to be fine…this is why you’re here.
He smirked at me. “Ready to greet the finest nobles in the realm?”
I inhaled deeply. “Being the new girl is kind of my thing.”
Our hands brushed, our fingers clinging together as we passed back through the Great Watching Chamber, pausing at a set of double doors crossed with pikes. Guards in red liveries stood stiffly in all corners of the room. Nick released my hand to straighten his cuffs.
“His Majesty the King, and Mistress Emmeline Grace!” cried a herald, followed by a blast of trumpets.
“We will soon bestow upon you a worthy title,” Nick said under his breath.
“I didn’t know I needed one,” I whispered.
The pikes separated, and we stepped onto a platform at the eastern tip of the Great Hall, which would put any grand city cathedral to shame. Its hammerbeam ceiling had to be more than fifty feet high and was stunningly decorated with royal badges and fantastical creatures in vibrant shades of sapphire blue, ruby red, and metallic gold. Hundreds of lit candles crossed the space on wires, illuminating the gold thread in the sparkling wall tapestries and turning the cavernous chamber into a magical valley of light. Gentle music drifted down from the minstrels’ gallery as if sent from heaven itself. The country’s highest-born aristocrats were like extras in the theatrical scene, bowing to us from beneath the platform in their pearl-encrusted Tudor fashions.
“Okay, Hampton Court officially steals the show,” I said under my breath.
Nick’s voice exposed a quiver of nervous pride. “Before long, all my palaces will be ours to share.”
I squeezed his fingers, but what I wanted to say was: I only want you.
The king spoke calmly but held the room’s attention. “My dearest lords, it is with every pleasure that we proclaim Mistress Emmeline Grace our most dear betrothed. God willing, this precious lady has agreed to marry your true and faithful king and will make a most blessed queen.”
The lively music cut to a desolate silence as the sea of faces gaped up at us. The reaction was so arctic that I’m surprised I didn’t freeze solid on the spot. One guy with a pointed beard even glowered at me like he’d caught me double-dipping the ketchup and fries. What the...? When Nick’s forehead tipped regally forward, however, the nobles clapped politely and bowed. The crisp harmonies of lutes, violins, and oboes again floated from the balcony, and my shoulders loosened as the room’s chatter resumed. Had I imagined the icy reaction?
Nick and I crossed
the tiled dais strewn with perfumed rushes to take our seats at an ornate table crowned with a green-and-white canopy. Servants washed our hands with rose water while guests hurried into their assigned seats at trestle tables positioned around the hall’s edges. Nerves had dried out my mouth, so I threw back a shot of sweetened wine.
After the king said a prayer of thanks, the servers began their parade of dishes, offering slices of roasted eel, porpoise, lamb, turkey, pheasant, and swan. I hunted for vegetables but found only sliced citrus fruits artistically displayed like Chinese fans. A sweaty chef carved the turkey in front of the king and used a two-pronged fork to distribute it smoothly onto our gold plates. Nick grabbed a dark slice of meat with two fingers and slid it into his mouth.
Everything he did was adorable, but I raised my brows at him. “You saw that guy use a fork to pick up the meat to put it on the plate, right?” I whispered.
He licked his fingers. “I believe so.”
I leaned closer. “So you haven’t joined the dots on what else a fork might be good for?”
He reached for his wine, considering my question. I nearly disclosed the answer to my riddle when it hit me that I might bring the fork’s prevalence in England forward by a century or two. I’d changed more than enough history merely by being here. To divert Nick’s mind from my reckless question, I dug into the turkey with my fingers and probed him about our audience of stony-faced guests.
He whispered funny stories about some of the men sitting below us, thawing some of my unease. When he began discreetly caressing my fingers in his lap beneath the table, every inch of me fluttered.
While Nick briefly spoke with one of the passing chefs in French, I focused on surveying more of the crowd, nearly choking on my turkey. My old court bestie, Alice Grey, was watching me from the far end of the hall. Beside her sat a courtier with trimmed gray hair—the man I’d seen her dancing with at the Midsummer’s Eve feast. I tried to nod hello to her, but she didn’t look my way again through four more pungent meat buffets and an onslaught of sugary desserts. A chill blew through the drafty hall. I’d expected at least a smile from Alice.
Emmie and the Tudor Queen Page 2
