Emmie and the Tudor Queen

by Natalie Murray

  Nick’s warm hand cupped mine. “I will present you to my most favored nobles, and we may then retire. You must be wearied.”

  I swallowed alarm as the king stood up, guests scrambling to their feet in response. Servants carried away plates of half-eaten marzipan treasure chests as the courtiers left the tables and huddled into groups like a networking event.

  Showtime.

  The first man brave enough to approach us was the Earl of Dorset, who was the same height as me and shaped like an upside-down egg. He bowed to the king and kissed our hands.

  “I have had the pleasure of seeing you at Whitehall, madam,” he said to me, subtly tugging at the sash stretched too tightly around his waist. “It grieved me to hear of your family’s demise.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly. “It’s been a difficult time.”

  It was a necessary lie, but it still made my jaw clench with guilt. I reminded myself that lying to people in this place was going to become my full-time job.

  The conversation had barely begun, but it was immediately exchanged for introductions with the Lords Chancellor, Chamberlain, and Privy Seal; a tipsy mayor of London; and several earls and barons, including Lord Ashley, who I’d once saved from choking. It was all so different from the days of the Palace of Whitehall. Rather than secret trysts with the king behind closed doors, I was now openly by his side, presented to the most important men in the country as his chosen bride. My nervous panic was beginning to feel like motion sickness.

  “The woman who has bewitched the King’s Majesty,” called the baron Lord Wharton in an insulting tone as he approached me with Alice Grey behind him. Beneath a pearled hood, her wavy hair was woven into a cluster of braids pinned with fresh flowers. Alice hated wearing her hair up.

  Despite my efforts, she wouldn’t meet my gaze and angled her neck past my shoulder like she was more interested in whatever was happening behind me.

  The baron’s face held a sinister smirk beneath his walrus-style beard trimmed into two points. “Mistress Grace, do I recall your person from Whitehall, when the king proclaimed his betrothal to Henriette of France?” he asked. Bringing up Nick’s former fiancée was a clear strike at me.

  “I can’t say; you’re not familiar to me,” I couldn’t help but reply. My eyes flashed to Nick, but he’d stepped away with the new French ambassador.

  Wharton pursed his lips. “I understand that your late father was a physician?”

  “That’s right. Doctor Martin Grace from Sussex. Worthing, to be specific.”

  I knew I was sounding like a dingbat, but the baron was already edging his way into the king’s conversation as if I’d bored him, rudely angling his back to me.

  Alice and I were left alone. “Welcome to Hampton Court, madam,” she said to me, curtsying stiffly in her prune-colored gown. “It greatly pleased me to receive the happy news of your betrothal to the king.”

  “Thank you. It’s so good to see you.” I smiled nervously, breathing in the cinnamon scent that was an Alice Grey hallmark.

  She didn’t return the smile. “It seems the circumstances of loved ones may change substantially without any caution at all,” she added coolly. “As you are quite aware, I have come to suffer this knowledge on more than one occasion.”

  The smile slid off my face. I’d never seen Alice angry with me before. Her mom once vanished from court without a word—just like I did several weeks ago. Was she pissed at me for putting her through the same thing again?

  A pair of arms pierced the tension between us, offering two cups of wine. It was Francis Beaumont in a stark-white coat strikingly draped over a doublet of emerald green. He looked as suave as always, but Alice scarcely glanced at him as she strode back to the baron.

  I accepted one of Francis’s cups. “Are Alice Grey and Lord Wharton a couple now?” I asked him, taking a large sip of wine. I already knew from Google searches that Alice was destined to marry Francis, at least until I first arrived in the sixteenth century and began influencing their relationship. If she married the snide Lord Wharton instead, she’d die in childbirth. A lump grew in my throat.

  Francis huffed into the lip of his cup. “Ask me not about the fancies of Mistress Grey. The lady has refused to speak with me since your disappearance from court.” My tight grip on the cup slackened. At least Francis was still crushing hard on Alice. There was hope for them yet.

  We watched the king swallowed up by a cluster of fawning men.

  “I must rescue His Majesty from this weariness,” said Francis, dumping his cup onto a server’s tray.

  “Are you upset about Nick and me?” I cut in before he could step away. “About our betrothal?”

  His coal eyes pinched at the corners. “I take pleasure in anything His Majesty desires.”

  “Francis,” I urged. Maybe it was too much wine making me so insistent, but I didn’t care about the formalities or protocols of the court; I cared about Nick, Alice, and Francis. They were my people here, in a place where I had no family. I needed at least one of them to be real with me. “You said earlier that this was all a surprise,” I added, a little shakily. “But I’m starting to get the feeling that none of it is a good surprise.”

  His lips pressed together. “Mistress Grace, it pleases me without end to see His Majesty merry, and the affection between you is plainly genuine.” Once he’d rattled off the expected statement of loyalty, he dropped his voice. “A marriage, however? That will come at a cost higher than you can imagine. England is closer to peace than she has ever been, and our good king does not hunger for war. I wish not to see our realm come to ruin.”

  “To ruin?” It was hard not to let my offense show. “That’s the last thing I want.”

  Nick knocked past Francis to gently hook my arm in his, drawing the room’s attention with his natural magnetism. Was Francis right to be concerned? Had Nick really made a terrible mistake in choosing me over Henriette of France?

  “My dear love,” the king called loudly. The eyes of nearby gentlemen nearly popped from their sockets. “It will please you to see your uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, has presently arrived from his duties in Sussex for this most joyous occasion. His Grace received word only this morning.”

  A colossal man stepped through the throng in a navy coat trimmed with black ribbons and dotted with seed pearls. His sausage-sized fingers clutched a hat sprouting an ostrich feather.

  The duke dropped into a bow and kissed my hand. “My dear lady and precious niece. It pleasures me beyond measure to look upon you again.”

  I felt like I’d walked into a Shakespeare play, except I’d forgotten my lines. When had Nick had the time to convince the Duke of Norfolk to continue this fabrication about being my uncle? But if Norfolk was as thrown about the sudden engagement as everyone else, he didn’t let it show. Courtiers tipped their heads at the duke like he was the King of England himself, and he was legitimizing me to every one of them. I could’ve freaking hugged the old upper cruster. When the duke rose back to his imposing height, a thick gold chain swung from his chest.

  “Will you lodge at court awhile, my lord?” Nick said to him.

  “Naturally, with His Majesty’s permission.”

  “On condition that you wash in haste; you smell like a horse’s chamber pot,” Nick quipped.

  Laughter echoed through the hall, Norfolk’s loudest of all.

  The duke offered me a gloved hand. “A stroll in the courtyard, madam? All these haughty gentlemen…you must be in need of some air.”

  Nick winked at me, sending butterflies to my stomach, before turning into a circle of waiting courtiers that I knew bored him to tears.

  I smiled shyly at Norfolk, mentally latching onto him after his endorsement of me. He boldly took my hand, steering me out of the Great Hall and down a stone staircase that led to a drafty gatehouse. A sword swung from his hip as we strolled outside into the clock courtyard, where a smattering of drunken courtiers lay slumped on benches. I paced away from the stomach-churning sten
ch of barf at the base of the wall.

  The evening air felt slightly warmer with Norfolk around, like he really was my only family here. His face was attractive for an older man and sharply angled like it was carved from marble. I hadn’t seen my dad in months, but the thought of him still pierced my chest.

  “I appreciate you riding all this way to meet me, Lord Norfolk,” I said, hoping that was the right way to address him.

  “I bid you to call me Uncle Harry.”

  I knew that Norfolk’s real name was Henry Howard and that most Henrys here were called ‘Harry’ for short. He gazed up at the astronomical clock that presided over the courtyard. My eyes followed his, blown away by the giant disc of gold that was tinted cherry-pink by the last hour of daylight.

  “I have no true niece, you know,” Norfolk said to me. “Well, until now, I suppose. I will speak plainly; I had not supposed that King Nicholas would marry for pleasure. After the despair it brought to King Harry…to the Queens Mary and Elizabeth. However, I suppose that foolish desire is in the king’s blood.”

  My fingers curled, starting to feel the cold. “It’s not foolish desire,” I said in a small voice. “Nick and I have already been through a lot together, and this is the right thing.”

  Norfolk grunted. “How would a girl know any measure of what is right for a king?”

  We still faced the clock, the waning light masking the crease of disappointment that crept into my skin. Please, no. Not you too, Norfolk.

  “I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not,” I finally said, the hypocrisy of that statement shaming me in my period gown. “But I love the king, and I know he loves me. We just want to be together and make each other happy.”

  A bark of laughter burst from Norfolk’s throat. Before I could form a response, he took a lofty step inside the gatehouse beneath the clock tower. “Have you yet laid your eyes on this?” he called, aiming a thick finger at the stone ceiling.

  I steadied myself and gathered my skirts to follow him, gazing up. Among the intricate stone carvings in the vaulting was the image of a crowned falcon.

  “The falcon was the royal badge of Queen Anne Boleyn,” Norfolk explained, like he was narrating a documentary for the history channel. “When King Henry had Queen Anne executed for treason and adultery, he neglected to have the badge removed.”

  I’d read up on the Tudors lately. Anne Boleyn wasn’t a royal princess like Henry’s first wife, Katherine of Aragon, but Henry the Eighth had married her out of genuine, passionate love. When he tired of her and met Jane Seymour, however, he had Anne’s head hacked off with a sword.

  A burning torch in the wall morphed Norfolk’s striking face into that of a monster’s.

  “The necks of foolish girls in love are highly desirable, Mistress Grace. You would be wise to take good care of yours.”

  He made a small bow and left me there, frozen solid beneath the relic of a besotted young queen who’d gambled her life on the heart of a Tudor king…and lost her head for it.

  3

  I hurried back upstairs and into the warmth of the Great Hall, but Nick’s calming face was absent from the thinning crowd of courtiers. There was also no sign of Alice Grey, who must’ve called it a night. I asked after the king, and a guard ushered me into the Presence Chamber. Aside from the guards, Nick and Francis were the only men in the room, and were speaking intently beside the canopy of estate.

  My instinct was to back away, forever out of my depth on important Tudor matters, but Nick spotted me and ushered me over. Francis had been addressing the king, but when I approached, the earl’s mouth clamped shut.

  “You may speak freely in front of your promised queen,” Nick ordered him. “Inform Mistress Grace what you did me. There will be no secrets between us.”

  Francis’s throat bulged in a tight swallow. “Madam, I have it on good authority that a squadron of Spanish warships was sighted this night in the English Channel.”

  I felt the blood leave my skin. “Warships?”

  My reaction sent Nick stammering like he was embarrassed. “Four ships, which is hardly a fleet. King Philip seeks peace more than I, given the mess he has made of the Low Countries. It is no more than a pretense.”

  Francis gripped his hat so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “Sending warships as a mere performance? Majesty, Spain has more than a hundred ships like it…the strongest navy in Christendom.”

  “You need not remind me of King Philip’s admiration for his glorious self,” Nick said with sarcasm.

  Francis gnawed at his lip, unable to conceal his annoyance that I was privy to this discussion. I was more than happy to leave them alone, but I didn’t dare move. First the nobles disliking me, and now the threat of war with Spain. What had it been—less than a day since I arrived? Tudor England needed to take the intensity down a notch.

  Nick’s eyes flashed with anger. “My patience with King Phillip is at an end. That idiot seeks to increase my troubles while we are preparing for a new queen. We shall remain idle no more.”

  Francis stuttered through his nervous suggestion. “Majesty, before such a glorious occasion as the crowning of your chosen queen, I counsel you to propose a meeting with the King of France. If you sail to Calais in haste, you may yet save the peace treaty between France and England. When King Henry beholds the magnificence of the King of England in person, he will be persuaded. A visit of your sacred person is a pledge of commitment…an apology for what transpired with his sister, Princess Henriette.”

  Henriette’s name felt like a shard of glass in my throat, and Francis probably meant it to have that effect. She was the French princess to whom Nick had once proposed but then ditched for me. Now Spain was taking advantage of the severed marriage alliance between England and France by taking a swing at England. I wanted to disappear for my part in this unfolding disaster, but instead, I stood there, coiling my fingers into tight fists. Was Nick already regretting his decision to leave Henriette and marry me?

  The king drew a deep breath and then expelled it. “I will think on it. Inform the Lord High Admiral to examine the forts and make ready the beacons and warships.” Francis made a gracious nod as if he was accepting a gift. “My lord Warwick,” Nick added, “I am trusting you to see to it that the Spanish withdraw their provocation, or you will answer for it.”

  Francis bowed as he backed away, sweaty curls pasted to his neck. A flame of sympathy sparked in my chest for his thankless position as the king’s right hand, which had eclipsed the cheerful friendship they’d shared until now. Alice’s father, Thomas Grey, had the job before Francis and had been only too glad to throw in the towel.

  Nick scooped up my hand into his soft fingers. I was well acquainted with how my fiancé could flip from Jekyll to Hyde—the drawback to dating a Tudor king.

  “My love, we must part,” he said. “I must think on this issue of Spain.”

  His palm skated up my cheek, and I tilted into his touch. I brought my lips to his fingers and kissed them like they were strips of candy, one by one. A fluttery sigh escaped his mouth, and he turned into me. “Baby,” I whispered, wishing we could just be alone.

  A moment later, feet thudded, pikes detached, and members of the Privy Council began filing in, headed by the formidable Duke of Norfolk.

  Nick drew away from me and ordered the gentlemen to follow him into his council chamber. They disappeared through the Great Watching Chamber like a consortium of high-powered CEOs, leaving me alone beside a candelabrum of polished gold.

  A pair of polite guards offered to escort me back to my chambers, and I accepted with relief. I’d had more than enough excitement for one day. The opulent palace corridors and gemstones swinging from my earlobes would never get old, but as we headed downstairs to my rooms, I felt only the terror of Nick facing a medieval-style war. Having him hacked to bits by a Spanish sword was so not my idea of wedded bliss.

  Eager for sleep, I avoided chatter with Bridget Nightingale about the night’s events as she un
dressed me. I climbed into the warmed blankets and breathed in their orange scent, the oppressive silence clawing at me. At my home in modern-day Hatfield, my mom often left her television on, even when she was at work. Cars sped up and down our street at all hours. Dogs barked at annoying times. Here, the only background noise was a deathlike silence. I blew out the candle and rolled onto my side in the empty bed, my fingertips tracing the pattern of entwined vines embroidered into the curtains. A gentle pattering crept through the window, and I closed my eyes, relieved for the sound of falling rain. Just any sound at all.

  At the first blackbird’s cry, Bridget heaved open the window shutters like a boarding school mistress, leaving me to eat breakfast in bed and say my morning prayers. I sat up on the mattress and massaged the back of my neck while chewing crispy white bread and pondering the timeline of coffee.

  Bridget poured me a bath at my request, and I sank into the water strewn with fragrant herbs and rose petals. My fingers swirled through the cloudy liquid, circling the small scar from the old arrow wound on my thigh, which had healed nicely.

  My head exploded with thoughts about how I might help Nick with his war pressures. I wanted to be more than an obedient Tudor queen who decorated the king’s court as a silent symbol of piety. That was definitely—and hilariously—not me, but I was kidding myself if I believed I had any advice to offer about sixteenth-century European conflicts. Sir Thomas Grey’s earlier plan of a marriage alliance between King Nicholas of England and Princess Henriette of France was sounding more ideal for England by the minute. Now I’d woken up freaking out that Nick would regret his decision and send me on a one-way ticket back to the twenty-first century, where I’d never see him again.