My toes squished the cloth lining the bathtub as I climbed over the wooden edge, landing on a linen sheet. After I’d dried off and slipped on my smock, I dunked the ewer into the bathwater and carried it out to Bridget.
“Where can I put the water?” I said to her. “Is this the best way to empty the bath?”
She swerved away from her sewing. “Oh, my lady, I will attend to it.”
“It’s okay; I want to help.”
She wrestled the ewer from my hands. “Forgive me. I must complete my tasks, or I may be relieved of my duties.”
With a sigh, I relinquished the ewer, reminding myself that Tudor folk were comfortable with their rigid master-servant roles. I didn’t need to call extra attention to myself by challenging the system.
After Bridget had rubbed my teeth with mint water and a tooth cloth, she dressed me in a pretty ivory gown embroidered with hundreds of tiny botanicals. She fixed my hair into a plaited bun and pinned a pearled hood over the top, before handing me an embroidery hoop, a silver thimble, a pincushion, and a monster-sized needle. I barely restrained a sigh of annoyance. Had I seriously just spent an hour getting dolled up for a spot of sewing in my private chambers?
Good morrow, obedient Tudor lady of the house. Prithee, would thee sew with me?
There were some upsides to the tedium: more than an hour spent stitching the tentacles of a giant caterpillar distracted me from fears about Nick facing the Spanish Armada. I was glad for the company of the chambermaids who flittered between the rooms, changing the sheets and brushing down the outer pieces of my gowns. A French tailor turned up to take measurements for my new wardrobe, nattering to himself while making notches in a long strip of parchment. As the morning progressed, I soaked in as many tips as I could about the protocols of the Tudor court.
Nonetheless, I was ready to toss my mindless needlework into the fireplace when one of Nick’s gentlemen of the chamber arrived to request my presence for dinner with the king.
OMG, finally. Presence freaking granted.
We carefully crossed the cobblestones that were still slick with rain and headed upstairs to the heated splendor of the king’s Privy Chambers. The gentleman instructed me to wait in the Presence Chamber, so I hung out beside the stone fireplace that smoldered with chalky logs. So much for a normal relationship…things felt even more formal than before.
The king appeared within minutes, sending away a flock of councilors with a flick of his wrist. He strode toward me with his confident gait, his hypnotic eyes sending searing heat to my stomach.
“Forgive me,” he said, taking my hands. “The feast last night brought many distractions.” He wrapped himself around me like we hadn’t seen each other in months, smelling as amazing as ever. Gah.
Guards parted in smooth succession as we clung together and strolled through Nick’s withdrawing chamber, study, and library before reaching his private dining room. The walls gleamed with cloth of gold, absorbing the rich smells of the roasted meats and pies drowning in tangy sauces—every dish presented with the fanfare of trumpets. There were so many servers fussing over us that I couldn’t ask Nick if there’d been any developments with the Spanish conflict. As I forced myself to eat beef pie with my fingers, I imagined fixing him a tuna melt sandwich in my Hatfield kitchen, which inspired a pang of longing that surprised me.
Nick distracted my thoughts with our usual effortless chatter, and by the time we finished dinner, we were canoodling our way into his drawing-room. He followed my eyes that counted at least six people in the tight space; there were two pages stoking the fire, a long-haired boy blowing into a flute, guards policing each doorway, and a servant holding out a fruit platter that must’ve given him carpal tunnel syndrome. It felt like the least private living room on earth.
“Now that you are my betrothed, we should be watched when we are alone to make certain there is no question that you are pure,” Nick explained, cuddling me from behind. “There is to be no uncertainty about our son’s legitimacy.”
The thought of falling pregnant at my age tightened my stomach. A son? Yikes.
“What if we have a girl?” I couldn’t help but dangle. “We can call her Nicky.”
He spun me around with a strained smile. “If we are blessed with a daughter, we will make her a suitable match.” His knuckle stroked my cheek. “The son of a great king.”
“So now our baby is getting married? Holy smokes, I’d like to have at least met the guy first.” My gaze flashed across the room, but none of the attendants showed any signs of listening.
“Do not torment me with talk of our babies,” Nick said, relaxing into a chair. “I can imagine nothing sweeter.” He hooked his boot around the leg of an opposite seat and slid it close, cocking his finger for me to sit with him. “Besides, as much as I yearn for the day you take to your childbed, I also fear it in great measure.”
He swallowed tightly and didn’t elaborate, but I knew what he meant. Postpartum deaths were common in Tudor England, and pregnancy could steal a woman from the world at any moment—and the baby. There were no medical hospitals, antibiotics, or nurses like my mom.
With both of us happy to change the subject, we played cards and teased each other with kisses until a gentleman strode in and bowed, clutching Nick’s traveling cloak.
“Already?” the king said with dismay.
“The congregation has gathered at the royal barge, Your Majesty,” the coat holder replied, his chapped lips trembling. “Forgive me; you wished to be informed without delay. The tides are now favorable.” Another attendant fluffed the king’s feathered hat.
Nick chugged the remnants of his wine and reached for my hand. His dimpled cheeks had reddened. “Emmie, I have come to a decision to sail to Calais. I shall meet with the King of France at first light on the morrow.”
“Oh?” A chill spiraled up my neck.
“Spain is acting in a most provocative manner, and God willing, I must save the alliance, or we risk many men. You know I desire only peace and stability, but if there is to be war, we must have France side with us. We cannot allow Spain and France to unite their faith and mount an offensive.”
“Of course.” My stomach roiled at the thought of him leaving Hampton Court practically five minutes after I’d moved here. I still had so much to learn about court etiquette, and now I’d be alone. “Can I go with you?” I said.
He ran his palm over the back of my hand. “You must know I desire nothing more. I just won you back, and to part again feels intolerable. But there is no way for you to come; we have not the time to make ready your presentation ceremony. Besides, I must make peace with King Henry about what came to pass with his sister Henriette.”
Hearing Nick say his ex-girlfriend’s name scorched my chest. He tilted into my line of sight, reassuring eyes of translucent blue holding mine. “You need not feel troubled about Henriette. You know that I love you with all my heart.”
I nodded, fingering the silk ridges of his embroidered sleeve. I didn’t say it out loud, but I feared that one look at Henriette’s royal family would be all it would take to remind Nick how much more suited she was to him than me.
He stood up, cueing the men to drape the cloak over his broad shoulders.
An idea struck me with sudden clarity. “Should I go back home while you’re away?” I said, hopping to my feet. “I mean to Worthing,” I added for the benefit of all the ears in the room.
The shock in Nick’s face was startling. He knew precisely which home I was talking about: Hatfield in modern-day Massachusetts, not Worthing in sixteenth-century Sussex.
His brow pinched with visible hurt. “My palace does not please you?”
“Of course it does, it’s just…I thought it might be a good opportunity.”
Nick’s eyes clouded with the sort of anxious fear that I’d seen before—twice. It was the same expression he’d had after I’d disappeared back to my world without intending to ever return to Tudor England. A few days earlier, I’d pro
mised Nick that I’d never do that to him again.
“Don’t worry, we can talk about it later,” I said, reaching for his fingers.
His gaze searched mine while the gentlemen fluffed up the feather in his hat. “Enough,” the king snapped, and they scurried away.
“With all this Spain business, I have been careless in reporting news of your household,” Nick said to me a little shakily. “Suitable ladies and attendants are being appointed as we speak. Construction of your apartments is already afoot. I have instructed the Master of the Revels to keep your person and your ladies merry in our absence. I pray you will come to feel at home here.”
My shoulders felt rigid as he wrapped his arms around me. “By God’s grace, be safe,” he said, nestling his soft lips into my neck. “My heart remains here in your hands.”
Tears sprang to my eyes without warning. Nick Tudor was about to leave for France on a primitive sailing ship that could sink at the first sign of a storm. What if he came home with a renewed marriage alliance with France—or worse—never came home at all? Before I could gather my words, he was already striding away from me, the blue-diamond ring glinting from his third finger.
The next day, I woke to the rich smells of roasted meats that reached my bed from my dining chamber, more lunchtime aromas than breakfast. I must’ve slept late. My toes disturbed the creaky floorboards, and Bridget burst into my room to dress me, explaining that one of my new lady attendants was waiting in the next chamber.
“Oh, you should’ve woken me.”
“I was commanded to leave you at rest,” she said, tying on my sleeves. Her tight coral-colored gown accentuated her generous curves.
“Next time, you can wake me,” I insisted, a little frustrated that Nick now wanted to control my sleeping schedule. I would’ve liked to have at least been up before dinner, which—to be fair—was at ten o’clock in the morning in this place.
The dining chamber greeted me with fragrant wafts of cooked rosemary and lemon. I stiffened as Alice Grey glanced up from the circular mother-of-pearl table. She rose to curtsy at me.
“My lady, may I present your new lady of the bedchamber, Mistress Alice Grey,” said Bridget. “She is the daughter of the—”
“I know Alice,” I cut in with a chuckle. But the woman who had been my closest friend at court refused to meet my eyes.
We all sat down, and I appraised the spread of roasted chicken and lamb, a tower of meatballs, at least twenty white bread rolls, and a platter of carrots carved into Tudor roses. The perfect breakfast for a lion, or perhaps a Neanderthal man.
Alice washed my hands in a bowl of rosewater, a nervous tremble between our fingers. “It is rather strange,” she said evenly. “Queens usually choose from their own relations for their households. But, then again, Mistress Grace is not yet the queen.”
The words hit with the punch of an insult, which wasn’t like Alice at all. I dropped a chicken leg onto my plate that I couldn’t imagine eating, and not because I’d just woken up.
Bridget’s painted eyebrows fluttered with excitement. “According to the Lord Chamberlain, a third maiden has been called to court to attend to your household but has not yet arrived.”
“Have mercy on us if the Sackville ladies should be forced upon us,” Alice replied, scratching beneath her hood.
Bridget giggled. “Did you hear what occurred this winter last between the Sackvilles and the Lennards?”
Alice nodded with a grimace.
I bit into a peppery meatball, working hard to keep a smile on my face. It was hard to watch Alice and Bridget chat about the upper-class connections they had in common, reminding me how lowborn I was and out of place here.
“I do wonder who the new maiden shall be,” said Bridget. “Perhaps somebody with a devilishly handsome brother?” She spun to me. “My lady, may I ask when you came into favor with his most gracious Majesty?” She blinked with what looked like pure envy.
I instinctively glanced at Alice for help, but she rested her chin on her palms, watching me.
“The king and I got together this summer,” I replied, my face a furnace. “We kept it on the down-low for a bit.”
Alice finally chimed in, but it was far from a rescue effort. “You may recall that Mistress Grace purported to be visiting Whitehall on behalf of her father in the summer,” she said to Bridget. “Mistress Grace took pleasure in flirtations with several noblemen—Viscount Hereford was the first, if I remember—before climbing the tallest tower in all of Christendom and snatching the king from the arms of the Princess of France. It is truly a tale for the theatre.”
Bridget smiled politely through fuchsia cheeks. My gaze fell to my plate until the browned chicken skin and carrot chunks began wobbling through my swelling tears.
“Excuse me, I just need some air,” I said, sliding my chair back and making a beeline for the drawing-room. I shook open my folded coat, wrapped it around my shoulders, and headed outside to the courtyard.
A war with Spain, threats from the Duke of Norfolk, the expectations of becoming an accomplished Tudor queen, and now my best friend Alice Grey turning against me. Coming back to 1580 was starting to feel like a mistake.
4
I kept glancing over my shoulder to see if Alice had followed me, but only a pair of brooding guards trailed me through the stone corridors bordering the clock courtyard. Most of the courtiers had vanished upstairs for dinner, so I grabbed my chance to explore more of the palace without the constant stares and scrutiny.
Strolling along twisting galleries, I paused to admire paintings of Nick’s achievements and magnificent biblical tapestries threaded with gold. I passed a gallery of canaries in ornamental birdcages to reach a library with leather-bound books stacked horizontally. Two men who were evidently late for dinner sat arguing on a bench beneath a stained-glass window. Their troubled eyes deflected to me—probably thinking I was a poor exchange for Princess Henriette of France—and I escaped back outside. Carpenters and bricklayers milled about the courtyard, swinging planks of wooden scaffolding into place. Was this where my new apartments were being built? I shivered. It was too weird to think about Hampton Court Palace being redesigned because of me. How would that change the future?
I breathed through my tense stomach, becoming irritated by the guards who wouldn’t get off my back. They lingered in my peripheral vision like goons from a mafia movie.
Nick! No one’s going to attack me in broad daylight.
Ducking into a windowed corridor near the palace entrance shook the guards off my tail—at least until they located me again. Relieved to be free of them for now, I stepped into a smaller courtyard crowded with wagons, pack horses, and servants clothed in cheap leather doublets. The sour stink of rotting vegetables attacked my nose. Horses’ hooves clopped along the cobblestones while servants unloaded sacks of sugar and barrels of cabbages and cauliflower. The trademark Tudor opulence was gone, and I’d clearly crossed into an area of court where I didn’t belong.
With the main passage obstructed by an enormous cart carrying a mountain of firewood, I proceeded down a thin, doglegged passage that opened into a sunless corridor. Now it was the stench of fish that sent my palm to my mouth. I lurched toward the more bearable smells of roasting meats in the next building.
I felt the intense heat of the raging fires before I saw their furious flames snapping the air, practically searing my skin. A sweaty servant fanned smoke toward the windows as I registered the sequence of blazing fireplaces, each one gigantic enough for me to stand inside. Perspiring cooks in sooty aprons sat beside the open hearths, turning massive spits threaded with chunks of meat.
A man whose pleated coat failed to cover his ample belly slid sideways through the trestle tables to reach me. “Good morrow to you, my lady. May I be of help?” he said, wiping his hands on the frayed ribbon supporting his hose.
“I’m a bit lost,” I replied, salty sweat dripping onto my lips.
“If you are unaccompanied, may I ca
ll for one of the lords?” he said with a frown. “This is no place for a lady.”
“It’s okay. I’m just leaving.”
Escaping into the next corridor, I tripped over a cluster of men lying on sacks who were either asleep or three sheets to the wind. I knew that Nick wouldn’t like me being here. I stumbled my way back into the burning-hot roasting kitchens, slamming into the master cook’s burly chest.
Emmie Grace: making a spectacle of herself since the day she was born!
“The lady is here, Your Grace,” the chef stuttered with the sort of servitude that made my eyes search for the king. But when the chef stepped aside, it was the Duke of Norfolk who appeared behind him. Wanting to shake myself for losing my bearings, I had to follow the duke’s forest-green cape like a naughty schoolgirl back through the stinky warren of kitchen corridors. When I recognized the windowed passage leading back to the western courtyard near the palace entrance, I thanked the duke and glided past him.
“I have more important tasks than chasing after a featherbrained girl,” he uttered behind me.
“I was just going for a walk and lost track of where I was,” I said over my shoulder. “Is that a crime in your neck of the woods?”
Norfolk cut in front of me, blocking my path. He smelled almost as good as Nick: like sandalwood and vanilla.
“His Majesty has traveled to Calais,” he said to me.
“I’m aware.”
His prominent lips pursed. “The truth is that I desire war with the cod’s-headed Spanish, but our king desires peace, and it may be too late. The French may never forgive His Majesty for disgracing their princess—the daughter of a king—for no more than a common upstart from Worthing. Make no mistake, they are mocking King Nicholas in France as we speak.”
Norfolk’s glare declared that I was to blame for England’s latest troubles, and even though I’d never admit it to him, he wasn’t exactly wrong. Yet I had no intention of ever leaving Nick, and my chest crushed with a burning need to win over the duke. He was supposed to be the one to help me. Would he address me this brazenly if the king were still here?
Emmie and the Tudor Queen Page 4
