I squared my shoulders at them both. Damn straight. Lucinda Parker may have the demeanor of a Tudor princess, but I had four hundred years of human evolution on my side. I could take her.
Alice smirked at me, reading me like a book the way only Alice Grey could.
It was a relief to discover that Lucinda Parker was easy to get along with and a decent lady of the bedchamber. What bothered me was that she was so freaking good at everything. Her accomplished presence judged me through my attempts at memorizing the strait-laced almain dance, the bumbling beginnings of my French lessons, and my first wobbly tune on the virginals. She embroidered better than me, danced me under the table, played the lute like the Tudor version of Eric Clapton, and never once looked at me like she was jealous of my relationship with the king. My imagination wasn’t nearly as restrained. Without effort, I could see Nick kissing her, whispering in her ear, gripping her tiny waist with his perfect hands. The thought of it hardened my stomach to rock, chased by an urge to barf. When he returned, surely he would see that she was a thousand times better suited to a queen’s role than I was.
At least Lord Mayberry had arranged countless amusements to keep us all distracted, and my ladies and I were treated to dance concerts, masques, plays, acrobatic displays, and a four-hour organ recital that was more sleep-inducing than any opiate.
One Saturday after dinner, the choristers of the chapel royal staged a special performance for the peers of the court. The Duke of Norfolk stood at the back, rudely chattering to Lord Wharton through a breathtaking solo sung by a nine-year-old boy. It hit me that Alice Grey hadn’t spent much time with Lord Wharton since my arrival feast. I didn’t know if it was what I’d said about Francis Beaumont crushing on her, but I didn’t dare bring it up. The last thing I wanted was to encourage her back into Wharton’s arms, who was about as affable as Norfolk.
After the concert finale, the duke hung out near the Great Hall’s exit like a security guard, bowing to my ladies and me as we passed.
“Mistress Grace, it must please you to have a maiden so accomplished as Mistress Parker join your household,” he said, his sky-blue eyes giving away none of his dislike for me.
Fortunately, I’d had a few acting lessons in my day. “Oh, I haven’t thanked you yet for bringing Mistress Parker to court,” I said to him, offering Lucinda my sweetest smile. Hers was so freaking gorgeous that it nearly blinded me. “I’m delighted to have her in my service.”
Lucinda fidgeted with her jeweled belt, blushing at me. She dipped her head at Norfolk. “My lord, I am most thankful for your petition to bring me here. I owe you my gratitude for allowing me to provide for my dear daughter.”
My forehead pinched. I hadn’t been aware that Lucinda’s employment at Hampton Court was helpful to her baby.
“I am certain you shall find a most worthy husband,” said Norfolk, ignoring the mention of the bastard child. “You are so fine a lady that there is no man in England who would not desire to court you.”
No man in England who would not desire you—including its king. Another strike aimed at me. I made sure that Norfolk heard my bored exhale as I swept the girls away without so much as a polite farewell.
As the days dragged on, I tried not to think about Nick at sea—or in the vicinity of the polished Princess Henriette—while my ladies and I strolled through the privy gardens, continued my lessons, sewed in my chambers, read poems, and attended performances.
“So many merriments even without the king’s presence,” Alice commented during yet another masque. She smirked at me. “His Majesty is showing the court how important you are.”
The sparkle in her eye caught me. I’d never considered Alice much of a romantic, but she was becoming more flushed by the day over my courtship with King Nick. It was reassuring to have her blessing, even though she still had no idea who I really was or where I came from.
The masque concluded with a ceremonial dance, before the Great Hall transformed into a feast of pepper eel, honeyed pigeon, and roasted swan devoured to the bones. While the courtiers danced up a storm, I kept an eye on the arched entrance to the Great Watching Chamber. Alice skillfully averted Lord Wharton’s advances, her eyes also glancing toward the king’s doorway every so often. It struck me that I wasn’t the only one waiting for a cute boy with blue blood to stride through the archway. Francis Beaumont had also been away from court for an awfully long time.
That night I lay awake, cursing myself for eating rich foods to the point of bursting, when images of my mom’s kitchen drifted into my restless vision. I’d been so distracted by improving my Tudor skills that I’d stopped thinking about my life in the modern world. It reminded me of when my dad left and I’d started to forget about him—almost like he’d died. I could see that happening to my other life now: having it slip into nothingness like it never even existed. I swallowed the heavy thought and focused on counting how many days Nick had been away: seventeen.
It felt like seventeen years.
Seventeen long nights turned into thirty-four—feeling like thirty-four years of waiting—until a blast of trumpets on an otherwise routine Wednesday morning declared that the King of England was finally home.
I escaped the chair where Bridget had been pinning my hood and dashed to the window, pressing my face to the grimy pane between the lattice frames. Alice appeared beside me, but all our looking was pointless because we couldn’t see the river from here.
“I think he’s back,” I said.
“Which means Francis, too,” she added, biting away a smile.
We fell back from the window and grinned at each other, nearly laughing. “I knew I should have washed my hair this day last,” Alice said with a moan.
“Goodness, and I,” called Bridget, still in her nightcap. Beyond the windows, distant murmurs of activity reached us from the adjacent servants’ section of court.
“Shall I have a maidservant pour a bath?” said Lucinda she glanced up from her pallet bed. “There is certainly much time until His Majesty will wish to see the ladies of the court. He may not call for us until supper.”
I didn’t think she meant any offense, but Alice stepped forward. “The queen’s ladies are capable of running our baths, Mistress Parker. We need not trouble the maidservants. Furthermore, His Majesty will wish to see his betrothed in haste, and Mistress Grace must be made ready for the king. Two attendants should suffice.” Alice grabbed Bridget’s arm and yanked her toward my dressing room.
“Thanks, Alice,” I said quickly. “But I could use Lucinda’s help, too.”
I’d never called Lucinda by her first name before. Her eyes softened with gratitude. I appreciated Alice’s militant protection of me, but I was determined not to freeze out Lucinda Parker because she’d once dated Nick. Even if she had slept with him.
The atmosphere relaxed over a fashion parade of gown options and a bowl of fresh strawberries soaked in sweet wine. By the time we were appropriately blinged up, the three of us were in fits of giggles over one of Bridget’s gossipy stories involving an earl and a pair of slippers. The temperature was above average for late summer, and I lugged open the oak doors to let in some fresh air.
I gasped, nearly falling backward. Nick Tudor stood on the front step, taller than I remembered, more tanned—and more beautiful, if that was even possible. For a moment, we both froze with shock before his lips curled into a half-smile. I just about lost my legs. We were being watched, so I sank into a quivery bow.
“Dear God, Emmie.” The emotional words escaped his breath as he pulled me close, a stunning whiff of roses enveloping me through his tight hug. A sheathed sword swinging from his waist knocked against my thigh.
“You’re back,” I said into his freshly washed hair. I could see the claret-colored shoulder of one of the guards behind him, hear the shuffle of Alice’s footsteps beside me, but everything drew me to Nick, and I clung tightly.
The muscles in his back tightened as he pulled away, his eyes locked on something behind
me. “Good God, it is Lucy,” he said, a little breathless.
Lucy?
I swiveled, my heart rising to choke my throat as Nick strode past me to offer Lucinda Parker his hand. She fell to one knee and kissed his bronzed skin. When she rose again, her eyes shone, her body language mimicking his. It was as if I could feel the tight braid that tethered Nick and I snap free and begin frantically unraveling.
“May I inquire after your daughter?” Nick said to her, his voice like ripples of silk.
She beamed. “Elinor is well, Your Grace. We call her Ellie. She is presently lodging with her grandmother, undoubtedly already learning her way around a card table.”
Nick chuckled. “Your mother is a dear lady. I miss her on occasion.”
The ground felt like it shook beneath me, and I jerked backward, colliding with Alice’s bundle of skirts. Regardless of etiquette—or even sanity—I couldn’t be in the room one more second. Lucy? Really?
“I’m finding it warm in here, so I’m going to head out for a bit,” I blurted, sounding hollow. “The lavender is so pretty at the moment, especially with those white butterflies. You guys have seen them, right?” OMG, Emmie, you mumbling fool!
I lurched past Nick, but his fingers caught my arm. “My lady, you may first accompany me to dinner,” he said smoothly. “I am quite famished after such a journey.”
“The king flatters our lady with his personal visit and invitation,” Alice said behind me, subtly reminding me that rejecting the king’s direct invitation would be unthinkable.
Nick dipped his tousled hair at my curtsying ladies and led me out the doors.
Our arms rubbed together through our silks as we crossed the small courtyard. “So how did it go in Calais?” I said without looking at him.
He sighed. “The alliance is presently secure, and the Spanish appear to have retreated from the channel.”
“That’s great.” Relief loosened my tight shoulders. “I knew you’d pull it off.”
I wanted to reach for his hand—to play with his fingers again—but there was the whole ‘Lucy’ thing; plus, there was something so formal about striding through court with the king. The guards announced his presence at every turn, and courtiers would bow like their lives depended on it, never meeting Nick’s eyes or turning their backs on him. I gathered my skirts so I wouldn’t trip as we ascended the stone staircase leading to the king’s apartments. Sometimes he wasn’t my boyfriend, he was just a monarch—so frustratingly untouchable.
“What was the French king like?” I asked him, genuinely curious about the omnipotent sovereigns of sixteenth-century Europe.
“I must say that Henry was rather ordinary,” Nick replied. “Shorter than I remember and quite gaunt. He refused my invitation for a cheerful wrestling match. I suspect because he feared he would lose.” I could tell that this pleased Nick. He didn’t bring up Henriette, and I felt a touch looser in my shoulders.
The Great Watching Chamber had been reorganized into a dining room for the most important men at court, with competing aromas of savory and sweet dishes. The nobles bowed at Nick from their chairs ordered by rank, with the Duke of Norfolk in prime position. His staring eyes were a pair of daggers in my back as we passed through to the king’s private dining chamber.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” Nick said to me as we sat down at opposite ends of the long table. He rumpled his dark auburn hair with his fingers.
“What do you mean?” I replied, my cheeks hot. After so many weeks of craving Nick’s return, something felt uncomfortable between us. His reaction to Lucinda Parker had thrown me; I’d felt the chemistry between them, not to mention that I couldn’t forget how accomplished she was compared to me. Another barf.
He brought a gleaming wine cup to his lips. “You seem not at ease.”
“Oh no, I’m fine,” I said, the reply an obvious lie.
He cleared his throat, helping himself to a bread roll. “Well. You may wish to hear that, as part of the treaty terms, King Henry has proposed a marriage alliance between his brother and the Princess Catherine.”
“You mean Kit?” I blanched. “But she’s eight.”
“It is a betrothal, Emmie, not a marriage until my sister comes of age.” I couldn’t believe how delighted he looked. While the idea of French royalty didn’t stink, it was still an arranged marriage for an eight-year-old.
“How old is this French guy?”
Nick dipped his bread roll into a saucer of melted butter. “The Duke of Anjou is twenty and five.”
I nearly dropped my slice of mustard chicken. “Twenty-five? That’s a massive age difference. Don’t you want Kit to marry someone she loves?”
Eyes of glistening sea-green flashed at mine. “I must protect England against Spain. A marriage alliance with France is more important than ever. It will bring peace to the realm.”
My stomach sank. The political marriage alliance was supposed to be between Nick and Henriette until I came along and refused to play the role of mistress. Was poor Kit to be the trade-off? Marrying an old French duke that she’d never even met?
We sat there chewing in restless silence while servants and gentleman milled about, trumpets blasting beside my ear at the arrival of every deluxe dish. Memories of our private picnics on the grass at Robin House stirred my chest. Maybe being the king’s secret mistress hadn’t been such a terrible option after all. At least it meant some privacy and no arranged marriage for Kit.
Nick’s knife clinked as it dropped to his plate. “For the love of God, Mistress Grace. I beseech you to tell me what vexes you.” Lines of concern crossed his brow.
It took me a moment to clarify my thoughts. “This is all so amazing,” I said honestly, my eyes circling the overdone extravagance. “I’ve never seen anything like it. But I haven’t seen you for more than a month, and I guess I want some time with my boyfriend Nick, not King Nicholas, if that makes sense. It’s just…there’s always so much pomp. And a heck of a lot of people.”
I knew my words sounded foolish. In this world, Nick was a divine creature, appointed to rule by God’s hand. How does one even separate man and king?
The perceptiveness of his reply stunned me. “You wish for less formality and more seclusion.” He flicked his silk napkin over his plate. “I understand. I have missed four and thirty dinners with you, and I could hardly bear it.”
Thirty-four days. He’d also counted.
“Mister George,” Nick said without raising his voice. One of his gentlemen appeared through a tapestry that’d been sliced up to hide a secret door. “Pack up some of this. Make certain to include wine, and water for Mistress Grace.”
“Pack it up, Your Grace?”
“In some manner of pouch,” Nick said with annoyance. He gave an order in French to one of the gentlemen, who dashed off ahead of us.
“What’s going on?” I said as we both rose to leave the table.
Nick gestured toward the Great Watching Chamber. “This way, my lady.”
The visibly confused nobles rose again over half-eaten platters of meat as we passed back through the chamber and descended the king’s staircase to the clock courtyard. A discreet series of twisting corridors spilled us out into the majestic gatehouse that guarded the road entrance to Hampton Court. We crossed the stone bridge to where two saddled horses stood snorting and stamping their hoofs. A groom whose skin was overrun with zits was tying leather pouches to the saddle of Nick’s mocha stallion. Another boy gripped a pair of my riding boots.
“You’re kidding,” I said through a breath, rushing to my favorite horse, Stella, and running my palm across her furry side. “We’re going riding?” I beamed at Nick like an idiot.
“Riding and dinner. And, dear God, I have dreamed of that smile.” He looked at me in a way that roused a butterfly swarm in my stomach as I tied on my riding boots.
Nick mounted his horse in a single, swift motion while I fumbled with two grooms to clamber atop my neighing mare. The king clicked his tongue,
and our horses lurched into a trot past the iron-tinged stench of the slaughterhouses and into the grassy hunting park. The guards who accompanied us kept their distance as we accelerated to canter across miles of wooded fields and swampy meadows, eventually stopping at a thin stream that gurgled contentedly through the wild landscape. A stone wall peeked through the gnarled trees. We must’ve reached the perimeter of the palace grounds.
Nick helped me climb off Stella, sweat slipping down his brow. He offered me a leather pouch of water before pouring some for the horses. I finally had him all to myself in this secluded space. I was so giddy with happiness that I could’ve turned cartwheels.
“This is perfect—thank you,” I said. “But no picnic blanket, velvet cushions, and golden flasks this time?” I added cheekily.
Nick’s lips curled into his dimples. “I thought that surely there would be less mockery if we did this the Emmie Grace way—without the fanfare. Of course, however, mockery is the Emmie Grace way.”
I bit through my smile as he untied a leather satchel from his horse, whipping out leftovers from our fancy-pants lunch that were wrapped in linen. He unrolled the strips of cloth and laid the portions of bread, chicken, lamb, and beef out on the grass, swatting away a hovering bee. It was like watching the president of the United States make his own coffee.
I forced away an aching desire to have things with Nick this simple all of the time.
But here, alone with him, seeing him behaving so informally, I couldn’t restrain myself. A moment later, I was reaching, drawing him into me with both hands.
He sighed as our lips connected like magnets. We kissed hotly, the king tumbling backward as I practically tackled him. For several glorious minutes, I let myself fall into the gooey sweetness of Nick Tudor again, tasting sweet wine, mint, and berries. The perfect Nick-flavored cocktail.
Emmie and the Tudor Queen Page 6
