To Crown A Rose

by Anne R Bailey

  To Crown A Rose

  Anne R Bailey

  Edited by

  Vanessa Ricci-Thode

  For my husband, who always stands by my side.

  Contents

  Also by Anne R Bailey

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part II

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Afterword

  Also by Anne R Bailey

  Forgotten Women of History

  Joan

  Fortuna’s Queen

  Royal Court Series

  The Lady Carey

  To Crown a Rose

  Other

  The Stars Above

  You can also follow the author at: www.annerbailey.com

  Prologue

  1533

  “You foul b—”

  The glare she turned on her husband, Henry Grey, stopped him in his tracks. He staggered a moment later and grabbed onto the table to steady himself.

  Frances’s attention moved to the shattered glass before the fireplace. Another precious heirloom lost. She focused on the glass to keep her own anger in check. There was no point arguing with him when he was like this. Her husband was a drunk and an imbecile, but mostly he was a disappointed man who clung to his dreams.

  “I’ll send you away from court. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “And what will that achieve?” She couldn’t help herself from lashing out at him.

  The threat was very real; as her husband, he could send her wherever he wanted, but she did not mind being sent home to Bradgate.

  “I won’t have to see your simpering face and be reminded of your failure to procure me a position on the King’s council.”

  She rolled her eyes. He was being absurd. Had he forgotten she had no power to give him what he wanted? Perhaps he had deluded himself before their marriage into thinking that marrying the King’s niece would help him climb the ranks.

  Frances pulled at the black stitches of her sleeves; she had other things to worry about. Tomorrow was her mother’s funeral, and she would play the part of the chief mourner, and then, perhaps, she would escape to Bradgate and give her husband the reprieve he so desired.

  Women weren’t highly regarded these days. Just a few weeks ago Queen Catherine had finally been tossed aside. Her crime was having produced only one living child — a useless girl.

  Now the distasteful Anne Boleyn sat on her throne.

  The world was unfair but this was no surprise to her.

  Part I

  — Ten Years Earlier —

  Chapter One

  1522-1523

  As she ran, she could only get glimpses of the sky and the manor behind her. The golden stalks whipped at her face as she ran with increasing haste to get away from the house. When they had arrived at Westhorpe to escape the sweat in London, the wheat had barely reached her knees.

  This wasn’t what she dwelled on as she ran — her mind was focused on escaping the mournful cries of her mother. Westhorpe was supposed to be a paradise — a safe refuge for them — but now her brother was dead. Had it been her fault?

  This thought made her run even faster. Her gown held up in her hand like a peasant girl, her headdress fallen off somewhere. She wanted to run and never be found.

  A stone jutting out of the ground sent her flying face first into the ground.

  She coughed up dirt and wiped away the debris that stuck to her face. She was finding it hard to breathe now. There was a shooting pain in her ankle. Finding herself unable to stand, she wrapped her arms around her knees and started crying.

  She thought of the words she had said to her brother two days ago. How she wished he would disappear and leave her alone. She was terrified that she had placed some curse on him and now he was truly gone.

  He was her friend. She hadn’t cared that their parents had seemed to prefer him. They played games together and had their own secret code that they used to pass messages to each other. That was all gone now.

  Sometime between her sobbing and regrets she had fallen asleep, utterly spent in the wheat field. When she awoke she was confused about where she was. The first time her eyes fluttered open she saw a vision of blue and gold. The sun reflecting through the stalks of wheat. She was completely engulfed by the rich yellow shoots.

  She remembered how she had planned to run for the forest and live there with the fairy folk. She propped herself up on her elbows. Her ankle still hurt but not as badly as before. Her dress was definitely ruined though. She froze when she heard a hissing sound coming towards her. Was that a snake?

  Suddenly, the field no longer seemed so welcoming and beautiful.

  She opened her mouth to scream out but another hissing sound stifled her cry in her throat. She whipped her head to the right thinking she heard rustling.

  Finally, she inhaled and let out a cry for help.

  But who was around to hear her? Surely, she was going to die — eaten by a giant snake, but no less than what she deserved.

  Now there was definitely the sound of something moving through the wheat. Frances gave a yelp as she was overtaken by a big grey dog. It licked her face and barked happily. With a great sense of relief, she recognized it as one of her father’s hounds — she had named him Jasper after the woodsman who had brought in the yule log and had a head of grey hair as grey and wild as the dogs’.

  “What happened to you, Frances?”

  Her father’s bulking form was looming over her now. She couldn’t make out his face. He was merely a dark shadow, but after a moment’s hesitation, she reached out to him.

  “Papa.”

  He crouched beside her, examining her ankle.

  “Why did you run away from your nurse?”

  “I—I… Mother was so sad.” Frances found herself choking on an explanation. “I fell, there was a snake for sure but Jasper scared it away.”

  She heard her father sigh heavily. “I don’t think there was any snake. Come, this is no time for your childish antics.”

  He scooped her up in his arms with ease and began walking back to the manor. Frances watched Jasper trotting beside her father, a great lolling grin spread on his face as, every once in a while, he would go running off after some rabbit or mouse that caught his attention.

  She wished she could be just as carefree as him.

  “Papa, what will happen to Henry?” The question was burning in her mind, and she couldn’t keep herself from asking.

  “He will go to Heaven and we shall pray for his soul.”

  Frances could see how his eyes went dark and his face seemed to have sunken with renewed grief.

  Another question was burning in her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask if he wished she had died instead of Henry.

  Rather than risk hearing his answer, she clutched her arms around his neck tighter.

  “His name is Henry.”

  Frances’s hold on her younger sister’s hand tightened as she regarded the bundle in her mother’s arms.

  She had not gone into confinement with her mother, as she was still too young, but she was old enough to understand that her mother would emerge with a new sibling for them. Still she was shocked to hear that her parents had chosen to name their new son after her departed brother.

  “For the King, his uncle,” her mother continued as if reading her mind.

  “He very small,” Eleanor babbled as she examined the pale creature.

  “He is very small,” Frances corrected but Eleanor ignored her.

  This little meeting was interrupted by their father’s sudden arrival with an arm f
ull of gifts. When he kissed Frances on the cheek she could smell the wine on his breath. He had been celebrating the arrival of his heir for two days now.

  He turned away from her.

  “How is the little Lord today?” He peered down at his newest son.

  “Strong and, God willing, continuing to thrive,” Mary smiled up at her husband.

  Gently, he picked up the swaddled baby and walked with him around the room. Frances followed his every movement. With every smile and cooing noise, she felt her heart tighten as if someone was gripping it in their hands.

  She knew this new baby boy was important. He was her father’s heir, but why did it seem like he loved him more?

  Ever since the death of Henry a little over a year ago, her father had been distant with her. He had doted on her mother when she was with child and now seemed to devote all his attention to this new son. Was Henry easily forgotten and replaced? Was she so unimportant that they could ignore her?

  She bit her lip to stop herself from crying. That would only get her sent away from her parents. She couldn’t suppress the fresh swell of bitterness she felt towards the pale creature in her father’s arms.

  When the baby gurgled, he was handed back to the wet-nurse to be fed.

  “I shall go hunt you a stag for your dinner!” Charles pronounced, kissing his noble wife.

  “Papa, can I come too?” Frances had gotten quite good on her pony.

  But he was already half way out the door by then and had not seemed to hear her. Deflated she looked to her mother who was fixated on the feeding baby.

  “Come along, Ladies.” Their nursemaid led her and her sister back to their rooms.

  Eleanor was still too small for lessons, but Frances was confined to the school room learning Latin, French and music. She excelled at none of these, much to the dismay of her teacher, Doctor Skeron. He berated her that she did not apply herself for she had excellent parentage. Her mother amazed the court with her skill playing the lute and clavichord.

  Whenever Frances stumbled over her French, he would chastise her, saying that she was bringing shame upon her mother who was the Dowager Queen of France, no less.

  Deciding his pupil was too distracted today for proper lessons, he let her go back to the nursery with her younger sister. There, Frances was subjected to endless needle work. She almost wished she was back in her mother’s room looking at the baby.

  “You are using the wrong thread. It will have to be redone.”

  Frances cringed at the words and frowned as she watched the nurse pluck apart the crude stitches she had done.

  “If you don’t focus you shall never learn.”

  Frances wanted to stick out her tongue at the nurse but held herself in check. She didn’t need to be scolded or punished for bad behavior. She was no longer her father’s favorite and certain he would laugh at her antics.

  Chapter Two

  1527

  Suffolk Place in the spring time was lush and beautiful. The gardens were always meticulously maintained. Frances was sure her mother had all the flowers planted to keep the smell of London out of their house.

  It was a cloudy day and she decided to chance a walk around the garden. She turned to her companions with an air of authority and told them of her plans.

  “We shall take a stroll through the gardens today.”

  It didn’t escape her notice the way they threw hidden glances at each other, but Frances was not concerned. After all, who were they to her? They had been brought to Suffolk House to complete their education in the household of the Duchess of Suffolk and to be her companions.

  Frances took this to mean they were her inferiors, and, perhaps by breeding they were, although they tended to excel her at dancing and music. So she never forgot to take the opportunity to enforce her authority over them.

  After all, she was the King’s niece, her mother had been the Queen of France, and she was the daughter of a Duke. They were mere daughters of knights in her father’s service.

  Her mother had done them a favor taking them in.

  Frances always walked before them, maintaining some level of precedence, but she still enjoyed conversing with them.

  “Is it true your great-grandmother was Elizabeth Woodville?”

  “Yes, she was a descendant of the Royal house of Burgundy,” Frances said, her chest puffing out proudly.

  Louise sniggered. “And a squire.”

  Frances stopped in her tracks. “What did you say?”

  “Her father was a mere squire. I heard she only married the King through witchcraft.”

  “It’s true. Her mother was convicted of being a witch, and she was only saved because the King was bewitched himself and forgave her,” Madeline chimed in.

  “That is not true,” Frances spat. “It’s nothing but lies. I shall tell my mother you have been slandering my family. Perhaps the King will have you thrown into the Tower.”

  Louise blanched but Madeline only shrugged.

  “We can’t be in trouble for telling the truth.” She studied Frances with a critical gaze. “Perhaps you are a witch too. My mother says you can tell if the person has a blemish. Don’t you have one on your right shoulder?”

  “It’s a beauty mark. I am not a witch.”

  “Maybe,” she replied with a shrug.

  Frances was ready to throw a fit but what could she say to make them believe her? She would speak to her mother. This was unacceptable.

  “I wish to continue walking alone. You shall walk five paces behind me,” she huffed.

  They did as she asked them to.

  The matter was dropped for a week, but Frances found her hand reaching for the mark on her right shoulder. Was it really the mark of a witch? She prayed more fervently and never took her eyes off the priest during mass. Surely, a witch would burn up at the sight of the cross or the taste of the sacrament on her lips?

  She was mad that she had let Louise and Madeline’s teasing get to her like this. She exited her mother’s rooms and began looking for her companions ready to tell them off.

  Frances finally came across them in the gardens. She was instantly annoyed that they had disappeared from her rooms. Weren’t they supposed to wait on her? Their giggling stopped as she approached. It did not escape her notice that Madeline hid something in the pocket of her gown as she curtseyed to her.

  “What is that in your pocket?”

  Madeline stepped back nervously. “It’s nothing. Just a trifle.”

  “Show me,” Frances demanded, extending her hand.

  She did as she was bid and beside her Louise shifted on her feet. Madeline placed an object cool to the touch in Frances’s palm.

  Frances examined the colored stone wrapped in red string. On one side a strange figure was engraved on it. She passed her finger over it. It almost looked like Greek letters though she did not recognize which one.

  “What is this?”

  “A charm.”

  Frances’s eyebrow went up and without needing to be pressed more Madeline explained.

  “It’s a love charm. If I keep this with me until the end of the year I shall find my one true love.”

  Frances flinched. “Magic?” Dropping the object on the ground as if it had burned her. Madeline was quick to scoop it up and place it back in her pocket.

  “It’s just something we got from the market. Some old spinster was selling potions and charms.”

  She stepped forward to whisper so they wouldn’t be overheard. “Some say she’s a powerful witch.”

  “It is forbidden! You could get into a lot of trouble if you get caught.”

  “It’s harmless. Besides the girls in the town say she is a good witch not the kind that gets burned at the stake. She goes to church.” Madeline smirked. “I’m surprised you are so high and mighty given that your grandmother enchanted King Edward under an oak tree or so my mother says.”

  Frances bit the inside of her cheek.

  “Those are lies. I shall tell my moth
er you are spreading slander about our family and then we shall see who is sorry.”

  Louise was tugging at Madeline’s sleeve as if to stop her from engaging further in this.

  “Well anyways,” Frances regained control of her temper. “I am sure that woman is a charlatan, and I hope you know that you have wasted all your pocket money on a useless charm.”

  “Why don’t you go see her for yourself? Who knows maybe you might see some family resemblance.” Madeline whispered this under her breath but Frances heard and clenched her fists.

  “You are right. I shall go see her — to denounce her for what she is!”

  Frances tried readjusting the ill-fitting dress for the umpteenth time.

  “You are fine. Stop doing that or you’ll draw attention to yourself.”

  “It itches too.” Frances couldn’t stop herself from complaining.

  “Probably has fleas.”

  Frances bit back a cry but couldn’t stop her hands from itching at the bodice some more.

  The trio had snuck out into the busy streets of London — they had claimed they were giving alms to the poor after Mass but instead left to go to the market. The other girls seemed to know the way better than Frances, and, for once, she let them go ahead of her.

  Madeline and Louise had helped each other change in the stables before helping Frances. They dressed in borrowed gowns from the maids.

  They walked past what Frances could only describe as the Goldsmiths Street — shops lining the street advertised their wares in the large window panes. Signs hanging out of doors were decorated with names painted in gold lettering like “Edward’s Fine Jewelry” and “Green’s Gold”.