A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

  Overnight protest crept toward riot. Outside the gates of Buckingham Palace the outraged were more orderly than elsewhere, only carrying signs and shouting. But clashes between supporters of York and Lancaster were spreading. In Leicester, there were arrests; in Manchester two people had landed in hospital.

  No more kings, George had said. Had she thought it would happen like this? In blood and violence? Amelia had no way of knowing. The young royal was securely tucked away at her home at Kensington. All Amelia could do was carry on without her guidance and wonder if the ravens knew how to pick locks.

  Each morning Macsen, now her private secretary, briefed Amelia on her schedule and what was happening both inside and outside the palace. She had brought this about — she and Arthur. It was her duty to see it through.

  It took less than a week for headlines about how much half the country wanted a different queen to be joined by photographs of Helen Lawrence, Duchess of Water Eaton, being ushered through a side door of Buckingham Palace. Speculation spread like wildfire. Amelia wanted to trust Arthur, but Helen appearing at the palace wasn’t good. Not for Amelia, at any rate.

  *

  That night, the ministers came under cover of darkness. Amelia watched from her high window at Buckingham Palace as they in their black, rain-soaked trench coats and matching, inadequate umbrellas as they scurried across the gravel. They’d come to scold — maybe even threaten — Arthur for finding loopholes in the very constitution of the land.

  Amelia thought of George and her ravens and wondered, not for the first time, if she herself might be beheaded.

  She was startled by a knock at her door. She crept toward it cautiously; there would be a guard standing outside, hopefully, but who would come to her this late at night? And for what reason?

  To Amelia’s surprise it was George, as if Amelia’s thoughts had summoned her. Her honey blonde hair was damp and escaping its usual confines, curling around her ears.

  “What are you doing?” Amelia asked.

  “I came to see you,” George said, as if that wasn’t obvious and as if appearing at eleven on a miserable night was perfectly normal.

  “How did you get here?” Amelia stepped back to let Geoge into her rooms. She was glad she hadn’t undressed yet, uncertain if she could have faced George only in sleep clothes.

  George looked confused. “I walked.”

  “From Kensington Palace?”

  “From the Tower, actually.”

  “The Tower of London?” Amelia was shocked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You can do that?”

  George gave a small, elegant shrug. “I needed to check on the ravens. Who’s going to stop me?”

  Any number of people, Amelia wanted to say. Her parents. Her guards. Arthur. But George obeyed no laws except her own. “How are the ravens?” she asked.

  “They’re not happy. They don’t like being caged.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It’s my fault they were locked up.”

  George looked at her keenly. “Actually it’s my uncle’s for choosing you. It’s not your fault other people are afraid of you.”

  “There’s no reason to be afraid of me.” Amelia was quite sure she was the least frightening person in this room.

  George waved her reassurance away. “I came to talk to you. Are you well?”

  “I’m not sure,” Amelia admitted. She led George to the window and nodded at the grounds below, where another clutch of ministers huddled by the gate. “They’ve been coming and going all night.”

  “They blame you for pari passu. They want my uncle to set you aside.”

  Amelia nodded. She’d been able to figure that out for herself. “And yesterday, the Duchess of Water Eaton was here.”

  George tipped her head to the side. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “The entire south prefers her to me as a potential queen,” Amelia offered.

  “That’s because they know her. They don’t know you yet. They haven’t wanted to.” George shook her head. “But they will. The duchess isn’t your rival. Or your enemy.”

  “What would happen to the ravens if he did set me aside?” Amelia asked.

  “I don’t know.” George nodded to the men below the window. "They're ravens too," she said in a voice that frightened Amelia; it was not the the young royal's own.

  "Pardon?"

  "Caged. Humiliated. Pinned. They don't like it either, when you cut off their options."

  *

  The following day Amelia was summoned to Arthur’s office.

  She wanted Arthur to rise from behind his desk, take her in his arms, and hold her against the storms that threatened both of them. But she didn’t expect it, not really.

  Although Arthur stood when she entered he did not come out from around his desk. At his gesture, Amelia took a seat in the chair across from him.

  “Will you come to Canada with me?” Arthur said.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Of all the many things Amelia had imagined hearing in this moment, Canada had not been amongst them.

  Arthur continued as if his invitation were in no way peculiar. “It’s been decided that my first state visit as king will be to one of our recalcitrant Commonwealth countries. To show that they are important to us and to cool things down here by getting me out of England. The media could use a distraction. I’ve just been to Australia, and Canada is nearly as irritated with us as our own little island, so Canada it is.”

  Amelia was furious. “Irritated?” she asked. “Irritated? There are ministers visiting you in the dead of night telling you to set me aside! You’re having meetings with the Duchess of Water Eaton who more than half of the country would prefer you marry! The nation is moving toward violence, and you ask me to come to Canada?”

  Arthur had the good grace to look pained. “I can’t do anything about my ministers demanding an audience with me. I also can’t do much about the violence; although some decent and fair policy out of Parliament might help. Which is only going to happen if everyone stops being distracted. What I can do is normalize your presence by my side in social as well as public matters. Also, there’s the possibility that Canada will be charmed with a woman who’s young, beautiful, and somewhat an outcast — as they are themselves.”

  “You’re using me to manipulate Canada to stay in the Commonwealth and avoid your responsibilities here!

  “If we can make the Commonwealth like you we might just be able to pull queen pari passu off.”

  Amelia stared at him disbelievingly.

  Arthur raised a shoulder. “I never said this would be easy.”

  “No,” Amelia said cautiously. “You also never said it would be bizarre.”

  “Perhaps not,” Arthur said. “But do you want to get out of here with me? Just for a little while?”

  “I don’t like the idea of running away from our problems. Or the kingdom’s.”

  Arthur frowned slightly. “About that….”

  “What do you want me to do?” Amelia asked. Arthur was up to something, and she wasn’t sure she was going to like it. As usual.

  “You have to do something for the south.”

  “Because giving up my life and my name and my dreams aren’t enough?”

  “Amelia —”

  “The people making noise now are the ones who think London should conquer York once and for all, restart the wars, summon an army!” Amelia stood up in her shock and her upset. “Three hundred years ago they would have had my head on a pike! You want me to do something for them?!”

  But even as she spoke, she knew Arthur had a point, little as she wanted to admit it. And little as she expected anything good to come of Arthur’s suggestion. Or, frankly, the excursion to Canada.

  A muscle in Arthur’s jaw twitched. “Is that your only objection?”

  “My only objection! Arthur, three days ago Parliament voted down a bill for funding schools in Yorkshire b
ecause they don’t like me. Last week it was jobs. God only knows what it will be next week. How many objections do you want?”

  “Do you remember what I said to you, the first time I asked if you wanted to marry me?”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” Amelia didn’t sit down. She couldn’t bear to give up even that slight bit of ground.

  “I told you I’d make you a queen for your people. But I also said we’d unite our houses for the first time in centuries. Which means I have to make concessions for you. But,” Arthur said, when Amelia opened her mouth, “it also means you have to make concessions for me. Which you did once, when you agreed to red roses on your wedding dress. But I need you to do it again.”

  “It’s always me,” Amelia muttered, mutinously.

  “Yes, that’s why I offered you queen pari passu,” Arthur shot back. “Hear me out. I have been living this life for decades, and I know how this works. The people will never accept you if you can offer them nothing but discord, a few roses, and a banner they don’t understand any more than you understand theirs. And why should they? So let’s offer them something. Show them why they should want a truly unified kingdom, with you by my side at its head. Help me keep the promise we made each other and our people when we first started this adventure.”

  “What kind of concession?”

  Arthur shook his head. “That, is up to you. And York.”

  *

  Back in her rooms, Amelia stared at her mobile. She didn’t know the answer to Arthur’s request, but she knew he was right. George’s words came back to her. The southern ministers felt trapped and blamed her. If she could alleviate the pressure on them, she could in turn preserve her position and help her people.

  She needed advice, but how could anyone know what she could give the south to save them all? Priya, like Macsen, had already expressed more than reasonable distaste for this particular national drama. Charlie would be angry and afraid — for Jo and for his children, all stranded here in the unkindness of London and Lancasters. Nick could navigate the business world but had never given Amelia a piece of useful advice in her life. Her mother, who had led through a good marriage a life of very successful survival, would also be of no help.

  Which left only Amelia’s father — silent, distant, and careful. Like Arthur, he had seen decades of politics come and go. He’d kept his counsel and survived them.

  She called the number that went directly to his study at Kirkham House. Either no one would answer or he — not staff — would.

  When he picked up, he sounded worried. “Amelia? What’s wrong?”

  “I need your help,” she said.

  “Amelia —”

  “I’m fine. But things have come to a place, and I think maybe you have the answer.”

  “For over a year you’ve been courting the King and never once you’ve called me for advice.” He was neither scolding nor proud; he was simply stating fact.

  “Well, now I need to court the south. And I don’t know how. The whole nation thinks I’ve wronged it just by falling in love.” She hated herself for saying it. It was, after all, half a lie. She and Arthur had made a plan. She had gotten in too deep, and together they had made a mess. “Arthur says I must win them over and that charm is not enough.”

  “It never is,” Her father said, “but I know what we shall do.”

  “You do?” Amelia was surprised to have a solution offered to her so easily.

  “The Tower Crown.”

  “What about it?”

  “We give it back to the people Richard III took it from. It is theirs, after all, no matter how long our family has held it.”

  Amelia was shocked. That heirloom had been in their family for centuries, as much their property as her parents’ home and estate. People travelled to Kirkham House to see it. How could her father talk about giving that away?

  “That’s too much to surrender,” Amelia said.

  “No, it’s not. Just because we have lost many things doesn’t mean this should have ever been ours.”

  “But it’s buying my safety,” Amelia said firmly. Giving away that crown would have a tangible impact on the resources available for Kirkham House’s upkeep. “Mind, this shouldn’t even be about my safety. It’s just a wedding…it shouldn’t matter.”

  “We’re not buying your safety,” her father said. “We’re ending the wars once and for all. And we’re putting you on the throne.”

  *

  The day before Amelia and Arthur were due to leave for North America, the clouds scudded low and angry across the London sky. Amelia stood in a small antechamber on the first floor of Buckingham Palace waiting for her father. He’d left York that morning by train, accompanied by two members of the royal security detail to ensure that no harm became him or the artifact he carried.

  Arthur, waiting with her, wore a grave expression and a heavy, dark grey overcoat over his suit. Amelia wore a black wool coat and white scarf, hat, and gloves. Nestled beneath the scarf was her white rose of York necklace.

  The somberness of their attire matched the mood of the room. A small handful of advisors and officials also dressed for the cold milled about. George was there too, elegant in a dove-grey coat. No one spoke, except when aides appeared into the room to offer an update on the earl’s progress.

  It was a strange prelude to the Canadian visit. Amid the unrest, newspapers had been covering the King’s upcoming trip abroad with some excitement. The announcement that Lady Amelia’s father would be visiting the palace for a significant public ceremony of unknown subject had only confused the national mood further.

  The public, eager always for a spectacle and new angles on the ongoing crisis, queued up by the thousands in front of the stage that had been set up outside the palace. They didn’t know what they would witness, but hoped it would be history in the making.

  In the antechamber, an announcement was made that Lord Kirkham was on the grounds and headed to them directly. With a look, Arthur dismissed his advisors to the other side of the room. When George hesitated, he nodded her in their direction as well.

  “Keep an eye on them,” he murmured.

  Lord Kirkham entered with an erectness of bearing Amelia had rarely seen her father demonstrate. He was flanked by the two guards and carried a metal box.

  He bowed to Arthur, just a dip of his head, and Arthur nodded in acknowledgement. The two men held eye contact for a long, charged moment. Amelia wished she could have spoken or touched one or both of them.

  “How was your trip?” Arthur asked after some silent accord between them had been reached.

  “Uneventful, Your Majesty. I didn’t expect so much attention from your men, but they were very helpful.”

  Amelia wasn’t sure her father entirely meant his words. Perhaps, like her, he had been frightened by this pass to which they had all come. But that was the advantage of speaking as little as her father always had; if he’d been scared, no one would ever know.

  “Did anyone bother you?” Arthur asked.

  “No. Not at all. Of course, I don’t think anyone knows why I’m here.” Amelia’s father turned to her and said her name with a warmth and focus that surprised her.

  “Father.”

  “How are you?”

  “At some point, people are going to stop asking me that, yes?”

  “Only when they stop caring about you. So, I think, no,” he said with a smile. He cleared his throat and glanced around the room briefly. His eyes momentarily settled on the small group of people trying not to be obvious that they were straining to catch every word spoken.

  He held out the metal box for her to take. “Amelia,” he said. “My father, when he died, passed on this treasure to me; his father had passed it on to him. And now I give it to you, to do with as you think best for your future and that of our country.”

  The remarks for the ceremony itself had been written in advance and vetted with Crown officials, certain members of Parliament, and even the Prime Minister
himself. But no one had planned a speech for the simple act of a father handing his daughter a family heirloom. Amelia found herself incredibly moved.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes stung in spite of her attempts to remain composed. “I’ll do my utmost to do right by our people.”

  Her father smiled. “I know you will.”

  “Sir, it’s time,” said an aide by the door.

  *

  The stage had been set up outside on the gravel between the palace wall and the gates, on the very ground the ministers had crossed in the night to try to negotiate with Arthur. Amelia had seen the crowd grow from the windows all day, but that was nothing to stepping onto the stage beside Arthur, her father, and George and being greeted by the uneasy roar of the crowd.

  When Arthur stepped up to the podium. The crowd fell silent.

  “Thank you for coming today,” he said, “and for standing side-by-side with your fellow citizens in a time when that has not, I know, always been easy. The truth, however, is that such disunity is nothing new for our so-called Unified Kingdom. The wounds we have laid open in each other are deep and ancient and cannot be healed in a day or in a season. And while I know — and all of you know — that symbolism and intent are not, and can never be, enough, they are a valuable sign of commitment and of new beginnings.” He paused. The crowd didn’t make a sound. They, like Amelia, were holding their breath.

  “Five hundred years ago, Richard III killed our young and rightful king, Edward V, and his brother in the Tower of London and took his crown — both literally and figuratively. While the Wars of the Roses ensured that the Yorkish line of kings ended with Richard, the boy king’s crown remained in York, a symbol of the conflict we all know has not yet truly ended between the houses of York and Lancaster.” A gust of wind tugged at the flags on the stage.

  “Today, my fiancée, the Lady Amelia Brockett, daughter of York, comes to return that crown.”

  The crowd reacted in shock. There were no shouts, but a current of whispers ran through the assembled masses.

  Arthur stepped out from behind the podium, which was Amelia’s cue to stand beside him again. The whispers died away, leaving only the hiss of the wind.