A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

  “I was told our event this morning was cancelled, is that correct?”

  “Yes. Inclement weather.”

  “Then I will be in my room until you need me elsewhere. Good morning, sir,” she said, and then turned on her heel, walked into her room, and closed the door — gently — behind her.

  Chapter 25

  ALL EYES TURN TO LONDON AS THE NUPTIALS OF THE CENTURY APPROACH

  1 March

  Year 1 of the Reign of King Gregory I

  George turned eighteen last week. Princess Violet has officially recused herself from the line of succession. A single breath and any child I bear are the only things standing between George and the throne.

  The wedding is still on. Not because things are good between us, but because Arthur is too stubborn to give in now that we’ve won over everyone except, apparently, each other. It’s definitely not out of loyalty to me or even a desire to fix what’s between us. In his mind I betrayed him, not just as a royal bride-to-be, but personally. And deeply.

  Maybe he’s not even wrong; I don’t know. I definitely don’t know how to go about fixing any of it. And I’m definitely not sure if going through with the marriage is the right choice. Who wants to spend their life with someone who can endure all the worst wounds of public life but not navigate any of the personal wounds of private life? We can’t be allies in a grand scheme if we’re not even talking to each other.

  I feel like one of George's ravens now too. Trapped and with no good options.

  *

  Formality was Amelia’s refuge. Each custom and tradition and protocol that had grated on her was now a source of profound gratitude. She was not cold to Arthur; she was proper; she was not distant from Priya, she was merely doing what was required of her. She was not shutting out her own family; she was simply becoming a queen.

  The formula worked in the reverse as well. Arthur was not cruel to her; he was simply ruling the kingdom via the traditions that had allowed it to endure centuries of its own chaos and bad behavior.

  But the refuge of propriety was not companionship. Amelia was lonely. No matter how many people she saw in a day — helping her with her clothes or her meals or her protocol — she was isolated. And so she would soon forever be. Because that’s what a queen was. Whether Arthur loved her or not.

  *

  The only good thing about the final dress fitting was, as far as Amelia was concerned, the word final. She’d gotten to this point once before and that had ended in grief and disaster. What would happen now? If the wedding was going to go on, best to keep her head down and get on with it. She arrived at the bridal salon in no particularly sunny frame of mind.

  She’d once found her dress beautiful, back when it had been a compromise and a victory between herself and Arthur. Sleeves and a boat neckline flattered her figure and fulfilled all that modesty could require. What had once been Amelia’s favorite part — the skirt and train made of dozens of yards of satin embroidered with roses red and white — now struck her as grotesque with Arthur not speaking to her and her own future so bleak.

  The buttons that ran up the back were also decorated with tiny roses. Not that Amelia could see them as she watched in the mirror as she was tucked and fastened into the gown. She could, however, see the head seamstress’s frown in the mirror as she did up the buttons — or tried to.

  “It still fits,” she said, yanking on the back of the dress as if to make Amelia’s body more readily obey its confines. “Or mostly does. It won’t need any adjustments before the wedding, thank goodness, but do try to refrain from stress eating quite so much.”

  It was on the tip of Amelia’s tongue to protest. She had been hungrier than usual of late, and more tired, but stress was an absolute monster on anybody. She’d tried to be healthy about it. But as she raked her eyes over her own reflection, top to bottom, she felt her heart skip a beat.

  She made herself wait until she could check her mobile to freak out completely. When she was finally back in her own clothes looking at her calendar it only told her what she’d already known: She was late. Absolutely, definitely, devastatingly late.

  This was not the sort of overachiever she wanted to be, especially considering that she and Arthur still weren’t speaking beyond what was absolutely necessary.

  “Maybe you’re stress hallucinating too,” she muttered to herself, while she tried to come up with a plan. She was due at Westminster in less than two hours for a walkthrough of the ceremony and more premarital counseling. Not to address any issues between them, of course, but because she and Arthur were to be godly role models for the nation. As usual, everything in her life would be absurdly funny if only it were happening to someone else.

  Edward, when he fell in beside her outside the bridal salon, tried to make small talk. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to, but he’d been her friend from the moment she’d demanded he introduce himself and walk beside her. But Amelia didn’t know how to make small talk right now. The impulse to take silent refuge in formality, to demand he walk behind her without speaking struck fast and strong, but she could not afford to give into it.

  “Do we have time to stop?” she blurted as he handed her into the car.

  “Yes, I believe so. Is something the matter?” He gave her a worried look as he slid in after her.

  She slammed the button to raise the partition between them and the driver. “We need to stop at a Boots, and I need you to do something for me,” she said.

  Edward regarded her blankly, his expression so neutral and trusting she knew it was trained into him by his work. Surely, he knew she was about to say something at least vaguely awful. “Of course,” he said.

  She dug in her handbag and came up with nothing but a couple of pound coins. Everything about her almost-royal life was aggravating and intolerable. Absolutely everything. She looked up at him. “I need you to get me a pregnancy test, and I don’t have any money on me because I’m an incompetent fake princess and —”

  “Breathe,” Edward said. He reached a hand out to settle her, but not touching, not without permission if her life wasn’t in danger. And it never was. Not in a way anyone else understood at any rate.

  She did as he said. “I need you to get me a pregnancy test.”

  “All right.”

  “All right?! Aren’t you going to ask what I’ve done or if it’s Arthur’s or —” She stopped herself. He’d agreed; that was all she needed. “Thank you,” she said and meant it more than she’d ever meant those two words before.

  “Do you want me to ask, ma’am?”

  Amelia burst into tears. Which was, on balance, better than hyperventilating. Except that Edward’s look of careful neutrality melted quickly into kindness and that, somehow, made everything worse.

  “We slept together. In Toronto. After the state dinner,” she said in between shuddering breaths. She may not have had money in her handbag, but thank God, she did have tissues. “And then there was that awful tweet and we fought about it and about everything. And I ran out. That’s why you and Macsen had to come find me, and we’ve barely even spoken to each other since. I spent a whole week thinking he was going to call everything off and now — now —” There was absolutely no way to make blowing one’s nose dignified, she reflected hysterically.

  “Of course we can stop,” Edward repeated gently. “And after that,” he took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself. “I will do whatever else it is you need me to do. Do you understand?”

  Amelia had no doubt that Edward would help her flee the country if she asked him to, or — well. Assist her. In any other decision she made about the still-technically-unconfirmed-pregnancy. Regardless of the fact that it was, if it did exist, the heir to the throne of the Unified Kingdom. She started crying all over again.

  There was a Boots practically across the street from Westminster Abbey. When Edward slid back into the car he held a bag containing not just a pregnancy test but a bottle of juice and a chocolate bar. She burbled her watery than
ks, stuffed it all in her purse, and spent the three minutes until they arrived at Westminster frantically trying to fix her makeup.

  She was still a mess by the time they arrived, but everyone at the Abbey was willing to look the other way at a bride-to-be who’d gotten too emotional before the big day. Edward walked closer than he normally did in such a formal setting and stood guard while she ducked into the ladies’ room.

  There had been many terrible and absurd things in her life since she had said yes to Arthur’s scheme. Taking a pregnancy test in the toilet of Westminster Abbey two weeks before the most elaborate wedding and coronation in living memory was definitely at the top of the list.

  When the second line — the important line — appeared on the test, she took a deep breath and lowered her head. Now she knew, and she had no idea what that meant. For her or for her relationship with Arthur. Would this make him love her or would he use it as an excuse to discard her? Was Amelia now more trapped than ever and with no options at all?

  None of those questions could be solved in a toilet. And as much as she wanted to stay here where no one could see or judge her, she couldn’t. She was going to be queen. She had obligations. If she didn’t appear, someone would come looking for her. She trusted Edward to protect her, but she also didn’t need him dismissed from the royal service for starting a fight to keep her safe and hidden.

  She hastily bundled the test back into its box and shoved the whole thing into her purse. She washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and marched back outside to meet her future.

  *

  The Archbishop of Canterbury stood from behind his desk to greet Amelia when she was shown into his office. Arthur hadn’t arrived yet. Relief at a few more moments not in his presence quickly turned into dreadful anticipation of his arrival, because waiting was terrible. She had no idea what to tell him. Or when, assuming she was going to tell him at all. Either way, the Archbishop’s office was the absolute worst location for it.

  By the time Arthur finally arrived her nerves and her nausea had escalated. She felt like she was going to throw up. She assumed it wasn’t morning sickness, but stress. In truth, she didn’t even know if morning sickness could start this early and had to bite her lip not to succumb to hysterical giggles.

  At first, the only notice Arthur took of Amelia was to nod at her; ironic, given that a large point of being here was to be lectured on how to be appropriate role models for all of England. If the Archbishop noted they were not quite as cordial as might be hoped of a soon-to-be-married couple, he gave no comment.

  Halfway through an interminable spiel on their divine obligation to do God’s work on earth, Amelia instinctively flicked her gaze toward Arthur to share a look of commiseration before she remembered that they weren’t on those sorts of terms anymore.

  Except Arthur was already looking at her, and when their eyes met, he gave a tiny but very distinct sigh. The Archbishop, unaware, droned on.

  Amelia stifled the smile she would have ordinarily responded to that with and instead lifted her shoulder a fraction of an inch.

  Arthur didn’t roll his eyes. But he managed to convey through a tilt to his eyebrows the exact degree of his annoyance at the whole proceeding.

  And so it went on for the rest of the session, Arthur and Amelia exchanging glances whenever the focus on the Archbishop wasn’t on them. Amelia was fairly certain the point of premarital counseling was not to bond the objects of said counseling through mutual irritation at the endeavor, but her relief that they could still have some kind of connection was nearly overwhelming.

  “Arthur,” Amelia hissed at him once they were able to make their escape back out into the hallway. “I need to talk to you.” They had five minutes before they had to be in place for the walkthrough.

  For a moment Arthur looked stricken, but then he schooled his face into an expression of bland neutrality. “What is it?”

  Amelia grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into an alcove off the main hallway. In the instant that she’d hissed his name, she had meant to tell him about the pregnancy. But as she looked Arthur in the face and opened her mouth to tell him, she found she just couldn’t. It was too much for the here and now.

  “Well?” he asked, his voice verging on the edge of impatience.

  That settled it. There was no response Arthur could have that wasn’t going to be a disaster for her ability to cope. For her own sanity, she would pretend she got pregnant on their wedding night.

  “I just wanted to thank you. In there. It was nice, being on the same page.”

  *

  The night of the vigil for King Henry, Westminster Abbey had been dark and silent. Now, the sunlight spilled in dramatic stripes across stone pillars and the grave markers set into the floor.

  The rest of the wedding party wasn’t here; they would have their own rehearsal later. For now their places were taken by standins from the palace staff. The little crowd of mute, unfamiliar faces turned toward Arthur and Amelia as they entered the nave.

  Amelia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the coolness of the abbey on a damp spring day. Standing in a pool of sunshine, the standins looked like spirits, waiting to welcome her to the next world.

  She barely listened as the wedding coordinator talked them through the sequence of events, returning to the moment only when she heard her name.

  “Lady Amelia, after you exit the carriage and come into the church, you and the Lord Kirkham will proceed down the aisle.”

  When the wedding coordinator looked at her expectantly, she nodded to show she understood.

  “Good. Your Majesty, you will be at the altar, facing forward. When Lady Amelia and her father enter, please do remember not to turn around to look.”

  “Or what, I’ll turn to a pillar of salt?” Arthur interrupted. He looked impatient. Why wouldn’t he? He’d done this before.

  “Quite,” the coordinator said blandly. “Then, the Archbishop will perform the ceremony. Once you are married, you will proceed up the dais to sit for the coronation. Lady Amelia, your attendants can take care of themselves; you don’t have to fuss over anything, just go where people put you."

  Amelia made a face and tried to catch Arthur’s eye, but he was staring up at the dais where St. Edward’s chair already sat. Beside it was another smaller chair. Amelia's.

  It was, she supposed, the natural order of things. They were each going to meet their destinies, and while Arthur was hers, she was just a tool on the way to his. The Archbishop had been plainer and more relevant than she’d realized.

  At the coordinator’s sign, Arthur ascended the steps to the dais alone.

  “It’s peculiar, isn’t it?” a voice said benignly from Amelia’s side as she watched.

  Amelia startled. It was George. She hadn’t heard her approach or had any idea that she would be here today. Certainly, she was not actively participating in this rehearsal. George, like the rest of the attendants, had a standin.

  “What are you doing here?” Amelia asked.

  “I came in case Arthur needed me.”

  “To be his court witch?”

  George smiled faintly. “Something like that. I came in case you needed me, too.” She gave Amelia a piercing look.

  Amelia felt her gaze as if it were a physical thing, penetrating bone and soft tissue. She gave a little gasp. Did George know that she was pregnant? There was a smugness to George that suggested that she did. Like so many things in Amelia’s royal life, it was impossible and yet true.

  “I’m sorry,” George said.

  Amelia stared at her. Could George really read her mind?

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You have this life because of me. I begged Arthur to marry again.”

  Begged was such an un-George-like word. But if it were true — that would make several things make more sense. Or any sense at all.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I doubt anyone does. Except him and I. And now you. It’s a strang
e, small world you’re becoming part of,” George said solemnly. “I wanted to welcome you to it. After all, you’re a witch, too.”

  “I’m not,” Amelia protested.

  “You are. I saw what you did in York.”

  “That was inexperience. An accident. Or even coincidence.”

  George shook her head. “Yes, you see. Everyone has great power. Everyone. Only witches know it.”

  “I don’t know if you’re joking.”

  George lifted one elegant shoulder. “They locked up all the ravens because of what they thought you could do.”

  Up on the dais, Arthur turned around to look out at the abbey. His eyes scanned the rows of empty pews, the great windows, the ancient pillars.

  “Is Arthur a witch too?” Amelia asked.

  “Of a sort. You should know. You’ve felt it — his power.”

  “I suspected. But I wasn’t sure…. This isn’t. None of this is the sort of thing I’ve ever allowed myself to believe in. I was a scientist,” Amelia said. She wasn’t anymore.

  “Science was once considered witchcraft,” George reminded her.

  Amelia nodded, absently, at the wisdom there. The bulk of her attention remained fixed on Arthur. He was the king and master of everything here. Yet the expression on his face was one of helplessness.

  He turned his head, and caught Amelia’s eye. He held her gaze, and Amelia found herself unable to look away.

  “See?” George said quietly. “He needs you. No matter how angry or hurt he is. He needs what you can do. And it’s terrible, to be needed by a king.”

  Chapter 26

  ROYAL WEDDING BELLS…FINALLY!

  6 April

  Year 1 of the Reign of King Gregory I

  Welcome to the end of the line.

  I’m getting married tomorrow. Starting the day after, I have to write — daily — in an official diary given to me by the palace. For posterity and all that. I’m not sure if I get a day off for giving birth.