Henry did not answer. He shut the compartment, sat back in his seat, and took out his watch.
A street lamp illuminated the dial.
The time was thirty minutes past the hour of nine.
FIFTY-SEVEN
The elegant little clock on the mantelpiece in the Rose Room chimed the half hour.
Thomas noted the time, thirty minutes past nine. At the hour eleven of the clock, he would be bowing before the queen and his life would change forever. He could not sit still, but paced the room, watching the clock, thinking that time had never moved so slowly. Or so fast.
The Rose Room was located on the fourth floor in the family’s private wing of the palace. The room was named for the rose-colored walls, the roses on the carpet, and the roses on the curtains that were drawn across the room’s sole window. The chairs and sofas and love seats were adorned with cushions embroidered with petit point roses.
Sir Richard had brought him to the Rose Room by way of a secret passage that wound up a great many stairs and led to a panel concealed behind a painting.
Sir Richard had shut the panel behind them and it had disappeared into the wall.
A vase filled with roses stood on a table in the center of the room. The mantelpiece clock told the time in roses. Thomas thought that he would never again see a rose without recalling this night.
The servants had lighted the lamps, filling the room with warm magical light. The queen had provided food and drink: hot tea and a plate of assorted sandwiches, tea cakes, and sweetmeats, a decanter of brandy, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of water.
“Will Your Highness take some refreshment?” Sir Richard asked, pouring himself a brandy.
“Thank you, sir, no,” said Thomas.
He was too nervous to eat. He sat down in a chair near the fire, stretched out his legs and stared at his shoes. Sir Richard drank the brandy at a gulp, then walked over to the window. He drew aside the curtains and Thomas saw glass-paned doors that opened onto a balcony. Richard stared intently outside.
Thomas was glad to have something to do besides admire the roses. He walked over to join Sir Richard.
“What do you find so interesting out here, my lord?” Thomas asked.
Sir Richard had not heard his approach, apparently, for he gave a nervous start and jerked his head around.
“What? Oh, er. Nothing, Your Highness. I was … um … wondering if we were going to have rain.”
He let the curtain fall and left the window.
Thomas thought it extremely odd that Richard should be worrying about the weather at a time like this. He said nothing, however. Parting the curtains, he glanced curiously outside.
The balcony overlooked the paved courtyard that ran in the front of the palace. The magical light shining from the walls illuminated the courtyard. Thomas could see sentries at their posts, but nothing more interesting.
“You should not let yourself be seen, Your Highness!” Sir Richard scolded. “Please close the curtains!”
Thomas let the curtain fall and returned to his chair. He gazed at the painting, which was a full-length portrait of a woman from a bygone era holding a bouquet of roses. He was idly wondering who she was and was about to ask Sir Richard when the painting began to move, swinging like a door. The panel in the wall behind it opened suddenly, without warning. A woman entered the room.
She was short and stout, perhaps in her early sixties. She wore a gown of green brocade trimmed in gold, a ruby and diamond necklace, and several sparkling rings on her fingers. A jeweled band of gold perched somewhat askew on her gray hair. She leaned on a walking stick.
Thomas could only stare, startled by the intrusion. Richard was momentarily shocked, but then he sprang to his feet in confusion.
“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed.
The queen acknowledged him with a nod. She shot a sharp glance at Thomas, then turned to speak to a lady standing behind her in the passageway.
“Wait here for me. I won’t be long.”
The queen shut the panel.
Sir Richard bowed low, his hand on his heart.
Thomas rose to his feet and bowed. He was too amazed to do more than murmur incoherently.
Queen Mary was pale beneath her rouge, but her step was firm, not faltering. Her intelligent eyes took in every part of him, from the buckles of his shoes to the blue ribbon that tied back his hair. Her scrutiny was intense. She took her time.
“So you are Thomas Stanford,” she said at last. “Otherwise known as Prince Tom.”
“His Highness is—” Sir Richard began.
“Please be quiet, my lord,” said Mary, giving him an annoyed glance. “We need to speak to this young man and our time is short.”
She returned her gaze to Thomas and waited for his answer.
“I am Thomas Stanford, Your Majesty,” he said, adding with a faint smile, “Prince Tom is a character in the serials, ma’am. He and I bear little resemblance.”
“Hah!” Mary exclaimed, but she seemed pleased with his answer.
She rested both hands on the walking stick, thrust her head forward to fix him with a shrewd gaze.
“Why do you want to be king, Thomas Stanford?”
Thomas was astounded by her question and did not know how to answer. He knew what he ought to say, knew what Sir Richard had been coaching him to say, knew what his mother would want him to say.
Sir Richard had written out a speech. If I am so honored as to earn Your Majesty’s trust, I vow before God that the Freyan people will be my first and only care. I view their welfare as a sacred responsibility given to me by God, and one that with His help and guidance, I will do my best to faithfully discharge.
The speech went on to talk in moving terms of his love for his country (which he had never visited), of his fondness for the people (whom he had never met). Thomas knew at once that such twaddle would diminish him in the eyes of this woman who knew she was dying and needed to leave her country and her people in the hands of someone she could trust.
Mary was patient, giving him time. Her eyes were small, set in a face that had once been pudgy, but which had now dwindled to folds of sagging skin.
Her time was short.
“The truth is, I do not want to be king, ma’am,” Thomas said.
Sir Richard stared at him in horror. Mary struck her walking stick on the floor.
“Then why the devil are you here, Thomas Stanford?”
“By accident, ma’am.”
Richard appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy.
“The will of God, Your Majesty!” Richard cried, dismayed. “You are God’s chosen!”
Mary ignored him, kept her gaze on Thomas.
She did not seem displeased.
“Explain yourself, sir.”
Thomas hoped he would not offend her. He had no idea of her religious views. He was bound to tell her the truth, however. She had the right to know.
“A tragic accident aboard ship felled your son, the Crown Prince. His little son died of a contagious disease, which he had the misfortune to contract. I do not believe God struck them down to bring me here to stand before you, Your Majesty.
“I am here because the accident of my birth makes me heir to King James and I have been led to believe that if you name either your sister or your half brother as your heir, the one you rejected would wage war to seize it. Whereas if you name me, the supporters of the other two would shift their support to me. Am I wrong in that belief?”
“You are not wrong,” said Mary quietly.
“I am here out of duty, to try to bring peace and stability to Freya.” Thomas paused, drew in a breath. “I cannot promise Your Majesty that I will be a wise and powerful ruler. I do promise that I will strive to be a good man who hopes someday to be a good king.”
“You remind me of my son,” said Mary. “He never wanted to be king, either.”
She propped the walking stick against the wall and took hold of a ring that sparkled on her finger. Drawing it o
ff, she handed the ring to Thomas.
“This ring belonged to poor James, your unhappy ancestor,” Mary said. “The man made a pig’s breakfast of being king, damn near ruined the country. Still, he was the anointed king and my own ancestors were wrong to plunge Freya into a bitter and bloody civil war to overthrow him.”
Mary placed the ring in his palm. The ring was gold with black diamonds and blue sapphires set in intricate patterns, like a mosaic. The ring was still warm from her touch. She closed Thomas’s hand over it, then rested both her hands on his and looked into his eyes.
“You and I, between us, must do everything within our power to keep Freya strong and united, Thomas Stanford. I do my part by naming you heir to the throne. You do yours by doing your duty.”
Thomas bowed his head as one receiving a benediction.
Mary gave his hand a maternal pat, then released him and retrieved her walking stick.
“We will speak more in my office when you come to formalize matters later this night. I must have you sign documents and all that rot.” The queen gave him a mischievous grin. “Forgive me for springing a kingship on you, young Stanford, but I wanted to catch you off guard. I needed to hear what was in your heart, not the platitudes Sir Richard undoubtedly urged you to memorize.”
Thomas smiled. “I look forward to having the chance to talk with you many more times after tonight, ma’am. You have much to teach me and I have much to learn.”
“More than you know, dear boy,” said Mary with a sigh.
The queen touched her hand to a magical construct concealed in the ornate carved frame around the portrait. The painting moved and the secret panel slid open. The queen paused before she entered the passageway and turned to Thomas. “Tell that rapscallion friend of yours Pip that he was right about you. And let him know he should come visit me. He’s not to worry. I won’t let Henry chop off his head.”
Mary gave a barking laugh and walked out of the room, joining an older woman who hovered solicitously in the passageway, wanting to assist the queen. Many gave her an irritated scolding for her pains, then closed the panel.
Thomas stood facing the portrait. He was not ready to receive Richard’s effusive congratulations. The moment was too solemn, too reverent. He slipped the ring on the little finger of his left hand—the only finger it would fit, and closed his hand over it.
The ring had belonged to James, but it would always remind Thomas of the queen and of this moment.
“Your Royal Highness!” Sir Richard cried jubilantly, coming up behind him. “I am so pleased. You must allow me to congratulate you!”
Thomas drew in a breath and turned to face his destiny with a smile. Sir Richard seized hold of his hand and heartily shook it. He then asked to see the ring.
“Immensely valuable,” he said, admiring it. “A painting of King James in the Royal Academy shows him wearing this very ring. It is thought to have been a gift from his wife.”
Richard gazed thoughtfully at the ring. “I never liked Queen Mary. She has led our country to the brink of ruin, but I freely admit that in naming you her heir, she has done the right thing. I would not have expected it of her.”
“I esteem Her Majesty highly,” said Thomas. “I believe she and I will be good friends. I look forward to spending time learning from her.”
Richard cast him a frowning glance, then looked away. He seemed about to say something, then checked himself.
“What is it, my lord?” Thomas asked.
Richard cleared his throat. “Nothing, sir. I am a little overwhelmed, that is all.”
He walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. He drank it off quickly.
The clock chimed ten. Thomas sighed. Another hour of waiting, cooped up in this room.
“If you will excuse me, my lord, I feel in need of some fresh air.”
He walked over to the balcony and started to open the door.
Richard came up behind him, put his hand on the door and pushed it shut. “You cannot go out there, sir.”
Thomas rounded on him angrily. “I have a great deal to think about, my lord. I would like some privacy.”
“I must insist you remain concealed, sir.”
Richard waited and finally Thomas went back to the chair in front of the portrait and sat down. He had nothing else to do except wait and he could either watch the hands crawl over the face of the clock or he could study the face in the portrait.
He chose the portrait.
The lady was dressed in the fashion of the court of King Frederick with a ruff about her neck, her hair bound with strands of pearls. She was about Thomas’s age. She was not wearing a wedding band, but she wore a miniature of a gentleman on a velvet cord around her neck. Perhaps her portrait had been painted on the occasion of her wedding.
His thoughts went to his own wedding. He thought about Sophia and their pledges to each other. He thought about Kate and wished he could talk to her, tell her why he had made this decision. He hoped she would understand. She was the one who had taught him about duty.
The lady in the portrait seemed to regard him with sympathy and understanding. He wondered if her marriage had been arranged. If she had been happy.
The clock chimed three quarters of the hour.
Sir Richard rose to his feet. “We should go, sir. We will be a trifle early, but Her Majesty is punctual to a fault. I suggest we put on our hats and cloaks. If anyone stops us, we can say we are visiting friends.”
Thomas picked up his hat and draped his cloak around his shoulders. Sir Richard did the same. They were advancing toward the front door when someone knocked on it.
Thomas looked at Richard, startled. “No one is supposed to know we are here!”
Richard frowned and shook his head, enjoining silence.
“A mistake!” he whispered. “The person will go away.”
The person did not go away, but knocked again, adding in deferential tones, “Sir Richard, please open the door. I have an urgent message for His Highness.”
Sir Richard glowered and opened the door a crack.
“Yes, what is— I beg your pardon, sir!” Richard exclaimed, stumbling backward as a member of the palace guard, armed with a rifle, thrust open the door and shouldered him to one side.
The guardsman saluted Thomas. “Your Highness, I require you to come with me at once. You, as well, Sir Richard. I have orders to remove you both to a place of safety.”
Thomas saw more guardsmen waiting in the hall, all of them armed, rifles over their shoulders.
Richard saw them, as well. He cast them a disparaging glance. “I am not going anywhere, sir, until I receive an explanation!”
“You and Prince Thomas are in danger, my lord,” said the guardsman. “This room is compromised. There could be a bomb.”
“A bomb!” Richard repeated, snorting. “I don’t believe it. We’ve been sitting here for over an hour. If some damn anarchist was going to blow us up, he would have done so by now!”
The guardsman eyed him grimly. He was beginning to lose patience.
“I think we should do as they say, my lord,” said Thomas quietly. “Nothing to be gained by arguing.”
The guardsman cast Thomas a grateful glance. He walked out of the room into the hall. Richard stalked after him.
“I will get to the bottom of this!” he muttered.
The officer turned to one of his men with orders.
“Go out on the balcony and give the signal that His Highness is safe,” he ordered. “Leave the lamps lighted and the door open.”
One of the guardsmen entered the room, picked up a lamp, and headed for the balcony. Thomas noted that the officer had not given orders to search for a bomb.
“This way, gentlemen,” said the officer. “Down the hall. The Yellow Drawing Room. The next room, to your right.”
“Next door! Hardly far enough to escape a bomb blast,” Richard said caustically.
“Down the hall, to your right,” said the officer and they proc
eeded down the hall to their right.
“This is Henry’s doing!” Richard muttered, seething. “Do not worry, Your Highness. You have the ring. Her Majesty has made the succession official. My brother can do nothing!”
Thomas thought of a great many things Henry Wallace could do and none of them pleasant. He was careful to take note of his surroundings as he left, thinking he might need a means of escape. He wondered how many people knew about that secret panel.
“What part of the palace are we in, my lord?” he asked Richard in an undertone.
“This hall is known as the Principal Corridor, sir,” said Richard. “The main hall of the east wing of the palace.”
The corridor was wide with polished marble floors, ornately carved woodwork, and a high, vaulted ceiling. The walls were papered with flocked velvet done in red against a gold background. The hall was dimly lit by lamps with porcelain bases decorated with peacocks holding up glowing globes of light. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but they had not been lighted.
“Where does this lead?” asked Thomas.
“The north gallery at the end of this hall,” Richard replied. “That is the Skylight gallery and it leads to the western wing, the queen’s offices, and the Grand Entrance.”
“Behind us?”
“The south gallery,” said Richard. “Overlooking the palace gardens.”
Thomas fixed the map in his mind.
The officer came to a halt in front of the door to the Yellow Drawing Room. He knocked first, then opened the door and indicated they were to enter.
Thomas walked inside and looked around. He wondered how the room had come by its name as the Yellow Drawing Room, for the walls were green, the furniture and carpet blue. The room was considerably smaller than the Rose Room, more intimate.
Guards were already in the room. Two were posted in front of glass-paned doors at the far end. The curtains were open and Thomas could see another balcony outside, similar to the balcony in the Rose Room. He heard raised voices and turned to find Richard standing in the hall, arguing with the officer.
“I will not stir a step!” Richard stated. “Not until you tell me what is going on!”
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