Emmie and the Tudor Queen

by Natalie Murray

  Emmie and the Tudor Queen

  © 2020 Natalie Murray

  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any license permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events of places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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  First paperback edition printed August 2020

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  Contact the author at natalie@nataliemurrayauthor.com

  For updates, sign up to Natalie Murray’s newsletter at www.nataliemurrayauthor.com

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-0-6488059-0-8

  ISBN: 978-0-6488059-1-5 (ebook)

  For Eva,

  my adorable mum

  * * *

  Who welcomed a frankly intolerable number

  of books into our lives—especially our car—

  and who always talked to the terrifying humans

  for me because they weren’t Moon-Face or Silky.

  * * *

  But, mostly, for indefatigably supporting every

  decision I’ve made with love (except the one to

  play ‘When I Die’ by No Mercy on repeat, which

  was super annoying).

  “And when I die, I keep on living…” *body roll*

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;

  And love is love, in beggars as in kings.

  * * *

  A Modest Love,

  Sir Edward Dyer (1543–1607)

  1

  Everything before me looked backward, like seeing a fractured limb snapped into a surreal angle. After waking up from a heavy sleep, I’d expected to find myself lying on the grubby stones of a sixteenth-century English horse stable. Instead, I sat shivering on the bank of the Connecticut River, its surface a sheet of inky-black glass through the drooping branches of a willow tree.

  A few hours ago, I’d dozed off on the sandy river’s edge in the arms of my dream boyfriend, Nick Tudor (make that dream fiancé), one of my arms awkwardly locked around his horse’s bony hoof. So long as our three bodies stayed connected and we all fell asleep—including the horse—the enchanted ring on my thumb should’ve sent us four hundred years back in time, to where I’d decided to live and marry Nicholas the First, the King of England. Gulp, no biggie. But instead of rising and shining in King Nick’s court in the year 1580, I’d awakened right where we’d fallen asleep: in Hatfield, Massachusetts, in the present day.

  Nick lurched up beside me, his voice thick with sleep. “Good God, we are still in your time.”

  “I know; I don’t get it, the ring’s still on.” My fingertips brushed the blue diamond’s rock-hard ridges again to make sure.

  He yawned, moonlight drawing a silver line down the slight curve of his nose. “One of us plainly had not yet fallen to sleep. We must begin again.” He clicked his tongue, guiding his horse Stella closer and hooking his broad arm around her leg.

  I lay back down on the cold slope of mushy sand. Nick cradled me from behind with his other arm, my quickening pulse like whitewater rapids in my ears. It wasn’t me who’d kept us awake: I could tell by my gunky eyes and sticky throat. Nick looked just as groggy, so it must’ve been the horse who’d failed to fall asleep and kept us all from traveling through time. It was the only explanation.

  Nick’s soft lips grazed the skin beneath my hairline, stealing my thoughts. I sighed and cuddled into him, finding his mouth with mine. The sighs of pleasure he made as we kissed made my thighs squeeze his, but he pulled away with a frustrated groan.

  “I fear that falling to sleep beside you shall never be a simple business,” he said through a drowsy smile. “But sleep we must. Lord Warwick is likely awaiting my return and may have already raised the alarm. Christ, what if the men see us appear before their eyes? You must feel favored at court, not mistrusted from the first moment.” His beautiful eyes brightened with visible alarm.

  I whispered a calming hush into his scarred cheek. “Don’t stress. We’ve got this.”

  Rolling onto my side again, I shifted to get comfortable.

  How on earth was I going to convince four-hundred-year-old English aristocrats to trust me when I had literally no idea how to be a Tudor queen? It had all happened so fast—Nick’s ‘now or never’ marriage proposal and my heartfelt acceptance. I wasn’t sure I could really pull off being queen, or even if I wanted to, but I’d lost Nick before, and I had no intention of doing it again. Ever.

  He tightened his embrace like I’d disappear if he didn’t.

  The next time I opened my eyes, my body felt like a bag of cement. Had we finally arrived at the Palace of Whitehall?

  The world took shape and color around me. A golden blush of sunrise painted the mirrored surface of the Connecticut River, its steady burble like a nature soundtrack. Stella lay motionless on her side while Nick breathed rhythmically into my shoulder, his eyelids fluttering with a dream.

  Oh my God, the time-traveling ring isn’t working! Which means…

  I rolled over to face him, my eyes devouring the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he moved his mouth a certain way, the eyelashes cute enough to kiss, the delicate curve of his lips. Could my treasured King of Pants-Dropping Hotness really be stuck in my time?

  I clamped my eyes shut, rising excitement burning away months of chronic anxiety. If the enchanted ring had stopped working and Nick had to stay here forever, I could have my Tudor king and my college degree and my mom and my friends and things like flushing toilets, television, and peanut butter! I could also keep Nick without having to follow through on all the scary queen stuff! I shut my eyes and lay still, immobilized with relief so intense that it felt nauseating, when something squeezed my shoulder.

  “Hmm?” I muttered, my throat clogged. Nick’s handsome face sharpened into view. The air tasted like smoke and straw.

  “You must rise in haste,” he whispered. “Francis is asleep.”

  I used both hands to sit up. My eyelids felt glued together. As they came unstuck, objects materialized through the darkness. A pair of misshapen candles burning from iron mounts in a brick wall. Tattered ropes dangling from a low-hanging beam. A flagstone floor brushed with hay.

  We’re back in the sixteenth century.

  My stomach twisted into knots. I guess Nick Tudor and my mom are going to remain mutually exclusive and I’m going to have to figure out how to be a Tudor queen. Yikes.

  Nick draped an auburn cloak over my T-shirt and jeans and whispered for me
to change in the corner of the horse stable. He handed me a smock and kirtle combo that was simple enough for me to tie on myself. I guessed he’d hidden them earlier in the hope that I’d accept his proposal and come back to Tudor England with him.

  Needles of hay spiked my bare toes as I hurriedly swapped my old tennis shoes for a pair of satin slippers. I gasped as Nick bundled up my modern clothes and tossed them into the fireplace. Sleepy and disoriented, we silently watched the fabric curl into flames, crackling and sputtering, before he gently guided me through the stable gate. I tightened my cloak to keep warm, my head spinning with the fact that this was really happening—I was back in the Tudor world and engaged to its king! Mind-blown. But at least I had Nick by my side, the thought coating me with a giddy warmth.

  The sleeping Earl of Warwick, Francis Beaumont, sat crookedly on an upturned log. Stella whinnied behind us, kicking her legs for momentum before pushing herself up onto her hooves.

  “Hairbrain!” cried Francis, his ebony eyes flashing open. He jumped to his feet with one hand on his sword.

  “Be calm,” Nick hissed at him. “Has anyone come? I feared you raised the guards.”

  Francis shook his head, squinting at me. “But mine eyes heed someone is with you, Your Grace. So all is well then.” He exhaled, sliding his hands down his midnight-blue doublet.

  “Mistress Grace is in need of rest,” Nick said evenly. It was a command to make no further comment about my arrival, and Francis knew better than to disobey. The smells of hay and horse sweat chased us beneath a tall stone archway and out onto a cobblestone road flanked by statuesque trees with sturdy branches. None of this looked familiar.

  “You were gone for many weeks, Emmie,” Nick explained. “The court is no longer at Whitehall. I have since taken up lodgings at Hampton Court Palace.”

  I had a zillion questions like, “Should I act like I’ve seen Hampton Court Palace before?” but I kept my mouth shut in front of Francis as the three of us climbed into a waiting coach. With the crack of a whip, the carriage jerked forward, and I avoided the earl’s curious stare as I watched the peach haze of dawn illuminate the narrow road through the curtained window. Up ahead, a smattering of smoking chimneys skewered the sky, and a high gatehouse topped with onion-shaped domes emerged. Nick squeezed my hand, his palms a touch clammy. I wasn’t the only one who was nervous about this new arrangement.

  We bumped across a bridge decorated with Roman busts and passed through the towering gatehouse into a stony courtyard enclosed with redbrick walls patterned with black diamonds. As we stepped out of the coach, my eyes trailed a diving flock of birds to a servant in breeches washing the ground with a broom. He bowed to the king and scampered away with his sloshing bucket. The wall lanterns still glowed with fire, but the rising sun was brightening the courtyard by the minute.

  Nick didn’t hesitate to make a beeline for the next gatehouse with Francis following a few paces behind us. I hugged myself beneath my cloak. I’d forgotten that sixteenth-century England was cooler than my time.

  “You cannot begin to imagine how heartened I am to have you here,” Nick said to me as we passed a stone fountain. He nudged my shoulder affectionately.

  I tilted into him but sensed Francis’s eyes on my back. “How much did you tell Lord Warwick?” I whispered. “Does he know about time travel?” The thought of someone else here knowing the real me would’ve actually been a relief.

  “Heavens, no,” said Nick. “I simply informed Lord Warwick of my desire to bring you back to court and that I planned to do it alone, commanding him to wait in the stable for my return.” He leaned into me. “Our return.”

  My heart squeezed. Being back in Tudor England, this time by Nick’s side, had to be worth all the unnerving parts, like convincing the locals I was queen material.

  An imposing building with a gabled roof dominated the next, smaller courtyard. My gaze traced the battlement ridges, searching for archers, although Hampton Court’s tall windows made it clear this was a pleasure palace rather than a fortress castle. Behind us, a gigantic gilded clock reflected a ribbon of early morning sunlight. It was bizarre to think that I should’ve been arriving at college in twenty-first-century London at that same moment. I pushed that thought away.

  Nick’s face tightened as he turned to Francis. “Lord Warwick, you will see Mistress Grace to her chambers. She may lodge in Princess Catherine’s rooms until her own apartments are constructed, for which I favor the south side. You will also nominate a lady’s maid until appropriate ladies of the bedchamber are appointed. Inform the Lord Chamberlain.”

  Francis bowed. “Forgive me, Majesty. You are constructing new apartments? For Mistress Grace.” I tried not to take offense at his stunned tone.

  “Mistress Grace is to become your queen,” Nick said coolly.

  Francis’s eyes widened, every inch of him stiffening. The opinionated earl wasn’t exactly raising the roof with excitement over our decision to get hitched—quite the opposite. A dart of alarm struck my stomach.

  Nick’s steely voice carried a warning. “You will arrange a feast for this night to present our promised queen to the nobles. I have no patience for any slander about Mistress Grace’s attendance at court. I expect the utmost heights of magnificence, of which our lady is worthy in every measure.”

  “A feast tonight?” I said, but my voice didn’t cut through the growing tension between the two best friends.

  Francis’s narrowed eyes met the king’s daunting stare. “Your Majesty, may I enquire after Mistress Grace’s kin for her presentation at the feast? I will wager her father has not yet visited court.”

  “Mistress Grace’s father has gone to God.”

  Nick draped a protective arm around me and kicked off an elaborate lie to Francis about how my entire family had just died of consumption in my hometown of Worthing. He explained that it was the reason I’d been called away from court for the past few weeks, and why the Duke of Norfolk—who everyone at court thought was my distant uncle—would formally present me to the nobles on my family’s behalf.

  My stomach tensed. The Duke of Norfolk was the most powerful man in England, second only to the king. We’d never even met, but Nick clearly trusted the duke to perpetuate the lie about me being his niece.

  Francis bowed, but his voice stayed taut. “I am honored to fulfill my king’s every command as his most humble servant.”

  Nick snapped something in French that sent the earl stumbling back a few paces. When Francis was out of earshot, the king cupped my elbows and slid me closer, stilling the quiver in my belly. He was so different here: stressed and almost scary. But when he gazed at me with those devoted eyes the color of a shallow sea, I was liquid caramel all over again.

  His forehead touched mine. “It will not be like last time,” he breathed, smelling more like a rose garden than a riverbank. “I will build you the finest chambers you have ever seen with a chapel, rooms for music and dancing, libraries—any such thing you desire. With all my heart, I wish for your happiness here.”

  I ran my fingertips down the knobby gold stitching in his doublet. It was so weird to think that the dirt on his elbows came from the banks of the Connecticut River.

  “I love you,” I said, the words softening Nick’s face. “Even though you just killed off my entire family,” I added with a cheeky smile. “I guess that having them move to a tropical island would’ve been too much?”

  His brow crumpled. “Forgive me, I intend only to make less trouble for you. Forget not that your true family has not yet been born.”

  “Well, by that logic, neither have I.”

  He chuckled and sighed simultaneously. “I slept but a few hours by a river. Do not make my head sorer than it already is.” He pulled me closer, my hips brushing his hard thighs. “You must know that my heart is full to bursting.”

  My arms glided around his back and squeezed the silky velvet, wanting him to hug me back, but early-bird courtiers were beginning to surface on the edges
of the courtyard. Nick unlocked himself from me with visible reluctance and stepped backward.

  “I give you leave,” he called, a cue for Francis to draw nearer again. “Please sleep awhile,” Nick said to me. The boyish smile decorating his face as he backed away liquefied my legs.

  Francis called for guards, and a flurry of red coats appeared like a magic trick. They chased after the king through a Gothic stone archway at the next gatehouse.

  Francis seemed irritated, and we barely said a word to each other on the way to my new chambers, but it wasn’t for lack of trying on my part. The earl and I had locked horns before, and this time I wanted us to get along. But all I could get out of him was that he was now the king’s chief counsel after the retirement of Sir Thomas Grey. I swallowed an urge to laugh and fist-bump him at the same time. I wasn’t sure Francis had the temperament to help run a country, but his new position as the king’s right-hand man was all the more reason to get him back on my side.

  The chambers that were usually reserved for Nick’s little sister Kit were at the rear of the palace, behind the main chapel. We crossed a quiet, square-shaped courtyard to a three-story building, where Francis used a monster-sized master key to unlock a pair of arched doors.

  Stepping inside was like leaving a monochrome world for the Land of Oz. Francis hunted through a drawer for a tinderbox and lit a candle, its glow dancing up the walls draped with vibrant tapestries that disappeared into a ceiling gilded with geometric shapes. After staggering over uneven cobblestones, the woven rush matting felt like clouds.