Emmie and the Tudor Queen

by Natalie Murray

  I took his fingers, mini fireworks bursting between the heat of our skin. Our argument had done nothing to weaken the electricity that had brought us together in the first place.

  We reached the drafty downstairs corridor and continued toward the construction site on the south side of the palace. A supersized canvas tent had been erected to protect the works from the rain. My new apartments were still haphazard muddles of building sites, but Nick led us right beneath the wooden scaffolding. The King of England was clearly endangering himself by marching through an active worksite, but no one dared stop him. Workers bowed in deference before fleeing like scurrying roaches. We climbed a dusty stairwell that smelled recently laid and passed through two unfinished chambers. The third room shone in stark distinction to the others, because it was already complete—a dazzling masterpiece among the uncut timber and grimy bricks.

  “Holy crap,” I murmured as I spun in all directions, taking in the magnificent jewelry workshop. Wooden trestle tables filled the space, neatly arranged with gilded files, iron pincer-like scissors and smaller cutters, brass blocks and molds, crucibles for heating metals, and other archaic tools I didn’t recognize.

  “Is this all for me?” I breathed, turning to Nick. He’d remembered his promise to build me a jewelry workshop, and he’d evidently made it a priority.

  He nodded. “The gold and jewels are being kept safe, but you shall have as many as you need. Does it please you?”

  I exaggerated my pretend grimace. “I guess it’ll do.”

  Nick was accustomed to my sarcasm and finally smiled, closing the space between us. I had to stand on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck.

  “Any such thing you desire, tell me, and you shall have it,” he said as we rocked together in a standing hug. “I have summoned a fine jewelry craftsman to teach you anything you desire. His name is Mister Andrea Bon Compagni. Call upon him any time you please; he is presently at court. Your maidens will assist you.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say, which, as you know, is unheard of.” I squeezed him tighter.

  Nick’s efforts had subdued some of the tightening pressure between us, but we still hadn’t agreed on what to do with the blue-diamond ring. He hadn’t asked for it back, and for now, it was living inside my locked jewelry coffer. As the king, he could have the ring snatched from my bedchamber and destroyed with a single command, and I tried not to think too much about that possibility.

  “I must take my leave,” he said, breaking from me and straightening his collar. “I have made time this day to prepare for your investiture ceremony.”

  I rested against the edge of a wooden table. “Anytime you need me, I’ll be here. And if I’m not…nah, I’ll be here.”

  His sparkling eyes held mine as he backed through the doorway, looking so hot with his naturally ruffled hair that he made my stomach twist. “Your new cloth should also be at hand this day,” he added, before rolling around the doorframe to disappear.

  “My new cloth?” I called after him.

  “For the harvest feast of Michelmas,” he replied. “This year, I much desire a masquerade. We must also honor your new title.”

  His voice faded, and I sat there, processing the news. I had to appear at another royal ball with the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Wharton, and the rest of the sullen aristocrats—this time as a new member of their exclusive nobility club. But perhaps this is what it’d take for them to finally accept me. I was going to become the Marquess of Pembroke, followed by Queen Emmeline Tudor…yikes! Do or die, this was happening.

  Deep in my gut, questions still wriggled about the blue-diamond ring and Nick’s desire to destroy it. King Henry the Eighth’s first wife, Queen Katherine of Aragon, may have chosen not to sail back to Spain, but she presumably had the option. I was willfully marrying a Tudor king who I adored with every bone in my body, but I was still a twenty-first-century American girl. Freedom was the one thing I wasn’t prepared to give up without a fight.

  Mercifully, only a handful of Privy Council members attended my investiture ceremony in the Presence Chamber the following morning. My plush ceremonial robes sank into the woven matting as I knelt before the king, and a sacred coronet as freezing as an ice sculpture was placed over my head. As the letters patent were read out, and King Nick formally granted me the title of Marquess of Pembroke, a tremor quaked through me. I could barely look at Nick in this state without feeling like I was making eyes with a living angel. The jewels in his crown splashed prismatic colors across the candlelit wall, and despite my modern viewpoints, I couldn’t deny that every inch of him radiated power and glory from within his scarlet robes.

  When Alice was washing my hair in the bath afterward, she told me that all the Privy Council members usually attended the investiture ceremonies. There should’ve been plenty more people there. I swallowed the discomfort that brought. If I continued freaking out about every little thing—needing every person in the realm to like me—my life here would be a misery. I was trying the best I could.

  You're the Marquess of freaking Pembroke! I reminded myself as I began dressing for the masquerade feast. Truthfully, I had little idea what a female marquess even was, how she ranked, or what she was supposed to do. I knew I could ask Alice, but I’d have to be careful about sounding like I’d barely heard of the title. At least it would be swallowed up by ‘Queen of England’ before long, and I was pretty clear how that one stacked.

  My anxiety over the Michelmas feast was borderline paralyzing, but the dress that arrived for me from the Royal Wardrobe sweetened the deal a little. The sleeves and gown of scarlet-red satin were draped open to reveal a white kirtle threaded with triangular patterns of white diamonds centered with rose-shaped ruby brooches. Behind me, Bridget and Lucinda chatted at length about the eligible men who’d be at the feast while weaving my hair into elaborate braids. It was a shame that their efforts were entirely concealed by a magnificent ruby-encrusted hood. I usually hated having all my hair covered, but Alice’s makeup had turned me into a magazine ad for glowing skin, and she’d accented my lips with the perfect shade of creamy red.

  I swiveled from left to right in the mirror, glittering like I was tangled in fairy lights. The ensemble was comically swanky for Emmie Grace from Hampshire County, but at least I looked the part of my new title. I could nod and wave like a real queen-to-be and not have to say much to anyone. I wished I had useful contributions to make, but I’d have to rely on a dignified silence to get me through until I learned enough in this century to be able to offer something worthwhile...if my position even allowed that.

  I repressed another pang of longing for my time period.

  Alice and I were unhooking our masquerade masks from their storage pouches when a messenger arrived with a letter for Lucinda Parker.

  “It is from my mother,” she said, hurriedly snapping open the wax seal. “She brings news of my daughter, Ellie.” She read a few words before slumping into the table. “Dear God.”

  Bridget finished clipping on her jeweled belt and dashed to her. “What is it?”

  We all gathered around Lucinda. “Ellie has taken ill,” she breathed. “My mother believes it to be consumption.”

  My chest leaped. “You should go to her.” I was pretty sure that consumption was what the Tudors called tuberculosis.

  “Mistress Parker cannot travel alone,” said Bridget. “I will go with her.” She threw me a nervous glance.

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Alice and I will look after each other, won’t we, Alice?”

  Alice nodded, giving Lucinda’s arm a compassionate rub. Lucinda’s pendant necklace tinkled as she fell into a chair, finishing the letter. “Mother complains here of the costs,” she said. “The king has raised taxes, and now she cannot afford to buy remedies for Ellie.”

  “For what has His Majesty raised taxes?” Alice griped, like Nick was her frustrating older brother.

  Lucinda folded the letter in her lap. “It says here that taxes have been raised
to pay for the coronation of the new queen.”

  I felt my jaw hang. “I can’t believe that—I’d never agree to that; I’m so sorry.”

  Lucinda’s silvery-blue eyes were free of judgment as she looked at me. “I shall remain at court. I must petition the king for some course of aid for my household.”

  “But I can do that,” I said. “You should be with Ellie.”

  Lucinda rose to smooth her skirts. “You are most kind, my lady. However, I would not ask you to do my bidding. In any case, I fear that His Majesty will be less favorable if I do not make mine own case for my daughter.”

  “The king may not like Mistress Parker leaving court without his permission,” Alice explained to me as though she knew I was confused. “She is to become a lady to the queen.”

  I took Lucinda’s clammy hands. “Ask the king tonight then. Apart from the fact that time is clearly of the freaking essence, it’s usually when he’s in his best mood. And if he doesn’t help you, I will.” I had income from my lands now, even though I had no idea where my lands were.

  Lucinda didn’t want to write to her mom until she’d spoken to the king, so we tied on each other’s shimmery, feathered masks and left for the king’s Privy Garden. It was a chilly evening for an outdoor shindig, but that’s what the king wanted, so it was happening.

  Masked noblemen voiced their admiration and tried to guess our identities as we strode past the avenue of clipped yew trees and into the pre-party zone. Guests hovered in clusters around the low hedges of the knot gardens, drinking wine, nibbling hors d’oeuvres, and dancing merrily in the open spaces. Green-and-white poles topped with heraldic beasts overlooked fragrant beds of primroses, violets, and cherries that masked the river smells. Each square-shaped garden was bordered with an impeccably manicured hedge.

  A tall guy with thick, windswept hair sprouting from an ivory mask took my fingers and led me into the volta. I pretended I had no idea it was King Nick, to keep up his charade, and the guests paced backward to give us space. After so many tedious hours of dance practice, I actually didn’t make a total idiot of myself and kept pace with the king’s smooth movements. Cheers sounded as Nick gripped my waist and lifted me to the sky—practically dirty dancing for Tudor times—before concluding the display by dropping to one knee and kissing my hand. A collective gasp at the kneeling king rippled through the crowd, but within seconds, Nick was back on his feet. Holy crap, I just pulled off the volta.

  “Do you know me?” he said in a theatrical voice, and I tried not to laugh. Dorky Nick was adorable.

  “Are you the Earl of Warwick?” I replied loudly. Alice cracked up—always the first to react over a Francis Beaumont joke.

  “Only if I have shrunk by a head,” said Nick, tearing off his mask.

  The nobles roared with laughter like it was the funniest joke ever told. Nick beamed down at me, affection pouring from his sea-colored eyes. He slid a hand inside his coat that was the Tudor colors of green and white, extracting a sliver of gold.

  “For my lady, most dear, and your promised Queen of England!” he cried, draping the glistening chain over my head. I’d expected more cheers, but there was mostly gentle clapping as my fingers clutched the heart-shaped ruby that pressed against my neck. My mind shot back to Nick sitting beside my mom, dipping sliced bread with orange cheese into ketchup. He must’ve thought my home—my life—was so unimpressive and beggarly compared to this. Enough rubies were hanging off my body to buy a planet. Had he really raised the people’s taxes to pay for all this?

  The frazzled Master of the Revels hurriedly cleared a larger space. Two armchairs were carried in for Nick and me, and the rest of the guests gathered behind us on foot. A masque unfolded before us—an iridescent spectacle of actors playing unicorns, nymphs, knights, and damsels, accompanied by lively music and primitive fireworks that could’ve blown us to smithereens. When the performance finished with a lady rescuing the archangel St. Michael from danger, Nick threw me a covert smirk. He’d arranged the surprise feminist ending to impress me. If it hadn’t been the sixteenth century, I’d have kissed him right there.

  After our chairs were removed, a mob of waiting nobles and diplomats sucked the king inside their huddle like a whirlpool. I waited on the perimeter, peering around for Lucinda. She had to have her chance to speak with the king, and single mothers didn’t exactly enjoy priority access in this place.

  Alice arrived beside me with two cups of wine.

  “You’re a good girl,” I said, accepting one. It was sweetened with warmed berries.

  I winced at the sight of Bridget trying to engage the visibly uninterested Earl of Surrey in conversation. While it wasn’t my business who the cute earl hooked up with, I suspected that pretty maidens weren’t exactly on his radar. I’d noticed the way he looked at other dashing gentlemen of the court with shining eyes, and his intimacy with his male tennis partner. Not that I’d ever mention my theory to Bridget, or even Alice—this was a dangerously different world to the one I knew.

  Just beyond Bridget and Surrey stood Francis Beaumont among a throng of lords.

  “How do you think Lord Warwick is going as the king’s right-hand man?” I asked Alice, genuinely curious.

  She considered her answer. “It appears that Francis has been a good servant to the king, and he has fairly handled the Spanish threat. However, he has become as single-minded as my father: sparing no end in his efforts to please the king and the lords. I suppose his sense of duty is to be commended, but I fear he will end up like my Papa…wedded to his work.” The longing in Alice’s voice spoke volumes. I’d never have pushed this hard if I wasn’t sure that Alice and Francis secretly fancied the pants off each other.

  “Okay, enough,” I ordered, the effects of the wine relaxing my inhibitions. “You and Francis need to get together, like yesterday.”

  “What in the high heavens?” she said through a chortle.

  “Stop it,” I said like she was a naughty schoolgirl. “You and Francis have had more misunderstandings than Romeo and Juliet, but they’re all cleared up now. Let’s go through this again: Francis was once betrothed to your older sister Violet, but then he called off the wedding, not because he was a jerk, but because he is actually in love with you. The second issue was that you thought Francis had driven me away from court for similar reasons, but that also turned out to be false. Does that cover everything?”

  Alice gaped at me, before spinning to face Francis again, her slate-colored skirts rustling against the gravel. Together, we watched Francis brush sweaty black curls from his temples while he listened to a nobleman speaking with wild gesticulations. Francis patted the man’s shoulder before turning to another man who appeared equally as distressed.

  Francis’s gaze moved to catch Alice’s stare. Neither of them looked away for several seconds. The irritated noblemen turned away from him, and Francis swayed on his feet, clearly deciding whether to approach us or not. I took Alice’s arm and walked quickly over to him.

  “Good evening, and God save you, my ladies,” Francis greeted us with a bow like we were two strangers. Alice dipped into a polite curtsy.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake, you two.

  “I am grateful for your timely rescue,” he said, guiding us into a quieter space. “Every hairbrain in this palace finds it his duty to make petty complaints without end.” I smelled musk on his skin as he brought his wine cup to his lips.

  “Much has changed since you were merely in charge of court entertainment,” Alice said to him with a wry smile.

  A torch flame flickered in Francis’s dark eyes. “Make no mistake, my lady, pacifying the nobility is a performance indeed.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps if this is all to fall short, you may join the theatre. You would make a fine Narcissus.”

  Ha, typical quick-witted Alice. In Greek mythology, I remembered Narcissus to be the hunter who was physically beautiful but utterly self-absorbed.

  “I feel I would be more suited to Achilles,”
Francis quipped. “And you, my lady, would make a finer Helen of Troy.”

  Her cheeks tinted the color of cherries, but she held his gaze. “A lady in a playhouse? I have heard there is much kissing to be observed.”

  Francis smiled. “Well, if there is to be kissing, I would then wish to change my part to Prince Paris.”

  Biting down on a smirk, I backed away from them. “I’m just going to find the king,” I said. “Sometimes he drinks too much wine before he eats.”

  The truth was that no one could stop Nick from drinking or eating whatever the heck he wanted—not even me. But Alice and Francis were finally flirting like they’d been suppressing it for years and I wasn’t going to get in the way.

  It was past sunset, but supper couldn’t begin without the king’s command. I weaved through clusters of guests, searching for Nick, most of the courtiers morphing into horror-movie characters through their strange masks in the dim light.

  Looping back around, I ambled past the musicians until I spotted flashes of green and white fabric through the torchlights. I slipped between the flaming lamps, careful to avoid their heat. I curled around to see Nick with Lucinda Parker standing beside a stone dragon fountain, both their masks removed. She must’ve finally been asking him for money to help with her daughter. Good. Nick…be nice.

  I leaned closer. Neither of them was saying anything. Was he being difficult? Nick was just gazing down at Lucinda, whose tilted face was a few inches from his. They could’ve been shooting the cover for a historical bridal magazine.

  The gesture was so unexpected—so shocking—that, at first, I thought I imagined it. But no, Lucinda took Nick’s hand in hers and tugged him toward her, catching his lowering lips with hers.

  8

  I didn’t know if—or for how long—Nick kissed Lucinda back. The unfolding scene was too blurry behind the stinging fog of my tears. I tore away from the streak of torchlights and onto an avenue leading back to the privacy of my chambers. I couldn’t be here—four hundred years away from home, doing my best to convince myself and others I was Tudor queen material—if Nick was cheating on me. I had to get away…to escape…to be out of this stifling outfit. Its sleeves were so tight that they pinched my skin as I reached up to wipe my eyes.