“Progress…isn’t that like a king’s tour of the country?”
He nodded, kissing the back of my hand. “Occurrences remain of the one-day fever on the roads to Sussex, so we shall travel west, and perhaps north. First to Windsor, then over to Oxford, and God willing, to Kenilworth to meet the Princess Catherine.”
“Oh please, yes—can we visit Kit?” Nick’s little sister was one of the only people here who felt like family. I ached to see her.
His dimpled smile was infectious. “Kenilworth it is. Kit will be enamored to see you. We shall depart on the morrow.” Nick spun to the painter. “You will finish the portrait this day. Our Lady Pembroke will inform you when she is weary and in need of rest.”
Gower’s oil-stained fingers flew to his goatee as he watched the king leave.
“It’s okay,” I reassured him. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”
He tipped his head at me in gratitude, before his hand dashed across the canvas with panicky scrapes. I became a sitting statue again, processing the good news: I was about to travel through sixteenth-century English villages and meet some of the common folk…those who were surely more like me than anyone in this posh court. It would be an escape from the constant unease I felt from not being able to perfect the Tudor protocols quickly enough. A smile tugged at my lips, inducing a tsk-tsk sound from Gower. My cheeks slumped back into somber Tudor portrait mode.
I climbed into bed after midnight, making a stop at the map on the wall in my bedchamber. The route we’d take on progress was northwest, passing right through Buckinghamshire, where Bridget Nightingale’s family was from.
My eyes flickered to the jewelry coffer still protecting the blue-diamond ring. This was my chance to show the enchanted ring to Bridget’s cousin—the soothsayer Agnes Nightingale—and find out what it was meant for and why it’d been acting strangely. If I could just prove that the ring wasn’t going to conk out on one of its journeys to the twenty-first century—erroneously trapping us there—Nick would stop freaking out, and we could even visit there now and then. I wouldn’t have to choose between Nick and my mom.
I tugged the sheets to my chin, making a firm promise to myself: before Nick had a chance to destroy the enchanted ring that clearly terrified him, I was going to stop at nothing to get some answers about it—with his blessing or without.
9
Splinters of sunrise through the cracks in the shutters roused me out of bed without my usual sleepy protests. I was fully charged and springy with excitement for my first road trip across sixteenth-century England.
But when I got outside, the number of people lined up to join us was a shock to the system. It was never going to be a couple’s escape, but I hadn’t expected literally a thousand people to come along for the ride. From the west gatehouse of Hampton Court Palace, hundreds of carts, wagons, and horses queued noisily outside the slaughterhouses and stables before disappearing into the hunting park. Half the court’s residents stood in their traveling cloaks, hastily tying last-minute pieces of furniture, bedding, and wall hangings to their horses and wagons.
I clung to the last corner of warmth inside the gatehouse with my three ladies. Lucinda Parker had arrived back at court the night before, giddily sharing news of Ellie’s improvement. I was genuinely relieved that Ellie was okay, and nothing was going to dull my perky mood—not even the memory of Lucinda’s lips on my boyfriend’s. At this point, I was taking everyone’s word for it that lip-locking in an age of widespread disease was inexplicably commonplace.
Bridget was bouncing from heel to heel. “My first royal progress,” she sang, already on the lookout for rich hotties.
Alice groaned, separating the tangled chains of the brass pendants she’d made for us to ward off bad air outside the palace. “You may come to loathe the progress, with lodging conditions of every which way and no manner of receiving letters.” I felt a pang of guilt over my careless excitement—for Alice, our trip away also meant potentially missing news about her mom’s disappearance.
“We shall sleep in great comfort,” Lucinda argued cheerfully. “We are so fortunate and blessed to be traveling with our promised queen.” She tipped her pearled hood at me, finally acknowledging my station over her. I couldn’t decide whether or not her kindness was genuine, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt and returned a cautious smile.
“Come then,” said Alice, draping the talismans over our heads. “The king will not wish us to ride on horseback so late in the year. We must find our coach.”
The four of us edged through whirs of servants securing rolled-up mattresses and trapped hunting dogs yipping from carts but could see no sign of our carriage. Nick emerged through the chaos, a superstar strutting the red carpet toward us as infatuated courtiers bid him good morning from every angle.
“Good morrow, my lady,” he said to me, dropping into an elegant bow.
I’d never acclimatize to the sight of Nicholas the Ironheart bowing to me, nor the impact of Nick Tudor in full finery. He liked the comfort of long pants, but today he’d chosen breeches to impress the nobles with his muscular legs. The silk cloth encasing his hips and chest shone with swirls of pearled white, coconut cream, and pale ivory. A thick cloak of jet-black blanketed one shoulder, the bottom half embroidered with snow-colored seashells. The tongue-in-cheek frown I’d attempted was eaten away by an embarrassingly doting smile. Nevertheless, I fired a teasing shot.
“No one seems to know where we’re supposed to be,” I said to him, indicating my ladies. “The dogs and puffin birds have carts, but we don’t. Should we walk to Windsor?”
Nick chuckled with his unflappable coolness. “You are to travel with my person, Lady Pembroke.”
Bridget gasped and fluffed out her skirts. “My glorious lord, will Lady Pembroke’s ladies be blessed to join His Majesty’s coach?”
Nick’s eyes didn’t move from mine. “I am afraid not, madam. There is not room in my coach for so many beautiful maidens.” They all blushed, and I forced my mind away from Lucinda. “I have appointed the Earl of Warwick as your companion.”
Alice’s cheeks flushed scarlet at the news that she’d be traveling with Francis Beaumont. She was so obviously smitten with the fiery earl that it made me want to squeal, but she’d made clear that nothing had happened between them at the feast. Something was still holding Alice back, and I intended to find out what.
What snagged my attention the most, however, was that Nick not only avoided Lucinda Parker’s gaze, but he turned his back to her, offering me an elbow. “Come, my lady,” he said.
“Make way for the king!” cried the guards. My shoulder brushed Nick’s bicep as we walked, and he tightened his arm around me.
He led me up the stairs of his coach, which was swathed in blue velvet braided with ropes of gold. Before I could take in the lush interiors, we were already kissing. He reached behind me to tug the curtain closed without separating his mouth from mine, his movements heated and urgent. It was a ridiculously inappropriate time to launch into a make-out session, but common sense and Nick Tudor had become an oxymoron. After our recent rough patch, it felt like he hadn’t kissed me in weeks, and he feverishly hooked an arm around my waist and tugged me onto his lap. The shout of a commander near the coach was the wake-up call we both needed. I slipped off Nick and onto the cushioned bench beside him, breathing like I’d just run cross-country.
“Forgive me,” he said breathlessly, rubbing his swollen lips. “I grow weary of all this fanfare and never being able to see you without the company of others.”
The comment caught me by surprise. I’d thought it was just me who craved for it to be only the two of us.
“The king is ready to depart,” Nick called before I could reply. Seconds later, our coach shook to life.
He sat back with his hands on his knees, as accustomed to riding in golden coaches as he was to drinking from fountains of wine. I peeked through the gap in the curtain, watching the stables and kennels shrink away in our t
rail of dust. The graveled road soon melted into dirt tracks as we rumbled along the river dotted with white swans, the crisp taste of the breeze reminding me how stuffy the palace walls had become. Children in tattered shirts and dresses were jogging alongside us, waving with gap-toothed grins.
“God save the king!” their musical voices shrieked. “Long live the king!” A bunch of boys had gathered a short distance ahead, their woolen caps pressed to their chests. I reached through the curtains to wave at them, hearing their delighted shrieks as the coach rolled on. “Can I open the curtains a bit?” I asked Nick.
“If it pleases you.” He unrolled a scroll containing trade updates. We’d been out of Hampton Court less than five minutes, and he already seemed more at ease.
I tugged the curtain apart two inches, aware that any more might put the king at risk on the open roads. Our coachman skillfully negotiated the deeply rutted paths as we bumped through acres of dense forest, harvested meadows sprinkled with grazing cattle, rustic cottages bandaged with vines, and colorful constellations of wildflowers grasping the last weeks of spring. When the road made a sharp curve at the tip of a small hill, I twisted to check out the hundreds of carts trailing us like an ant colony on the move—visual proof that the King of England would never have a private life. He would always be surrounded by his court, his nobles, or his guards.
I shut the curtain and curled into the crook of Nick’s arm. The rhythmic bounce of hooves coupled with the security of him holding me rocked me to sleep within minutes.
I woke to the clanging of church bells and the icy touch of Nick’s sparkling rings on my skin as he stroked my chin.
“We have arrived at the castle of Windsor,” he said gently.
I sat up with a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Time for dinner, I should expect.” He helped me climb down the coach steps into the windy and overcast chill. Dinner was Tudor speak for lunch, so I guessed it was before midday.
“Wow,” I said, taking in the sight of the fortress castle with its cylindrical battlement towers that dwarfed us. The damp air warned that rain was imminent. Carts, wagons, and horses formed an impatient line down to the river like a medieval traffic jam, waiting for the king to make his exit.
“My lady,” he said, finding my fingers beneath the silky ruffles of his sleeve.
We crossed the drawbridge over the castle ditch and stepped inside the windy stone fortress where honking trumpeters broadcast our arrival.
The arched palace entrances were inscribed with royal emblems and the polished initials NR, every servant and courtier greeting the king as if he were an angel arriving from heaven. Noble families trailed us into the palace in order of their rank, hunting for their chambers like a flurry of guests boarding a cruise ship.
Nick and I had lunch alone in his royal apartments before he suggested the two of us take a ride through the village before the rain set in.
“It is time my people set eyes upon the lady who has stolen my heart,” he said with a smug smile as we mounted our horses.
After everything that had happened with Norfolk and Wharton, I wasn’t holding my breath that the villagers would find me as endearing as Nick did. Still, perhaps they’d appreciate my ordinariness more than the nobles. We set out with only the guards accompanying us, clip-clopping down the dirty hill past wild pigs and rabid-looking dogs that smelled like they were already dead. I covered my nose with my scarf, but Nick turned and shook his head at me, and I let the fabric slip back through my fingers—he didn’t want us to offend anyone. Market sellers and butchers scurried out of white stores that were framed with wonky planks of black timber, waving and tossing flowers at us. They couldn’t have known that the most fragrant varieties aggravated their king’s asthma.
“Lady Pembroke! My lady!” cried boys and girls from the roadside, their mothers protectively holding their grimy hands and beaming at me. The people here already knew who I was—even my name.
“We most heartily thank you,” Nick called ahead of me.
“Thank you!” I said to my bizarre new fan base. “Bless you all.”
If only they knew you’re a teenager from Hampshire County who sucked at history at school—yep, smile and wave, Lady Pembroke.
As we guided our horses over a narrow wooden bridge connecting Windsor to Eton, it hit me why I was on a ticker-tape parade through one of the most populated villages in England. Going on progress wasn’t just about making space to prepare for the wedding and coronation—this was a national sales pitch. After Norfolk and Wharton’s rejection of me, Nick wanted to ensure my success as his chosen bride by parading me directly before the masses. It seemed he’d listened to Francis.
A cold lash of wind from the river echoed the shiver in my chest. I trusted that Nick had all this handled, but the fact that this ‘Emmie exhibition’ was necessary left me uneasy.
After a week of late-night parties and hunting expeditions in which I refused to participate, our dog-and-pony show carried on through the bustling villages of Brakenhale, Wokingham, and Reading, where lush, warmed manors were always waiting for us. The farther we got from London, the grungier and more rustic the townships became. Potholes riddled the slushy roads between towns, and our lengthy procession had to grind to a sluggish halt more than once: usually when vagabonds were sighted up ahead.
Rain or shine, Nick insisted on parading me on horseback through every village to the unrelenting clanging of church bells. The commoners clearly idolized their brilliant jewel of a king, but my growing discomfort was becoming harder to hide. Not only did it weigh on me that it was apparently necessary to promote me to the people, but showing off our riches like pompous peacocks before the most impoverished people I’d ever seen made my throat thicken with embarrassment.
“What troubles you?” Nick asked me when our coach neared our next resting place, the village of Ewelme. The coachman skillfully steered our carriage through webs of vines and branches that crowded the narrow road.
“Nothing,” I replied, absently playing with the tangled strings on my traveling cloak.
“Speak not falsely,” he said calmly, reaching over to free the laces with his deft fingers. “I fear you are suffering a temper. Is it the journey? You are wearied?”
“No, I like being away,” I said quickly. I was in no hurry to be locked back at Hampton Court. “It’s just that…”
“Yes?” His face became alarmed.
“Everyone here is so poor. Of course, I know that things are different in this century, and it’s well known that kings in your time had insane wealth, but…it’s a different thing to see it in person. Some of the people out here look like they have nothing.”
To his credit, genuine compassion stirred in Nick’s face. “The plague spared no mercy in its destruction. Grace be to God, no cases have been reported in many months, or we would not be here.”
I nodded, but the emptiness remained. Surely it wasn’t just the plague to blame for the decrepit streets, the ramshackle sheep farms falling apart, and the bony children. What responsibility did the Tudor dynasty—did Nick—take? I then reminded myself that this was how the world worked back then, and I’d have to get used to it like I had chamber pots and beheadings.
We arrived at Ewelme Manor to greetings from a bumbling Lord and Lady Clifford, each as stout as the other. The manor occupants were evidently terrified of their royal visitors, which I found strangely comforting. For once, I wasn’t the only one a bit dazed and confused over the constant, jaw-dropping Tudor splendor and the expectations they carried to behave in a certain way.
The king’s chef whipped up a lavish feast, which this time didn’t include the welcome company of my ladies. By the eighth course, I was fighting to stay awake, until Nick brought the gentle touch of his lips to my ear.
“Can I come to you this night?” he said.
I glanced up at the affectionate plea in eyes, heat streaking up my spine. He was asking to come and lie with me in my bedchamber. We’d fallen
asleep together before, but this invitation felt different. Our uncomfortable chat in the coach had left him nervous, and it wouldn’t hurt to reconnect and remind ourselves why we two polar opposites were choosing to make a life together.
“Sure, you can come to my room,” I replied softly. My stomach began twisting with yearning flutters.
His heavy thigh leaned against mine, and I sensed that he was about to call it a night when Lord and Lady Clifford began a sweet but dithery presentation of gifts. There were pearl buttons and fur-lined hawking gloves that didn’t quite fit for Nick, and a painted comfit box and feathered hat for me.
The king thanked them, rising from his royal seat that had—ridiculously—traveled with us from Hampton Court. I was the next one on my feet, fixated on the image of being horizontal with Nick Tudor in a dark room. He’d already made clear that he didn’t believe in being together physically before marriage—not with me, anyway—and I was okay to wait for the big stuff, but still…kissing. Lots of kissing.
Lord Clifford bowed. “Your Majesty and Lady Pembroke, receiving your divine persons at our home is an honor most sacred. If it pleases you, may we present an entertainment for the king’s pleasure: The tragedy of Phaedra by Seneca.”
Nick’s mouth shot open, and I squeezed the plush velvet encasing his forearm. “Thank you, my lord and my lady,” I said. “We would both love to see it.”
I steered my bored boyfriend outside to the central courtyard, where a short platform had been erected out of uneven planks of wood with a row of chairs before it. Nick dropped onto one of the only two seats swathed with cloth of gold, passing me a subtle eye roll as I settled in beside him.
The whole play was gobbledygook to me. Some of the roles appeared to be women, but men played them all, and there was something about lust and beasts and topics that made Nick blush. I spent most of the performance’s endless hours forcing my eyelids apart.
Emmie and the Tudor Queen Page 12