By the time I slipped into my bedcovers of blue velvet fringed with silver, the sky was as black as the air was silent. When my ladies quietly retreated from the chamber, I knew that Nick was near. A gentle knock sounded from the door, followed by a guard’s hushed announcement: “His Majesty, the King.”
Nick crossed the candlelight, looking more like a strapping Greek god than an English monarch.
“My lady,” said one of the men who followed him, inviting me to leave the bed so he could plunge his sword through the expensive mattress in search of daggers and other dangers. Yikes, poor Lord and Lady Clifford!
I glided into Nick’s arms, feeling his bare muscles beneath the cream silk of his feather-light nightshirt. The moment the guards left, he fell into me, our lips fusing with hungry twists as we kissed our way to the bed.
“I love you truly,” he repeatedly whispered as if he couldn’t tell me enough times. I echoed every sentiment, and yet it still felt like we couldn’t get close enough to each other—couldn’t quite reach the tip of where we needed to be.
After hours of sensuous kissing and the electric touch of Nick’s hands on me, I slept in the cradle of his arms before a crackling fire, paralyzed by a peace I’d never felt before. We’d rarely slept a whole night together without intending to travel through time. It enveloped me with a feeling of being right where I belonged.
Our procession left an undoubtedly relieved Lord and Lady Clifford at Ewelme and rolled on through the emerald blankets of the Oxfordshire farmlands. Wherever we slept, Nick rose early for days packed with hunting, hawking, and feasting, before he’d sneak into my bedchamber after midnight to avoid any whispers about my virtue. We’d snuggle until the crows of the roosters, and then my boyfriend Nick would become King Nicholas the First again: sought-after, pressured, and somewhere away from my company.
Our relationship had begun in a lightning-fast blaze of secret, stolen moments, but now that I’d spent this much time with Nick, I loved him more than I thought possible. And even though I’d willingly given up my world for him, I’d come to realize that I’d only ever be a small piece of his. The truth of that cut a wound into me that I wasn’t sure would ever heal.
10
It was a gloomy Thursday at dusk when our train of carts and wagons rumbled up the lonely hill on which Kenilworth Castle stood. Skirted by a midnight-blue lake known as the Mere, the sandstone fortress cut a romantic, fantasy-like figure from a distance. Our coach rattled across a walled tiltyard over the dam, reaching a small figure waiting within the gaping jaws of the portcullis.
“Christ, she not only stands in a draft but waits openly as if to meet the end of an arrow,” said Nick, his eyes flared with disapproval. He climbed down from our coach that’d barely stopped.
He marched toward Kit as if to scold her for hanging about so publicly, and I winced in anticipation. Kit dropped into a regal curtsy, but within seconds the brother and sister were embracing, the sight warming my heart. The medieval monarchs were all pomp and stiffness in the history books, but Nick Tudor was as unreservedly loving as he was hot-blooded…just one of the forty-billion things I loved about him.
“Kit!” I called, as I jumped onto the gravel. I felt the smile light up my face.
“Lady Pembroke, I am greatly pleased to see you,” she said into my side as we hugged informally. Her high-pitched voice gave away her age, though she clearly had Nick’s height gene.
The wind off the Mere was bitterly cold, and Kit’s new governess, the sour-faced Lady Dormer, hurried us inside. Leaving the rest of the procession queuing down the road to Coventry, we crossed over the castle ditch and paced up the sloping inner courtyard. I’d imagined Kenilworth to be a smaller, cozier place for young Kit’s household, but with its gothic web of four-story stone battlement towers, it could’ve passed for a medieval prison.
Kit led us into the Middle Court, her silk slippers embroidered with Tudor roses pausing at the gateway to the royal apartments. “I beseech you: I wish to come back to court,” she blurted to me. Even her voice sounded suffocated. “I miss the king and Francis and everyone.” She couldn’t get the words out fast enough.
“Oh, Kit, make no burden of our lady most wearied from travel,” Nick cut in. “You must remain here to complete your lessons. How is your study of arithmetic coming along?”
“You mean fractions and algebra?” She narrowed her eyes at me, making me giggle. I couldn’t stop staring at her. Her adult teeth were finally growing in, maturing her pretty face.
“Kit can bring her tutor to Hampton Court, can’t she?” I said, turning to Nick. “Why can’t she come and stay there? I’ll play with her.”
He shot me a look that could cut steel. The message registered beyond any doubt: I was to stay out of it. The way he’d shut me down with a single glance pecked at my mind through our tour of the castle apartments. Kit was about to become my sister-in-law—the only sort-of-sibling I’d ever had. Was I allowed to have no opinion on her, especially when she was unhappy? Cute Tudor king is starting to become frustrating-as-hell Tudor king.
After an unsettled sleep, Kit and I caught up over a breakfast of sugared pancakes with apple slices fried in cinnamon and butter. I took my chance to gently grill her about her life at Kenilworth. She said she had plenty of time to paint, and her childish optimism was evidently keeping her spirits buoyed, but I sensed that she was lonely. At least I had more time to spend with her than I thought I would. Nick disappeared for days at a time, hunting, boating on the Mere, or playing tennis with Francis and his guy squad. He adored his little sister to the point of obsession, but as long as she was safe, he didn’t want her interfering with his fun.
Throughout our six-day visit, Kit spent her mornings translating complicated devotional texts for her tutor before joining me and my ladies in an open-air terrace swathed with vines and honeysuckle. We’d sit overlooking the knot gardens and sew to a soundtrack of twittering birds in the aviary. I loved me some girl time, but the endless sewing and embroidery were becoming a snore—even with the added novelty of having Kit nearby.
“What news of Francis?” Kit eventually asked me, stitching gold thread into an emblem of a portcullis. “I have scarcely seen his person since your arrival.”
Alice’s chin sprung up, sending her pin into her fingertip. “Ouch,” she griped.
“You should ask Alice,” I replied with feigned innocence. “She’s the one spending all her time with him.”
Kit’s heart-shaped face fell. “Will you be his wife?” she said to Alice. Poor Kit had been crushing on Francis for years.
“Heavens no,” Alice said with a flush. “We are friends, nothing more.”
Lucinda snorted, and I laughed out loud. While on the road, we’d all noticed Alice and Francis hogging each other on the dance floor during the evening feasts. In spite of that, I was sure that Alice and Francis hadn’t yet crossed the line from platonic to romantic. Something had her heart locked up in a cage, and I suspected it to be the mystery over her missing mom.
Kit brought her embroidery hoop to her nose, sulking for a few minutes before she spoke again. “In any case, I am truly pleased you are to marry the king, Lady Pembroke. For I have never seen our good and gracious Majesty more merry than when he is with you…it is a love match most true.”
The girls mumbled their agreement—even Lucinda. I hadn’t realized until then how much I needed to hear those words. Perhaps it was acceptable for kings to marry purely for love in this century. When I tried to reply, however, nothing came out. I hadn’t stopped thinking about Nick’s icy reaction when I’d merely suggested that Kit come to Hampton Court with us.
After celebrating St. Crispin’s Day at Kenilworth, Nick announced it was time to be on our way. Kit said she couldn’t bear to watch us leave, and this time, there was no tiny figure waving at us from the tiltyard gatehouse. It wasn’t until our coach neared Warwick Castle that the tightening coil of my frustration snapped.
“Why does Kit have
to stay at Kenilworth Castle?” I said to Nick, stretching my lower back. The bumpy roads were a fast track to a slipped disc.
He didn’t remove his hand from mine, but his fingers stiffened. “Must you ask me that sincerely?”
“Did you see her crying when we left? You’ve always kept her close to you before. Now she’s locked up in a glorified cage, a million miles from anywhere. Will she even be allowed to come to our wedding?”
His penetrating eyes focused on me. “You recall not the occurrences of this midsummer last? Of how my sister was snatched from under my nose not once but twice and nearly slain?”
“Of course I do.” Both Kit and I nearly ended up six feet under.
“The only way to keep my sister safe is to put her where no devil may harm her again. The princess has her household and all manner of princely pleasures at Kenilworth. There is no reason for her to feel troubled.”
“How about the fact that she’s lonely? And that she misses you?”
He had no answer for that, returning his gaze to his bottomless mound of work papers. The lack of response dumped more fuel over my burning irritation.
“Is she going to spend the rest of her life in that castle until you marry her off to an old Frenchman?” I pressed. “Did you even tell her about that deal you struck with the French king?”
“Enough!” Nick snapped, both of us lurching as the coach skidded over a pothole.
“Am I going to end up locked inside one of your castles when you eventually get bored of me?” I said to his furrowed profile. “You’ll throw the blue-diamond ring into a fire like you suggested and then lock me away forevermore?”
He just sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, before suddenly reaching to pull me into him. He didn’t want to fight, and I didn’t know where to draw the line on Kit. I was out of my depth on royal life, and she was his sister, but if I didn’t stand up for her happiness, who would?
“One day, Emmie, you may come to see my home as something other than a cage,” he said grimly. “Perhaps it will be the same day that you learn to trust me.”
I didn’t know how to reply.
Our next major stop was Northamptonshire, where we were to stay with Alice’s dad, Sir Thomas Grey, at their family home. The modest Grey manor was across the street from the parish church and overlooked a noisy paddock of bleating sheep and a pen of hunting dogs.
I’d been freaking out about facing Sir Thomas for days. He’d been the king’s right hand until he retired in protest over Nick’s decision to jilt the princess of France and marry me instead. When Thomas met us in the entrance hall, however, I realized that I’d wasted hours of my life sweating over the reunion. His pale eyes drew me in with kindness, and time away from the pressures of court appeared to have mellowed the old grouch.
“Good morrow and bless you, Lady Pembroke,” he said with a bob of his head. He wiped a handkerchief across his brow.
When I replied with a nervous stammer, Thomas patted my hand. His fingers were ridden with arthritis, and he’d slimmed down since I’d last seen him.
His gaze drifted past my shoulder. “My dear daughter,” he said, lurching forward to hug Alice. The sight tugged my chest a little. While I’d have given anything to help Alice get her mom back, she was lucky to have a dad who loved her so openly. Everyone in this world believed my dad was dead, and he may as well have been—even if he had been living in the same century.
Another girl stepped into the chamber, a smaller version of Alice, but more mature in the face.
“Violet!” Alice cried before halting at the sight of her older sister’s red-rimmed eyes. She put her arm around a sniffling Violet and led her away.
Before I could find out why Alice’s sister was in tears, I had to partake in a formal meet-and-greet with a handful of rich, tedious men from the county. Ugh. I itched to get to my room and see if everything was okay. What if Alice’s mom had turned up dead? But surely Thomas would’ve appeared more upset if his wife’s body had been found.
When I’d sufficiently impressed the nobles, I was shown to a small chamber adorned with expensive tapestries. My ladies stood gathered around Violet Grey.
Alice spun toward me. “Emmie, may my sister join your household and come to court with us?”
Violet dropped to her knees, her faded satin skirts crushing into the floorboards.
“Dearest Lady Pembroke,” she said, her eyes at my feet. “I beseech you to forgive my sorrow on this most merry occasion. It is because I have suffered a great loss. These past weeks, my husband was struck with smallpox and has gone to God. Be assured, I am void of any illness and would be not in your gracious presence if there was any danger of it.”
“Oh no,” I said, my hand clasped over my stomach in alarm. The mortality rate in Tudor England was enough to send anyone running for the hills. I helped Violet to her feet and guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Of course, you can come and join us. Please just ask me if there’s anything you need.”
Violet cupped my hands with gratitude, blinking fast like she was trying to block tears.
“Bless you, Emmie,” said Alice.
Despite the bleak start, the feast that Thomas Grey hosted that night was hands-down the yummiest of the trip—even Violet joined us in her mourning gown. By all accounts, Francis Beaumont was doing fine as the king’s new right hand, but when the men launched into a political discussion, Thomas offered nuggets of wisdom that sent impressed murmurs rippling around the table. There was no doubt that Alice’s dad was a genius, and when Nick commented that he wished Sir Thomas would return to his side, awkward silence swept the space. I’d been around the king long enough to know that could be taken as a formal command. Thomas’s cheeks, strawberry-pink from drinking floods of wine, turned chalk-white.
“My father is most merry in the countryside, Your Majesty,” Alice said carefully, capturing every eye in the room. “Who would tend to the village sheep, should he return to court?”
Everyone laughed except Francis, who tossed back his last inch of wine.
When Nick squeezed Thomas’s shoulder and suggested they discuss the Spanish threats in private, I glanced at Francis. Jet-black curls hung over his face as he looked away, humiliated by the king who also happened to be his best mate. When Nick and Thomas withdrew to the drawing-room without inviting Francis, the earl blasted his way out the back door before they’d made their exit—a classic Lord Warwick tantrum. I sympathized with Francis; Sir Thomas Grey not only cast a long shadow, but from what I could remember, he also enjoyed criticizing the impulsive earl.
Alice excused herself to follow Francis, but Violet was already slipping through the archway. Alice’s surprise gave way to a look of distress. I understood why; When Alice and Violet were kids growing up at court, they’d shared Francis as a best friend. Violet soon fell in love with Francis, and he proposed to Violet before abruptly dumping her. He only did that because he secretly desired Alice, but the three of them had never sorted out this triangle. Now Violet was single again, but in the meantime, Alice had also fallen for the dashing earl.
“Want to go outside?” I said to her. “I’d like to see your dad’s gardens before it gets dark.”
“The gardens belong to my mother, and Father merely tends to them in the hope for her short return,” she said a little faintly, but she led me outside to the inner courtyard. Our square heels clopped along the cobblestones as we cut through an archway leading to the walled garden.
Francis and Violet were sitting a stone bench several yards away, their legs so close together that her skirts bunched into his breeches.
“Perhaps wasted hope is a Grey family custom,” Alice said to me with a sigh.
“You must be thrilled to see Violet,” I said, lightly knocking her leg with mine. “I can’t even imagine what she’s gone through. You’re not going to let Francis get in between you two, are you?”
Francis’s jaw jerked toward us. He slid away from Viol
et faster than we could blink.
“We wished to inquire whether you are well, Lord Warwick,” Alice said stiffly. “You took leave of my father’s feast so rudely, and as his house guest, no less.”
“Did your father not take leave of his own banquet so rudely?” Francis replied, crossing his arms. “No less?”
Alice huffed. “Why is your every intention to vex me? I pray to God that we return to larger grounds in haste.”
He paced toward her. “That is plainly absurd, given you have not wished to leave my side since Windsor!”
Alice made an ‘as if’ snort. “And yet, here you are, with your lecherous manner toward my sister, who is in mourning. After you shamed her once already!”
Francis stepped so closely to Alice that they shared the same breath. “Who says I am lecherous! Madam, you offend me as if it is a sport. I will suffer it no longer.”
“I will pray for it, then,” she snapped. Had he leaned forward an inch, his mouth would’ve met hers.
“I beseech you both!” said Violet, stepping between them with her arms splayed.
As she launched into an appeal for a ceasefire, I caught sight of a mess so unseemly for a Tudor manor that I zoned out. Edging the pristine garden was a chaotic mound of decaying wicker baskets, tattered saddles, broken wagon wheels, and other junk spilling onto the cobblestones. When I moved closer, I realized it was surplus clutter from a barn so stuffed with crap that you couldn’t see into the windows.
“Emmie!” Alice called behind me. “I bid you stay away from that unsightly serpent’s nest; there are many dangers.”
“What is all this?” I said, the haphazard jumble of broken ladders and planks of wood evoking a memory that felt light-years away.
“Our mother’s things,” Violet replied in a weak voice. “I have bid Father to be rid of them many a time.”
Emmie and the Tudor Queen Page 13