by Donna Hosie
Copyright © 2018 by Donna Hosie
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com
First Edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hosie, Donna, author.
Title: The Forty-Eight / by Donna Hosie.
Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, [2018]
Summary: “A secret government organization sends two brothers back in time on a perilous mission to Tudor England to rewrite the history of King Henry VIII’s court”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017024827 | ISBN 9780823438563 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Time travel—Fiction. | Brothers—Fiction.
Twins—Fiction. | Secret societies—Fiction. | Jane Seymour, Queen, consort of Henry VIII, King of England, 1509?-1537—Fiction.
Henry VIII, King of England, 1491-1547—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—Henry VIII, 1509-1547—Fiction. | Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H79325 For 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017024827
Ebook ISBN 9780823441204
v5.3.2
a
For me!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One: Margaret
Two: Alexander
Three: Margaret
Four: Alexander
Five: Charles
Six: Margaret
Seven: Alexander
Eight: Margaret
Nine: Charles
Ten: Margaret
Eleven: Charles
Twelve: Alexander
Thirteen: Charles
Fourteen: Alexander
Fifteen: Charles
Sixteen: Alexander
Seventeen: Charles
Eighteen: Alexander
Nineteen: Charles
Twenty: Margaret
Twenty-one: Charles
Twenty-two: Margaret
Twenty-three: Alexander
Twenty-four: Charles
Twenty-five: Margaret
Twenty-six: Charles
Twenty-seven: Alexander
Twenty-eight: Margaret
Twenty-nine: Charles
Thirty: Charles
Thirty-one: Alexander
Thirty-two: Margaret
Thirty-three: Charles
Thirty-four: Margaret
Thirty-five: Charles
Thirty-six: Alexander
Thirty-seven: Charles
Thirty-eight: Margaret
Thirty-nine: Alexander
Forty: Charles
Forty-one: Margaret
Forty-two: Charles
Forty-three: Margaret
Forty-four: Charles
Forty-five: Alexander
Forty-six: Charles
Forty-seven: Margaret
Forty-eight: Alexander
Forty-nine: Margaret
Fifty: Charles
Fifty-one: Alexander
Fifty-two: Charles
Fifty-three: Margaret
Fifty-four: Charles
Fifty-five: Alexander
Fifty-six: Charles
Fifty-seven: Margaret
Fifty-eight: Charles
Fifty-nine: Charles
Sixty: Alexander
Sixty-one: Margaret
Sixty-two: Alexander
Sixty-three: Charles
Sixty-four: Charles
Sixty-five: Margaret
Sixty-six: Charles
Sixty-seven: Alexander
Sixty-eight: Margaret
Sixty-nine: Charles
Author’s Note
Mother didn’t approve of my wearing the light blue gown at court; she said it made me look pale and uninteresting.
Thomas once said it matched my eyes. He smiled when he said it. Thomas didn’t find me pale and uninteresting. Thomas said I was a joy to behold. A delicate violet in a tangle of Tudor roses.
I didn’t have to be a delicate violet, as far as my father was concerned, or even a rose, so long as I acted the part of a flower. I had six and ten years. I was a maid of honor in the court of Queen Anne. Ready to be plucked.
I knew the type of plucking my mother and father intended for me. It was my duty, as a highborn daughter, to comply with it. Recently, word had reached me that a match was being sought with an earl from Moray, in Scotland. I had not even seen the man, but one of the ladies at court said he was a horror to behold: fat as a toad and covered in warts. Worse, he was so old his youngest son was thrice my age. The earl had already buried two wives. I prayed my future did not lie with him—not with someone who already repulsed me by reputation alone.
Yet I knew better than to voice my wishes to my father, devoted as he was to the king.
My future was now in the hands of His Majesty, who would approve a match for me that enhanced the security of his reign.
* * *
—
The king didn’t find me pale and uninteresting either, though I wished he would. Twice since the feast of Christmas he had made lustful eyes at me in the presence of the queen, for which I later suffered her humiliated ire. At least I wasn’t alone in this injustice. My friend Jane Seymour bore the brunt of the queen’s fits of jealousy. But she took it better than I.
Jane was like that—she had a placid temperament. She had no preference as to whom she would marry. She was happy to be a possession of her father and elder brother, content with the knowledge that the king would decide her fate too. It was an honor, she said.
Perchance it was because she was older than I—wiser, some would say—that she felt this way, but I could not come round to her way of thinking.
I was a maid of honor, yet I found no honor in the position. Instead, I felt only fear.
This court of Tudors, with its contradictions and violence, was terrifying.
* * *
—
So I wore the blue gown. I wore it as often as I could. Not because Thomas had said it matched my eyes, but because I wanted to be pale and uninteresting.
I did not want to be noticed by anyone.
* * *
—
I was dressed in blue on the clear March morning I’d spent in the palace gardens, walking and sitting with the other ladies of the court. On a sunny day, those gardens were my favorite place in the world to be. Nothing in God’s kingdom could be as beautiful as the blackthorn trees in full bloom, and it was a rare moment when my court companions and I found ourselves liberated from the tension that constantly pulsed around the queen.
That particular morning, Her Majesty had taken to her bed with a head pain that could only be eased by quiet and darkness. Many of us fretted that a different sort of quiet and darkness was coming for her, but we rarely spoke this fear aloud. And on that March day, especially, in all its loveliness, no one wished to be reminded that the end of the queen could also mean the end of us all.
“Lady Margaret! Lady Margaret!”
I turned on my bench to see a young chambermaid running toward me. Her round face was flushed with exertion. I stole a deep breath and composed myself, trying not to let her panicked expression affect me. A lady was to display decorum and an air of detachm
ent, and too many of the queen’s maids of honor were giggling children. Such behavior was frowned upon by Her Majesty.
“Yes, child?” I asked, with as superior a countenance as I could muster. Inside, I was filled with dread.
The chambermaid tried to catch her breath.
“Lady Margaret, Her Majesty…Queen—”
“I know who Her Majesty is, child, now out with it,” I said quickly. If the queen had commanded my presence, it would not do to keep her waiting.
“She—she was resting and the physician said she was not to be…be disturbed. But she has been…disturbed…Lady Margaret,” gasped the maid. “Lady Jane said…to find you. The queen is much distressed—”
I crossed myself, stood, and picked up the hem of my dress, not waiting to hear the rest.
Another maid of honor, Lady Cecily, followed as I set off down the path toward the castle. I glanced back at her and nodded gratefully. It was not wise for a young lady of the court to travel the grounds unaccompanied.
We reached the end of the garden and heard male laughter coming from behind a large topiary. Our pace dropped to a brisk walk. I arranged my hood and lowered my eyes as Sir Edward Seymour and a companion rounded the corner.
They walked as if steered by someone who had drunk too much mead. Men of this nature, and in this state, were to be engaged with as little as possible, yet Lady Cecily and I nevertheless dropped to a curtsy, and the gentlemen bowed. Formalities performed, I made to take my leave.
“That gown brings out the color of your eyes, my dear,” said Sir Edward’s friend, grabbing my arm. “Lady Margaret, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, trying not to show my discomfort. “Forgive my haste, sir. I have been summoned to the queen.”
“A summons will be coming for her soon, with any luck,” muttered Edward Seymour. “A summons to the Tower.”
“Run along then, Lady Margaret,” said the companion, his bony fingers releasing my arm. “Better not keep the queen waiting.”
* * *
—
“They despise her,” whispered Lady Cecily as we reached the stone steps of the castle. “What will become of us if—”
“Hush,” I interrupted.
“I’m frightened, Lady Margaret.”
I clasped Lady Cecily’s hand in mine. I wanted to reassure her; I wanted to tell her that all would be well, that we would soon be married off to men who could protect us from this court. Perhaps even love us.
Yet if I didn’t believe it myself, how could I, in good faith, try to convince her of the untruth? There was no pretending the queen wasn’t losing the king’s favor. And if she was taken to the Tower, and the court continued to whisper, our lives could be in danger too. We were inexorably linked to her. We were Her Majesty’s near-constant companions. We sewed clothes for the household at her bidding, read the verses she requested, made music when she demanded it, and played host to lords from foreign lands at her command. We were hers. With such a close association with Her Majesty, the queen’s enemies might become our enemies too.
A few of the maids of honor hoped that salvation could be found in marriage abroad. The king, however, was loath to make unions with men in Spain and Prussia. He needed us here to maintain ties to the lords of England and Scotland. For peace and prosperity, intoned his closest advisor. And when the all-powerful Cromwell spoke, the king listened.
* * *
—
Suddenly a cascade of noise broke through the silence. Lady Cecily and I both jumped.
The bell in the palace tower was tolling.
That’s the bell in the palace tower ringing! Why do you suppose—?”
“I don’t care, Charlie,” I said. I was too engrossed in the psaltery that Mark Smeaton had lent me to pay attention to much else. The instrument was somewhat like a harp but small enough to be placed on the lap and plucked.
I wasn’t having much luck playing it. My strumming wasn’t tuneful; it sounded more like a cat being tortured. If I played this at court I’d be tossed into the Thames with stones tied to my feet.
“The tolling could be important,” said Charlie, ever the worrier. “Possibly a sign of danger.”
“Or it could be a couple of fools swinging on the pull rope,” I replied. I winked at him and laughed. My brother laughed too, but grimly. We were both thinking the same thing: We’d been the last couple of fools to swing on that pull rope. And we were almost skewered by yeomen because of it.
“You are enjoying life here far too much, Alex.”
“And you aren’t enjoying it nearly enough,” I replied. “Must I remind you that we return home tomorrow evening? You should make the most of the time left. There are plenty of pretty maids of honor here just waiting for a handsome son of the land of Cleves to sweep them off their feet. Think of the swooning and pining they’ll do while you’re away!”
Charlie gave me a look.
“I can hardly concern myself with pretty maids when I’m worrying about your safety, Alex.”
“I assume you’re referring to Marlon. I’m simply doing my part for diplomacy between our great houses,” I replied, placing the psaltery on the bed. I knew a lost cause when I saw one. “The Tudors and the Cleves will go down in history.”
“I’m sure he’s a lovely person. But we’re not at home and you need to take care at court, for your sake and his.” He glanced at the door. “Especially tomorrow morning.”
In the morning we would be formally introduced to His Majesty, an occasion I was looking forward to with nerves and pride.
“I will,” I said, standing up and stretching. “And you bear in mind that I’m better-looking than you, so don’t be jealous when I get all His Majesty’s attention.”
“We’re twins,” said my brother, sighing. “We’re identical.”
“I’m still handsomer,” I replied, digging him in the ribs with my elbow. “It has to do with scars. I have more scars than you, and scars are marks of bravery.”
“And sometimes lunacy.”
“I’ll ignore that, brother, because I need your forgiveness. I’m deserting you now to meet Marlon. He’s promised to show me a wing of the court I haven’t seen yet.”
“Great,” replied Charlie. “But remember—”
“I know, I know. This court is dangerous.”
* * *
—
My brother was not mistaken. We’d only arrived a few days ago, but I truly was enjoying life in this court. And I would enjoy it even more when we returned for the real reason we had come calling on King Henry VIII.
The bell had ceased clanging by the time I reached the queen’s apartments, and no mention of it was made by the other ladies, two of whom were openly weeping. Queen Anne, Lady Jane told me, had raised herself from her bed long enough to rage at everyone in her rooms before retreating to her chamber. The physicians were treating her now with an infusion of lavender, rose, and sage, which I suspected would do no good.
Jane had sent for me, I understood, because mild-mannered as she was, she would have liked a friend by her side in the face of the queen’s wrath. Some measure of me was sorry that I’d not been there to aid her. Even so, I gave silent thanks that I had been in the gardens when Her Majesty had lashed out.
This was not a happy court. I had no allegiance or loyalty to Queen Anne—her treatment of Queen Catherine, the queen before her, had been cruel, and few in the court felt sympathy with Anne’s predicament now.
And yet this court was where I was, and where I would remain until my future was decided. My father had no other children—none he accepted as legitimate, that is—and so being born a female, I had been a source of great consternation to him. Serving in the court of the queen had been the best I could do for him, as a daughter. I had been brought here at the age of one and ten years, when it was Queen Catherine who sat beside the k
ing on the throne. My mother had been a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, but Mother, like Queen Catherine, had failed to produce sons and was similarly discarded by my father for being a disappointment. King Henry’s desire for Anne Boleyn had never been a secret, and he had humiliated Queen Catherine with divorce. My father came to court and ordered my mother back to our cold ancestral home in Hampshire. It was a home I could never hope to inherit by virtue of my sex and visited only when summoned by my mother to deliver news and receive instruction on how to advance at court. My value to my parents and king lay in a beneficial marriage, and nothing more.
For five years, I had lived my life in the Tudor court in quiet observation of the ways of men and women, and the desperate desire by both sexes to do just enough to gain favor with the king without courting death in the process.
’Twas a fine line between those fates.
My father, Sir Richard Montague of Hampshire, now served the king in his navy. His fighting prowess and uncanny ability to foresee the enemy’s advances at sea had ensured the king’s approval—and my continued place in the court of the queen.
* * *
—
“Another turn outside, Lady Margaret?” asked Lady Cecily, shaking me from my thoughts. “It seems we are not needed here after all, and it would be a shame to waste such a beautiful day. The weather in March can be so…”
“Temperamental?” I suggested, glancing pointedly at the thick paneled doors that led to the queen’s inner sanctum.
Lady Cecily flushed a pink so bright she could have been mistaken for a rose.
“You are wicked, Lady Margaret,” she whispered, smiling.
“Wait!” exclaimed a voice, high and harsh. We turned to see Lady Rochford approaching. A sister to the queen by marriage, and despised by most.
“Lady Rochford.” I acknowledged her with a nod and the briefest of curtsies, despite her elevated rank amongst the ladies of the court. Lady Cecily trembled beside me, obviously afraid her jovial words about wickedness had been overheard. Wicked was not a word used in civilized conversation. It inspired thoughts of witchcraft—and none among us wanted to be accused of that.