A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

  “No I will not give up custody of my children,” Amelia said. “And I will absolutely not discuss with anyone except their father whether and when I get to see them. I don’t care what they’re heirs to. Does Arthur really think I won’t love my children?”

  “Amelia, where is this coming from?” Charlie said softly. “Your concerns are reasonable, but you’re not convincing me you’re fine or that you know what you’re getting into.”

  Amelia brushed her hair out of her face and stared at the wall. “I’m scared,” she admitted.

  “You’d be a fool not to be.”

  “No,” Amelia said. “No, you don’t understand.”

  Charlie shifted closer to her on the couch and put an arm around her shoulders. Amelia stiffened against the touch.

  “Arthur’s lovers have been excoriated by the press for years,” she said. “The tabloids only don’t go after his nieces because they’re not eighteen yet. And I remember — I remember what people said after Imogene died. How everyone wondered if it was a conspiracy. If Arthur really loved her.”

  “As one of Arthur’s — and Imogene’s — best friends, I can assure you he did. Very much.”

  Amelia nodded slowly. “But I don’t even have the protection of Arthur’s love. All I have is some jewelry and a legal document that claims my children will not be mine.”

  “That’s not quite what it’s saying.”

  Amelia ignored his words. “My legacy as a Yorkish Queen is nothing if I can’t raise my children to know and love and be of our home.”

  “I understand that, but —”

  “Elizabeth of York was once meant to be queen, too, you know. Then she lost her head.” Amelia smiled as if the cruelties of history were truly a joke. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s going to happen to me. Not literally, of course, I don’t think.” She looked her brother in the eye. “But the effect to my reputation, to my ambitions, to my hopes for our people, could be the same.”

  “Surely you thought of all this before you said yes. I tried to talk to you about it; I’m trying now. I know mother warned you, too.”

  “It seemed less real then,” Amelia admitted. “But I still can’t say no, Charlie, I can’t. This is about our family. About the people we grew up with, went to school with, live next door to. It’s the history of everyone we know, wronged before any of us were even born. It’s about what we could be, if just given the chance. And if we took the opportunity.” She took a deep breath and hated the way her shoulders shook.

  “You frighten me,” Charlie said, his voice as steely as Amelia’s own.

  Trapped in this ancient room, she felt claustrophobic. She needed her brother’s help, not his doubt. She stood and peered down at him. One day she would rule over him. She pointed at the tablet. “Negotiate that. I need to some air.”

  Amelia took a deep breath when she finally made her way outside into the courtyard, but she was not alone.

  Aside from guards standing outside the doors, a man in a crisp dark suit strode a dozen paces behind her. His bearing was erect, and he was on clear alert, his gaze sweeping the otherwise deserted courtyard. He followed her when she turned down a path lined with a low hedge. An uneasy chill crept down Amelia’s spine.

  “Excuse me,” she said, turning around and biting the words far more sharply than was polite. “Would you kindly stop following me?” At least she had resisted cursing at him.

  The man drew to a stop and met her eyes easily, with no attempt to hide that he’d been stalking her. “I’m sorry, Lady Amelia, I’m afraid it’s my job. I could maintain a slightly more discreet distance if you’d like, but I was concerned you might get lost out here.”

  “It’s your job to stalk me? Also, we’re in a courtyard, where do you think I could even go?”

  “I’m security.”

  Amelia threw her arms wide in disgust. “First they think I won’t love my children and now this! I’m not going to murder the Prince in his bed; you needn’t worry.”

  “No, no, no,” he said kindly. “I’m security for you. Not the threat of you, although you make a very convincing one.”

  Amelia sagged with the weight of her own foolishness. “Are you just today’s lucky winner or do you come with the rings I’m not yet supposed to mention?” she asked in a desperate attempt to be slightly more amiable.

  “Come with the rings, ma’am.” He smiled at her poor humor. Of course, he was paid to.

  “Are you allowed to walk with me, or do I have to pretend you’re not there?” Amelia asked.

  “I can walk with you if you wish.”

  She beckoned him over. “Come on then. What’s your name? And your entire life story. I need to be distracted from my woe, and I assume you already know everything about me.”

  The man tipped his head to the side before jogging a few steps to catch up with her. He was maybe a handful of years older than Arthur and nearly as tall, although stockier. “My name is Edward Glynne.”

  “What should I call you? I’m not accustomed to having a bodyguard.”

  “Edward is just fine.”

  “All right. Will you call me Amelia, then?” She’d not asked Arthur to call her that so quickly. But she was desperate for any human connection that made her feel less like wheat to be ground in the royal wheel.

  “Perhaps, Lady Amelia.”

  So much for that hope then. “And now, your life story?”

  “I’ve been in His Majesty’s service for, oh, about as long as you’ve been alive, I’d wager.”

  “I’m not sure which of us should be more depressed by that.”

  He chuckled. “I know at least thirty ways to kill a man in under thirty seconds, so I feel all right about it.”

  “Can you teach me some of them?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “Maybe once you start looking a little less murderous. I like my colleagues; I’d rather not make their jobs harder by setting you loose in the palace.”

  “Do you have a wife? Children?” Amelia asked, desperate to keep the conversation focused on Edward and away from herself.

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “Perils of the job?” Amelia was aware she was prying, but she also didn’t care. Plus, Edward’s voice contained the softest touch of a northern accent. Perhaps he really was on her side.

  “I have a boyfriend,” he said with some amount of caution. “We both have nephews, but no children.”

  “How long have you been together?” she asked, not skipping the beat he seemed to expect her to.

  “Oh, goodness. Ten years? Fifteen?”

  “You don’t keep track?” The question wasn’t the most polite, but this was not a high-achieving day for Amelia’s manners.

  “I’m afraid the start of our relationship was rather nebulous. We’ve never quite agreed on a definitive anniversary.”

  “Nebulous for five years?” Amelia couldn’t help asking.

  “Lady Amelia, if I may be impertinent. You’re not the only one to have ever struggled with a change in your relationship to the world.”

  *

  By the time Amelia — with Edward beside her — went back inside, she was feeling far more rational about the situation at hand. No matter what her heart did every time she looked at Arthur now, theirs was a political arrangement. They had agreed on that from the start. And such arrangements required negotiation. This was merely a part of that.

  She could hear voices coming from the room where she had left Charlie as soon as she turned the corner into the hallway. Edward immediately fell back a few paces.

  “I didn’t write it,” Arthur’s voice came through the door. “And it’s to protect her at least as much — if not more — than me.”

  “You could have chosen someone else.” Charlie retorted angrily.

  Amelia stood outside the door, hand raised to knock. She wondered whether she should wait and continue to eavesdrop or if she should turn tail and head back outside.

  Whatever Arthur replied, she could
n’t make out the words, but Charlie’s response came loud and angry. “‘She said yes’ and ‘I don’t love her’ are incredibly awful reasons to put someone through this!”

  Amelia glanced sideways at Edward. He stood placidly with his hands behind his back, examining the further end of the corridor with the greatest apparent interest. She took a deep breath, blinked the tears out of her eyes, and opened the door.

  Arthur stopped talking mid-sentence. He looked absolutely distraught.

  “Amelia,” Charlie said from where he was standing by the window.

  “Have we made any headway?” she asked. If this was going to be all business, so be it. She would grieve later and briefly.

  Charlie and Arthur looked at each other; Charlie made a go ahead gesture when Arthur hesitated.

  “Shared custody in the event of divorce,” Arthur said. “You would be provided a house in London as well as one in reasonable proximity to my own country estate.”

  Amelia looked at Charlie.

  “It’s your decision,” he said.

  “I know that,” she snapped. “What’s your advice?”

  “As your solicitor, in these circumstances, the terms are generous and you should take them. As your brother, these are terms which would mean I don’t have to punch my very good friend right before I am inevitably arrested for treason.”

  “Ideally, though,” Arthur said. “We wouldn’t get divorced at all.”

  “Well, yes,” Amelia said. That much was obvious. “You don’t want that kind of complication in your life. Plus it would be terrible for the country.”

  “It would be.” Arthur conspicuously ignored her tone. “But I’d hate to have uprooted your life for nothing.”

  “Not entirely nothing,” Amelia said. She was unable, in the midst of the ongoing emotional whiplash that was life with Arthur, to resist gibing him. “I’d still be Queen Mother eventually.”

  Charlie let out a long-suffering sigh. “Speaking of children, I’d like to get back to mine sometime this week, so if you two are done?”

  “If we’re done? Are you sure you’re done yelling at the Prince of Wales?” Amelia asked.

  Charlie and Arthur exchanged a look that Amelia couldn’t interpret.

  “For now, yes.” Charlie set the tablet with the agreement on it down on the table. “I leave you to do with this as you will.”

  “Will you come down for the announcement? With everyone?” Amelia asked. The prospect of facing something so momentous without her family beside her was terrifying. She didn’t know if her parents would approve or the consequences if they didn’t.

  “I think that depends on whether your fiancé has any intention of doing our parents the courtesy of not surprising them with this news.” He turned to Arthur. “I know you couldn’t have asked for my father’s permission —”

  “Don’t be medieval, Charlie!” Amelia exclaimed.

  “— But now might be the time to extend some courtesy. Given my wife’s vociferousness on Yorkish independence, my family has a track record with marriages the media has too much opinion about. It’s only fair to give my parents time to brace themselves for round two.” He turned to Amelia. “I have no idea how you turned out to be the most stressful member of our family.”

  “Will you bring said wife?” Arthur asked blandly. “I am fond of Jo.”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie bit out. “That depends on how she’s feeling about horses.”

  *

  That afternoon, Arthur and Amelia signed the agreement. After the Crown’s solicitor whisked the formal papers away into his briefcase, Amelia stared at Arthur, who was staring at a painting on the wall.

  “Are you up for one more obligation tonight?” Arthur asked, turning to look at her.

  “Do I have a choice?” Truth be told, Amelia was exhausted, but she now served, like the rest of the palace, at Arthur’s pleasure.

  “You always have the choice. But my parents have invited us for dinner.”

  “When did they do that?” Amelia blurted.

  “A courier came while you were walking in the gardens,” Arthur said blandly, as if that were a normal way for one’s parents to issue a dinner invitation and as if he weren’t perfectly well aware she had stormed out of the room.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” Amelia protested.

  “I sent people ’round to your flat to pick up whatever you might need for the next few days.”

  “That’s not creepy.” Amelia wondered what Priya had thought of the intrusion. She should call her tonight, if she was ever given a moment to herself. Amelia hadn’t talked to anyone outside of Arthur’s circle for days.

  Arthur continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “They’ve brought your things already to your rooms here. If you’d like me to show you to them?”

  “Surely a member of your staff can do that,” Amelia said. “Playing tour guide is below your station.”

  “It’s my home.” Arthur took her hand.

  “One of your homes, you mean.”

  Arthur chuckled. With his touch, Amelia could almost forget Charlie’s words through the door of the meeting room.

  “But also my favorite, at least in London. And the one we’ll spend the most time in. If you enjoy it too.”

  Arthur led her by the hand down halls, around corners, and up staircases. Eventually his three dogs appeared from down another hallway and trotted on alongside them, sniffing happily at pillars and baseboards.

  “Why did you pick St. James’s to live in?” Amelia asked.

  “Its age and its lack of pretensions,” Arthur said without hesitation. “It’s a palace because we call it a palace, not because it’s particularly large or grand. After growing up at Buckingham and Balmoral, it was somewhat of a relief to come here.”

  Amelia nodded. “You might like Kirkham House. If you’re still willing to travel north?”

  “Of course,” Arthur said. He might have been trying to placate her after the tensions of the morning, but Amelia thought she had earned it. She squeezed his hand, and Arthur responded faintly.

  “Anne Boleyn stayed here, the night after her coronation,” Arthur waved at a passage.

  “That’s not very auspicious,” Amelia said, wondering at the point of Arthur taking them the long way to her own chambers.

  “No?” Arthur turned his head to look at her. “She was already pregnant with Elizabeth at the time. The greatest queen England’s ever seen.”

  “Yes, and Anne lost her head. Literally.”

  “Beheadings are rather out of fashion these days. So is trying women for witchcraft.”

  “And thank God for that.”

  “Do you know,” Arthur said, his voice teasing as they mounted a narrow flight of stairs, the worn stone steps carpeted with a deep red runner. “That my niece likes to say she’s a witch?”

  “George?” Amelia guessed, horrified by the segue.

  Arthur nodded. Amelia thought of the paintings she’d seen of Queen Anne. There was something of Anne in George; the pale narrow face, the sharp hooded eyes. And why shouldn’t there be? Anne was George’s grandmother, many centuries removed, the line of Lancasters unbroken from the defeat of Richard III to the present day.

  “Why?” Amelia asked. At the top of the stairs they emerged into a corridor even quieter than the one below. Pale sunlight fell through the windows onto wood-paneled walls. Motes of dust swirled lazily in the light as they passed.

  “She was born with a caul. My sister told her, when she was little. She thought it was an interesting fact, something George would like to know as a matter of scientific curiosity.”

  “And George decided it meant….”

  Arthur nodded, both grave and amused.

  “She’s a strange girl,” Amelia said cautiously. It wouldn’t do to criticize a princess she was now in the process of ensuring would never be queen.

  “George is all sorts of things you wouldn’t expect. She likes to tell me her dreams. They were all
about Imogene, after she passed. Or about our birds dying.”

  “I didn’t know you kept birds,” Amelia said. She’d only met Arthur’s dogs.

  He shook his head. “The Crown’s. The swans. The ravens at the Tower of London. The ones they say the throne will fall without,” he added. Amelia remembered talking about those ravens the day she and Arthur had first met. She shivered.

  “Are you all right?” Arthur asked, concerned.

  “Just a draft,” Amelia said. That was better, surely, than to admit she could be affected by dreams and auguries and long-dead women.

  “Here we are,” Arthur said as they reached a door halfway down the long gallery. “Not the rooms Queen Anne stayed in, if it’s any comfort.”

  Chapter 12

  RAVEN GONE WALKABOUT? BIRD MISSING FROM TOWER OF LONDON

  21 March

  Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII

  It turns out that one does not get used to having dinner with Their Majesties the King and the Queen Consort of England at Buckingham Palace. Not that I expected to. They’re charming people. But — especially with the trappings of a palace about them — it’s impossible to forget what they are. Or what their son is.

  At this point I’ve met, I think, every single member of the royal staff. Except my Mr. Jones. I’m not even sure where they keep the Royal Household Office. And I’ve hardly had time to ask in between meetings with the rest of them. The chief steward. The Lord Chamberlain. The Head of G Branch. Every one of them has been very clear about what they need from me as I begin to perform the role of princess in waiting. Most of them have given me timetables. Some of them are color coded.

  People keep checking to see if I’ve read the princess manual binder from Beatrice. Yes, I’ve got it. No, I haven’t read it yet. No, you’re sitting there to make sure I do is not an acceptable option. Oh, and by the way, if you have anything worthwhile for me to read, about how to actually be an effective princess instead of a pretty dress-up doll who says all the right things at receptions, I would be most grateful.

  I’ve been too busy to check the internet to see what it has to say about me being at Gatcombe and now at the palace. Which I’m certainly taking as a blessing.