by Erin McRae
As she stared at her people silhouetted against the sky, something fluttered across her vision. Amelia turned her head to see a bird, huge and black, take off from a tree and circle the gathering from the air.
Amelia grabbed Arthur’s arm. “Arthur, look,” she hissed as she pointed.
But the Prince had already seen it. As they and the crowd watched, the raven let out an unearthly cry and wheeled away into the sky.
Beside her, Arthur stood frozen. Amelia felt sure she could feel his pulse beneath the fabric of his jacket, hammering like a rabbit.
“What have you done?” His voice was full of wonder. And maybe fear.
She looked around at the walls again, at the people and at the sky where the bird had faded from sight. “I don’t know.”
*
The rest of the day was filled with events that served to emphasize how ecstatic York was about Amelia…and how little its misgivings about Arthur and his family had changed. No one mentioned the raven, but the bird was present in every pause and silence.
At luncheon Amelia addressed a group of schoolchildren. Arthur also gave a few words, but where Amelia was greeted with wild applause, Arthur was met with stony silence. No matter how ill that boded for everything she and Arthur must do in the times ahead, Amelia couldn’t help but be charmed. There was nothing so fierce as the hard frowns and tiny fists of Yorkish children who knew who their rulers were and weren’t.
Back on the train that night Arthur paced back and forth the length of the car. He had every cause; York’s reception of himself had been anything but royal. Or even cordial.
“Are you angry?” Amelia asked.
The rest of their staff had retreated to the other car, likely to strategize; only Edward, Vyvian, and Arthur’s bodyguard were left. They sat by the door at the opposite end pretending not to listen.
Arthur stopped pacing and sat down heavily in the seat across the aisle from Amelia. “No. I’m not angry. I’m at a loss.” He gave a weak sort of chuckle. “George is going to have a thousand questions about that bird. The whole country is. She’ll have been beside herself with worry. Though I suppose she’ll be impressed with it for getting that far north so quickly.”
“They’re sure it’s the one from the Tower?” It was too strange; too fearful an omen to really believe. All day Amelia had almost wished it were an ordinary raven. Or better, just a crow.
But Arthur nodded. “I got word before we left. It was apprehended by a local falconer just outside the city. Its leg band confirms it. Definitely from the Tower.”
Amelia knew better than to express a certain sense of satisfaction at a Yorkshire falconer being the one to capture the London bird. A smile must have twitched at the corner of her mouth, however.
“Today was quite the coup for you,” Arthur said sharply before he sagged back against the seat, his broad hands splayed on his knees. He squinted at her, his eyes keen, his face softening. “They’ll use that word in the papers, you know.”
“They already are,” Amelia said, handing Arthur her tablet. The London papers hadn’t hesitated to imply Arthur was a traitor for following his northern princess to the wall. The Yorkish ones had flat out called Amelia the same for bringing him there. The crowd today may have loved her but the media — and the rest of Yorkshire — weren’t as sure.
Arthur scrolled through the various headlines, then looked up at her. “Do you want to back out?”
“No.” Amelia’s voice was firm.
Arthur blinked at her.
“I can’t go back. Not to what I was. My own parents greeted me like a stranger on the train platform of the city I was raised in. There’s no returning from that. So I’m in this. With you. And we’re in this together. Shared work. Shared struggles.” Amelia believed in her words, but she also knew Henry and Cecile had never faced anything like this.
“I thought you might say that,” Arthur quietly.
“And?”
Arthur stood from his seat across the aisle and dropped into the one next to Amelia. “It’s what I hoped you were going to say. Ghost stories and birds and an angry populace — I can’t do this alone either.”
This time when he put an arm around her shoulders, Amelia didn’t hesitate; she immediately curled into his embrace.
*
Some time later Amelia was shaken awake. She opened her eyes groggily and mumbled unhappily at the brightness of the carriage lights.
It was Edward. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” His voice quiet. “We’ve just reached London.”
Amelia lifted her head from where she’d been leaning against the window. There was no sign of Arthur anywhere.
“Where is His Highness?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Edward’s face was lined with weariness and strain. He was northern; he knew how momentous and possibly disastrous the events of the day had been. “He went on ahead with his staff.”
Amelia swallowed down the miserable lump in her stomach and reached to pick her mobile up from where it had slid onto the floor. It was then that she realized that there was something in her hand. As Edward moved away again, Amelia uncurled her fingers. There, in her palm, was the white rose pin she had fastened to Arthur’s lapel.
Chapter 19
PALL CAST OVER ROYAL NUPTIALS
25 August
Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII
Since we’ve returned from York nothing has been quite right between Arthur and I. He can say he’s not angry about what happened; he may even think he’s telling the truth. But he’s upset. Whether because he believes whatever George pronounced about me and the power of the north, or just because our mutual bargaining has opened up some very real political headaches, I don’t know.
In any case, southern politicians are declaring the appearance of the raven as a sign of London’s dominance over the North. York is divided between claiming it as a sign of true British unification and claiming the raven’s capture by a Yorkish man as a sign of York’s eternal independence from London. I and the whole country fear we’re only a hair’s breadth away from something terrible happening. All because of birds. It would be funny if it weren’t so dire.
The wedding is two weeks away. Arthur’s come to stay at Buckingham Palace until then. Now I live only a staircase and a short stretch of hallway away from him. And he’s hardly touched me. Nothing more than a brief kiss in farewell after we eat a formal dinner together.
The outside world debates ravens; the Palace debates flower arrangements; and I debate with myself how many mistakes I’ve made.
*
Five days before the wedding, Amelia attended another meeting of the Royal Society for the Protection of Bees. Beatrice and the head wedding planner surely would have preferred if Amelia had stayed at Buckingham to address a myriad of final details she had no real say in, but for a palace with so many rooms, Buckingham could be incredibly suffocating. And so, when Violet had more appointments in one day than she could attend by herself, Amelia was more than happy to go in her stead.
Today the Society was debating which bees should appear on their annual bee calendar. Some of the most spectacular specimens might appear frightening to some of the populace, while some of the most benign looking bees were less critical to the sustainable agriculture of the kingdom. Amelia tried not to appear irritated as the gathering of noble women debated the media readiness of at least a dozen bee species.
At the end of the afternoon she was in the hallway, chatting with one of the committee members about the emotional resonance of the Bombus muscorum and praying for a polite escape. Suddenly Edward appeared and drew her away from the conversation with a hand on her arm.
“Oh thank God,” she said as he led her away at a pace faster than was comfortable. “I thought she’d never stop talking.” Then she noticed that Edward’s face was drawn, his eyes moving too quickly about them as they hurried down the hallway. “Edward? What’s wrong? Is there a threat?”
“Lady Amelia, I am ver
y sorry to be the one to bear such news.” He spoke softly and without breaking his stride. “The King is dead.”
Amelia went cold. She would have stopped in her tracks if Edward had not had a firm grip on her elbow. He was practically dragging her along the corridor.
“What?” she asked blankly. “I saw him at breakfast this morning. He was fine.”
“The public will know in thirty minutes if we’re lucky and in five if we’re realistic. We need to get you back to the palace.”
“Why?” Amelia asked. She wasn’t even the King’s daughter-in-law yet. She was, as far as a royal death was concerned, no one.
“For your safety.” Edward gave her a sidelong look that made Amelia feel even colder. They were at the door now, and he stayed close to her side as they clattered down the steps to the waiting car.
“What do you mean?” Her voice was barely audible over the sound of their footsteps.
“There may be those who will blame a northern princess-to-be for the death of their king.” He gave her a fleeting look of sympathy.
Amelia stared at him. All these months people had told her she maybe wasn’t prepared for this. That she underestimated the burdens this life would place on her. Somehow, even with Edward at her side every day, even with the security desk that had been set up outside her old flat, even with everything that had happened in York, she had never quite realized that her life might be in danger.
“Oh.”
Edward said nothing as he handed her into the car. What was there for him to say, anyway?
As they crawled through London’s afternoon traffic, the church bells began to ring. First one and then another clanged until every church in the city was pealing mournfully for the dead King. The hair stood up on Amelia’s arms.
She would not be getting married next week. And her fiancé was no longer the Prince of Wales. He was the King of England.
*
There must have been a bustle going on somewhere at Buckingham Palace. But if there was, it was far from the main hallways as Amelia was whisked up the stairs and to Henry and Cecile’s private living quarters. Amelia was too shocked to feel capable of tears. They would come surely — she’d been fond of the King — but for now she just felt overwhelmed.
She was announced with almost no reaction from the room’s occupants. The rest of the family had come over from Kensington Palace. Matthew was on a sofa, with Violet on one side and a red-eyed Hyacinth on the other. George stood at the window looking out at the gardens below. Her face was not visible but her hands were clasped too tightly behind her back.
At the head of the room Arthur sat in a chair with his back to the window. His head was turned away from the door Amelia had entered through. His face, visible in profile, was pale and drawn. His gaze was somewhere very far away.
He only turned to look at Amelia when she entered his peripheral vision. She had spent the better part of a year working with him, loving him, and falling, foolishly, in love with him. Never had he seemed so remote.
“Your Majesty.” Amelia dropped into a deep curtsy — deeper than she would have had he been standing. She reached for his hand such that she might swear him proper fealty.
Arthur all but tore his hand away from her. “Don’t.”
The family stared. Even George turned her head to watch.
Amelia recoiled as though struck. He was the King now, and she could hardly shout at him or demand to know what he was thinking. Not with his family here. Not with his father dead.
She straightened up and took a step back. Arthur turned his head away again. She looked around for an empty seat. The only furniture currently unoccupied was the chair next to Arthur and the sofa by the door, apart from the rest of the family.
So she sat on the sofa, clasped her hands in her lap, and waited. For what, she didn’t know, but there was nothing to do until someone told her what to do next. All the princess camp in the world — with its pigeons and ghosts — could not have prepared her for this.
*
People came and went: aides with food or a note for Arthur, always read, frowned at and not spoken of. At one point Hyacinth asked to be excused and was told no, not by her mother, but by George. Eventually one of the notes for Arthur was enough to pull him out of the room. Amelia couldn’t help but wince at the urgency of his stride. She was used to a certain languor from Arthur, but as King, everything about him was a stranger to her.
Thirty minutes later a footman came for her. She was hurried through the halls to a meeting room. There, Arthur and various members of the royal staff sat at a long table.
“The wedding’s going to be postponed,” Arthur said as she walked in.
“Of course.” She bobbed her head, although she was not sure whether in agreement or acquiescence. Either was a better option than pointing out that she’d figured out that piece of news hours ago.
“We’ll hold the funeral that day, since everyone will already be here,” the chief steward clarified. “The wedding will shift to the spring.”
“How fortunate we are in catastrophe.” Amelia wished someone would give her permission to sit down.
“Amelia,” Arthur said. His tone was not quite scolding, although she felt sure he wanted it to be.
“Your Majesty?”
“The formal accession will take place tonight at eight o’clock. I’ll be taking the name Gregory. What it is you feel so duty bound to express to the Crown can wait until then.”
Arthur turned to one of his advisors and resumed some discussion that obviously had nothing to do with her. Amelia knew she had been dismissed. Another footman hurried her back to the rest of the royal family.
“Should I tell them?” she asked as they walked. “About the accession?”
“They’ve already been informed.”
When Amelia returned to where the family was gathered, everyone looked at her.
“They told you about the wedding?” George, still at the window, asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s hardly the worst news anyone has to deal with today.”
“Royal weddings, like royal funerals, affect more lives than you might expect. Even if it’s a wedding half the country doesn’t want to happen.” George gave a sad, cryptic smile. Amelia struggled to remember that this girl was years younger than her.
Not knowing what to say in reply, Amelia nodded and returned to her seat.
Eventually, Hyacinth came to sit beside her, tablet and a pair of earbuds in hand. “Did you want to watch it on the news?” she asked.
“Do you watch it on the news?” Amelia countered.
“I find it provides a valuable perspective.” The young Princess offered an earbud, and Amelia took it with gratitude. The news was familiar in its way. Curled on a couch with Hyacinth, Amelia could almost ignore that her purpose in life was now largely to prevent this child from being second in line to the throne.
*
Amelia was finally able to leave the room only to shower and change before the accession. A woman from H Branch did her hair and makeup, and Amelia didn’t miss the extra time she spent dabbing concealer under her eyes. The clothes she was given to wear she had never seen before, and she wondered if they’d been purchased at the same time as her attire for the engagement announcement. The Palace was always prepared.
She stood, clad in black and very much in the background, while Arthur, in a somber dark suit, sat at a table in the middle of the room and signed the papers that acknowledged him as legally, officially, King. He didn’t look at or talk to her before or after. Even the flutter of camera shutters and the light of flashbulbs seemed to fade in the somberness of the occasion.
George, who looked so regal as to be inhuman in a black dress and hat with a short veil covering half of her face, stopped Amelia in the hall afterward.
She glanced around, as if to make sure they could not be overheard, before she said, low and urgent, “You must swear fealty to him.”
>
“I know. I would have. He stopped me,” Amelia said. George had been there; she’d seen the whole thing.
“You must make him accept you. Both as his subject and as the woman who will be his queen. Especially after what happened in York. The raven…. If you don’t kneel to him people will fear the return of ancient treachery and doubt my uncle’s reign. It would be disastrous for you both. For all of us.”
Even if Amelia had been less steeped in the history of the country than she was, she couldn’t help but recognize the monarchy, especially upon the king’s death — long live the King — as something ancient and primal. She knew this, not despite her own now-neglected training as a scientist, but because of it. George had always been an uncanny young woman, and in this moment, Amelia was terrified of her and her pronouncements.
“It would have been you,” she said. “It still will be, if he doesn’t marry me.”
“Or if you don’t produce an heir. Yes,” the girl said gravely. She squeezed Amelia’s hand with cold fingers and then left her alone in the corridor.
Amelia waited for Arthur to exit the room.
“Sir,” she said when he finally appeared.
He looked at her distantly, as though she were just another member of his staff, someone in his way from one meeting to the next.
“I’m sorry.” Amelia took a step closer to him and kept her voice low. There were any number of witnesses about, but it was Arthur who had refused to let her do this in private. Perhaps, it occurred to her now, to force this very moment and provide evidence of northern loyalty. Someone raised to power was maybe not always as kind as she oft liked to think. “Princess George told me I must. And she is not wrong.”
She took his hand and bent to him. Arthur’s fingers flexed, tense in her grasp, but he did not pull away.