by Erin McRae
“I’ve been busy,” Arthur said. He didn’t sound weary as much as exhausted.
“What should I call you now? Gregory?”
Arthur shook his head. “Arthur will do just fine. As it always has.”
“All right.”
“Do you know why my parents named me that?” Arthur asked.
“I wouldn’t presume to guess,” Amelia said. She stopped barely a foot away from him.
Arthur gave her a ghost of a smile that came nowhere near to reaching his eyes. “Because I could never use it as a regnal name. Could you imagine an actual King Arthur? It’s absurd.”
“That seems an odd trick to pull on you.” Amelia had no idea why they were talking about this, but it was the first time they’d spoken at any length since Henry died. She wasn’t about to walk away from him now.
Arthur shook his head. “It was a kindness. I can never be King Arthur. I can be King whatever else I want, though. Gregory does as well as anything. And that means that I will always have space between who I am as a man and who I am as a king.”
“And you don’t want me to treat you as a king, is that it?”
“I still remember the moment I truly realized that one day my father would die and I would succeed him. I was eight. I don’t know how to explain the sensation. It was as if all possibilities — all chance of a life that was not prescribed for me in its entirety — had been taken away. When you are to be king, no one treats you like a man. Not really. No matter what they call you. Imogene was my one escape from that. My friends — like your brother — were too, to an extent. And then there was you.” Arthur sighed and looked down at his hands.
Amelia held her breath. These words, this conversation was everything she had been waiting for. She needed to understand Arthur even more than she wanted him to love her.
Arthur continued. “Imogene has been dead for ten years. The only person who touches me every day is my valet when he helps me dress. Now that I am king, no one has touched me in the last week at all except to swear that they are my humble subjects. I’m amazed the dogs even still come to me. I couldn’t bear that. I can’t bear any of it. Least of all from you.”
“It was unkind of you to make me a scandal by refusing me,” Amelia said. He was so fragile and beautiful to her, but he still had to know what he’d done.
“I am sorry. It was not my intent.”
Amelia realized that she had closed the remaining distance between them. For the first time she wondered if Arthur had refrained from touching her these past months not because he didn’t want to, but because he was not sure how to.
She lifted a hand and held it mere millimeters from his face. “May I?” she asked, the words barely a whisper on her lips.
His nod was so small that had she not been standing close, she wouldn’t have seen it. The air between his skin and her fingertips burned as she finally pressed her fingers to his cheek.
Arthur’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. When he opened them again his pupils were dark in the moonlight coming in from the window and his gaze focused entirely on her.
Amelia took her time. She ran her fingertips over his cheekbone and pressed a palm to his jaw and the end-of-day stubble there. She brushed her thumb over the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and ran the back of her fingers across his forehead, brushing into the hair at his temples. The silvery light made it look greyer than it was. Then she traced her fingers down his cheek and to the corner of his mouth where his face wrinkled up when he smiled.
Of course, he wasn’t smiling now. But when she pressed her thumb to the very corner of his mouth and lifted her eyes again to his, he met her gaze.
“Please,” he said, the word a warm breath against her skin.
Amelia took another half-step closer. Their feet now were touching, and she could feel the leather of Arthur’s shoes against her bare toes. In the shadowed hollow of his throat his pulse sped up as she traced her first two fingers over his lips, touching his mouth, exploring the dips and lines of his lips. She thought her own heart would beat out of her chest when he swallowed and the very tip of his tongue brushed her fingertips.
She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her other hand to his cheek as well. He dipped his head slightly, but Amelia met him more than halfway.
The kiss was unbearably intense. Amelia felt as though she were going to melt from way his breath went unsteady against her mouth. She suspected Arthur felt the same way.
He let her lead. Just when Amelia was beginning to wonder if she should pull back before Arthur had the chance to push her away again, he wrapped one strong arm around her waist, shoved his hand in her hair, and took control of the kiss for himself.
He licked into her mouth, his tongue looking for every kind of touch he’d been denied since the last time they’d kissed, weeks ago. His hands tightened almost painfully in her hair. She wondered if he even recalled they were in a semi-public hallway. Although, to a king, definitions of public and private might well seem different. Wasn’t that the point, of everything they’d said to each other tonight? Of Arthur’s very name?
Chapter 21
QUEEN IN WAITING…AND WAITING…AND WAITING
1 November
Year 1 of the Reign of King Gregory I
It’s been a long time since I’ve written. I haven’t been able to find words for the last two months. After a while, mourning turns to depression. Resilience fades.
The papers have covered most of it: The country grieves in the face a new king with no queen; the Commonwealth is trying to shiver apart at the seams now that their beloved Henry is gone; and no one can decide what to do with me.
I’m frightened. No one on Beatrice’s team seems to know if I should be seen in public. I’ve hardly been outside since Henry’s funeral. I get air of course, but on the grounds here, far from the fences and cameras with all their zoom lenses. The outside world knows I’m here, but no one — including me — knows if that’s a permanent situation. Every day I don’t venture past the gates seems one day closer to this entire adventure coming to a tragic and medieval end. The princess in the tower.
I still get visitors. Priya comes by at least once a week. Charlie and Jo come occasionally too. It’s hard for them, though. They’re my brother and sister-in-law, which is enough for the papers to print all sorts of terrible things about them.
I’ve been moved into in the apartments adjoining Arthur’s at Buckingham. His new rooms, that is. Queen Cecile has all but permanently retired to Sandringham, and Arthur’s been moved into the monarch’s chambers. We now share an interior door, but much like my relationship with the outside, I do not pass the threshold. I rarely see him, and never, as I had once hoped, at night.
A new date for the wedding has been set for this coming spring. Arthur’s coronation will transpire the same day. Logistically, it’s easier to have everyone come to London for one major royal event. I say Arthur’s coronation, and not our coronation, because it’s not clear yet whether I’m going to be coronated. At the same time as Arthur, or at all, assuming the marriage even takes place.
In retrospect, everything was so simple when I was merely marrying the Prince of Wales. Comparatively, no one minded — much — having a Yorkish Princess of Wales. Which seems strange to say now; everything was difficult back then too. But having a Yorkish Queen Consort of England, with the country divided, on edge, and perilously afraid of its own ghosts, is turning into a much different matter. There are protesters outside the gates almost every day.
I sold my life to be queen. And now, even if I do marry Arthur, I may never become one.
Arthur’s been in meetings on the matter for months. I’m not allowed to attend, and he doesn’t tell me how they’re going. George does, though. God knows who tells her. Maybe Arthur. Maybe her ravens. I certainly don’t know why she tells me.
She says Arthur’s being pressured to set me aside, to pick a bride from a more suitable family. A southern queen. Because the easiest solution to
the problem of a Yorkish queen no one wants, of course, is to not have a Yorkish queen at all.
I want to think Arthur would never agree to such, that he would keep the promises made to me. But he has also made promises to his people just by the fact of his birth. Perhaps he will think those are more important. Perhaps they are.
*
Within the privacy of the palace, ancient traditions mattered even more than they did outside. Invitations to dinner with the King were generally handled formally. Amelia received one from Arthur in early November, written by his steward and delivered to her by messenger. What might have once felt promising — Arthur reaching out to her — in the current crisis merely felt ominous. What were the odds that this dinner was good news when it was much more likely that he had finally reached a decision on what to do with her?
Amelia spent a long time getting ready. If this was to be the last time they spent together, she wanted to do it in the style of one who would have been queen. She put on in a dark grey sheath with a black lace overlay and a lace collar that came up to her throat. The dress satisfied every demand of modesty, and yet — especially when paired with nude heels and a pair of pearl earrings — was predatory in its sensuality. Even if everything between them was about to fall apart, it couldn’t hurt to remind Arthur that he had a body and that she had one too.
Her brain reminded her unhelpfully that her choices were not so different from what Anne Boleyn had tried in her final days.
A formal invitation meant a formal arrival, and Amelia was shown out of her own quarters, down the hall, and to the door of Arthur’s. He stood in greeting as she was announced. Amelia curtsied as soon as the door shut behind her.
Arthur stopped her with a hand on her elbow. He slid his grip to her fingers and then raised her up. Their eyes met, and Amelia found she couldn’t look away as he bowed his head. His lips were soft and his breath warm against her knuckles. This was more tenderness than she had expected. Was he trying to woo her? Or say goodbye?
“At some point, you’re going to stop doing that, right?” he asked.
“Is that a command?” Amelia retorted. Apparently, she was going to be foolishly brave right up until the very end.
“It would ruin the point if it were,” Arthur said. He didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled up.
Amelia’s heart clenched. If her tenure as princess that never was came to its conclusion tonight, how much would she miss this man? The palace, the promised titles — she would regret the loss of none of it, except the chance to make a difference for her people. But losing Arthur too — he was still holding her hand and gazing into her eyes — it would be too much to bear.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said before he remembered himself. He cleared his throat and dropped her hand. “Shall we go in to dinner?” he asked.
Whoever had set the table had arranged their seats at adjacent corners and placed candles so that the space felt intimate, even romantic. This was counter to the most basic household protocol and could only have happened at Arthur’s request. But what did it mean?
Arthur was in no hurry to enlighten her. He was courteous, made small talk, and mentioned nothing of significance. He also looked exhausted, though that was neither new nor surprising.
Their plates of roast duck were cleared away and their wine refilled before the footmen retreated to their posts. Arthur gestured to them to leave. At their departure, he sat back in his chair, his long fingers on the stem of his wineglass.
“I have something I want to talk to you about,” he said.
Amelia felt her heart skip a beat. Arthur’s tone, low and silky, suggested he wanted to coax her into something, but whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing, she had no way of knowing.
“Go on then,” she said and was glad that her voice did not shake.
“I want to talk about our wedding. And the coronation.”
Amelia’s heart sank. Arthur looked far too serious for whatever he was going to say next to be good news.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I want this to be your choice,” he said, “and I know you may not want more of the public spotlight on you than is unavoidable, but the more I consider our wedding —”
“Do you consider our wedding?” she blurted, unable to help herself.
“I do,” he said. “Constantly. Among many other things. Like what purpose this monarchy and all our myths serve, assuming there is any at all. But that’s a matter for another day. I’ve come to believe that you should be crowned too.”
“You have?” Amelia said, her throat tight.
“Yes.” Arthur dipped his head in a nod. “Not privately, not quietly. But next to me and with me. And not as Queen Consort. As something new.”
Amelia was sure she looked as confused as she felt. Arthur wasn’t making any sense. “That’s not possible.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time these last few weeks, talking to scholars and lawyers and people whose job it is to know these things, because I want my reign to be different. My father’s death has shown me things need to be different — from what’s happened in the streets to what's happened here at court. I made you a promise. Now,” he said, as Amelia opened her mouth to interrupt again. “Do you want to hear the offer or not?”
“Tell me,” Amelia demanded. Of course she wanted to hear. She wanted Arthur to let her in again. And she wanted to lead her people. Even if the cost was going to be high. It already had been, and that was no reason to stop now.
“I can’t make you Queen Regnant. And believe me, I spent a lot of time trying to find a way. But I can’t, because in so doing I would demote myself, and then Parliament would go mad, and we’d all be fucked.”
Amelia giggled. She’d never heard Arthur curse like that before. For him to reserve it for this particular moment delighted her.
“But what I can do,” he continued, “as the fount of all honors, is assign you all the rights and privileges of a queen regnant, just without the name. With the exception that when we disagree, I break ties. At least in public.”
Amelia opened her mouth, but couldn’t find any words with which to respond. What Arthur was offering her was immense, bigger than anything they’d even vaguely discussed before. And so was the danger of him even suggesting it. If there were protests at the mere idea of a Yorkish queen, what would happen when the public learned of what Arthur was planning?
“Queen pari passu,” Arthur said solemnly.
“Queen with an equal step?” Amelia took a stab at the Latin.
Arthur nodded. “More or less. Queen on equal footing. Queen by my side. Imogene and I were equals in our private lives due to circumstances that are not the ones in play here. But I can’t marry someone the world sees as my subject —”
“The king can only marry someone the world sees as his subject. The sovereign outranks everyone. That’s what being king means,” Amelia protested.
“I don’t mean historically. I mean me. Personally.”
“Your people won’t like this,” Amelia said, mostly to stall for time as she processed what he was telling her. “There’s no precedent. To bend everything for….” she couldn’t make herself finish the sentence.
“A northern traitor?” Arthur asked with a smile.
“This is dangerous,” Amelia insisted. She didn’t know how she would ever say no. Her only hope was to make Arthur take it back.
Arthur shrugged. “That’s why it’s your choice. I imagine some people will have strong feelings about it.”
“Are you even allowed to make this offer?” Amelia asked.
“I’m King, they aren’t. And this isn’t political, which means I’m not barred by Parliament.”
“Everything about me is political,” Amelia said. “As is everything about you and your rank.”
“Yes. Everything, but only by implication. Not fact,” he said with a level of enthusiasm Amelia knew not every woman would find flattering. “I know I’ve be
en distant. I know none of this, especially the last few months, has been easy for you. But I’ve been trying to survive a thousand crises of which you and George and ravens have only been a fraction. The Commonwealth —”
Amelia drew herself up to her full height, regardless of it being unimpressive. But Arthur was on the verge of rambling. “You can tell me about the Commonwealth after you get to the point.”
“I needed to survive the immediate crisis so I could keep my word. I promised you I’d make you a queen for your people. And mine. Now I’ve found a way; let me keep that promise.”
“You’ve raised the stakes,” Amelia said softly. “Tell me what you’re leaving out.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust a lot of things.”
“What is it you’re afraid of?” Arthur asked.
“What am I afraid of?” Amelia echoed incredulously. “I’m afraid of the southerners who will lose their faith in you if you do this. I’m afraid of the northerners who will see this as their excuse to claim Yorkish sovereignty. I’m afraid of what happens to a king who angers his people, and I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to the queen he does it for. I’m afraid of the wars we all pretend are over. I’m afraid of George’s prophecies. I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of me.”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
“There will be protests.”
“There have been protests for months. We’ll put an end to them.”
“They’ll get worse.”
“We have police. And laws. We can’t bow to violence.”
“We also can't encourage it. They’ll call us traitors.”
“They’ll be wrong.”
“You’re rewriting the constitution for me!” Amelia found that she was on her feet. And that she was shaking.
“I told you we’d make history together.” Arthur stood too, graceful like a hunting cat.