A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

“You never said it would be like this.”

  “I didn’t know.” Arthur’s voice was low and very close now. “I couldn’t know, what you would be.”

  “Queens have died for trying to be the equal of kings,” Amelia protested. She managed to keep her voice firm, but she clasped her hands together to still their trembling. It didn’t work, and Arthur noticed.

  “We don’t behead women for being ambitious anymore.” He seemed to loom in front of her: a king tall and proud and stern. The lamplight turned the edges of him gold. “If you don’t want this, for yourself or for your people, say so. I’ll let you go.”

  “I don’t want to,” Amelia breathed.

  “You don’t want to go, or you don’t want to stay?”

  “Go.”

  His arms were suddenly around her. “Tell me yes,” he said, his voice in his ear.

  Amelia turned her head to meet his mouth. She nipped at his lower lip. That was the only way to seal a pact like this. In blood.

  Arthur groaned low in his throat and chased her mouth as she pulled back.

  “I have to go,” she said. Further consummation of their relationship, of all their plans, would have to wait.

  *

  The next morning Amelia set to work. She would need allies beyond Arthur. She would need a staff. So she called the household office. These days, she didn’t need to specify which Mr. Jones she wished to talk to. Everyone who worked there knew who to transfer her calls to.

  Mr. Jones greeted her as sunnily as he always did. Amelia wondered if he was truly perpetually cheerful, or if it was just a very effective mask he put on to deal with the world he worked in.

  “What can I do for you today?” he asked.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Amelia said.

  “You’ve only to name it.”

  Amelia already owed him near a lifetime’s worth of favors. She wished she could even begin repaying him.

  “I’m not sure this is proper, so you’ll forgive me,” she said “But could we meet? In person?”

  “In what context?” Mr. Jones asked. She detected a note of caution in his voice. As well he might, given the maelstrom of controversy that surrounded her. Little did he know how much worse it was about to get.

  “I need some advice on some social matters. And don’t say there are people more qualified than you, you’re the one I trust.” Amelia needed advice on much more than that. But calls could be recorded, and she couldn’t risk providing details over the phone.

  Mr. Jones, apparently, questioned none of it. “I’m very flattered, ma’am. Where would you like to meet?”

  Amelia floundered. She wasn’t prepared for this question, although she should have been. “I don’t have an office. Yet.”

  “You should get one of those, you know,” Mr. Jones said. “I mean, as a suggestion.”

  “You’re right.” Amelia knew he was, but that was a problem for another day. She didn’t even know how to go about getting an office. She assumed one would eventually be assigned to her, just like her rooms and her staff and her wardrobe. She told Mr. Jones as much.

  “Until that happens,” he said slowly. “We could meet in a public area of the palace. Like the staff cafeteria.”

  “That may not be the place for an extensive conversation,” Amelia said carefully.

  “No,” Mr. Jones agreed. “Alternately, we can meet in your apartments. I’m sure you have any number of staff members in and out at all times. You taking a meeting with someone from the social office wouldn’t cause comment. Not much, anyway.”

  “All right,” Amelia agreed. Someone might take a young man visiting her rooms to be someone she was dallying with, but she couldn’t shape her life around avoiding gossip. Not all of it, anyway.

  “Excellent. Then I will assume, with your leave, that I should show up at your rooms at a time you appoint with coffee in paper cups and then you can ask me or tell me whatever it is that has at least one of us slightly concerned.”

  “It’s not bad, I promise,” Amelia said.

  “You’ll forgive me, ma’am, that’s the least reassuring thing you’ve ever said, and we’ve spoken several times when you’ve been in tears.”

  *

  Amelia watched as the man who presumably was Mr. Jones was shown into her rooms by one of her footmen, holding two cups of coffee and with a leather folio under his arm. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had strong shoulders and a trim waist, as though he spent his off-hours playing rugby. His face was as cheery as she had imagined, with pleasant blue eyes, dimples, and sandy hair that threatened to flop down into his eyes when he attempted to set down the coffee and folio all at once.

  Amelia stood and tried to help, but only succeeded in making sure half of one of the coffees spilled on the table instead of either of them. As it spread to take up the largest surface area it could, Mr. Jones bowed to her.

  Amelia scoffed. “Please don’t. We’ve spoken a million times, I’m not anyone really, and I’ve just spilled your coffee.”

  He paused just a moment to consider her before producing a wad of napkins from his pocket and doing his best to mop up the spill. “Macsen Jones, at your service, ma’am.”

  “Thank you for figuring this out,” she nearly whispered, although she wasn’t quite sure why. Mr. Jones tossed the soaked napkins in the rubbish bin discreetly tucked behind a chair.

  “Now that I’m here, what can I do for you?” he asked pleasantly.

  Amelia opened her mouth and closed it again. She and Mr. Jones were clearly close in age. While he would listen politely to anything she said and work diligently to provide whatever she needed, she felt terrible about the burden she was about to place on him. Speaking of Arthur’s offer to her aloud was dangerous, possibly for both of them.

  “I need to ask you not to discuss what we talk about here outside of this room.”

  Mr. Jones bobbed his head. “Of course, ma’am. You can be assured of my discretion.”

  “You may feel less like being discrete when you hear what I have to say. My only safeguard is I suspect no one would believe you if you did talk.”

  As Amelia told Mr. Jones of Arthur’s idea for queen pari passu he sat very still, except for his eyes, which grew wider and wider as she spoke.

  “And that is why I called you here today,” Amelia finished. “I don’t want to make assumptions about your heritage or your allegiances. But you are from Wales. You understand the position of the north.”

  Mr. Jones nodded slowly.

  “I’m surrounded by people in this palace who think I’m the gravest of enemies and that my people are all traitors. But we’re just hungry and resentful. Honestly, we want to be a part of this kingdom too. If I’m going to succeed — never mind if I’m going to survive — I need friends by my side. Friends like you. Who understand that things aren’t as simple as those in the south — or in the north — may think. Who would help this new endeavor at least stand a chance.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am,” Mr. Jones said. “I am from Wales, and while our sympathies aren’t with the south, we generally like to leave well enough alone.”

  “Which is why you’re in London, working at Buckingham Palace?” Amelia said.

  “A job’s a job.”

  Amelia nodded but stayed silent, hoping — praying — to draw him out further.

  “But I couldn’t say no to being in the thick of things.”

  Amelia’s nod turned enthusiastic. “Yes. Exactly. And if you truly don’t want to be involved, I don’t blame you. And you won’t have to do anything. But you’ve helped me so much. I know you care. If not about politics, then at least about making sure I won’t lose my head— metaphorical or otherwise — in the days to come. And if you do want to be in the thick of things there’s no better place than here, with me, doing this.”

  “But what would ‘this’ entail, exactly? I don’t work with the press and I have nothing to do with policy. I’ll be your friend, but you don’t need to pay me for
that.”

  Amelia tried not to feel pathetic in the face of that kindness. “You can organize things, yes?”

  “They’ve not sacked me from the social office yet,” Mr. Jones allowed.

  “You manage dates. And events. Details. People. All sorts of things. You even survived Princess George’s birthday at the swan conservatory,” Amelia reminded him.

  “Barely,” Mr. Jones muttered, but at least he smiled.

  “I’ll need someone like that, to manage the details and logistics of my life. My public life, at least. All the grand strategy in the world won’t mean anything if I don’t have someone who can make sure it gets carried out. And with any luck, I may soon have a people to win over.”

  “You want me to be your private secretary?”

  Amelia nodded. “Yes.”

  Mr. Jones hesitated. “You know I am woefully unqualified. On paper, at least. I know I can do the work you want me to — at least, I think I can — but the hiring is traditionally done by the chief steward and H Branch.”

  “I’ll be the Queen of England, can’t I just ask for you?”

  “You could, but generally you’ll be given a list of the most plausible candidates and —”

  “You can learn on the job,” Amelia said decisively.

  “It’s not that sort of —”

  “I’m learning on the job,” Amelia cut him off. “I’m so unqualified it’s ridiculous. Every time I think I’ve got the hang of this something else terrible happens. But I can’t keep bobbling through this alone. Be as brave as me and say yes.”

  “Is no one else teaching you how to do any of this?” Mr. Jones sounded appalled.

  “No. Not in the way that matters. Lots of people are telling me how to be an acceptable queen. Fewer people are interested in helping me be an effective one.”

  “All right, ma’am,” he said. “Offer accepted.”

  Impulsively she grabbed his hand. “Please call me Amelia.”

  “If you call me Macsen,” he shot back.

  “Brilliant. Thank you,” she said, feeling awkward all over again. “I have one other request.”

  “Now I’m really nervous,” he said with a laugh.

  “I would like you to come to the wedding.”

  “The whole world will be at the wedding, ma’am. Amelia,” he corrected, when she twitched her fingers in his.

  “I mean I would you like to be in the abbey and come to the reception and have a proper invitation. I couldn’t have done any of this without you, and I would like you there. Can you please tell me where to have such an invitation directed and if you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend or —”

  “I’ve an ex and a dog,” Macsen cut in.

  Amelia frowned thoughtfully. “We’ll just say and guest then.”

  “Aren’t you worried I’ll bring the dog?” he asked.

  Amelia leaned forward conspiratorially. “I would be delighted if you brought the dog.”

  Chapter 22

  KING GREGORY I PREPARES FOR HIS FIRST CHRISTMAS ADDRESS

  20 December

  Year 1 of the Reign of King Gregory I

  Having never previously been at Buckingham Palace at Christmas, I don’t know what it usually looks like for the holidays. I feel safe in assuming that it is not normally as grey and cheerless as this. The royal family is still in official mourning, and so there are no decorations: No trees, no candles, no festoons of pine boughs. It’s rather miserable. But no one asked for my opinion, so I’m ignoring the season lighting up the rest of London and readying for the coming storm.

  Arthur, after his grand and terrifying suggestion of queen pari passu, has been as distant as ever. Hopefully, that’s because he’s trying to figure out how to make this work and not because for the rock of the land he’s as changeable as the wind.

  *

  There was a knock on Amelia’s door one morning a few days before Christmas. She opened it to find George on the other side. She was casually dressed in slacks and a soft green sweater. In her hands, she carried a box of delicate silver and gold paper.

  “What can I do for you?” Amelia asked warily. George rarely sought her out, unless it was to give her news of meetings that Arthur wouldn’t. Those conversations were often brief and cryptic, so much so that Amelia still wasn’t sure if George was an ally or not.

  George looked around the room, as bare of decoration as the rest of the palace. “Will you make snowflakes with me?” she asked. Amelia could hardly believe this was the same young woman of the garden reception, of Arthur’s accession, of the vigil.

  “It’s not much,” George added when Amelia didn’t say anything. “But it’s cheerier than nothing.”

  “That would be lovely.” Amelia stepped aside to let George in. Even company she was uncertain of was still company. Life in the castle, and in her circumstances, was lonely.

  She and George sat at the same table where Amelia had convinced Macsen to join her cause. Together, they spent the morning folding and snipping little squares of craft paper into snowflakes.

  “Don’t you want some of these for yourself?” Amelia asked as they began stringing them onto threads.

  George shook her head. “I have lots, mostly from years ago. Hyacinth and I do this every Christmas, whichever residence we might be at.”

  “A princess’s rooms must surely always welcome more decoration,” Amelia tried. As long as they were discussing holiday snowflakes she was spared anything more serious.

  “Who says I’m a princess?” George retorted.

  Amelia startled and put the scissors down. “Are you renouncing your title?”

  George pursed her lips. “No. I’m just not a princess.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not a girl; I don’t like being called Princess or having to wear dresses; and if there had been a chance of being bowed to as King or Witch — with a capital-W — I might view your future child as competition. But as it is….” George trailed off and shrugged expansively.

  “What would you prefer I call you?” Amelia asked. Royal life had taught her to take refuge in the niceties.

  “George, as you do. I’m genderqueer and like it well enough. Protocol allows for no freedom in my title and honorifics. Adjusting my pronouns in my situation would be difficult. And we all have enough difficulties right now.”

  “You mean me,” Amelia said glumly.

  “I do.”

  “But if you could have things as you wished them,” Amelia led.

  “If I could have things as I wished them, my pronouns would not be my main concern,” George said. “I am a singular creature, but not a single creature. What pronoun would you use that could encompass me and the birds and all the witchcraft and auguries of the land?”

  “They?” Amelia suggested.

  “Maybe one day, but I would prefer you not get ahead of me.”

  “She for now?” Amelia clarified.

  George nodded. “She for now. But we’ll make Arthur, Fount of all Honours, do something about it once we get your situation solved, won’t we?”

  Amelia hastily agreed.

  George lapsed into silence. Even doing nothing more than shaking out bits of cut paper from a finished snowflake, she exuded something unsettling, but Amelia understood it was not the young royal’s gender; it was the rest of situation. Had the birds that invaded her rooms at Sandringham been part of George’s collective witchcraft? To share a room with what Amelia — despite her science training — now had to accept as magic was exhausting. But George shared a body with it; surely that was harder.

  “I want you to know,” George said eventually. “That I’m glad for queen pari passu.”

  Amelia’s heart sped up. “Arthur told you?”

  George shook her head. “Arthur asked me.”

  “Asked you what?” In spite of her anxiety Amelia felt her hackles rising. For a youth who didn’t want the throne, George always seemed to be judging Amelia’s path to the same.


  “If it was a good idea. If it would harm the ravens.”

  “You mean if the kingdom would fall,” Amelia clarified.

  George shrugged. “If you’d like. Arthur does not always know what to make of me.”

  “Well?” Amelia prompted. What Arthur thought of George was hardly the point right now.

  “After my uncle, Britain won’t have another king.” George smiled apologetically.

  Amelia’s fingers froze. The paper swan she was folding fell from her numb hands to the table. She fumbled to pick it back up.

  “Don’t look so fragile at it,” George said. “There aren’t many people who can endure my family or our circumstances,” George continued, as if she hadn’t just made a profoundly disconcerting statement. “You caught my uncle’s eye and made a bargain with him. The people will have to deal with the consequences of that. You are not exempt.”

  “I’m trapped in a palace and the whole nation hates me. Believe me, I don’t feel exempt.”

  George continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “He went to York with you.”

  “He said you’d be furious, after what happened there,” Amelia said after an uncomfortable pause. She could hardly get into a debate with a Lancastrian heir over the symbols of their respective families and their blood-soaked history.

  George shook her head. “Not furious. Frightened. People are often unskilled at interpreting the emotions of those they consider women. Besides, it looks the same on me. It’s the eyes,” she said, pointing at her face.

  Remembering the portraits of Anne Boleyn that so resembled George, Amelia wondered if anyone had been able to tell the difference between anger and fear on the face of that long-dead queen at her execution. Too, Amelia wondered, if Anne had dreamed, like Arthur’s niece, of ravens.

  *

  Once George had left, Amelia sat in her sitting room for a long time, deep in thought. After my uncle, Britain won’t have another king. Did Arthur know? Had George told him? Was he reconsidering queen pari passu? Should he?

  The contemplation got Amelia nowhere. Her confusion over Arthur — his generosity and his distance — would be eternal if she never asked. Besides, she could hardly blame him for not using the door that adjoined their rooms, if she never did either.