With one more inhale, I pushed myself off the wall and began exploring the palace, which I assumed was meant to be Whitehall Palace in my waking nightmare. Cardinal Wolsey had built Whitehall then gave it to Henry VIII and his second wife, Anne Boleyn. The palace became one of the homes of Henry and Anne’s daughter, Elizabeth, when she became Queen.
Some hallways were dark and narrow, but others were wide, lit by windows and capped with beautiful arched ceilings at least three stories overhead. I walked and walked, bewildered by the maze of corridors and galleries. Some of the rooms had fresh rosemary scattered across the floor, which made them smell as good as you’d imagine.
I wandered from room to room, undisturbed by servants as they went about their business. Apparently, they either knew “Blanche Nottingham” or respected the quality of my dress. “M’lady,” someone said behind me. “Is there anything you require?”
I turned to face a tall, kind-faced man.
“No, I….I’m just a bit restless so feel the need to wander.” I considered asking him how someone got a bath around here, but I doubted he’d be in charge of cleaning the ladies-in-waiting. The man bowed and slipped away through an open door.
As he walked away I wondered—if I ignored everyone around me, refusing to respond, would that release me from this dream? Another turn of the corridor brought me up short. There, hanging on the wall, was the Coronation Portrait of Elizabeth. The colors nearly leapt off the canvas, creating an ache in me that the version hanging in the National Portrait Gallery did not. The Gallery’s painting had been copied from the original, which had gone missing centuries ago. Could this be the original, the one lost to history? Don’t be ridiculous, I scolded myself.
The next door I passed led into a small library with towering walls lined with books.
On an easel in one corner was another portrait, also of Elizabeth, revealing the same soulful, deep-set eyes as the woman I’d met yesterday, the same expressive mouth. Either this was real, or my imagination was being very thorough in creating a believable fantasy. Suddenly, creativity seemed a curse rather than a gift, and I thought of van Gogh. Poor man had some major brain issues that historians now believe had their source in some sort of epilepsy. Was I losing touch with reality as Vincent sometimes had?
I pulled a book off the shelf at random, running my fingers over the well-worn velvet binding. I flipped through the heavy parchment pages, unable to read its French contents. But the book fell open to the first page, which held a handwritten inscription:
To the most high, puissant, and redoubted prince, Henry VIII, of the name, King of England, France and Ireland, defender of the Faith.
Elizabeth, his most humble daughter.
Health and obedience.
I began running my fingers through my hair, but they caught in the tight locks. I missed my loose hair swinging gently against my cheeks. I reread the inscription. How could I have created this in my mind? I had no idea what “puissant” meant. I’d never even seen the word. Was I clever enough, in my coma, to make up words to confuse myself?
And then there were the names. My support system was Jake, Ashley, and Mary. Already I’d met “Kat Ashley” and “Lady Mary.” All I needed was a Jake or Jacob to confirm this was all in my imagination. And then there was the dog named after Vincent van Gogh.
I replaced the book, then stroked the jewel-encrusted spines of a long line of books. I would return to this room later and search for books in English.
“You do not belong here.”
I whirled around to find a woman crouched in the corner of the room, wrapping the tie of her grungy apron tighter and tighter around one hand. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll go.”
“You are not of this world. Neither am I. We are all weary travelers looking for home.” The woman burst into tears as I approached. “Why can I not find my way home?”
My throat constricted. “Are you lost?” I managed to croak out through dry lips.
“I do not belong here. I do not belong anywhere,” the woman wailed.
I grasped the woman’s hand. “Who are you? Do you know Dr. Rajamani? Did he give you a shot of GCA?”
“The doctors cannot help me. I have no future. It is gone, all gone.”
“Are you from the future?” I choked, stunned I’d actually voiced that possibility. “Do you know what’s happened to us? Is this real?”
The woman clutched at me. “We cannot get back. We can never get back. All we have known is lost. The doctors took it all away.”
“Oh, Margaret, there you are.” A servant dressed in blue with a white cap scurried into the room, a horrified look twisting her plain features. “I am so sorry, m’lady. Please do not tell Her Majesty.” The woman gathered Margaret in her arms. “My sister is not well. We got her out of Bedlam, a wicked, wicked place, but she is still not herself. I will not let her escape her room again.”
“Bedlam?”
“The madhouse. Bethlehem Hospital. My sister lost her wits two years ago, but Bedlam only made it worse. Come, Margaret.” The woman stopped for a shallow curtsey. “Please, m’lady, if the Queen—”
“I won’t say a word,” I replied, forcing my voice to stop shaking. What had just happened? I watched the woman lead her sister away. Was the woman truly mad? Had she been driven mad by the same circumstances that now trapped me? And if I spoke to anyone about where I’d come from, asked anyone if they were from the future too, would I be bundled off to some private facility called Bedlam? I shivered in the warmth of the sun filtering through the tall library windows. On the table beside me was an elaborate clock with a man riding a rhinoceros, with another four men standing on the ground around him. The clock gently chimed nine times while the four attendants slowly bent at the waist then gracefully returned to their original positions. The last chime echoed in the room.
Desperate for air, I ran down the corridor, turning and doubling back until light ahead led me out onto a second floor balcony. I gulped the fresh air in relief, clutching the railing as I surveyed the grounds. The rosy red brick of the palace was used in most of the buildings that lined a narrow street running from this building to the edge of a forest. Rooflines dipped and climbed, with dozens of chimneys creating a ragged horizon. Courtiers entered and exited the buildings, calling to each other and talking in small groups.
The palace grounds were a maze of pebbled paths and streets, brick walls with arched gates, narrow alleys, and great swaths of green. Roughly dressed men worked in an orchard, and others tended a small rose garden. Off to my right, someone was chopping wood, and smoke arose from some sort of oven. The smell of baking bread was so strong and so familiar it brought tears to my eyes.
The garden below had two reflecting pools and a fountain. It was a knot garden, broken into four large sections, each featuring an elaborate pattern of thick green hedges. That I knew about knot gardens told me I’d recently been diving too deeply into the Tudor pool. The green hedges wove in and around themselves, forming knot-like patterns nearly as complicated as embroidery. The green hedges were set off by exploded pinks, pansies, and grape hyacinth. Scattered throughout were poles topped with carved lions, dragons, and other beasts, each holding a flag. It was a cheerful garden.
Outside the four knot squares were rows of hollyhocks and damask roses. Beyond these was a raised walkway that must allow strollers a better view of the patterned garden, then three rows of cherry trees.
I sighed softly. Chris would be so proud. When we’d purchased our 1898 home in Powderhorn Park, Chris was determined to turn our backyard into a horticultural masterpiece. I suspect she was motivated less by a love of gardening than a desire to outshine the neighbors. One couple to the east had turned their entire front and backyards into a chaotic wildflower garden, a haven for bees and butterflies. The women to the west had gone crazy with their water feature, stacking granite slabs into an elaborate set of waterfalls cascading into shallow pools. The monstrosity so dominated the backyard that the couple�
��s two poor labradoodles could barely find space in which to do their “business.”
I’d helped Chris move soil and create beds and rock pathways, but she had been in charge of design. For two years, our living room, kitchen counter, and bed overflowed with plant catalogs and garden design books. That I could recognize the plants in this palace garden meant some of Chris’s constant garden talk must have stuck.
In the distance, I could barely see the tips of what must be lances, then the lances disappeared and hooves pounded the ground. I scanned the entire area for the laundry building, since surely that would have a way to heat water. Perhaps I could bathe in some lukewarm wash water…that’s how desperate I was.
Directly across from the garden was a large gatehouse next to a stone wall. Beyond that was a massive arch topped with another tower. Horse-drawn carts rumbled by under the arch.
Off to the left was a bowling green, with one of three men rolling a small ball toward the pins. A huge forest rose up at the edge of the grounds. The whole thing was less a well thought out palace and more just a mishmash of buildings and narrow paths and lush plants.
As my gaze returned to the bowling green, I froze. The tallest of the men waved at me impatiently, as if he wanted me to join them. Ha. Not likely. Then one of the men ran toward the palace and disappeared. A few minutes later, that same man showed up at my elbow and proclaimed, “Lady Blanche, there you are. Lord Winston has asked me to escort you to the bowling green.” I had no choice but to let him place my hand in the crook of his elbow and follow. The man, dressed in hose and velvet coat and bloomers, rattled on about how lovely I looked this morning, and how the orange dress brought out the brilliant blue in my eyes. I rolled my brilliant blue eyes but he didn’t notice.
I was suddenly so weary I actually needed the man’s support. I wanted to close my eyes, sleep for a week and then wake up with Chris’s familiar face next to mine.
When we reached the green, the tall man, apparently “Lord Winston,” looked at me as if I were a bug he’d found in his soup. “Finally,” he snapped. “What have you learned?” He carried himself as you’d imagine a lord would, with the complete confidence he’d be obeyed.
My mind spun. “Learned about what?”
Winston jammed his fists on his velvet-coated hips. “God’s bones, woman, this is no time to play games.” His fury only emphasized how poorly I understood the situation in which I found myself. And I was also noticing that a pretty decent curse around here consisted of one of God’s body parts—bones, teeth, blood. If I hadn’t been so confused by my situation, I could have admired the clever cursing system.
The “lord” scowled. “What have you learned of Dudley’s habits?”
Dudley. Him again. Controversy had always swirled around the man, for he seemed to control and influence the Queen more than a commoner should. Dudley fully expected to marry Elizabeth and be King. Inconveniently, he was already married to Amy Dudley.
“His schedule?”
“Is this woman totally daft?” one of the other men snapped. “Winston, you said she would help our cause.”
Winston grabbed my arm and pulled me against the tall hedge to hide us from the palace windows. “We need to dispatch Dudley here, in the palace. When does he visit the Queen next?”
“I don’t know. He comes and goes as he, or as the Queen, pleases.” What else could I say? I reached for anything from The Tudors TV show that could help. “But he always sends a request through his squire that he would like to visit, so we have several hours’ notice.”
“Good.” One of the men handed me the heavy, smooth ball, which fit snugly in my palm. “Now pray take your turn so we appear naturally engaged to anyone observing us.”
I moved away from the wall, took a few steps and rolled the ball toward the pins, missing every one of them.
Winston tucked my hand into his arm. God, it was getting old being dragged around by men’s elbows. “The next time Dudley sends notice of his intent to visit the Queen, you will contact me in the usual way.”
The usual way? That would be fine, if I actually were Blanche Nottingham and knew what that was.
Winston gripped my hand too tightly. “England’s future, its safety, and its honor are all at stake, Lady Blanche. Do not fail us.”
With that, each man executed a slight bow, then disappeared down the garden path.
Winston’s words were over-the-top dramatic, but still alarming. No matter where I was, clearly, having nothing to drink but wine might be the least of my worries.
Chapter Seven
After “Lord Winston” and his entourage left, I dropped onto the nearest marble bench. What the hell was I supposed to do next? A few years ago, I’d watched a BBC show called Life on Mars, about a detective hit by a car and transported thirty-three years into the past, to 1973. It was an hysterical vehicle for laughing at the men’s wide shirt collars, the big hair, and the lack of computers or cell phones, but the detective had struggled just as I was struggling. He didn’t know if he was in a coma from the accident and imagining everything, or if it was real. From time to time he would hear medical people talking to him, as if trying to rouse him from a coma. Season two revealed he was in a coma, but when he came out of it, he missed the people in 1973 so much that he jumped off a building, hoping he’d go back to 1973 when he died. Kind of a creepy ending.
Instead of jumping off a building, I would figure this out. I scanned the bustling palace grounds. Everything I’d seen I could have culled from books or movies, even down to the public King Street that cut through the palace grounds, and the massive, two-story arch above the street. I stood, flush with hope. If I walked as far away from this spot as I could, surely my imagination would run out of details. Things should get more vague and fuzzy the farther I was from the palace.
I gathered up my skirts and marched toward the entrance to King Street, heart racing as I neared the street crowded with carts and horses rattling by. But just at the entrance, one of the guards stepped forward. “M’lady, is there something you require?”
I looked into the man’s kind but determined face. “Yes, I need to leave the palace for a while. I am going to walk the street.”
The guard’s eyes widened in alarm. “Walk the street? Lady Blanche, if you need to get somewhere in the city, pray let one of the palace barges take you.”
“That’s not what I want. What is your name?”
The man’s dark eyes snapped with amusement. “You well know my name, for I served your father those three years.”
I drew myself up in what I hoped was a haughty snit. “Your name, guard.”
He gave me an insolent bow. “Jacob, my lady.”
Crap. Ashley, Mary, and Jacob. It was official. I was fantasizing all of this.
“Well, Jacob, I appreciate your concern, but what I need now is to walk.”
“Then perchance in the park.” He nodded over my shoulder toward the forest. “I recently saw you walk there with Lord Winston.” Jacob’s voice tightened with what might have been anger, but I didn’t care.
“No, it’s the street for me.” I dipped my shoulder and smoothly slid past him, turning right onto the street that would follow the Thames north, then east into the heart of London. Jacob’s voice barked in frustration as he called for replacement guards, and suddenly, he and one other guard were walking at my heels, armed with swords and carrying long, iron pikes.
“Go away, damn it,” I tossed over my shoulder as I tried to avoid a large pothole filled with murky water. I could hear the guard muttering to Jacob something about picking me up and carrying me back. Jacob’s reply helped me understand the Blanche I was supposed to be. “The lady will gouge out your eyes and see your head put on a spike. She is astonishing.”
Soon I forgot Jacob’s appreciation of the “astonishing” Blanche in the focus needed to navigate the street. It was in horrid condition, deeply rutted in places, slick as snot in others. Within one minute, my skirt hung heavy with muck. I he
ld it up as best I could, but dropped it whenever I stumbled. My feet began to ache in these stupid, thin-soled slippers. Yet still my mind created detail after detail. And the smells! Damn, they were bad. My nostrils could have sued the city for assault and battery.
We hadn’t walked five minutes when, up a slight incline to the left, we passed a series of long buildings with soaring roofs. Was that north? The sky was thick with clouds, so the sun couldn’t help me. I rubbed my temples. I always knew my directions. Horses whinnied from within the buildings, and the air glittered with dust and pulsed with the shouts of men and the creaking of carriage wheels. The rich smell of horse manure joined the party in my nose.
I stopped in my tracks, heart pounding. The royal mews. Just twenty-four hours ago I’d been standing at the top of that slight hill, looking out over Trafalgar Square. A vise began tightening around my head. I was just creating an image of the mews in my mind.
I forced my feet to keep moving. Along the next stretch of street, regal mansions rose from the banks of the Thames. Each house had at least one dock with numerous boats on the river. On the left—north?—past the mews, were more modest houses but still grander than I’d imagined there would be in Elizabethan England. One well-dressed gentleman hopped into an open carriage and was driven across the street and down a narrow path to the Thames, where he must have kept a boat at a neighbor’s dock.
The closer to London we walked the rougher the buildings appeared. We passed an open market of timber-covered stalls with chunks of meat, mounds of vegetables, and small, square cloths piled high with spices. A trader called to me, “Come! I have the best mutton you’ll find!” A side street was filled with laughter and women dressed with enough abandon that they were clearly prostitutes. Two boys passed me carrying leather water vessels, their faces screwed up in such concentration they must have been lectured not to spill.
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