I moped over my salmon fillet, hating the idea of Kit missing out on the thrills of the coronation that were right up her street. Still, I had to face that Nick was the expert on the safety of princesses who’d once been destined to die. Kit and I would just have to share a private celebration when I could return to Kenilworth. I planned to ask Nick if we could spend the next summer there—just us and Kit. I couldn’t think of a better newlywed vacation.
December arrived, bringing fewer sunlight hours and a cloudy coolness that promised snow. Nick’s distracted mood made it clear that Norfolk was still at large, yet the king remained defiant about the coronation plans. In keeping with tradition, we were to spend the night before the ceremony at the Tower of London. Our flotilla of barges sailed along the curvy Thames, carrying hundreds of attendants, courtiers, ladies, and guards. It took nearly a day for us to reach the Tower’s sloshing water gate, where I had to hide my nose to obscure the stench of fish and sewage.
We were to lodge in the medieval tower of St. Thomas that overlooked the river, its stained-glass windows offering glimpses of the slanted red roofs atop London Bridge. I didn’t want to leave the safety of the spacious bedchamber with its own chapel, and it dawned on me just how nervous I was about the coronation ceremony. I would’ve swapped the pomp and splendor for the intimacy of our simple wedding a thousand times over, but Nick’s enthusiasm pacified my bursts of blind panic.
The city’s curfew bells clanged at dusk. The blacksmiths and carpenters halted their hammering in the alleyways below, and an eerie, silent, blackness descended over London. I slept surprisingly soundly beside Nick, and we both rose early to take morning prayers in our chapel. After a lingering kiss goodbye, he slipped away to prepare for the big day in his own chambers, and my heart rate skyrocketed again with nervous jitters.
Lucinda and Bridget arrived after breakfast, sending my squeals of relief bouncing across the brightly colored tile floor.
“Mistress Grey has been caught up on the roads,” Bridget said with an apologetic grimace, sending my stomach into free-fall. I’d have to cope with all this pageantry without Alice after all.
But my spirits lifted again as Bridget and Lucinda dressed me for the ceremony in an outfit too beautiful to be believed. My scarlet-red kirtle and stomacher were stitched with sapphires amid golden wing patterns that broadened as they descended to the floor. The gown draped over the top was made entirely of snow-white fur. It made me ill to think about what animals may have been slaughtered to construct the silky cloak, but it would at least keep me warm. My hair hung loose in combed waves, the top of my head left bare in readiness for my crown. The final touches were a sash woven entirely from white diamonds, plus the jewels of the Queens of England which Nick had given me when he proposed to me—a magnificent necklace of glittering blue diamonds with matching earrings.
When I faced the full-length mirror that Nick had installed for the occasion, I appreciated why Bridget and Lucinda were blushing at me like I was some sort of magical creature. I was the living image of a glorious Tudor queen, missing only my crown and scepter. You go, girl.
The intense day that ensued was mostly a blur to me. Six of Nick’s most loyal courtiers, including Francis Beaumont, led me on foot to Westminster Abbey beneath a mobile canopy of purple velvet fringed with gold. We kept to the broader streets, but the surrounding alleyways with their narrow timber-framed buildings and overhanging balconies were jammed with chanting spectators. When we reached the gothic arches of Westminster Abbey, I could barely feel my face, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the sharp wind off the river or the nerves attacking my gut. The constant clanging of bells from the city parishes amid the grimy city smells were overwhelming my senses, and I began to feel suffocated and weak at the knees. By the time I stood inside the abbey before the Archbishop of Canterbury, I was ready to puke all over his fancy robes. But one look at Nick when he strode into my view in full Tudor regalia, a proud smile echoing the glimmer in his eyes, and I stabilized.
You can do this, Emmie Tudor.
The ceremony unfolded precisely as we’d practiced, except a thousand times faster. Before the High Altar, the Archbishop of Canterbury bestowed on me a ceremonial crown, an ornamental mace, and a scepter. Hymns were sung, and then it was over in the blink of an eye. I was officially the Queen of England and would go down in history as a member of the Tudor dynasty. Take that, Henry Howard, and your backstabbing gang of conspirators. You can all bite me.
The king took my hand, and we emerged from the abbey into blinding light and a full-fledged street party. My protective husband sat beside me in a golden chariot, and the commoners cheered—some even wept—at the sight of him. The coronation parade was to lead us down to Westminster Pier, where a feast would be held aboard the royal barges because there hadn’t been enough time to spruce up Westminster Hall.
Our glimmering, sunlit chariot moved slowly to the harmonies of a walking choir, its gentle volume swallowed by the rising chants of the crowds. A gigantic sculpture of a rising phoenix loomed over a moving constellation of fire-breathing dragon puppets, acrobats, and dancers with scarves and bells tied to their limbs. I’d never seen anything more spectacular or more expensive, and I tried to put the impoverished peasants we’d seen on progress out of my mind.
Nick snapped at a string of grimy-faced men standing without caps on their heads—a sign of disrespect to the new queen. As we continued past a classical fountain that poured wine, a tall man with an ostrich feather in his hat appeared in the swarm of spectators, and I stretched my neck to make him out. I could’ve sworn it was Henry Howard glaring right at me. Another guy with a face like thunder looked just like Viscount Hereford, the stuck-up nobleman who Nick had once expelled from his court. As we passed the men, however, I realized my eyes were playing tricks on me—seeing monsters that weren’t there. As our chariot tilted toward the pier, a rush of bodies chased us down the hill. By the time we’d reached a standstill beside the stone water gate, I was clambering to get out of the chariot and away from the stifling crowds. There were too many of them.
Guards jostled with forceful revelers as I stumbled down the carriage steps in my ridiculously oversized farthingale. I stepped forward and jerked to a violent halt. My dress was caught on something. I spun to face a mob of wild-faced spectators, their grubby hands clinging to my skirt folds, preventing me from moving.
“What are you doing? Let go!” I cried in shock, but there was too much noise, too many fingers clawing at me. I couldn’t see Nick, but I heard him shouting my name. The more the guards pushed to get through to me, the more the wall of strangers pulled at my skirts until I was crushed into a pit of deafening blackness.
My heart was beating a hole through my chest, and I couldn’t breathe through the web of bodies closing in on me. My arms, flailing in panic, were seized and ripped upward, nearly popping from their sockets. My legs and shoulders were being violently tugged in all directions, and I screamed in pain until my throat was raw. I was about to be dragged through the streets of London and torn apart, limb-by-limb! I had to fight, but there were too many grabbing hands, before incredible power gripped me and hoisted me toward the sky. Two beefy guards had got hold of me and were carrying me out of the swarm like a crowd-surfer, a dense blanket of clouds swinging over my head. Nick was still yelling behind me—at whom, I couldn’t tell—before I was dropped onto a bundle of plush cushions. In seconds, the clawing fingers had vanished.