We made our way down the stone stairwell in our bulky farthingales. “Such merriment while the king is at war,” Alice castigated. “It would not please His Majesty.”
I wanted to reply, but the words wouldn’t form. In my eagerness to return to Hampton Court, I hadn’t considered how the courtiers felt about my role in their king’s troubles. The looks of hatred on their faces made their meaning plain: they blamed me for it. All at once, any excitement I had about returning to the palace evaporated.
Alice heaved open the doors to my chambers and shrieked with delight, nearly sending me out of my skin. Bridget and Lucinda glanced up from their shared platter of turbot, salmon, and pickled herrings with melted butter, yelping at the unexpected sight of us.
“We missed Your Highness above all things,” Lucinda cried, leaping from her chair to curtsy at me.
“Oh, thank heavens, you are safe. We received no word of your person,” said Bridget, dropping to her knees. She kissed both my hands.
“Alice and I were in hiding and couldn’t write,” I said apologetically.
Alice frowned, gripping her hip. “When I took my leave from court, I cautioned Mistresses Nightingale and Parker that I would be unable to write with news of the queen.” She shook her head at Bridget’s escaped memory, but her eyes shone with gladness that we were all back together.
“Well, we are surely pleased to see you both back and free from harm,” Lucinda said, her cheeks glowing.
I’d actually missed Lucinda’s bright company, and Bridget’s hilarious sagas over the single guys at court, which she was already beginning as we sat down to eat. Their hair was plaited so intricately that they must’ve been bored senseless in our absence.
Their warm reaction to our arrival was enough to restore my appetite and distract me from my dark thoughts about Nick’s safety—at least for a few hours. His upper council chamber was visible from my courtyard, but the gilded window shutters remained fastened shut, intercepting any signs of life up there. I could’ve skewered Henry Howard myself for making so much trouble and putting my husband in danger. I wasn’t sure I’d sleep again until Nick arrived home in one piece.
January continued to shroud the palace in clouds of chimney smoke, and the girls resumed my dance and music lessons to cheer me up. We received no status updates about Nick or Francis, but word reached me that the guard Joseph Blackburn had survived the smallpox virus—just not the unsightly scars. I could’ve screamed with relief. It’d be difficult to face him one day and see the cost of that in person, but I hoped I could apologize to him for my part in it.
The calendar welcomed February with a fresh dumping of snow, and claustrophobic courtiers had begun tattling on each other about petty things to keep themselves amused. Likely fearful of what might be said about him, the Earl of Dorset arranged a public swordfight between two renowned fencers in the Great Hall.
My ladies and I rushed in to the performance a few minutes late, my cheeks hot with embarrassment as we searched for seats at the rear. Four vacant stools sat beside the dreamy Earl of Surrey, and Bridget snorted into her fist with glee. The rest of us swallowed giggles as we settled in beside him. Sour-faced nobles twisted to glare at us from the front rows where the swashbucklers were already dueling. Lord Dorset scowled at me with those sugar-spoiled teeth of his that he was so proud of. He whispered to his neighbors, who curved around to shoot me death stares, before—one by one—the men rose to their feet. They tipped their hats to the swordsmen in apology before striding right past me and out of the hall. The exodus continued—row by row—until the only people left inside the Great Hall were me and my ladies, the swordfighters, the Earl of Surrey, and a handful of nobles who were permanently paranoid about the king’s temper.
“Emmie, let us take our leave,” Alice said quietly, her slender fingers touching my wrist.
“Did they all just walk out because I’m here?” I said.
“Heavens no, there must be some other cause,” said Lucinda, but Alice’s ashen face confirmed that I’d hit the bullseye on this one. The walkout was a public demonstration against me, the troublesome new Queen Emmeline.
“I bid you excuse me, my ladies,” muttered the Earl of Surrey as he squeezed past us as modestly as possible. His athletic form sailed past our noses, but none of us were laughing now.
Alice gathered her skirts. “Come, let us take leave to Your Highness’s chambers. We may make a note for the king and record the names of all who took part in this act of treason.”
“His Majesty will be sorely vexed,” added Bridget, but she could hardly look at me. I felt bad for her. It wasn’t her fault she’d been aligned with a dud queen.
Feeling like the excluded kid at school again, I trailed the girls downstairs to my chambers, where nothing but embroidery hoops and sewing needles awaited me. A swell of dread erupted in my chest where it’d been festering since the coronation attack.
“I’m going to go over to my jewelry workshop,” I said, halting. The swishing satin of our dresses fell silent beside a giant mural depicting the Battle of Bosworth. “Provided it’s still there.”
“Why would it be not there?” said Alice with a forced chuckle, moving closer to me. “We shall come with you.”
“No, thank you…I just need a bit of alone time.” I managed a reassuring smile, turning away as I blinked through the pressure of tears.
Three concerned faces watched me go. Alice, Bridget—and even Lucinda in recent months—had been nothing but loyal to a queen who was clearly going down and who’d dragged Alice’s fiancé into a civil war. Had Henry the Eighth’s ill-fated wives Anne Boleyn or Catherine Howard had such faithful friends when they were slated for the executioner’s block?
With that grisly thought, I kept my head bowed so I wouldn’t have to meet any more reproachful eyes and made a beeline for the workshop where I could fall apart in private.
I hung around the studio until suppertime, putting the finishing touches on the hammered thumb ring for Nick. I’d just lit the candles when Alice, Bridget, and Lucinda arrived with a beef pie, a fragrant bowl of herby soup, and a generous slice of ginger cheesecake. I reassured them that I was doing okay and picked at the meal after they left, keen to polish the silver ring one more time.
The dimly lit palace courtyards were desolate by the time I slung on my cloak and headed back to my rooms, passing the stairwell leading to the king’s Privy Chambers. It was unguarded—a sad reminder that the king was away from court. The square heels of my pumps scraped the hand-painted tiles as my feet turned right instead of left, scaling the stone staircase.
A chamber attendant spotted me inside the Withdrawing Chamber, tripping over his gangly feet. “Your Highness,” he said with a bow, his cheeks colored scarlet. “May I be of help?”
“The king is away from court,” I said, like Captain Obvious, “but I’d like to lodge in his chambers this night. I’d also appreciate it if you could get a message to my ladies that I am here and safely lodging alone.”
The boy’s bow was hesitant, but he led me through Nick’s series of ornate rooms until we reached the king’s private bedchamber. The sight of Nick’s four-poster bed with its black quilted canopy was instantly pacifying. Despite every terror that had come our way, my love for Nick Tudor still felt absolute. I couldn’t imagine that ever changing.