“I know,” I said, leaning into her. The urge to tell her the truth about me—about where I came from—was so intense that it crawled onto my tongue, begging to be set free. This could be my last chance. But if I told Alice Grey that I was from the future, it’d put her at risk of being complicit in my alleged sorcery. I wanted her to enjoy her wedded bliss with Francis, not to have to testify against me at my trial. I had endangered too many people in this world already. So I sat there and clung to her hands, blessing her over and over in my heart for having been my one rock in this place.
She glanced up at me, sensing something.
“I love you, Alice,” was all I managed through my choked voice. “You might be the best thing in this entire world. I will never forget you.”
Her words were breathless whispers. “You are my queen and lady most dear, and I will love you forevermore.”
The depth of her sobs as we hugged one last time made clear that she believed I didn’t stand a chance at tomorrow’s trial. I’d admired Alice Grey for so many things: because she was spirited, feminist—for a Tudor, anyway—sharp as a tack…and almost always right.
I really was doomed.
With no hope of sleep that night, I lay awake, piecing together a plan. Surely Nick would be at the trial and would see how weak I’d become in just two weeks. He was a vengeful and merciless man—I knew that now better than anyone—but I still believed he’d loved me as completely as I’d loved him. It made me sick to my stomach to think that I could still imagine kissing him deeply—and even hunger for it. It was beyond shameful, like doting on a serial killer or the devil himself, but I guessed that love just didn’t switch off that fast. And maybe I could use any feelings still between us to my advantage: at the trial, I would do whatever I could to convince Nick Tudor to set me free. I’d mouth the words “I love you” to him—even scream them if I had to.
I wasn’t too proud to beg him for my life.
22
At first light, I was marched downstairs to the Tower of London’s aging Great Hall, where hundreds of men jostled for space in their flat caps and showiest coats. I braced myself for the appearance of Nick, but I couldn’t catch sight of him anywhere.
The guards ushered me up a short ladder and onto a wooden platform. On a table before me sat my three judges in somber black cloaks—the Baron of Wharton, the Earl of Dorset, and Henry freaking Howard. I wanted to hurl all over his infuriating smirk and dumbass ostrich-feather hat. He’d launched a rebellion against the king and queen—how was he judging me and not the other way around? However, Howard’s presence confirmed that he and Nick had officially kissed and made up. Bile pooled in the back of my throat.
Late-arriving spectators shuffled in from the sides of the hall to watch the proceedings. I searched for Alice, but there wasn’t a single female in the room apart from me. And still no sign of Nick.
Coward.
Lord Wharton’s grating voice flooded the cavernous space. “Queen Emmeline, you are arraigned before this commission on charges of conspiring to procure the death and destruction of His Majesty, the King of England, through means of malice, witchcraft, and adulterous incitations. How do you answer the charges?”
I pressed my lips together, trying to decide what to say. I’d been given no legal counsel or preparation of any kind.
“Not guilty,” I said, clearing my hoarse throat. “I am innocent of the charges.”
The baron then launched into a ridiculous story about me pursuing an adulterous affair with the Earl of Warwick—purely because I’d made a joke about him being in the king’s disguise at the masquerade feast. It was the first of countless testimonies about how I’d bewitched the king without genuine love in my heart while secretly plotting against him. Hilariously, I was even accused of trying to seduce Mister Andrea Bon Compagni behind closed doors in my workshop, which was also the place where I apparently experimented with recipes of witchcraft. The young maidservant Clemence from Robin House was summoned as a witness and stood shaking before the jury. Unable to look at me, she testified that I’d regularly met with a village witch, and appalled cries exploded from the sidelines. I had no idea how she’d known about my visit to the witch in the hamlet, but I didn’t blame her for her testimony. For all I knew, Clemence had been forced to speak out against me; plus, she was right—I had met with the witch, even if it was only once. More outrageous lies were outlined in excruciating and humiliating detail before the accusations turned to my family origins. With nobody able to verify the existence of the Grace family from Worthing, and Henry Howard arguing that I wasn’t his niece and that I’d bewitched him to believe it so, the deceit became overwhelming. At no point was Nick implicated in anything; the all-powerful King of England was evidently so unimpeachable that he didn’t even have to bother showing up for the trial. So much for begging him for my life.
I clenched my eyes until they were dry. There was no way these men would see me cry.
My thighs were aching after standing for so long before Lord Wharton finally called for silence. While his voice was grave, his eyes twinkled beside the equally as smug Henry Howard.
“This day, Queen Emmeline has made a plea of not guilty to the lords stood here as councilors to our sovereign lord and king, Nicholas of England, and the peers of the realm. After being examined here, each lord has said, one and all, that Queen Emmeline is guilty of all the charges brought against her.”
An icy gust of wind blew through me, and I thought I might topple over.
Lord Wharton focused his fierce eyes on me. “Madam, as you have been found guilty, I shall proceed in judgment. You are hereby sentenced to die. From here, you will be taken to your prison in the tower of St. Thomas, and on the morrow at the strike of dawn, you will be executed by beheading, burning, or hanging as shall please His Majesty the King. Your marriage to King Nicholas of England is now null and void. You have no crown, no land or title, and you shall henceforth be known as Mistress Emmeline Grace.”
A cough—or perhaps a chortle—burst from Henry Howard’s haughty mouth. I wanted to drive my fist through his heart. Fortunately for him, I was swiftly escorted from the hall and back upstairs to my locked chamber. A stale cheese tart sat waiting for me on the table, but I could hardly breathe, let alone eat.
Nick didn’t even come to the trial.
He couldn’t pay me the freaking courtesy of turning up.
I smacked the pewter plate holding the cheese tart off the table, covering my ears at the brassy clanging. My fingertips slipped into my hair, and I grabbed the dirty clumps and tugged hard, wishing the pain would overwhelm my thoughts until I couldn’t hear them anymore.
Why couldn’t he have just let me go? Neither Nick nor I had to go through any of this—if he’d just let me travel back to my time and pretended that I’d drowned in the river, we’d both be safe. Did he really prefer the option of slicing off my head?
I fell onto the bed, lying flat and motionless like a corpse.
No matter how I tried to make sense of it all, my thoughts always circled back to the same place: this was my fault. Nick couldn’t let me go because he believed that I’d abandoned him. I’d known about his monstrous vengeful streak since the beginning—what he was capable of if he felt betrayed—and I’d willingly walked right into the firing line.