I’m worthy of his attention.”
“Of his love.” The queen nods. She understands.
“I shall do this then,” the queen whispers fiercely. “I shall offer to speak to the king. On her behalf. He will be furious. He thinks he should be allowed to treat his children any way he wishes.”
“Some parents need a little help,” I admit bleakly.
Again she nods. “That they do.”
She squares her shoulders. “All right, Cousin. Will you do me this? Will you seek out the king’s daughter and offer . . .” She pauses. “No, not a place at court. But if she honors me here as queen, I can plead for at least a return to his good graces.”
This is not an order from my queen. Nor even a request. She is honestly asking me if I will do this. And I don’t wish to. The Lady Mary is like a hornet—small and quick to sting.
But I look into the queen’s eyes and nod anyway. She wants to make things right. If I can help in some small way, I will be doing them all a service.
As the queen is shown rooms in which she can dine and rest the night, I search all of Hatfield. No one will tell me where Lady Mary is. I wonder if this is because of my mother. The oranges she sent to Katherine of Aragon were reported to contain treasonous hidden messages. Perhaps Elizabeth’s household thinks I’m a spy. Inciting a revolt.
I don’t know Lady Mary well. I’ve only met her once. I think of Fitz, her half brother. How he is always on his way to the tiltyard or the tennis courts. How he rides out with his father early in the morning, returning on winded horses and waves of bonhomie.
The demon twists again. I am jealous of Fitz, too. Of his easiness with his father. I will never fit into that world.
I wonder if Lady Mary feels that way. She doesn’t seem to be the sort to spend her day at archery or hawking. She always seemed a little sickly. A little too pious for physical pursuits.
I’ve heard that her mother wore hair shirts at the end of her reign. Both Katherine and Mary are staunch believers in the Roman religion.
I slip into the chapel as silently as I can. It’s smaller than the chapels at Greenwich or Hampton Court, but larger than the one at Kenninghall. The walls have been washed white, though the ceiling is still crisscrossed with stars and gilded battens. The saints have been removed, but the altar remains—glowing with gold in the candlelight.
A figure in purple kneels before it. She is small and round—a velvet dumpling. Tinier, even, than the queen. When she stands and turns at the sound of my footsteps, I see that she probably only reaches my shoulder in height. But the energy that emanates from her is equal to that of her father. Frightening.
I kneel and bow my head.
“You married my brother,” she says. Her voice is low—almost as low as a man’s—and hoarse. It rumbles from deep below her rib cage.
I nod. “Yes . . .” I don’t know how to address her. She is not a princess. She is not a duchess. But she is the daughter of my king. “Yes, Your Grace,” I finish lamely.
“I hope you deserve him,” she says. Her tone indicates she doesn’t think I do. Deserve him.
Her skin is pale, and looks limp against her face. She may be only three years older than I am, but she appears to be much more. She has the same high-arched eyebrows as Fitz, the same vibrant hair. But Lady Mary has deep, bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I would believe the rumors that she is being slowly poisoned.
She stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that I grow uncomfortable. I get the feeling that Lady Mary has more to say. So I wait, helplessly, hoping she gets it over with quickly.
“Have you consummated it yet? Your marriage?”
I am shocked rigid by her bluntness and can’t reply.
“Oh, no, of course you haven’t. You’re not allowed.” Her words drip with mock sympathy.
I shake my head, but she hadn’t intended for me to respond. She intended for me to
“Of his love.” The queen nods. She understands.
“I shall do this then,” the queen whispers fiercely. “I shall offer to speak to the king. On her behalf. He will be furious. He thinks he should be allowed to treat his children any way he wishes.”
“Some parents need a little help,” I admit bleakly.
Again she nods. “That they do.”
She squares her shoulders. “All right, Cousin. Will you do me this? Will you seek out the king’s daughter and offer . . .” She pauses. “No, not a place at court. But if she honors me here as queen, I can plead for at least a return to his good graces.”
This is not an order from my queen. Nor even a request. She is honestly asking me if I will do this. And I don’t wish to. The Lady Mary is like a hornet—small and quick to sting.
But I look into the queen’s eyes and nod anyway. She wants to make things right. If I can help in some small way, I will be doing them all a service.
As the queen is shown rooms in which she can dine and rest the night, I search all of Hatfield. No one will tell me where Lady Mary is. I wonder if this is because of my mother. The oranges she sent to Katherine of Aragon were reported to contain treasonous hidden messages. Perhaps Elizabeth’s household thinks I’m a spy. Inciting a revolt.
I don’t know Lady Mary well. I’ve only met her once. I think of Fitz, her half brother. How he is always on his way to the tiltyard or the tennis courts. How he rides out with his father early in the morning, returning on winded horses and waves of bonhomie.
The demon twists again. I am jealous of Fitz, too. Of his easiness with his father. I will never fit into that world.
I wonder if Lady Mary feels that way. She doesn’t seem to be the sort to spend her day at archery or hawking. She always seemed a little sickly. A little too pious for physical pursuits.
I’ve heard that her mother wore hair shirts at the end of her reign. Both Katherine and Mary are staunch believers in the Roman religion.
I slip into the chapel as silently as I can. It’s smaller than the chapels at Greenwich or Hampton Court, but larger than the one at Kenninghall. The walls have been washed white, though the ceiling is still crisscrossed with stars and gilded battens. The saints have been removed, but the altar remains—glowing with gold in the candlelight.
A figure in purple kneels before it. She is small and round—a velvet dumpling. Tinier, even, than the queen. When she stands and turns at the sound of my footsteps, I see that she probably only reaches my shoulder in height. But the energy that emanates from her is equal to that of her father. Frightening.
I kneel and bow my head.
“You married my brother,” she says. Her voice is low—almost as low as a man’s—and hoarse. It rumbles from deep below her rib cage.
I nod. “Yes . . .” I don’t know how to address her. She is not a princess. She is not a duchess. But she is the daughter of my king. “Yes, Your Grace,” I finish lamely.
“I hope you deserve him,” she says. Her tone indicates she doesn’t think I do. Deserve him.
Her skin is pale, and looks limp against her face. She may be only three years older than I am, but she appears to be much more. She has the same high-arched eyebrows as Fitz, the same vibrant hair. But Lady Mary has deep, bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I would believe the rumors that she is being slowly poisoned.
She stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that I grow uncomfortable. I get the feeling that Lady Mary has more to say. So I wait, helplessly, hoping she gets it over with quickly.
“Have you consummated it yet? Your marriage?”
I am shocked rigid by her bluntness and can’t reply.
“Oh, no, of course you haven’t. You’re not allowed.” Her words drip with mock sympathy.
I shake my head, but she hadn’t intended for me to respond. She intended for me to
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