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Authors: Katherine Longshore
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the altar. She doesn’t acknowledge my status or even my presence, and I’m left hanging, caught between retort and retreat.
“Give my brother my best,” she says to her hands, clenched before her. “If you see him.”
She knows that I may not see him. Or that when he sees me, he may run away. And after a moment of trying to decide how to take my leave, I just go.
The next morning, as we prepare to go back to London, the queen asks about my mission, though Lady Mary’s continued nonappearance is testament to my failure.
“Tell me what she said,
exactly
,” Queen Anne insists.
I don’t want to. But I do. At the word
mistress
, the queen’s lips go white and her hands clench reflexively. She climbs silently into her litter and pulls the curtains closed.
I look up to the windows of Hatfield, all of them staring blankly out at me, mute and expressionless. And then I see Lady Mary’s face at the center. Just for a moment. Alone.
I want to prove her wrong.
I am married.
But I can mentally strike through one of the things on our list of reasons to love a man.
I definitely don’t like Fitz’s sister.
L ENT IS ALWAYS THE GLOOMIEST TIME AT COURT . T HERE ARE NO revels, no celebrations, no banquets. The men spend all their time in Parliament, and the women sit and sew, and everyone is cross and on edge.
So the day the men return from Parliament slapping backs and jovially haranguing one another, the entire court ignites on the spark of their energy.
Everyone crowds into the public rooms, and I am trapped at the far wall, against the windows. The room has two doors. One leads to the queen’s more private chambers. It’s closed, and I wouldn’t be allowed access. The other door is the one through which everyone is entering. A flood of them. Doublets and boasts and faces red with wine.
I feel the wedge of panic pressing into my lungs. I search for a familiar face. Madge. Margaret. Hal. I’d even be relieved to see Fitz. Anyone to keep me upright.
I stand on my tiptoes. I am so much smaller than all these men. I see only shoulders and velvet caps. Drooping feathers and gold braid. I try to suck in a deep breath, but it catches halfway and I cough.
Sharp, bony fingers grip my elbow, and my delirium threatens to overtake me. The edges of my vision blur and go dark, and I can only see as if through a tunnel. As if I wear blinders.
I turn my head, wobbling like a drunk, and almost cry at the sight of Margaret’s long nose and wide mouth.
“Let’s leave this place,” she says, and drags me away from the wall.
The two of us together cause a wave of bows and curtsies, parting the crowd like the prow of a ship. Margaret is the figure-head. The throng on the other side of the door is even more densely packed, and all my breath leaves me. But Margaret forces her way through and down the spiral stairs. We pick up Madge in our wake as we tumble out into a tiny courtyard.
Margaret releases me, and her hands flinch closed. She looks up to the sky, her face like a thunderstorm already broken.
“He’s done it,” she says.
“Done what?” I ask, my breath still short. I press a fist to my stomacher and finally fill my lungs.
“He’s gone and taken control of everything.”
“Who?”
“My uncle,” she says.
The king.
We should stop talking now. I should go find Hal. Or Father. Or sew. Or write poetry. Madge should be serving the queen. And Margaret should let her anger subside before she speaks out against the king to the wrong person.
But none of us moves.
“They’ve just voted,” Margaret says, more quietly, though her anger hardly seems to have dissipated. “The king has ratified it.”
“Ratified what?” Madge seems awed by Margaret’s anger.
“An act of succession to the throne.”
I hold my breath. As King Henry grows older, everyone worries about who will be next in line. Princess Elizabeth is barely crawling, much less walking or talking. And Lady Mary . . . I can’t imagine
“Give my brother my best,” she says to her hands, clenched before her. “If you see him.”
She knows that I may not see him. Or that when he sees me, he may run away. And after a moment of trying to decide how to take my leave, I just go.
The next morning, as we prepare to go back to London, the queen asks about my mission, though Lady Mary’s continued nonappearance is testament to my failure.
“Tell me what she said,
exactly
,” Queen Anne insists.
I don’t want to. But I do. At the word
mistress
, the queen’s lips go white and her hands clench reflexively. She climbs silently into her litter and pulls the curtains closed.
I look up to the windows of Hatfield, all of them staring blankly out at me, mute and expressionless. And then I see Lady Mary’s face at the center. Just for a moment. Alone.
I want to prove her wrong.
I am married.
But I can mentally strike through one of the things on our list of reasons to love a man.
I definitely don’t like Fitz’s sister.
L ENT IS ALWAYS THE GLOOMIEST TIME AT COURT . T HERE ARE NO revels, no celebrations, no banquets. The men spend all their time in Parliament, and the women sit and sew, and everyone is cross and on edge.
So the day the men return from Parliament slapping backs and jovially haranguing one another, the entire court ignites on the spark of their energy.
Everyone crowds into the public rooms, and I am trapped at the far wall, against the windows. The room has two doors. One leads to the queen’s more private chambers. It’s closed, and I wouldn’t be allowed access. The other door is the one through which everyone is entering. A flood of them. Doublets and boasts and faces red with wine.
I feel the wedge of panic pressing into my lungs. I search for a familiar face. Madge. Margaret. Hal. I’d even be relieved to see Fitz. Anyone to keep me upright.
I stand on my tiptoes. I am so much smaller than all these men. I see only shoulders and velvet caps. Drooping feathers and gold braid. I try to suck in a deep breath, but it catches halfway and I cough.
Sharp, bony fingers grip my elbow, and my delirium threatens to overtake me. The edges of my vision blur and go dark, and I can only see as if through a tunnel. As if I wear blinders.
I turn my head, wobbling like a drunk, and almost cry at the sight of Margaret’s long nose and wide mouth.
“Let’s leave this place,” she says, and drags me away from the wall.
The two of us together cause a wave of bows and curtsies, parting the crowd like the prow of a ship. Margaret is the figure-head. The throng on the other side of the door is even more densely packed, and all my breath leaves me. But Margaret forces her way through and down the spiral stairs. We pick up Madge in our wake as we tumble out into a tiny courtyard.
Margaret releases me, and her hands flinch closed. She looks up to the sky, her face like a thunderstorm already broken.
“He’s done it,” she says.
“Done what?” I ask, my breath still short. I press a fist to my stomacher and finally fill my lungs.
“He’s gone and taken control of everything.”
“Who?”
“My uncle,” she says.
The king.
We should stop talking now. I should go find Hal. Or Father. Or sew. Or write poetry. Madge should be serving the queen. And Margaret should let her anger subside before she speaks out against the king to the wrong person.
But none of us moves.
“They’ve just voted,” Margaret says, more quietly, though her anger hardly seems to have dissipated. “The king has ratified it.”
“Ratified what?” Madge seems awed by Margaret’s anger.
“An act of succession to the throne.”
I hold my breath. As King Henry grows older, everyone worries about who will be next in line. Princess Elizabeth is barely crawling, much less walking or talking. And Lady Mary . . . I can’t imagine
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