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Authors: Marie Phillips
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other foreign dignitaries or lectured her on their own achievements. She bestowed favours upon and accepted love poetry from knights and the sons of lords who had never actually spoken to her. She wore stiff dresses and uncomfortable shoes. She smiled.
But after her brother died, she woke sometimes in the middle of the night, with her heart pounding and her mouth dry. Shewould think
I am going to be queen one day
, but she had no idea what qualities she would bring to the role. Would she be a fair queen or a cruel one? She didn’t know if she was cruel or fair. She didn’t know how she was going to exude authority and actually rule, because unlike her brother, who was born to be the King, she was a nothing person with nothing to offer except that she existed. And now her father had died and she was the Queen and the one thing that she did know was that she wasn’t ready yet.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ she said.
Sir John Penrith, the Chancellor and head of the Regency Council, bounced into the room and gave a jaunty little bow. Deborah curtseyed. This was her day for curtseying to everyone.
‘The King is dead, long live the Queen,’ said Sir John in cheery greeting. He was a skinny man with a pot belly and long white eyebrows that grew like a peacock’s tail feathers.
‘Good morning, Sir John,’ said Martha.
She didn’t know Sir John particularly well. Mainly she saw him in chapel, where she noticed he had the habit of sticking his tongue in the Communion wine.
‘Everybody’s waiting,’ he said, raising one of those eyebrows at the sight of her robe. ‘I think it would make a better impression if you were dressed.’
‘Waiting?’
‘For you, my Queen. Deborah, would you fetch an appropriate dress for Her Majesty?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Deborah. She bobbed a curtsey at Sir John, then one at Martha, realised that the one for Martha had not been lower than the one for Sir John, curtseyed again lower to Martha, felt that was uneven somehow, gave Sir John another curtsey but made sure it was a smaller one this time, bowed to Martha, and backed out of the room.
‘It’s just a short meeting,’ said Sir John, ‘nothing to frighten the horses. Would you mind if I sat down?’
Without waiting for an answer, he hitched up his leggings and sat on Martha’s favourite armchair by the fireplace, leaning back with a contented sigh and crossing his legs at the ankle.
‘I must say,’ he said, ‘I’m rather looking forward to retirement. I’m thinking of France. The weather’s lovely in the south.’
‘Retirement?’ said Martha.
‘The French can be a little stand-offish, it’s true,’ Sir John continued, ‘but the cuisine! Richer than Midas, but the sauces are exquisite.’
‘You’re stepping down?’
‘I might take up boules. I’ve always fancied it. My parents forced me into book-learning, but I have the soul of an athlete.’
‘But who’s going to be my chancellor?’
‘Why, my dear, anyone you like. You’re the Queen now.’
The door opened again and in came Deborah, curtseying elaborately with every step. She had some black fabric draped over one arm, around which a few moths drifted.
‘I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ said Sir John. ‘I’ll wait right outside the door until you’re ready to go downstairs.
Le Roi est mort, vive la Reine
, as they say in France.’
After Sir John went out, Deborah held up the fabric, which turned out to be a somewhat old-fashioned dress.
‘This was your mother’s, from the plague era,’ she said. ‘She was never out of mourning then. Well, until the plague got her.’ She gave the garment a suspicious glance, then brightened. ‘It’s been in the attic a good long while. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
Martha removed her dressing gown and nightgown and stood in her underwear, her arms raised as Deborah slipped the dress over her head. The garment was cold and damp against her skin and smelt of
But after her brother died, she woke sometimes in the middle of the night, with her heart pounding and her mouth dry. Shewould think
I am going to be queen one day
, but she had no idea what qualities she would bring to the role. Would she be a fair queen or a cruel one? She didn’t know if she was cruel or fair. She didn’t know how she was going to exude authority and actually rule, because unlike her brother, who was born to be the King, she was a nothing person with nothing to offer except that she existed. And now her father had died and she was the Queen and the one thing that she did know was that she wasn’t ready yet.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ she said.
Sir John Penrith, the Chancellor and head of the Regency Council, bounced into the room and gave a jaunty little bow. Deborah curtseyed. This was her day for curtseying to everyone.
‘The King is dead, long live the Queen,’ said Sir John in cheery greeting. He was a skinny man with a pot belly and long white eyebrows that grew like a peacock’s tail feathers.
‘Good morning, Sir John,’ said Martha.
She didn’t know Sir John particularly well. Mainly she saw him in chapel, where she noticed he had the habit of sticking his tongue in the Communion wine.
‘Everybody’s waiting,’ he said, raising one of those eyebrows at the sight of her robe. ‘I think it would make a better impression if you were dressed.’
‘Waiting?’
‘For you, my Queen. Deborah, would you fetch an appropriate dress for Her Majesty?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Deborah. She bobbed a curtsey at Sir John, then one at Martha, realised that the one for Martha had not been lower than the one for Sir John, curtseyed again lower to Martha, felt that was uneven somehow, gave Sir John another curtsey but made sure it was a smaller one this time, bowed to Martha, and backed out of the room.
‘It’s just a short meeting,’ said Sir John, ‘nothing to frighten the horses. Would you mind if I sat down?’
Without waiting for an answer, he hitched up his leggings and sat on Martha’s favourite armchair by the fireplace, leaning back with a contented sigh and crossing his legs at the ankle.
‘I must say,’ he said, ‘I’m rather looking forward to retirement. I’m thinking of France. The weather’s lovely in the south.’
‘Retirement?’ said Martha.
‘The French can be a little stand-offish, it’s true,’ Sir John continued, ‘but the cuisine! Richer than Midas, but the sauces are exquisite.’
‘You’re stepping down?’
‘I might take up boules. I’ve always fancied it. My parents forced me into book-learning, but I have the soul of an athlete.’
‘But who’s going to be my chancellor?’
‘Why, my dear, anyone you like. You’re the Queen now.’
The door opened again and in came Deborah, curtseying elaborately with every step. She had some black fabric draped over one arm, around which a few moths drifted.
‘I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ said Sir John. ‘I’ll wait right outside the door until you’re ready to go downstairs.
Le Roi est mort, vive la Reine
, as they say in France.’
After Sir John went out, Deborah held up the fabric, which turned out to be a somewhat old-fashioned dress.
‘This was your mother’s, from the plague era,’ she said. ‘She was never out of mourning then. Well, until the plague got her.’ She gave the garment a suspicious glance, then brightened. ‘It’s been in the attic a good long while. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
Martha removed her dressing gown and nightgown and stood in her underwear, her arms raised as Deborah slipped the dress over her head. The garment was cold and damp against her skin and smelt of
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