Chapter Five
Hi, guys! So many of you have been begging me to do a wake-up-with-me video, and today, I’m finally going for it.
First things first, as soon as I wake up on my half-goose-feather, half-straw mattress, I open my eyes, stretch, and, of course, double-check that I’m still in the wrong time period. Yep. Still here! That or I’m continuing on my slow-burn descent into madness. Either one.
After checking that task off, I get out of bed and squat over my favorite pee bucket. To answer your question, yes, I do have two different options. I’m bougie like that.
Next up, I pour out some unfiltered water from my very chic pitcher and wash my face and armpits. I go ahead and forgo putting on any of the creams that I do not have.
There’s a knock on my door and Cecily has arrived to dress me. Her official job title is a maid, but she’s actually my bestie and personal stylist. She also knows all the dirt on everyone in the palace. She serves the tea, and it’s piping hot.
Then it’s time for a fit check. Staying on trend is super important to me, so I obviously wear multiple skirts and tops. Because what fun is it to mask my body odor with perfume if I’m not layered up like a beleaguered football player on the reg?
For my first layer, I go with my colonial nightgown from the night before that also works double duty as my chemise. I love a night-to-day look. Did I mention that the women don’t wear undies? I don’t even know if they exist here. Naughty, naughty.
Then we go with my first skirt. Then a harder skirt. Then a decorative skirt. We then move on to the upper half of my outfit, where I’m laced and pinned within an inch of my life.
Fun hair accessories follow. A veiled headband is my weapon of choice today and goes over the thin little bonnet covering my hair. It’s giving Little House on the Prairie meets Renaissance Faire, and it’s a slay.
I’m going to leave things here for now. Thank you so much for tuning in. Let me know in the comments what you want to see next, and don’t forget to like and subscribe!
“Did you see that, Catherine? His arm was almost knocked clean off on that one!”
I snap out of my fever-like daydream as I turn toward Henry’s jubilant voice.
This isn’t the first time I’ve used fictional vlogging as a coping mechanism, but it’s certainly the most bizarre scenario to date.
I’m employing it now to block out the particularly brutal nature of the tournament we’re attending.
Even from our seats in the royal box, I can smell the sweat and blood.
The tournament is serving as a kind of pre-wedding party before the big sha-bam tomorrow, and Henry is barely able to keep still beside me as he watches the jousting.
He’s elated as the riders attempt to bludgeon each other to death on horseback, and I have to say, given my well-established Knight’s Tale fetish, I thought I would like this excursion more than I do.
But as it turns out, jousting is a bloody business and isn’t my brand of foreplay in the least.
“Does this please you, my sweet?” Henry leans in so I can hear him above the cheering crowd.
“It’s really something,” I answer.
“I only wish that you could have seen me when I rode in the joust. It was many years ago, but there wasn’t a man in England who could unseat me. No king competed as I did.” He speaks to me with a nostalgic tenor. The memories of his glory days clearly still affect him.
I can work with that.
“What was it that you liked about jousting?” I ask. “How did it make you feel?”
His eyes are glued to the action in front of us. “It made me feel invincible. Just as you do now.”
He flashes me a quick smirk, and the math is mathing. Henry isn’t just chasing Catherine; he’s chasing how he feels when he’s with her. To him, Catherine could be acting as a mirror, allowing him to see everything he still wants to see in himself—someone desirable, energetic, full of possibilities.
“What was it about the joust that you loved, though? Was it the thrill? The sense of competition? What made it special for you?”
He thinks on it for longer than I expect before turning to me with a hesitant openness.
My curiosity is piqued, and he knows it.
“It set me apart,” he says with a shadow of a smile.
“There were other kings in the world, but I was brave. Strong. Unbeatable. I was given my kingdom by God and birthright, but I could have taken it if I wanted to. And with every tournament I won and every man I unhorsed—I proved it. To everyone, and to myself.”
I nod at his explanation. To him, jousting was a form of validation. It reinforced his kingly image. A monarch’s ego is a beast that needs constant feeding, and this is an ideal stage for that.
“Tell me what you—”
My attempt to dig deeper is cut off when Henry’s attention is caught by someone entering the royal box. “Ah, Thomas, my boy! There you are.”
A young man in an impeccably tailored outfit bows in front of us. “Good morning, Your Majesty. Lady Catherine.”
He briefly blocks Henry’s view, prompting the king to nudge him over in my direction. The young man squeezes into a small open spot on the bench beside me, and I glance back at Bessie, who’s sitting in the row just behind us.
“Thomas Culpepper,” she stealthily whispers into my ear. “The two of you used to be quite close.”
“How close?” I ask.
She tips her head noncommittally. “I wasn’t present in the room.”
Well, that’s an ominous statement.
I turn back around to face the celebrated bloodshed on the jousting grounds, just as warning bells begin to sound in my head. Thomas Culpepper. I remember the name. That’s the name of the second suspected lover of Catherine Howard—my other beheading buddy.
“And how is our future queen on this fine day?”
I glance over at him at his question, wondering if now is the right time to tell him that we share a future death day.
The first thing I notice is that he’s absurdly good-looking.
His coiffed brown hair is spattered with natural streaks of gold, and his roguish blue eyes are actively trying to seduce my soul.
Build wise, he’s strong enough to carry me to safety, but I can walk, thank you.
Face wise, he’s an AI-generated photo of a Disney prince.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, inching over in the opposite direction.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?” At close range, he has the voice and charisma of Henry Cavill. He’s not my type, but I can understand why Catherine was ready to risk it all.
“How are you?” I decide to ask.
He shakes his head. “Not well, at the moment. A woman who is very important to me is getting married tomorrow, and I fear I’m rather jealous and heartsick.”
The audacity! It’s flattering, but still . . .
“I hear doctors use leeches therapeutically around here. Maybe you should give it a go.”
They’re dragging a half-dead body off the grounds, but Thomas doesn’t notice. “Have I done something to upset you, Catherine?” he asks. Then quietly, “You haven’t written to me in several days.”
We just took a hard left turn out of flirty banter, and I whip around to face him. “Listen, friend. Trust me on this one, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I’m what?” My words of caution confuse him, but he gets the hint and walks off as Henry excitedly grips my hand, calling my attention back to the tournament.
“Here now, Catherine. Here’s our champion. Come on, Gainsford!”
My eyes shoot to the pitch. The king’s shouts roar in my ears as a knot grips my stomach. It takes a few seconds, but I find Simon entering the jousting area on horseback. He’s in full armor, save for his helmet, and he’s looking across the field at his opponent in calm readiness.
My pulse thuds in my ears and I stand without meaning to. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Can we call pause? Can we think this through for a minute?”
Bessie pushes me back into my chair by the shoulder. “You cannot pause the joust.”
I watch as Simon is handed a lance the size of a regulation basketball hoop. He turns to the royal box and holds it up in salute before facing his opponent again. He’s sliding his helmet on when I anxiously tap Henry’s arm.
“Should he really be doing this? I mean, couldn’t he die?”
“He’ll be fine,” Henry says, taking a gulp of wine and leaning forward for a better view. “Gainsford is a sturdy lad.”
“But what if . . .”
Before I can say anything else, the flag is waved. Simon erupts from his side of the field, barreling forward full force on his dapple gray as he lowers his lance and takes aim. My heart is hammering hard in my chest as I clench my eyes shut, waiting for the sound of impact.
A crash echoes through the air. The crowd cheers so loud, it’s almost deafening.
I slowly peel my eyes open, looking for Simon and any signs of life. I find him steering his horse back around the pitch, still in one piece. His lance is gone, and his opponent is being helped to his feet by three attendants. I slump back in relief, my spine hitting the engraved back of the chair.
Henry is clapping merrily beside me as Simon urges his horse in our direction. He stops in front of us and pulls off his helmet. His hair is matted down with sweat, and a nasty cut is red and swollen just under his eye. He steals a glance in my direction before looking to the king.
“Well done, Gainsford. I had every faith in you.” Henry leans toward me now, speaking into my ear. “You may give him your favor, my love.”
Excusez-moi?
I look to Bessie for clarification. “The handkerchief you’re holding,” she whispers, nudging her head toward Simon. “Give it to him.”
Right. Obviously. Because all I would give him is my handkerchief.
I dutifully stand and make my way to the wooden divider surrounding the box. Simon is a few feet below, squinting his eyes into the sun as he gazes up at me. My dress suddenly feels a notch tighter than usual. Full armor is . . . not a bad look on him.
“You’re bleeding,” I blurt out, not sure of what else to say.