Chapter Six
Bessie’s room is a jewel box mixture of a brewery and a greenhouse.
There’s a fire going, with an iron stand and a crossbar set up in the hearth and a hook for boiling.
Different species of dried plants are hung upside-down along the windows, letting the sunlight filter in between them.
She has something akin to a workbench pushed up along the wall.
“This is not what I was expecting,” I say as I keep looking over the mismatched space.
“You’re acting as if you haven’t seen my room before.
Here, breathe in deep.” Bessie grabs a cup and a cylinder from her workbench and pushes them together against my chest. She lowers her ear to the end of the cup, and whatever she’s made looks very much like the starting prototype for a stethoscope.
“Do you know what that is?” I ask, amazed.
Bessie listens through her contraption before tossing it aside. “Just something I’m tinkering with. No matter. You have a rigorous heartbeat. That will help you during your obligatory nights with the king.” She fills a cast iron pot with water from a pitcher and sets it to simmer over the fire.
I look over the tools on her workbench and attempt to keep my tone casual. “About that. I was wondering . . . that tonic you suggested to help me relax on my wedding night . . . what if I wanted you to make it a little stronger?”
“How much stronger?” She purposefully doesn’t look straight right at me, instead drying her hands off with a nearby cloth.
I take a steeling breath. “Let’s assume that I want to sleep through the entire process.”
Bessie folds the cloth and places it on a chair near the fire, playing it so cool that I get the feeling this may not be her first rodeo. “I suppose I could facilitate that,” she says.
A spark of adrenaline ignites in my veins. “That’s good to hear. And the ingredients you would use . . . would that depend on my size?”
“I would obviously tailor the draft to your height and weight. Otherwise, the effects would be ineffective or too effective.”
“Too effective. Which would mean . . .”
Bessie leans back against her workbench. “That you wouldn’t wake up.”
I take a nervous breath at her blunt words. As of now, I’m just trying to not put out. Not murder the king of England.
“I wouldn’t want that to happen,” I tell her. “But if I wanted you to make the draft two or three times stronger than you would probably make for me . . . is that something you could do?” She doesn’t say anything, and I go on, “My body is very resistant to tonics. I need more than the usual dose.”
Bessie keeps staring at me until she moves to check on the pot in the fireplace. “I could do it,” she says over her shoulder. “What’s the desired outcome?”
“Just a nice comfortable sleep for eight to ten hours.”
She turns to face me full-on then. A determination fills her gaze that I haven’t seen from her before. “You do realize that these remedies aren’t exactly allowed. And I take a great risk by making them.”
I pause a beat before asking, “Why are you?”
Her resolve falters momentarily. “I have four sisters. The oldest of us was married to a viscount twice her age. She was very scared of him. She still is. It was the king who made the match personally.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” I ask.
“Margaret,” Bessie answers. “She always loved me best.”
I take a step closer to her, starting to second-guess my plan. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“I’m comfortable,” she says firmly. “But I also want something from you in return.”
I tilt my head just off to the side. “What do you want?”
“I want . . . no, I need you to find me a husband.”
Did not have that on my bingo card. “A husband?” I ask, making sure I heard her right.
Bessie busies herself with the dried plants hanging in the windows.
“Yes. The whole purpose in my coming to court was to find a suitable match. If I don’t, my father will marry me off to my cousin Ned.
Ned would pinch me as a child and now he always stares at me as he whispers Bible verses.
He’s barely more than a weedy goat. I’m certain he has hooves. ”
Ned can immediately fuck off.
Still, I don’t know if I can promise results in the role of a medieval matchmaker.
While I have more relationship experience than a sheltered Tudor maiden, I can bring little to the table by way of success.
During my trial-by-fire dating binge last year, I met several different types of men.
Some good. Some bad. Some looking for love.
Some looking for a very specific foot shape.
The list goes on. And while I don’t regret intentionally dating for six months straight, I do regret putting a time constraint on it.
Dating is stressful and overwhelming, and when my six months was up, I was so damn relieved.
All in all, I went on dates with eight different men.
That’s not including the two who never showed for the meetups that they themselves arranged.
The remaining statistics were as follows: One thought I looked too much like his ex.
One gave friends-only vibes. One drove a van with no license plates and asked me to road-trip with him to a desert wedding in Utah.
I politely declined. He called me cocktease bitch.
Two agreed that there wasn’t a spark. One said I was the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen and named our three children, two boys and a girl, then ghosted me that very night.
One was only looking for something casual after his long-term relationship failed, and then there was Brian.
Brian and I dated for a couple of months.
He was a fireman who liked that I wore reading glasses, and I liked that both of us were both beach bums. The sweatshirts I borrowed from him smelled great, and the sex was good.
But even as our conversation flowed, I realized he never asked me any questions.
I asked him about it, because that’s what I do, and he said he didn’t notice.
But shouldn’t he want to? I asked him. He shrugged and laughed it off, and didn’t call me the next day.
I didn’t call him either. We texted back and forth for a while until it drifted into written silence.
I won’t be penning a hard-hitting dating manual anytime soon.
“I can try to help you meet someone,” I end up telling Bessie, “but I don’t have the best romantic history.”
She faces me with a scoff. “Are you joking? You’re Catherine Howard. You’re desired by every man who lays eyes on you. For the longest time, I was certain your breasts somehow offered land grants.”
“I’m not sure if that’s offensive or not.”
“You know what I mean. There isn’t a gentleman at court who isn’t half in love with you. And I just need one not-evil non-goat to like me well enough to marry me. Surely you can manage it.”
Maybe Catherine could have managed it. Me? Not so much.
Bessie lifts her chin. “Those are my terms. Help me to find a decent husband within the month, and I will help you with this for as long as I reside at the palace.”
Screw it. If she’s in, I’m in. I hold out my hand. “I accept.”
She gives it an impressive shake. “Good. Brewing first. Boys later. We’ll have to take turns during the testing process.”
My eyebrows lift in question. “How are we going to test it?”
When I wake up, it’s to the sound of knocking at the door.
I rub my eyes as I force them open, gradually dragging myself up to a sitting position on Bessie’s bed.
I look out the windows and a crescent moon is just appearing in the sky.
Bessie is passed out on the mattress beside me.
She rolls over, mumbling something about hating goats’ milk, when the knocking starts up again.
I shimmy out of bed and totter to the door, slowly opening it to find Simon out in the hall.
My mouth drops. I can barely breathe. Not because of Simon. He looks great and all, but in his arms is without question the most adorable puppy I have ever been blessed to see. Simon chuckles at my reaction, situating the pup-pup angel more comfortably in his hold.
“The king bid me to give you this gift as an early wedding present. One of your maids told me I could find you here.”
Henry VIII is good. He doesn’t know me in the least, yet he found my goddamned kryptonite. The urge to jump and squeal is so consuming that it almost knocks me down. Somehow I keep a handle on my composure long enough to ask, “Is she really mine?”
Simon’s face softens. “He. And yes, I believe that is the sentiment.”
He hands the puppy over to me and my heart explodes. “You’re a boy?” I coo into his fleecy brown fur. “That’s okay. I still love you.”
I give him kisses. A lot of kisses, and it’s as if I can feel the color returning to my cheeks. I turn to face inside the room.
“Bessie, look! Look at this mushy little bubba!”
My friend scrunches her face as she looks over. “Adorable,” she grumbles. “Now close the door. And make a note of the time!” She drops back onto her pillow and is snoring within seconds.
I step out into the hall, and Simon closes the door for me. My hands are filled and will be for the foreseeable future.
“What will you call him?” he asks. I can tell that he wants to pet him but keeps his hands pinned behind his back.
“I think I’ll go with . . . Theo.”
Simon nods. “It’s a good name.”
I agree. Every psychologist needs a theory, and my Theo is the cutest. I’m content to carry on with my hallway snugglefest forever when Simon asks, “Shall I see you back to your room?”
That would make sense. But I’m too amped up for tonight to be over, plus I might have just slept for five or more hours.
“I think I’m going to take Theo for a walk,” I tell him. “You should join me.”
Simon looks down the hall. It’s deserted. He pauses for only a moment before answering. “If the future queen insists, who am I to refuse?”