Chapter Seven
I am not thinking of this as my actual wedding day.
It’s only temporary. Temporary for me because I’m going to get home.
Temporary for Catherine because I’m going to figure a way out of this for her, too, once she’s back and I’m gone.
Will she probably have to spend the rest of her life in a nunnery?
Yes. But will she get to keep her head? Hopefully, also yes.
In the space of one morning, I’ve gone from existing here with primarily just Bessie by my side to being submerged in a sea of noblewomen.
Cecily explained that the women consist of ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor.
Most ladies-in-waiting are married. Maids of honor are not.
Maids of honor are the B squad to the ladies-in-waiting A squad—with the B standing for “better get married fast or you’re fucked. ”
I’m paraded through the queens’ apartments, which are now mine, as they dress and prepare me for the ceremony. It feels very much like Toddlers & Tiaras, and I’m the overstimulated pageant girl with my fifty stage moms buzzing all around me.
There is, however, one queen bee in this group of ladies-in-waiting and younger maids of honor, and that is the ever-somber Lady Rochford.
She’s a cousin of Catherine’s through marriage, and Cecily said the servants refer to her as “Jealous Jane” after she played an integral role in the demise of her sister-in-law, my other cousin, Anne Boleyn.
The primping crowd parts as she approaches me, and I push my tense shoulders into a confident line when she stops across from me and curtsies.
“May I have a word, Lady Catherine?” Her voice is firm and tired at the same time.
She keeps her gaze calm, though they could be calculating.
I nod in answer and she ushers me away from group, towards the windows.
Her features are pretty and well defined, with a pert little nose and delicate cheekbones.
Her almond eyes sweep behind us to survey the rest the women as they remain a few yards away.
Lady Rochford strikes me as someone who would never sit with her back to an exit.
Her movements are elegant yet somehow robotic.
She looks older than she should in her early thirties.
Finding ourselves in relative verbal privacy across the room as we are, she takes a step back from me. “You’re shorter up close than I expected.”
“Thank you?” I say, not sure of how else I should respond.
“And you last spoke to our uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, at the tournament.”
“Yes.” Thinking back to it, I don’t remember seeing Lady Rochford there. “How did you know that?”
“I make it my business to know.” I digest that information as she moves to sit on the large windowsill. “A word of advice: be very careful with our uncle. Family as we may be, he would cut us both cut down in a moment if it suited his purpose.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one picking up the creeper vibes.” She looks at me with a quizzical raise to her brows. I clear my throat. “And what’s his purpose?”
A hint of a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “To ascend so high in His Majesty’s favor that he touches the heavens.” I wonder what her smile means when it suddenly disappears, and her intent eyes focus in on mine.
“Most people at court think you to be a beautiful little fool, but I believe you are much smarter than you let on. And for your sake, I hope that’s true.
You are going to need every ounce of cunning you possess if you’re going to survive as queen.
” She hops down from the window, checking to make sure no one is listening before speaking to me again.
“But hear this, Catherine: Whatever you require on this new path, I will be with you. I will not falter. My loyalty is to you above all others.”
Her voice and gaze are sincere. Super intense, but sincere. “Why?” I hear myself ask.
She thinks a moment before saying, “It’s my penance.” I’m stunned into silence when she suddenly claps her hands together in a no-nonsense manner. “Now, back to the wedding. The king will be expecting you soon. This is a joyous day, is it not?”
She returns toward the rest of the women, and I’m left reeling in her wake.
Thankfully, Cecily arrives at my side next, holding on a tray two tiny cups that look like antique shot glasses. “You should drink this to get you through the morning,” she tells me. “It’s mead. A man in the kitchen makes it, and it’s strong enough to numb your face.”
“I will if you will,” I tell her.
She picks up a glass, chugging her drink in unison with me. I see stars for a second, but given what I’m about to do, I’m into it.
“Can you get more of that?” I ask.
“I’m on my way.” She turns and leaves, and I’m left on my own by the windows. Something that Lady Rochford said reverberates through my brain.
If you’re going to survive as queen.
If you’re going to survive.
If. If. If.
Her words remind me of just how serious my situation is, and no amount of high octane mead will make that fact go away.
If I mess up here, I don’t get a lawyer.
I don’t get my day in court. If Henry ever decides that he wants me gone, then I’m gone.
Gone from the earth. I’m at the whim of an unstable monarch, and only a time travel can get me out.
But I have to do this. For my family. For the timeline.
The entire room is staring at me, though they’re pretending they’re not, and it feels like their collective gazes are splintering through my skin. My breathing turns shallow. My palms are sweating.
“I need a minute,” I say to no one in particular. I turn away from my rapt audience and head to a side door, not caring where it leads as long as I’m alone.
I find myself in a small sitting room, locking the door behind me as I concentrate on my breathing. Inhale for four. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight. I repeat the process over and over until I come back to myself.
I can do this. I can handle a man in a midlife crisis whether he’s a king or not. I’m going to make him see what he wants to see, but everything will be for my gain. I don’t need to control—I need to steer.
I am in the driver’s seat.
It’s at this exact moment that a hand covers my mouth and drags me backward.
Fear envelops my body as I thrash and flail.
I trip on my skirt, and my attacker holds me up in a tight grip as they haul me against their chest. I’m screaming into their gloved hand as a desperate voice speaks into my ear.
“Catherine. It’s me. Don’t struggle so and I can let you go.”
I struggle harder, kicking and swinging and smashing my head backward until I make contact. I also bite the hell out of the leather glove that’s nearly suffocating me.
I hear a curse from the voice behind as I’m set loose. I grab a vase from a table and whirl around to face my assailant.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I keep my voice menacing, and I’m poised to strike. The man covers his nose with his hand, bending at the knees in pain as he looks up at me with shocked, accusing eyes.
“Catherine, it’s me! It’s Francis! What in God’s name are you doing? You bit me!”
“You’re lucky all I did was bite you!”
The man stands up, dropping his hand from his face. He’s bleeding profusely from the nose. The reverse headbutt worked.
“Why are you acting as though you don’t know me?” I try to look past the blood, studying his face to see if I hold any recollection. Then I see it. The pitch-black hair. His stormy eyes. He said just now that his name was Francis.
“Francis Dereham,” I whisper.
Silent elation fills his gaze at my hushed words.
Francis Dereham was the speck on the road.
I met him my first day here. We talked a little, and when he looked at me, at Catherine, it was like everything in the world began and ended with her.
He and Thomas Culpepper are the two men who are meant to die with me.
He carefully takes a half step forward. “I just . . . I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to reach you. Believe me, I am doing everything I can for us to be together.”
“How did you even get in here?” I look around and realize the only place where he could have hidden was near the window. “How long were you behind that curtain?”
He pauses. “A day or two.”
“What did you do about food and using the bathroom?” He glances back at the curtain with a guilty countenance. “On second thought, I don’t want to know.” I rub my hands over my face. I came in here to decompress and am doing the polar opposite.
When I look back at Francis, he’s a step closer to me, and his eyes are streaked with intensity. “Not a moment has gone by where I haven’t thought of you. You’re just as beautiful as I remember.” He raises his hands, like he’s about to cup my cheeks, but I move back to dodge them.
“All right, let’s just regroup for a second. You’re Francis Dereham, right?”
His unyielding gaze burns into mine. “And you are my perfect Catherine.”
“And we first met . . .”
“At Lambeth, where I was the secretary to the Dowager Duchess.”
He steps forward. I step back. I try to remember what Cecily told me about where Catherine was before she came to the palace.
“Lambeth,” I say quietly. “I grew up there. With my step-grandmother. The Dowager Duchess.”
Francis nods. “It’s the place where we first fell in love. Where we first kissed. Where we first—”
“Yes, lots of firsts,” I say, cutting him off. “And you’re here now because . . . ?”
“Because I promised that I would come back for you after they separated us, and after two eternal years, I finally have.” His wavy hair falls just above his eye, wild and uneven. It makes me wonder if Catherine used to push it back.
“And you’re living here?” I ask. Hopefully not behind the curtain.