Free Prisoner of the Queen (Tales From the Tudor Court) by Eliza Knight, E. Knight Page A

understand the black mark he was slashing across my reputation? I would be the scorned woman set aside and yet not even a true wife!
    His threats and whispered words had visions of heads on spikes flashing through my mind. He kept me on my toes, and everywhere I walked, it was as if I tread a battlefield of upturned swords. I could not even guess the horrendous things he must have been whispering in the queen’s ear about me—and who would naysay him? I was sister to the woman who’d tried to usurp her. A princess of the blood. I was naturally her enemy.
    She would have had to be in an extremely forgiving mood not to reach out with her own two hands to tie the noose around my neck.
    Arabel, my little sweet toy spaniel pup, jumped onto my lap, curled herself within the folds of my skirts and closed her eyes. I stroked her silky fur. Rex, a pup of the same litter, would not be outdone and came to rest his pretty face upon my slippers. The two soft balls of fur were gifts to me from my father—guilt gifts but happily accepted nonetheless.
    Rex upended the basket of herbs, stealing a strand and running off with it. But even his puppy antics could not take me from the grave depression I found myself in. I prayed hourly that my family was kept safe. My knees bore purple bruising from kneeling on the stone floor overlong.
    I stuffed the spilled herbs back into the basket and set Arabel down, clucking for her and Rex to follow as I headed back into the manor toward the kitchens. A bitter laugh escaped me, drawing attention from several servants who busily scrubbed the floors and walls. Arabel cocked her head, dark brown eyes gazing into mine, as if she, too, were just as confused by Pembroke’s ironic statements. I would have invited scandal by returning home to Bradgate—yet he sought to annul my marriage from his son which would cause even more of a gossip.
    While I waited for my lavender tisane to brew, I stood before the kitchen fire, my gaze fixed on the flames. Mrs. Helen pressed a finished, steamy cup into my hands, and I drank greedily, before pulling my mother’s missive from my sleeve and tossing it into the hearth. The embers sparked on the parchment, creating red holes, black around the edges, until the entire thing appeared to melt into ashes.
    Mother would be visiting the queen with my sister Mary to beg for father’s pardon and that of Jane’s. I held out little hope. This queen would seek revenge on those who’d gone against her. She’d spent too much of her life—nearly four decades—thrust into a living hell. Now that she’d obtained what she believed—and was—rightfully hers, she would stop at nothing to keep it.
     
    July 30, 1553
     
    My nerves were wound tight for the visitors that should arrive today. The Pembroke household had yet to return, and I was essentially mistress of this place.
    My mother did train me to be a lady of the castle when I was grown. I was actually quite pleased with how well I did preparing rooms, food, drink and entertainment for our guests. I’d picked rosemary from my garden and slipped it between their sheets as it was a soothing herb and I wanted them to be calm instead of chastising me for seeking their company.
    They should stay with me for one night only, but despite such a short visit, I had been like a child wanting a sweet for the last couple of days.
    My gown was newly made of tinseled silk and lace, a pretty yellowish orange that made me think of springtime flowers and happier things. The good Lord above knew I had been lacking in pleasantries. Every day I awaited the news of impending doom—whether it be my own or that of my family.
    A flurry of footsteps and loud whispers interrupted my thoughts as a half-dozen servants rushed into the great hall, Mrs. Helen among them.
    “My lady, your guests are arriving . Their barge has only now pulled up to the quay.”
    “So soon? ” I dropped my embroidery into the basket beside my chair, stood and rushed,