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

package has arrived for you.” I sat up in bed as Mrs. Helen handed me a paper-wrapped package with twine tied around it. “’Tis from your sister. One of the guards delivered it here himself, said she gave it to him this night and bid him deliver it to you. I told him you were abed, but he insisted.”
    My fingers shook as I took the package. Mrs. Helen lit several candles and then stood expectantly, as though she would watch me open it.
    “Leave me,” I said quietly.
    Mrs. Helen stood a moment longer, assessing me, before she left the room.
    I had no t slept in days. Not since the queen had finally ruled that Jane, her husband and my father were all to die.
    After Wyatt ’s Rebellion she could no longer keep them alive without the threat of more rebellions. I was not angry with the queen, for I understood her politics. I understood that she had been put to the test, and if she were to continue to rule, my sister must not be on this earth. Men—my own father!—had gambled with Jane’s life—and lost. She had not agreed to the rebellion. The queen, in her mercy, had granted Jane a pardon and promised to release her from the Tower as soon as a royal heir was birthed. We were so close… And now all her promises were shattered.
    “Damn you, Father!” I sa id vehemently to thin air. We, his children, were merely pawns, and now he had lost us to the other side. “Selfish, foolish man.”
    Jane would die tomorrow.
    The recognition of that hit me with the force of a gale wind. I dropped the unopened package onto my bed and rushed from my room. Running from whatever it contained. Images of us as younger children standing together, knowing we two were there for each other—I could not let her die alone. Not without me.
    Down the spiral staircase I flew and out the great doors of the manor toward the stables. The moon shining high lit my way. I cared not for the cold, or that I was only in my nightrail. I had to get to Jane. My bare feet froze against the crisp cold of the grass. Sharp rocks protruding from the ground jabbed painfully at the soles of my feet.
    “Jane, I ’m coming,” I vowed, tripping in the dark on something.
    My hands came out to catch my fall, cruel pain zinging up my arms as rocks sliced into my palms. I pushed to my feet, hearing the rushing feet of guards behind me. But still I kept running. I would go to the Tower this night. I would go to her!
    Strong hands caught me around the middle, swinging me up into the air. I fought against the force that would hold me back, kicking, punching.
    “Let me go! Jane needs me! Put me down, you—bastards!” I’d never cursed before, and I didn’t even flinch now. “Bloody bastards!”
    “My lady, stop,” one of the guards urged, before my fist found his flesh.
    “My lady, you must stop!” another said, helping the first guard to subdue me.
    The men carried me , kicking, screaming, into the house, only to be assailed by Mrs. Helen.
    “What on earth are you doing to a princess of the blood? To my lady!” Her voice was strong and broke through my fit of hysteria.
    Uncontrollable sobs still threatened to rack my body, and I trembled. I had no energy left. The guards set me down, and I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm myself. I did not normally react in such a violent way, and mortification sank in.
    “ I’m fine now. Simply tired.” I tried to be stoic, running hands through my hair and seeing my bloody palms too late.
    The guards gazed on me with mixed expressions of sympathy and weariness.
    “Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Helen said, sympathy in her eyes. “Come upstairs.”
    Mrs. Helen shooed the guards away and ushered me upstairs to my chamber, where she cleaned my hands and feet. I crawled into bed when she was through and my kind maid covered me, then ordered my fire to be stoked higher.
    I rolled over, unwilling to look at any of the servants. I wanted to be alone in my grief. Mrs. Helen shooed everyone from the room, and even my