in love within those dread walls. Even bribed guards to allow them a tryst. But then, people would latch on to the slightest whisper of scandal to share, even if they knew it was a delicious lie.
The thought of meeting Dudley filled me with excitement—Father had told me the queen’s favorite was a most exceptional man: canny enough to keep his head, brilliant enough to match wits with England’s finest, sensual enough to bewitch a queen, even though he once had a wife tucked away in the country.
Suddenly I noticed my maid’s expression, shadowed from our earlier exchange. Father had warned me often it was unfair to lash out with my wit against someone who had no hope to defend themselves. “Come, Moll,” I coaxed. “I did not mean to wound your feelings. Your mind is quick enough when you are not making calves’ eyes at Jem.”
“Quiet! Oh, I beg you, mistress!” Moll hushed me. “Look, he comes this way!”
Indeed, Jem did, weaving his roan gelding against the flow of traffic. He reined into step beside me. “My lady, Master Crane has just returned with news. The queen is lodged at Whitehall at the moment. That is where you must present yourself.”
Whitehall. I remembered seeing the queen’s chief residence as a child, and hearing my father’s tales of how the Archbishops of York had ruled there in the days before Henry’s war with the Pope. The structure stood opposite the burned-out ruin of Westminster Palace, symbols of power and destruction set in sharp relief. The buildings that made up Whitehall were crowded over twenty-three acres and had been a gift from Cardinal Wolsey to Henry VIII before Anne Boleyn had destroyed their friendship forever.
In the end, Anne Boleyn’s daughter ruled in the palace that had once been Wolsey’s own.
I shivered in delight, feeling the history of it all envelop me, enthrall me. Soon I would be safe inside the palace grounds, under royal protection, my hours beguiled by the most exceptional minds England had to offer. Moll’s eager questions from moments ago raised a host of my own. When would I meet the queen? What would I say to her? Not something that would make me seem a country-bred girl blundering into her first regal occasion. But that is who you are, I could almost hear mother say. A girl from the country .
We had turned the corner onto King Street when I saw Whitehall Palace rising out of the confusion. The Holbien Gate—with its turrets and chequerwork facade arched across the northern entry, the massive gatehouse wider than several rooms, its windows sparkling. Beyond those gleaming panes lay lodgings for guards, a store of weapons in case of rebellion, and the mechanism Father had once described to me, holding pulleys and ropes the guards could use to shut the gate if needed to keep an enemy out.
The guards themselves stood vigilant at their post, their red livery a perfect foil for handsome faces, shining halberds in their hands to hold the teeming city at bay.
I trembled, anticipation warring with nerves. That gate—built in all its glory to display the power, wealth, and decorum of the English throne—was the entryway to my dreams.
Crane rode up to a guardsman so tall that he seemed a giant. Calverley’s beloved Master of the Horse announced: “Mistress Elinor de Lacey, daughter of the Baron of Calverley, come to wait upon the queen.”
The guard’s massive hand all but swallowed up the summons that had shattered my mother’s peace. He noted the royal seal, then regarded me with frank appraisal, displaying the kindest eyes I had seen since I left home. “Welcome to Whitehall, Mistress,” he said with a surprisingly graceful bow for one of his size. “I am Sergeant Porter Thomas Keyes. You look wearied from your journey.”
“I am.”
“I doubt you will get much peace tonight. A new maid of honor is a most interesting curiosity until the court puzzles you out, so you had best brace yourself.”
“And exactly where am I to undergo
The thought of meeting Dudley filled me with excitement—Father had told me the queen’s favorite was a most exceptional man: canny enough to keep his head, brilliant enough to match wits with England’s finest, sensual enough to bewitch a queen, even though he once had a wife tucked away in the country.
Suddenly I noticed my maid’s expression, shadowed from our earlier exchange. Father had warned me often it was unfair to lash out with my wit against someone who had no hope to defend themselves. “Come, Moll,” I coaxed. “I did not mean to wound your feelings. Your mind is quick enough when you are not making calves’ eyes at Jem.”
“Quiet! Oh, I beg you, mistress!” Moll hushed me. “Look, he comes this way!”
Indeed, Jem did, weaving his roan gelding against the flow of traffic. He reined into step beside me. “My lady, Master Crane has just returned with news. The queen is lodged at Whitehall at the moment. That is where you must present yourself.”
Whitehall. I remembered seeing the queen’s chief residence as a child, and hearing my father’s tales of how the Archbishops of York had ruled there in the days before Henry’s war with the Pope. The structure stood opposite the burned-out ruin of Westminster Palace, symbols of power and destruction set in sharp relief. The buildings that made up Whitehall were crowded over twenty-three acres and had been a gift from Cardinal Wolsey to Henry VIII before Anne Boleyn had destroyed their friendship forever.
In the end, Anne Boleyn’s daughter ruled in the palace that had once been Wolsey’s own.
I shivered in delight, feeling the history of it all envelop me, enthrall me. Soon I would be safe inside the palace grounds, under royal protection, my hours beguiled by the most exceptional minds England had to offer. Moll’s eager questions from moments ago raised a host of my own. When would I meet the queen? What would I say to her? Not something that would make me seem a country-bred girl blundering into her first regal occasion. But that is who you are, I could almost hear mother say. A girl from the country .
We had turned the corner onto King Street when I saw Whitehall Palace rising out of the confusion. The Holbien Gate—with its turrets and chequerwork facade arched across the northern entry, the massive gatehouse wider than several rooms, its windows sparkling. Beyond those gleaming panes lay lodgings for guards, a store of weapons in case of rebellion, and the mechanism Father had once described to me, holding pulleys and ropes the guards could use to shut the gate if needed to keep an enemy out.
The guards themselves stood vigilant at their post, their red livery a perfect foil for handsome faces, shining halberds in their hands to hold the teeming city at bay.
I trembled, anticipation warring with nerves. That gate—built in all its glory to display the power, wealth, and decorum of the English throne—was the entryway to my dreams.
Crane rode up to a guardsman so tall that he seemed a giant. Calverley’s beloved Master of the Horse announced: “Mistress Elinor de Lacey, daughter of the Baron of Calverley, come to wait upon the queen.”
The guard’s massive hand all but swallowed up the summons that had shattered my mother’s peace. He noted the royal seal, then regarded me with frank appraisal, displaying the kindest eyes I had seen since I left home. “Welcome to Whitehall, Mistress,” he said with a surprisingly graceful bow for one of his size. “I am Sergeant Porter Thomas Keyes. You look wearied from your journey.”
“I am.”
“I doubt you will get much peace tonight. A new maid of honor is a most interesting curiosity until the court puzzles you out, so you had best brace yourself.”
“And exactly where am I to undergo
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