Roses Have Thorns by Sandra Byrd

Author:Sandra Byrd [Byrd, Sandra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯), General, Fiction, Romance, historical, Christian
ISBN: 9781439183168
Google: Ij6rDLkd0B4C
Amazon: 1439183163
Publisher: Howard Books
Published: 2013-04-09T00:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

Years of Our Lord 1578, 1579, 1580

Blackfriars

The Palace of Whitehall

Hampton Court Palace

Our daughter was christened on June 4 at St. Dunstan’s in the West by the very man who had married us not a year before. The queen gave us a double bowl of gilded silver in which the child was baptized, and then rejoined us at our small home to celebrate. I could not say for certain, but I think Thomas was slightly disconcerted by the size of our home because he brought up the topic of the ramshackle manor at Langford several times over the course of the evening. The queen, gracious as always, told him she felt perfectly at home right where she was.

I had not yet been churched after my daughter’s birth, and therefore had not yet reappeared in public, when the queen left for Progress. She made a special trip to Blackfriars to see me and to ensure that I would join her midway.

“Yes, Majesty, of course. Perhaps I should oversee the effort to secure more sugar to be brought midway through the Progress.”

She feigned annoyance. “Are you saying that we are as a poor-quality wine, and can only be tolerated when well sugared?”

I laughed aloud, which she, like anyone who posits a jest, enjoyed. “No, no, Majesty. All know that you care not at all for the oysters, veal, mutton, anchovies, and eggs that are certain to be served to you as long as your confectionary course is well stocked.”

She smirked. “I shall see you shortly and in fine health, my good lady marquess.”

I settled back on my bed after she left, content that our friendship had been fully restored.

• • •

We were near the end of Progress, in August, when Sussex wrote again to the queen. One could not fault the man for his earnest devotion, and the queen credited that and much love to him, but he did not know when to leave a topic lie.

“Mary,” the queen asked. “Would you please read to us the letter from your brother while I am gowned and my hair done?”

Mary nodded and Catherine Carey, the Countess of Nottingham, assisted Her Majesty into her gown.

“ ‘To marry Anjou, who is a most noble and worthy partner to yourself,’ ” she read, “ ‘would be to secure an heir from your own body, which is precious to all in your kingdom. It will also assist you as you seek to gainsay the Spanish and their continued attacks against the Protestants in the Netherlands.’ ”

The queen nodded for Mary to continue.

“ ‘You shall have a husband as a defender of all your causes present.’ ” None of us dared smile, but the thought of twenty-three-year-old Anjou protecting Elizabeth was one that, in another venue, would have brought loud, merry mirth.

“Well, then, it’s settled,” the queen said. “I’m to be married!”

I did not know if she jested, and by the discomfort in the room I suspected no one else did, either.

“There is more, Majesty,” Mary said. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes, please do.

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