The Queen's Almoner by Tonya Ulynn Brown

Author:Tonya Ulynn Brown
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781734100891
Publisher: Late November Literary
Published: 2020-06-08T04:00:00+00:00

~20~

December 1562-March 1563

I did not regain the full strength of my vision for several months. But worse than the lack of clear sight was the weakness of my legs. I spent the Christmas season confined to my apartments where only occasionally was I able to summon enough strength to attempt to stand and move myself around the scant furniture in my room. The pieces were minimal, and only did I allow those that were absolutely necessary for a man of my station to perform his duties.

My station. The word was like clay on my tongue and left a rotting hole in my stomach whenever I allowed myself to think about it, which was far more often than I should have. It was the chasm between Mary and me; the great gulf that separated us and ensured that we would never be, could never be, more than childhood friends to each other. Mary visited me every day, and it was she who encouraged me to remove myself from bed and try to regain my strength.

But I could not bear the sight of her. Sometimes she would come to me after some noble statesman had dined at Holyroodhouse. Dressed in a rich velvet gown of crimson and gold, and studded with garnets, the elaborate gown would astonish. The color always complimented her striking golden-emerald eyes, and the lacy ruffle that often enshrouded her long, ivory neck, displayed her lovely face as though it were a beautiful, blooming flower. Her rich, amber hair would be pinned perfectly in place beneath her attifet. On Christmas Eve, she brought dinner to me still dressed in the garments she had worn and danced in all evening. I could scarcely take my eyes off her. She donned a sapphire gown made of finest silk and embroidered with tiny silver flowers, each accented with a small diamond in the middle. The neck and cuffs were trimmed in silver fox fur and when she moved she sparkled. I could not help but think of a shooting star moving effortlessly across the blackened December sky. Even on the rare, quiet mid-winter evening, when there were no dinners or dances to occupy her time, she would come to me, dressed in a modest damask. With the farthingale removed, the plain silk accentuated her soft, feminine curves and was enough to drive me mad with want of her. She wore her hair in a simple braid, or worse, on occasion completely loose, her soft amber curls framing her porcelain skin.

It was on one such occasion that Mary came to sup with me. She and the four Marys had been riding earlier in the day, for the fair March day had been commonly windy yet unseasonably warm. She wore a plain, dark gray dress with a creamy lace apron on top of it. Her face was flushed from the riding and her hair hung heavily down her back with only the sides pulled back away from her temples; a sprig of yellow Scottish broom tucked into the loose knot on the back of her head.

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