Not a Good King

Beth stood in the east wing’s chambers at the window. The garden below looked lovely in the morning sunlight. She was thankful that the bishop had changed his mind. She didn’t have to stay in the castle dungeon. “Lady” Amelia had convinced the king to tell the bishop to let Beth stay with her.

But Molly wasn’t as lucky. Ross and the other two guards had locked her in the west tower dungeon. She would stay there till she confessed. The bishop wanted to know who had taught her the Lord’s Prayer.

Beth knew that saving Molly was her mission. But how could she help her new friend escape?

Beth watched a white falcon shift its wings on the wind. She wondered if the bird was Frost.

A young woman caught Beth’s attention. The woman entered the garden and sniffed some white flowers. An arched headdress covered her head. She wore a dark-green velvet dress. Beth could see jewels embedded in the fabric.

Amelia appeared at Beth’s side. The scientist pressed her nose against the window.

“That is most definitely Anne Boleyn,” Amelia said. “Her portraits show her wearing that French hood.”

Sadness washed over Beth as she remembered Stephen’s story. “Does Henry really have her head chopped off?”

“Of course,” Amelia said. “He divorces two wives and beheads two more.”

Four? That’s a lot of wives, Beth thought, feeling surprised.

“And want to know what else?” Amelia asked.

Beth didn’t. With Amelia, sometimes knowing more was bad. Beth shook her head.

Amelia went on anyway. “This castle will be the home of Henry’s sixth wife after he dies.”

“Sixth?” Beth said. She was surprised again. Six wives is indeed a lot.

Amelia continued, “Catherine Parr marries the brother of King Henry’s third wife, Jane. Catherine will die in that bed over there, just days after having a baby girl.”

Beth turned and looked at the large bed. The wooden canopy posts had flowers and birds carved into them. Sheer white fabric hung from the canopy. The fluffy, white-silk comforters and pillows made the bed look as soft as a bag of marshmallows.

Before, Beth had imagined it was a tent for a princess. Now the bed reminded her of a coffin. Amelia could ruin anything good.

“How do you know all this very sad history?” Beth asked.

“I studied British history at Oxford,” Amelia said. “I took tours of castles around England on the weekends. King Henry’s family is mentioned at almost every castle. And there’s lots and lots of gossip about Anne Boleyn.”

“I heard gossip about you in the kitchen last night,” Beth said. “Why are you ‘setting your sights’ on King Henry? He’s married.”

Amelia laughed. “Grow up, you prissy child! Every pretty woman in England flirted with King Henry. It means nothing. It’s just a little fun.”

Beth didn’t think breaking up a marriage sounded fun. It sounded wrong.

“I bet all that flirting means something to Queen Anne,” Beth said. “I wish you’d stop.”

“And I wish you’d stop nagging me,” Amelia said. “Remember, you’re only safe because I need someone to comb my hair.” She flicked her double-coned headdress.

“King Henry likes me,” Amelia added. “Because of that, he told Bishop Wakeman to set you free.” Amelia waved her hand at Beth as if she were swatting a fly.

A new piece of green jewelry on Amelia’s wrist caught Beth’s eyes.

“Did the king give you those emeralds?” Beth asked.

Amelia lifted her wrist toward the window. The morning sun lit up the jewels. They sparkled. “Of course,” Amelia said. “But don’t tell Queen Anne.”

Amelia looked out the window again. Then a scowl transformed her face.

“What is it?” Beth said.

“Future wife number three is here.” Amelia practically spat the words. “Henry will fall in love with her soon.”

Beth looked out the window. Two more women had joined Queen Anne in the garden. One had blonde hair. She wore a peacock-blue dress. The other was an older woman in a rust-colored dress and a black cape.

“Wife number three is the thin woman in blue,” Beth said. “She must be one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.”

“As I said before, her name is Jane.” Amelia looked away from the window. “Go get the hairbrush. You need to fix my headdress. I have to look my very best. I need to keep Henry’s attention away from Jane.”

Beth groaned. She knew Amelia would never give up flirting with King Henry.

James stopped the wagon near a turret. It was on the west side of the castle. Patrick shivered because the small tower blocked the morning sun. It looked creepy.

“Behold, the dungeon keep,” James said. “Here the New Testaments are stored in secret. Then a few faithful servants will carry them to market. Some give them away. Others sell them to merchants. And the merchants take them to London.”

“What does the bishop of London do about that?” Patrick asked.

James hopped off the driver’s seat. “He arrests people and locks them in dungeons. Some he has even put to death.”

Patrick admired the bravery of James and the other Reformers.

Patrick climbed out of the wagon, thinking about William Tyndale. He petted the gray mare’s mane. “Do any of the Reformers get out of prison?”

“A few,” James said, “if someone of wealth and power lends them aid.”

James lifted a crate out of the wagon. “Pray drag this to the castle gate. That would be so kind.” He set the crate at Patrick’s feet.

The gate was a metal grate built into the wall. It was small, the size a child Margaret’s age would use.

He suddenly missed the Poyntz family. He missed William Tyndale. He imagined the scholar locked in a castle like this one. He would be cold, lonely, and without his books.

“Are there any people of wealth and power at this castle?” Patrick asked.

James laughed. “None but the richest and mightiest person in England.”

“Who?”

“King Henry the Eighth.”