The next day, the sky darkened wonderfully, and I spent a great deal of time out on a west balcony watching the storm approach. Would this one contain lightning? Could my ordeal soon be over?
I’d always loved storms. My friend Ashley and I would stand inside my open garage and perform song and dance routines with umbrellas to Queen, George Michael, and Uncle Cracker. We’d leap out into the rain and sing as loudly as we could, punch drunk with the knowledge that no one could hear us.
But this storm refused to land. Instead, I spent most of the day stuck inside with the other women listening to the buzz about the attempt someone had made on Robert Dudley’s life the night before. As a result, security had increased throughout the palace. I hung back at the edges of the different groups, managing to piece together that at dinner Dudley had put a piece of meat in his mouth then spit it out when he tasted something off. He tossed the chunk to the nearest dog—thank heavens Vincent had been with me—who foamed at the mouth and fell over dead one minute later. Dudley laughed it off as a mistake, but that afternoon Cecil took all the ladies-in-waiting into the Queen’s chamber and warned us not to accept any gifts on behalf of the Queen, especially none that she might wear next to her skin since gloves and scarves and elaborate lacy collars could have been soaked in poison.
Lord Winston was not in court that day, the coward. But I spent hours worrying the inside of my cheek. If Winston managed to kill Dudley—with or without my help—it could change the path of history. With Dudley dead, Elizabeth would likely give up hope of marrying for love and yield to the pressure from her council to marry, especially to England’s advantage. If Elizabeth married, her husband would rule as king, and she would never become the ruler she was meant to be. History would be altered forever. I hated being the only one who knew that.
After an evening meal of venison soup in a bowl of fresh bread, which was more edible than lunch, we sat around the Queen’s chamber stitching, which I hated. When my full stomach gurgled loudly enough that the Queen snickered, I prayed my earlier nausea wouldn’t return. The storm still hadn’t hit, but I would find a way to get outside once it did.
Kat Ashley entered, leading Harriet straight to the Queen. I’d expected Harriet to be intimidated, but she held her head high as she looked around the room to take it all in. Unexpected pride warmed me as Harriet’s eyes shone with interest and excitement, not fear. Her hair was pulled back and covered with an ivory kerchief. Her brown dress was a bit worn but clean and well made.
She curtsied deeply before the Queen.
“Rise, my dear. Lady Blanche has informed us that you are skilled at reading.”
“Lady Blanche is very kind. I am passable, but I do love books.”
Elizabeth pulled a book from the stack on the table next to her. “We are ready to hear some Latin poetry this evening.”
The women around me tittered and my jaw tightened. While a country girl might have learned to read English, it was extremely unlikely that she would know Latin. Then I remembered reading that Elizabeth enjoyed putting others on the spot.
But Harriet curtsied once more, then graciously sank onto the tapestry stool nearest the Queen. She opened the small, leather-bound book, flipped through several pages, then began speaking Latin in a clear, confident voice.
The Queen stared, a bit slack-jawed, then threw back her head and laughed. She began to clap, and we quickly joined her. “Read on. We must confess we are astounded. Our prank has come to naught thanks to your abilities.”
We all returned to our stitching as Harriet read. I had no idea what the words meant, but her voice held me spellbound. The Queen rested her head back on the chair, now and then mouthing some of the words.
As she turned the page, Harriet caught my eye and winked. I was so charmed I wanted to throw my arms around her but managed to keep the needle going instead. While I’d been impressed with the women I’d met—for the most part, kind and intelligent—Harriet intrigued me like no other.
Thirty minutes later, when out of the corner of my eye I saw lightning streak across the sky, I was ready for the thunder that cracked overhead, but a few of the ladies yelped and Harriet stood up so fast she dropped the Queen’s book. Her face had gone splotchy red. “A storm,” she said, her voice no longer strong but quavering.
“We are safe here,” I said, my mind racing for a way to leave the room without angering the Queen.
Thunder rolled through the palace, rattling a few candlesticks. “Oh no!” Harriet gathered up her skirts and fled the room.
We all turned toward Elizabeth, tense as patients awaiting the bad news. No one left the Queen’s presence without permission. No one.
“Well, the poor girl seems to have lost her head.” Elizabeth’s face softened. “But our dear brother Edward had the same fear of storms, so the girl is not to be punished for her abrupt departure. Lady Blanche, make sure she isn’t cowering under a dusty desk somewhere.”
Perfect. I curtsied and left as quickly as Harriet had. While I should have sought out Harriet to comfort her, I needed to take advantage of the storm.
I hurried down the stairs and out into the garden. Rain needled my face, my chest, the backs of my hands. I closed my eyes and lifted my face up to the storm. The warm rain ran down my arms, and my skirts grew heavy with water; it felt as if gravity were trying to suck me into the earth. Vincent stood under the arched doorway with his forehead wrinkled in worry and his ears back.
“My lady!” a male servant called from the open door. “Please come in. Think of your health.”
I turned and waved to him. “I’m fine,” I called. “This is just something I need to do.” Once I returned to the future, Blanche could deal with convincing the entire palace that she wasn’t insane.
After another ten minutes of rain, I was soaked to the skin but still here, still in 1560, still stuck in Blanche’s plump, unwieldy body. Why didn’t the lightning take me? Exhausted, I dragged myself back into the palace. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
My skirts clung to my legs and threatened to trip me at every step. It didn’t help that Vincent danced in a circle around me. Distracted, I managed to take a wrong turn somewhere and was in a hallway I didn’t recognize, having to squint because the two candle sconces were losing the battle against the dark.
Then a door flew open at the end of the hallway, and a woman stumbled in from the rain. When she passed the first candle, I could see it was Harriet.
“Hell’s gate, Harriet, you’re soaked.”
She stood before me, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. I pulled her close. “There’s no need to be afraid, but surely you know that running outside makes you less safe, not more.”
She sobbed against my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Harriet pulled back to look at me. Her hair had come undone and was plastered against her face and neck. “Believe me, I would tell you if I could.”
“Has someone hurt you?”
“No, no. I must go.” She jerked free and disappeared down a side hallway, her wet slippers slapping against the tile. I sagged against the wall for a minute, then retraced my steps. What an awful night. Harriet had been driven mad with fear by the storm, and I was still in 1560.
I finally found my way back to a familiar hallway and encountered Rosemary dusting a painting. “Oh my,” she said, scanning the soggy me.
As she helped me up to my room, getting herself wet in the process, I apologized once again for slapping her days earlier, but she tutted as if it were nothing. She untied and unlaced me while I stood there shivering, then she lifted the wet chemise over my protesting head. She toweled me down, then helped me into my linen nightgown and robe.
My heart hurt from my failure. Why did one storm sweep me back into my real life, and another leave me here? Rosemary left as Kat Ashley appeared in the doorway. “The Queen has requested you share her bed this evening.”
“I share her what?”
“Do not be ignorant. You know you are her favorite. It shall be you and Lady Clinton.”
“Three of us?” I squeaked.
“Why have you begun lately to play the idiot? Off you go. And this time, try not to be so entertaining. The last time you slept with the Queen, you made her majesty laugh so hard she nearly choked.”
Great, just great. If there were any situation in which I would be revealed as not Blanche, this would be it.
I made my way to the Queen’s bedchamber. The stone floors were frigid, and by the time I reached my destination, so were my feet. Lady Clinton was already there undressing the Queen, so I hurried to help. I knew how to perform this task, since it was all about undoing laces and ties. The dark room was lit only by four candles. Even thought it was August, a fire raged in the fireplace, and it felt good.
The Queen sighed as I unlaced her incredibly tight stomacher. “Ah, Blanche, dressing like a queen can be wearisome.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said dutifully as I searched for the ties holding up the skirts.
Elizabeth peered down her nose at me. “That is all you have? Yes, ma’am? You have no biting comment about the unfairness of parading our narrow waist before our prospective suitors?” Her voice was light, but the tightness around her eyes revealed her worry for Dudley’s brush with death by poison.
“No, ma’am.”
The skirts dropped, and I gathered them in my arms. Outside, as rain blasted the window, I prayed for lightning even though I was uncertain it would do the trick since I’d already been rejected once by this storm.
Lady Clinton folded back the bedding while Elizabeth seated herself on a flowered upholstered stool and looked at me. On the table next to her were a massive silver-handled brush and a series of combs. I grabbed the brush and began searching Elizabeth’s head for the pins holding up her hair. I managed to take it down and begin brushing the glorious red locks without appearing too inept, but my hands shook. Elizabeth’s hair was lush, glistening with red-gold highlights. I stopped, sick when I remembered that Elizabeth would fall gravely ill from small pox only two years from now. Near death, she would name Dudley as the “protector of the kingdom.” She would recover, but the disease would leave her skin pocked, her hair thinned, and her scalp entirely bald in spots. I swallowed hard as the thick, red waves slid through my palms.
I blew out the candles, then climbed into the bed with Elizabeth and bit off a shriek at the cold, hard mattress. With the Queen in the middle, I lay on my back, goose down quilt pulled up to my chin, while Lady Clinton chatted about something that had happened in the gardens this afternoon. I racked my brain for a story I could share with the Queen, but all I had were 1) I was from the future; 2) I was not really Blanche Nottingham, but only inhabiting her body; 3) Winston and I were conspiring to do something treasonous; and 4) Robert Dudley had flirted with me. None of these would make a royal bedtime story.
When Lady Clinton fell silent, Elizabeth sighed and cuddled against me. “Tell us something funny, or even better, outrageous. We must divert our thoughts from useless worry.”
My head was only inches from the woman considered to be the greatest queen England had ever had and possibly the greatest ruler. In the firelight, her green eyes were tired but bright. The bed had begun to warm, but when Elizabeth planted her icy feet against my legs, I gasped. “God’s blood, your feet are cold.”
It was a girl who chuckled in delight, not the Queen of England. Who would ever believe that I would be cuddling up with Queen Elizabeth I? I felt so comfortable that I could have been at home with Chris on the sofa, both of us huddled under the big floral comforter we kept by the TV.
My throat tightened. “I seem to be fresh out of outrageous tonight.”
She sighed, nestling deeper into her pillow. “Then tell us a story, any story.”
I could think of only one. “Once upon a time there was a boy named Harry. He lived in the cupboard beneath his uncle’s stairs. His aunt and uncle and cousin treated Harry horribly, like a servant, because they were afraid of him. They were worried Harry might be a wizard like his parents.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Ah, a wizard story. Our favorite.”
I had gotten Harry to Diagon Alley and was deep into a description of this hidden part of London, when there was a commotion outside the door. Men’s voices, then laughter. The door burst open and in strode Robert Dudley and a servant, both bearing torches. Lady Clinton shrieked and pulled up the covers, but Elizabeth sat up in her nightgown, nipples hard against the linen. Dudley swept off his hat and bowed with an elaborate flourish “I am unable to sleep tonight until I steal one more glimpse of Your Grace’s face.” He straightened, eyes sparkling at Elizabeth.
“Oh, Robin, I have been so distraught—” She stopped, pressing the back of one hand to her mouth until she could gather herself back into the Queen. She plumped up her pillow and sat back against the wall. “Well, Robin, we would hate to be the cause of your insomnia. Perhaps you should ride your new mare if you are unable to sleep.”
Robert gave a sly smile and sat on the foot of the bed. “Oh, thoughts of…riding would make it even more impossible to sleep.”
Elizabeth roared with laughter and flung her pillow at him.
My heart raced. First, this was wrong. Rumors about Elizabeth and Dudley would plague her reign. Second, what if Winston found out that Dudley had been here, and I hadn’t told him? But I’d had no warning.
What would Blanche do? I wanted to cower under the covers with Lady Clinton, but instead I leapt out of bed, grabbed my own pillow, and began beating him back toward the door. Everyone laughed as I managed to finally get Dudley out of the room. “And don’t return until your thoughts of riding involve only horses.” I slammed the door in his grinning face.
Elizabeth lay back in the bed, still laughing. “Oh, Blanche, there is nothing like a good pillow fight. Let us fall asleep with Robin’s smile in our eyes.”
I crawled back into bed. Within minutes, Lady Clinton was snoring softly from the other side of the bed.
Elizabeth sighed. “He is a wicked man to burst into our room, is he not?”
“Very wicked,” I said. Thunder boomed in the background, making me think I should try the storm again.
“But oh, so wickedly handsome.” Silence settled over us, then the Queen sighed again. “’Tis a cruel twist of fate that we must love a man whom others insist we must not take as our husband.”
I propped myself up on an elbow. “Why do they resist him?”
The bed rustled as Elizabeth turned. “He is a commoner, and the people would never accept a commoner for a king.”
“Can’t you, well, make him a noble? Make him Sir Robert Dudley?” Elizabeth would do precisely that in a few years.
I could feel her turning the idea over in her mind. “Yes, we could do that. But there is much opposition to Robin as our consort.” Her voice softened. “We wonder why, in this world, we have so much sorrow and tribulation and so little joy. Robin brings us joy, yet many men, Lord Winston amongst them, speak foully of him even though they know it upsets us.”
I stiffened. “Do you know why Lord Winston objects?”
“He believes it would be bad for the realm, yet Robin has a good head on his shoulders and we enjoy having him around.” Her voice slowed as sleep began to take her. “And we do love him so.…”
I felt sick to my stomach as Blanche’s life tightened around me like a noose.
“Blanche?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Will you tell me more of poor Harry’s story tomorrow?”
“Certainly. Pleasant dreams.”
“And you as well.” She snuggled closer. “We love that you can both make us laugh and, with your stories, make us think. You are our beloved Spark.”
The Queen’s breath lightly brushed my hands as sleep approached. I liked this woman and would be sad to leave her. I would wait another ten minutes, then slip from the bed and into the storm. But as I lay there, listening to the Queen breathe, thunder boomed directly overhead and suddenly I was yanked—hard, rude, lightning fast—up into a darkness blacker than night and colder than ice.