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FREE SAMPLE: FIRST TWO CHAPTERS OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER

Above, her crimson canopy of state flutters in the breeze drifting in from the entrance chamber. Cold is slowly creeping in under Mary’s satin lined skirts, despite the log crackling in the fireplace. Winter brings a chill to the strongest of castles, and the sparsely used Ludlow has more than most.

Upon the dais, Mary nods at the herald for the next suitor to be admitted.

“Sir Rhys ap Gruffydd, and Sir James Gruffydd ap Hywell!”

The tall dark-haired man who strides to stand before her is a boy in truth, only a handful of years older than Mary herself. His features are pulled tight together in anger as he passes through the guarded doorway with no hesitation, and captivated by his gaze, she almost misses the second, older man at his heels.

It is clear the pair are related; they share the same nose and firm gaze, and both are well known throughout Wales. The youngest is one of the highest magnates of the land, and his cousin almost as renowned. Some say his father delivered King Richard III’s death blow at the battle which made Mary’s grandfather king.

They sink down onto bended knees, heads facing the tiled floor, glossy from dozens of slick footsteps.

“Lord Rhys. Sir James.” Mary’s rasping voice changes to greet them in their natural tongue. “It is a pleasure to see you here again in my court. I have missed your presence.”

Holding one dainty hand aloft, the jewelled rings on each finger sparkle as the pair rise and kiss her knuckles in turn.

“Your Royal Highness.” They murmur as one, their lilting accent making her smile.

“It is an honour as always to meet with you, Princess Mary.” Rhys says, James heartily echoing his sentiments.

“Thank you… but you did not bring your lady wife, Rhys.” Mary frowns, gaze scanning the empty space behind him.

“Katherine is back home.” Rhys’s jaw tightens. “Ensuring our lands are well tended to.”

“I see. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing at all, Your Highness.” Rhys hastens to assure her, summoning up a smile. “I come merely to see the Princess of Wales.”

At Mary’s shoulder, the Countess of Salisbury makes a small noise of scepticism. Mary’s cheeks flush, even as her gaze turns to her governess. Margaret is eyeing the Welshmen warily, gnarled hand holding tight to the hard back of Mary’s throne.

“I am well.”

“And to talk with your most esteemed Council.”

“Of course.” She says at Margaret’s expected nod. “It can be arranged at once.”

“Good, good. And Cardinal Wolsey?”

Mary startles at the mention of her godfather. Sometimes, the people of London feel so far away. “You are friends with him?”

“Of a sort.” Rhys shifts from one foot to the other, eyes flicking to the door where behind Mary’s Council rules. “I have been writing to him lately on matters concerning my inheritance. Your steward –”

“The princess does not need to know of such complicated matters.” His cousin James interjects loudly, slapping one hand heavy on Rhys’s shoulder. The cousins jostle for a moment, Rhys’s dark eyebrows pulling together in annoyance.

“I do.” Mary says solemnly.

If one of her subjects is in trouble, it is her duty to do all she can to relieve them of their pain.

“Well, if you insist Your Highness, I have been stripped of titles that are rightly mine by law.” The heated words tumble out of Rhys’s mouth, Mary’s confirmation of caring leaving him unable to hold back any longer. “They have been given instead to your steward and councillor, Walter Devereux, Baron Ferrers. First, over a year since, he was appointed Chief Justice of South Wales, and now he has recently been confirmed as Chamberlain of South Wales, Carmarthen and Cardigan. My grandfather held these offices until his death two years past, and as his heir I am entitled to them!”

“I see.” She frowns, trying to recall the laws of heredity regarding offices granted by the Crown.

“I beg Your Highness to petition the king on my behalf in this matter, for my letters seem to be ignored.”

“Certainly.” She nods.

Through talk with Father or Cardinal Wolsey, she can make sure Rhys gets at least an explanation of the passing over of titles, if not restoration to them. Perhaps he and Lord Ferrers could share the offices and half the burden?

“Lady Cecily,” Margaret turns to the closest of Mary’s ladies. “Fetch Lord Ferrers.”

Cecily Dabridgecourt skips down the dais and hurries out of the chamber, skirts flying in haste. Rising, Mary holds out a hand for Margaret to escort her down off the raised platform. On level ground she is swallowed by the Welshmen’s shadows, and she cranes her neck to look up at them, smiling.

“While we await his arrival, would you do me the honour of joining me for wine and wafers?”

“I can think of nothing better.” James grins, accepting her offer instantly as Mary’s ladies flock to her heels.

Turning, Mary leads the procession of nobles further indoors into the grand rooms of her Privy Chamber. Here, lush tapestries and thick carpets trap the heat of constant fires.

“I’m glad I – we – could call upon you in our time of need.” Rhys says as Mary’s cupbearer pours them spiced ale. “It is reassuring to know the most sovereign lady of England has our best interests at heart.”

“Below my mother.”

“Below Queen Katherine… but she is not our Princess of Wales.” James says with a wink.

Mary giggles, taking a sip of ale.

“You have good timing my lords.” Margaret smiles. “We leave for Tickenhill on the morrow.”

“Where we will draw Valentines!” Mary says excitedly, wine slopping dangerously close to the rim of her glass. “Last year I got my treasurer.”

“A lucky man.”

“He took better care of his gout than I!”

James laughs. “Then I pray this year you receive a man to your liking, who treats you as your station deserves.”

“And I pray my council will resolve your troubles quickly.”

“I am sure if they are as like-minded as their mistress, we will have no further trouble at all.” He assures her. “Is that not right, Rhys?”

“Indeed.” Rhys smiles faintly.

He nurses his cup impatiently throughout their conversation, casting frequent glances at the gilt clock and door, and stands immediately when Mary’s servant, Simon Burton, announces Lord Ferrers awaits the pair in the Council chambers.

“Can I not go with them Maggie?” Mary asks wistfully, watching the Welshmen depart.

Her governess shakes her head. “You, my right excellent lady, are overdue your lessons today as is. Master Featherstone will be awaiting your presence.”

So with a sigh, Mary dutifully begins the trek to her designated study.

Before Mary’s arrival two years ago, Ludlow hadn’t been used as a royal residence for over twenty years, and the castle has grown rather wild. Now it is her unofficial capital of the Welsh Marches, leagues of land straddling Wales and England. Where other houses belonging to the Crown are prim and proper, here the walls are half crumbled and the grounds lie mostly untamed, decorated with thick patches of thorns. Winter only emphasises its otherworldliness; the ruins she runs around are covered in a blanket of glittering frost as she hops down iced steps and dodges spiders pretending to be in an ancient tale. She is the great warden of the west after all, ensuring folk on both sides of the border are in harmony… By the time she arrives for her schooling at the other side of the castle, she and her ladies are scarlet cheeked and panting. She has scarcely been better, despite the time of year. No ague touches her, and the fresh air invigorates Mary as much as her lessons.

In the schoolroom, Mary studies history and astrology, literature and languages. She has just started the rudimentary basics of Greek, and must improve her Italian, but today is arithmetic, and Master Featherstone rifles through Cuthbert Tunstall’s De arte supputandi libri quattuor to find her a collection of sums to complete as Mary tells him of her morning.

When the lesson is complete and her tidy sums all marked correct, she must bid goodbye to Lord Rhys and his cousin. Rhys still has an air of annoyance to him, stalking out of the castle after her dismissal – a stark contrast to James, who with great cheer promises to return soon.

“He did not accomplish what he came here for.” Margaret tells her as they watch the pair ride out of the half-frozen gate.

“It is sad he cannot have his grandfather’s titles.” Mary says, turning back to play with her red spinning top. “But I am sure my father the king had a good reason why he gave them to Lord Ferrers.”

“He is a most handsome man.” Frances Aylmer sighs.

Mary blinks. “Lord Ferrers?”

“No, Princess!” Frances giggles. “Lord Rhys.”

Mary’s distant cousin, Katherine Grey, nods fervently in agreement from her place on the floor, Cecily Dabridgecourt’s hands weaving through her blonde hair. “His wife is a lucky woman.”

“She would be luckier still if they had what he promised her on their wedding day.” Ann Rede says.

Marye Browne frowns. “It is not our place to question the King’s decisions.”

“Well, I pray you will be luckier in your marriage Cecily!”

The reminder makes Mary sigh. Her lady is to marry Rhys Mansell in mere months, and Mary will sorely miss her. “Must you marry so soon?”

Cecily smiles over at her. “I will write. Besides, Oxwich is not so far away.”

“Good. Do me now.”

“I wager you won’t miss her much.” Katherine teases, squealing when Cecily gives her hair a tug.

Mary is laughing as they switch places. She settles between her lady’s legs, dispensing of her heavy headdress weighted down with rubies, diamonds and pearls.

“You will surely have a townhouse in London, anyhow.” Mary says. “All those at court do, and if you do not, I shall demand Father gift you one for such good service.”

“You are too sweet.” Cecily smiles, breath hot on the back of Mary’s neck as she manipulates her hair, pulling strawberry strands back and forth. It takes only minutes for her to create a masterpiece, and Mary touches the intricately entwined plait tenderly.

“Thank you.” She twists to reward her with a kiss on the cheek.

“It was my pleasure.” Cecily dimples.

“It is beautiful.” Mary decrees, to a chorus of agreements from the girls. “I do not want to hide it under my hood!”

The yeoman guards flanking the door jump to attention as it opens a crack, and attention diverted, Mary watches as, after a few seconds of hasty whispering, David ap Rhys turns to her.

“Princess.” He says. “You have a letter delivered in haste by a man in the King’s livery.”

Her heart leaps. “Admit him!”

When the servant enters the room, his gold embroidered coat is dark with melted snow. He removes his velvet cap quickly, dropping to one knee before her with a lowered head.

“Princess Mary.”

Mary sticks one dainty hand out, impatient. As soon as he leans forward to brush chapped lips against her knuckles she withdraws, begging him to rise.

“How does the king, my father, and the queen, my mother fare?”

“They were very well at my parting, in good health and spirit.”

“Good.” She smiles. “I pray Our Lord always to maintain them as such… do you have a token from them for me?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I do present unto you, in the name of the good grace of the king your father, and queen your mother, this diamond brooch, and some snowdrops from the royal garden to remind you this season shall soon be over.”

She immediately takes the brooch, circular in shape with a gold lion surrounded by silver fleur de lis, and pins it to her bodice. When she takes the bunch of delicate white flowers, tied in a velvet ribbon, she discovers some have been crushed in the arduous journey. Their faint scent of honey is only amplified from the damage, and Mary inhales deeply, wondering what royal residence the snowdrops were plucked from. They must think she is miserable, with her hatred of snow and frost and ice, but with the sure knowledge of their affection her heart is now warm.

“Oh, bless the king and queen!” She says fervently. “How does my aunt and uncle, and cousins, and godfather and all my good friends do?”

His eyes crinkle with fondness. “They are all well, Your Highness.”

“Then what news do you bring? Show me!”

He fumbles for a second before withdrawing a letter affixed with the royal seal from his damp doublet. Breath caught, Mary leans forward, flicking her wrist to Margaret. Maggie steps forward to take the letter, eyes flicking over the contents.

“It is a summons from His Majesty the king.” The countess reads, looking up to her charge as her lips curve into a smile. “We are ordered to come to his presence at once, for there is a matter of great urgency. We are returning to London.”

Mary’s belly jumps with excitement.

“Back to court!”

Chapter II

The trip back takes several days travelling at a stately speed, through the countryside.

The sun has a bitter edge to it, nipping at Mary’s skin as her pony plods tirelessly down farm tracks. Thatched cottages stand in the midst of empty frostbitten fields, smoke lazily drifting up into the grey sky above. Birds flit from one broken branch to another, but despite the dismal weather the toiling farmers do not hesitate to call out to their princess, doffing their threadbare caps as her retinue passes.

My presence cheers them, Mary thinks, examining the grizzled face of an old man as they pass. He leans heavily against the side of his wooden cart, sparsely filled with limp cabbages. And I do naught at all to help. Look how he sweats for only half his load!

“Stop.”

Behind Mary, the long procession comes to a halt. A plume of smoke unfurls from the nostrils of Mary’s horse into the cold air.

“Princess?” Margaret looks at her quizzically. “What ails you?”

“Nothing.” She shifts in the saddle, gloved fingers grasping for the fat velvet bag attached to the belt around her waist.

Her chamberlain, Sir Giles Greville ventures to nudge his horse forward. “Is there ought I can do to help Your Most Sovereign, Princess?”

“No.” The coins clink together as she empties half the bag into her palm and she reconsiders, looking up. “Yes, you can help me dismount.”

Alarm flickers across Sir Giles’ face. “Dismount?”

His gaze drifts across the dreary landscape. There will be no risk involved, Mary knows. The countryside is almost devoid of life.

“Yes. I am going to give alms to that poor peasant.”

His wife and children are likely starving at home.

Mary must do something. She cannot ride by and let her father’s subjects starve. What sort of a princess would she be, if she ignored suffering?

A bad one.

“As you wish, Princess.” Sir Giles says, and obediently orders a groom to assist her down.

The breeze lifts the ends of her red locks free from her velvet cap, and Margaret pushes it down firmer upon Mary’s head as she sets off stumbling across the field, accompanied by several of her guards. A light frost lies across the ordered rows, the crops leeched of colour and stunted in growth.

The farmer stares wide-eyed at her approach, a half rotten cabbage hanging forgotten between his calloused fingers.

“The Princess of Wales!”

Mary nods, a smile curling across her chapped lips. Her nose may be pink from the cold, but her regal attire and miniature court can only belong to her. The farmer instantly begins to lower himself down.

“You may not kneel.” She says quickly, sparing his woollen breeches from the mud.

A bow is quite sufficient, and he lowers his head for several long seconds before straightening.

“Here.” Mary thrusts her hand out, uncurling her fingers. In the centre of her palm, the gold coins glint in the sun.

“Your Highness, I – I cannot-”

“You can and you will.” Mary says firmly. “You must, to help you and your family survive the end of winter.”

She presses the coins into his cold hands. His fingers tighten around hers, weary eyes welling with gratitude. The guards around her tense, hands drifting to the swords attached to their hips, but Mary waves them off and squeezes the farmer’s hand.

“Thank you.” He chokes out. “God bless Your Grace!”

“And you.” Mary smiles as she is ushered back to the safety of her retinue.

Within minutes of resuming their ride, her eyes are watering from the wind, and Mary kicks her pony into a canter, eager to press on.

The hedgerows are bare, the fruit trees barren, and Mary huddles further down into her furs shivering.When she splashes through a shallow brook, the cold spray flecks her frozen cheeks and ignites her misery further.

“We can draw Valentines next year.” Margaret promises in the cheerful glow of a grand lord’s antechamber, adjusting the ermine collar around Mary’s neck. Mary hugs her governess tight, arms enfolded around her waist, face turned to the warm plush velvet of her skirts.

All along the route she is feted and feasted, hosted by mayors and monks alike in their grand houses and monasteries. Commoners swarm her when Mary enters their town and cities, gifting cake and ale and freshly made bread she and her household enjoy with their evening meals.

By the time she reaches London it is March and she is exhausted, filled with food and stories.

She takes a royal barge down the river Thames, and from the seat of honour, she smiles and waves merrily at the citizens watching on the banks. They herald her arrival far in advance, and when the barge slowly drifts into dock at Richmond, a stout figure is already waiting on the dockside. Her dress is a sumptuous crimson, her gable hood laden with jewels, and Mary beams as she disembarks.

“Mother!” She pipes, hastening her steps. “Your Majesty.”

At the last moment she sinks into a curtsy, but Queen Katherine is quick to pull her out of it, arms tightening around her waist. Mary inhales the familiar scent of her mother deeply, cheek pressed to her chest. Eventually, she pulls back.

“Mary.” Mother smiles, blue eyes shining with joy. “My dear daughter.” She turns to her crowd of ladies nearby. “Our Princess has returned!”

The announcement is received with a round of applause and joy, echoing around the riverside.

“Oh, I have so much to tell you Mother. Thank you for my flowers, Your Majesty, and my brooch. I have it on, look.” Mary enthuses, before craning her neck. She sees no members of the King’s household amongst the attendants. “Where is His Majesty?”

“He is busy with business at Greenwich, but we will travel to meet him soon.” The queen wraps an arm around Mary, ushering her up the gravel path into the palace.

The three storied privy lodgings of the royal family face the river, with large panelled windows to view the gentle tide lapping the shore nearby.

“Are the Welsh Marches well?”

“Yes.” Mary nods as the Queen’s ladies flock around her, cooing.

“You’ve grown twice as tall, Princess!” Gertrude Courtenay, the Marchioness of Exeter exclaims. The wife of her cousin is always one to exaggerate, and Mary grins at her fondly.

“And twice as pretty.” Maud Parr nods.

“You simply must play the virginals this evening. Your talent is incomparable.” Anne Boleyn smiles.

“Court is just not the same without you here!” Mary Jerningham coos. Tagging along with his mother, Henry nods with agreement.

“My mother speaks true, Princess.” He grins as they enter the palace.

“Have you missed me?” She asks. “I’ve missed you!”

“No one else at court is better company.”

The fire is already roaring in the queen’s privy chamber when the footmen jump to open the doors. Mary exhales with delight, beelining towards it even as she basks in the continued fuss of the women. Eventually, the amused queen orders them to retreat, and mother and daughter retire to sit privately. Maria Willoughby goes to serve the pair wine, but the queen stops her.

“Look.” The queen says proudly to her daughter. “He can offer me a drink now.” She makes a hand motion to her pet monkey Pícaro.

Mary claps with delight as the furred creature reaches for a large goblet and pushes it into her hands then lowers down on its haunches, big eyes blinking up at his mistress awaiting his next instruction.

“He almost ate a ruby the other day, thinking it was a cherry.”

Mary laughs as she breaks apart a biscuit, handing a piece to him.

“I’ve missed you, Mother.”

“As have I and your father.” The queen says gently. “It is why, when your father suggested you visit, I urged him to write at once… but there is another reason why we called you back from the marches aside from missing your presence. Your father is hoping to betroth you to the French king.”

Mary looks up from eating her biscuit, bemused. “King François?”

All she knows of him is that he is Father’s biggest friend – or foe, depending on his mood.

“That’s why he sent me the brooch with the lion and fleur de lis!”

“Yes. The French ambassadors want to see you as soon as possible. It is why your father cannot be here with us. He is deep in negotiations.”

Mary has gone through the process twice before, and knows well what is expected of her. She will dance and sing and smile, earning praise for her performance… and when she impresses the ambassadors, she will perhaps marry King François and become the Queen of France.

The Queen of France.

She will be queen twice over…

“Will I move there?”

“If a formal betrothal is made you will eventually go to France, yes. But you needn’t fear, for it won’t be for many years. You’re far too young to go now.”

“But I can’t be Queen of England and live in France.”

“Your father rules Calais from across the sea, does he not?” Her mother says lightly. “I expect you would share your time between both countries. Betrothals are long, complicated affairs as you know. This ambassador visit is only the first step of many – and he may decide to betroth his son yet. The Duke of Orléans would be a better match by far.”

“A French king of England.” Mary muses aloud. Somehow, she doesn’t think Father would like that.

“Indeed. But he would take my place, and you your father’s. You will enjoy a status higher than any woman in England’s history.”

The knowledge that she will be an example for future ladies fills Mary with pride. In the distant future, on the day of her Father’s death, Mary will ascend the throne as England’s first female sovereign. She will usher in a new age of England, and show a woman chosen by God can rule just as wisely as a man.

“Already your tour of the Welsh Marches is without precedent.” Her mother continues, as Pícaro leaps on to her shoulder and wraps a long tail around her arm, chittering. “I trust you have made I and your father proud.”

“I have tried my best to remember all my lessons.”

“And your Latin, how does that fare?”

“Very well.”

“That is good to hear, for I have a treat for you.”

Mary looks at her intrigued.

“Upon the treaty being concluded there will be a grand masque. And,” Her mother takes Mary’s small hands in hers, “you will be the main attraction.”

“Me?”

Queen Katherine smiles at her daughters’ delight. “Indeed.”

Excitement flutters in her belly; Mary has never danced in a masque before.

“Will I have a new dress?”

“You will. New jewels too. And you will learn a dance with a partner… perhaps Lady Exeter?”

Mary beams in delight at the thought of dancing with Gertrude, and near launches herself across the table to hug her mother. The queen’s happy laughter rings out, as she holds her daughter tight in her embrace, the pair of them laughing all the louder when Pícaro takes off squawking.

Mary passes a month at Richmond, with the queen leaving several times to take part in negotiations with the king. Every three days, like clockwork, the king sends his wife a letter inquiring into her health, often urging her to him.

She whiles away hours running the galleries with Henry Jerningham and her ladies, playing skittles and Blind Man’s Bluff. She had thought it would be simple. The last time she was betrothed, she did not remember such frustrating back and forth.

“She insists on nothing but the best for you.” Margaret tells her, when the household moves to Hampton Court for the palace to be cleaned. “As does His Majesty. Your marriage is a matter of international importance. Their Majesties want to be certain they have picked the right man, with the most advantageous terms. You are a precious commodity!” She kisses her forehead. “One of a kind.”

The French ambassadors arrive one blustery April morning to pay their respects, but Mary, stuck in lessons, can only watch from a window as they depart. She taps on the paned glass with annoyance, hoping they’ll hear despite the vast distance and wind.

“Why could I not see them?” Mary asks her mother after, disappointed. She could spare a half hour from Master Featherstone. “Is this not why I was recalled back from the Marches?”

She frowns across the chamber at Queen Katherine, sat overwatching her dress fitting. The cloth of gold that forms Mary’s outfit is heavy and stiff, and the seamstress hovers around her hip making minute adjustments. It must be perfect for the masque, only two weeks away and centred around Cupid, the God of Love himself.

“You were in lessons, and I did not want to disrupt your learning.” The queen takes a sip of wine. “I told them you would see them at Greenwich one week hence, as is arranged, and they left a letter for you from their king.”

She gestures to Maria, who passes a small scroll to Margaret. The Countess of Salisbury breaks the wax seal with narrowed eyes.

“Maggie, what does he write?” Mary asks eagerly, smoothing her embroidered bodice as a crease appears. Bronze thread illustrates Cupid’s arrow, puncturing a large heart that heaves and spasms as she sucks in a quick breath of anticipation.

“He has heard much of Your Highness, and prays God guards your virtue.” Margaret looks up, smiling.

“There is no better place for that then here.” Anne Boleyn says, her mouth quirking up into a smile.

“No.” Mary agrees. “And when the king’s ambassadors see me, I shall prove it.”

“Of course!” The queen says. “They were not put off by their fruitless journey here; on the contrary they much commended your dedication to learning, and professed themselves eager to meet Your Highness. You will be the most erudite Princess of Christendom when you are grown, and the prettiest.” Her tone invites no speculation, only firm fact as she inspects Mary’s garment.

It is beautiful, despite not being fully finished. A long row of pearls adorn the hem, rolling across the floor as Mary swishes her skirts back and forth winningly.

“This embroidery here must be replaced by a ruby, akin to The Most Sacred Heart of Jesus.” The queen decrees to the seamstress, pointing to the bodice. “And we must decide what you are to wear upon your head. A French hood would be apt.”

“And boring.” Mary wrinkles her nose. “I wear one of those almost every day.”

“Very well!” Queen Katherine laughs. “You shall find no argument from me! Perhaps a velvet cap instead, or a garland? I would like them to see your hair, for it is so beautiful.”

“Real roses?” She proposes. “As I dance, I shall rain rose petals down upon everyone!” She sighs dreamily at the image.

“A vision.” Her mother agrees. “Just as you are now. Let us all see how beautiful my daughter is!”

Mary needs no further invitation, and arms aloft she spins around with glee, skirts flying and heart happy, scarcely able to wait.

Greenwich Palace lives up to its once name.

The red bricked building sprawls across the riverbank of the Thames, surrounded by lush gardens and parks. The air is fragranced with the sweet aroma of roses and honeysuckle, and Mary inhales deeply as they pass tiny yellow and violet buds bursting across the lush grass. She spies her first butterfly of the year fluttering timidly around the pruned hedges, while the proud limbs of ancient trees swell with young apples and pears, promising a great bounty.

The Palace of Placentia, Mary remembers from her history lessons, smiling. A palace of pleasure.

Queen Margaret of Anjou had named it as such, a French queen of England… and she an English queen of France.

Mary trots into the courtyard after her mother, nodding her head to the courtiers swarming about the cobblestones. The crowd in satins and silks call out eager greetings to her, but none are more welcome than the slender redhead stood at the entrance of the palace.

“The king sent me in his stead!” Mary’s aunt calls at their approach, eyes twinkling and smile wide. “I hope you are not too disappointed.”

Mary laughs in response, swinging out of her saddle in such haste her boot almost collides with her footman, John Reginald.

“Sorry.” She apologises to the Welshman as he flinches back. “Have a shilling in apology.”

“There is no need Princess.” He shakes his head with a fond smile, but as Mary joins her mother she determines she’ll add it to his wages anyhow. She’ll sneak it into his pocket if need be.

“Aunt Mary.” Mary grins. “I had not hoped to see you here!”

The dowager queen of France drops into a graceful curtsy before the queen and princess, the pair reciprocate.

“He is buried in business.” She explains, and looks up laughing. “I have no doubt he would rather be in my place!”

The laughter disturbs her red hair, poking out from underneath the French hood she wears. One lock falls to frame her face charmingly. Another strand falls out as she embraces her niece, her ladies in waiting hurrying to fix it.

“How fares my beautiful namesake?” She asks Mary, kissing her cheek. A waft of lavender perfume tickles Mary’s nose as she smiles.

“I am well.”

“Good. A former and future Queen of France, together. Have you ever seen such a thing, Kate?” Her aunt asks Mary’s mother, eyes shining with amusement.

The queen smiles at her sister. “No, I have not… though with you around, I have resigned myself to always being surprised.”

“What is King François like?” Mary asks her aunt curiously.

“He is a rake with a big nose.” She laughs heartily.

Mary giggles.

“But he can be very chivalrous. He helped I and your uncle marry, after all. He supported us before anyone else, after I made myself clear I would have no one but Charles. He is hard pressed to take no for an answer... but that is not always a bad thing.” Her aunt’s blue-grey eyes sparkle merrily. “His efforts have paid off. He will have a redhaired Mary Tudor for his bride!”

The merry laughter of Mary’s aunt drifts away as the two queens retire to the privy apartments, while Mary makes her way across the palace to her designated schoolroom. Despite the change of households her routine is not altered, and Mary must spend most of her day in lessons. She is behind schedule before even starting, for all the courtiers she pass must bow and curtsy, earnestly inquiring how she is, and how are the Marches, and how long is she staying?

With she in lessons, and the king deep in negotiations, Mary sees no glimpse of her father until their evening meal. She and her mother are sipping wine in the royal apartments, empty stomachs pinching with hunger, when the sound of footsteps ring out across the tiled floor.

“I hear a beautiful princess has arrived at my court.”

Mary’s head snaps up.

King Henry VIII of England strides towards the table, red haired and rosy cheeked. His broad figure is clothed in luxurious purple velvet, the gold chain of office around his neck swinging madly as he hurries to greet his daughter. The closer he gets, the larger his smile grows, and Mary’s mouth stretches into an identical smile in response.

“Father. Your Majesty.”

Sliding out of her chair, she dips into a curtsy, but before she has risen his thick arms are smothering her in a tight hug. She smiles into his buff chest as he pulls her gently to her feet.

“Mary.” He breathes, then gently steps back to check her over. His blue eyes rove over her face, long sandy eyelashes trembling. “You look well.”

“I am.” Mary chirps. “And even better now, in the presence of Your Majesty. Thank you for my snowdrops, and brooch.”

“It suits you, as I knew it would.” He eyes it glimmering on her chest as he joins his wife, the servants pulling out his seat at the head of the mahogany table.

“My beautiful girls.”

He greets the queen with a soft kiss to the apple of her cheek, who flushes in delight.

“How did your day go, my love?” She asks as the servants fill their glasses with wine.

“I have had better.” He says with a sigh. “But I have had much worse... I do not doubt all will be in our favour by the end of negotiations.”

“I never doubt you.” The queen smiles. “You could charm God Himself to do your bidding.”

The king turns to his daughter, still grinning. “I trust your mother has informed you of the details of this visit.”

Mary nods solemnly. “King François called me a high and powerful princess in his letter.”

She had read it again earlier in anticipation, tenderly tracing the handwritten words.

“You will show his representatives the truth of those words. After your meeting with the French ambassadors, I expect a treaty to be signed and sealed within the month.” He nods, jaw jutting with determination. “I do not doubt you will impress them when we bring out a harpsichord for you to play while you converse with them in their native language.”

“And Latin.” Mary adds. “Master Featherstone says my skill in Latin is unmatched.”

“You will speak in those tongues and more, and they will be as charmed by my pearl as I am.” He strokes her cheek with one ring adorned thumb, leaning in to kiss her forehead.

The story continues in The King's Daughter.

Available to read now here.

Coming to Kobo soon.

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