“Because I promised that I would come back for you after they separated us, and after two eternal years, I finally have.” His wavy hair falls just above his eye, wild and uneven. It makes me wonder if Catherine used to push it back.
“And you’re living here?” I ask. Hopefully not behind the curtain.
“I was given a place at the palace as the undersecretary to the Earl of Sussex.” He’s standing just in front of me, and when I go to retreat, my back meets the wall. Francis takes a slow breath. He begins to reach for me again but then thinks better of it, resting his arms at his sides. It seems physically difficult for him not to touch me. “I’ll never leave you again,” he swears.
“Right.” This next bit is going to be difficult for him. I keep my voice gentle and steady, leaving room for his disappointment but not for negotiation. “So, Francis, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I’ve been doing a lot of reevaluating lately, and I think it would be for the best if we forget everything we ever were to each other.”
He begins to laugh but stops halfway. His eyes are unblinking. “You’re serious? You want me to forget us?”
“I just feel that we’ve grown as people during our time apart, and it would be better for all involved parties for us to go our separate ways. Think of it as a clean break.”
Francis shakes his head, running a bloodied hand through his unruly hair. “No! I know they’re forcing you to marry the king. I know you don’t want this union and that if it were in your power, you would leave with me now.”
It’s safe to say that Francis is well within the denial stage of his grief process. I’m about to explain emotional fixation to him when a firm knock sounds at the door.
“Catherine? Are you in there?” It’s Lady Rochford’s voice.
My stomach drops. I can’t be found in here with an ex-boyfriend. Not only will I lose my head, but I’ll lose it ahead of schedule. I walk into Francis, pushing him back in the direction of the curtains.
“You need to go. You need to get back in your hiding spot or leave without anyone seeing you.”
He cups a hand behind my neck, and I’m so rattled by the door latch rattling that I don’t immediately karate chop his arm off.
“I won’t forsake you again, Catherine. I swear it.” His voice is all passion and unfulfilled longing, and I really don’t have time for it.
“Sounds good. Don’t forsake me. Just please hide!”
He touches his forehead to mine, which I make a face at, before he scurries behind the curtain. I move to the door, ready to unlock it, when Francis pops his head back out.
“I’ll find a way for us to meet in the coming days.” He takes a labored breath before adding, “I have missed you, wife.”
Come the fuck again?!
I’m about to tear the curtain off the wall and demand that Francis explain himself when Lady Rochford pounds on the door. I unlock and open it, taking in her suspicious face and praying that she doesn’t notice how flushed mine is.
“Are you all right?” she asks, looking at me then past me to glance around the room.
“Me? I’m great.” Sure, I might have just found out that I’m already married to Timothée Chalamet’s lovesick older brother, who would probably love nothing more than to die by my side. But yeah, other than that, I’m great.
I step out of the room and close the door. My legs carry me forward in a clumsy rhythm as I move past Lady Rochford, hoping against hope that I’m not about to become England’s first-ever polygamist queen.
It’s official. Catherine is married, and by extension I’m married-ish.
Henry and I are at our wedding feast. Wine is flowing, there’s music (thanks to Bartholomew, William, and crew), and the room is full of dancing and merrymaking. As the new Tudor it-girl, eyes follow me everywhere. I’m being looked over and sized up, and after an hour of being queen I have learned that being overlooked is highly underestimated.
We’re sitting on a little dais at the moment, hovering over the higher-ranking members of court as they partake in the festivities. Henry’s arm sleeves are especially puffy for the occasion, and his outfit matches mine in its shade of pure gold.
He places his wine cup down on the table as he turns to face me with a soft, pleased smile. “Are you happy?”
With someone like Henry, I need to use adoration with razor-sharp precision. A man with unchecked power is used to flattery, so I need to feed his ego uniquely if I want him to trust me before anyone else. “Very happy,” I answer, placing my hand on the material covering his wrist. “The whole world knows you as a king, but I know you for who you truly are. I get to know your heart. It’s the greatest gift you could ever give me.”
My words do the trick as pride and contentment sift through Henry’s eyes. He kisses my hand, as he tends to do, and sighs as he looks out at the crowd in front of us.
“A bride should dance on her wedding day. Let me find you a partner.”
“You’re not dancing?” I ask.
He either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to as he turns his gaze to the side. “Thomas! Someone fetch Culpepper to me. I would see him dance with the queen.”
