“Who was that?” I ask in a hushed tone.
He looks back at me with real worry in his eyes. “I should think you know him well.”
“Pretend that I don’t.”
Simon observes me for a second before he replies, “That was Henry VIII, Supreme Head of the Church of England.”
He’s so sincere. I can tell that he believes what he’s saying, and it makes my head hurt. I watch the departing group continue to move down the corridor when “Henry” turns at the last moment, giving me another doting smile before he disappears through a set of doors.
“I must go,” Simon says, now walking backward and following in the direction of the entourage, clearly an attendant of the “king’s” meeting. “I wish you a swift recovery, Lady Catherine.”
He gives me a careful look as he leaves, and just like that, I’m alone. A suffocating silence settles in the air, spurring me into action. I need to leave, too. I need to leavenow. I power walk like a fiend, moving though endless halls and stairwells as fear tightens its grip on my throat.
Sweat is beading down my neck when I finally find a door leading out. The glaring sun hits my face and it’s a complete contrast from the gray skies and rain that Zoe and I walked through no more than an hour ago.
There’s a flurry of activity in the stone yard I find myself in, with hundreds of people dressed in different variations of old-fashioned clothing. This can’t be a historical reenactment. There’s a guy openly peeing beside a horse trough, and the signature scent in the air is inflamed body odor. I mix in with the crowd, getting bumped and jostled as I waddle along in my hoopskirt from hell. When I see a woman my age walking near a hay cart, I instinctively reach out and touch the sleeve of her simple brown dress. When she stops to face me, I try not to be intimidated by her epic stare down.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but can you tell me where we are?”
The woman takes in my disgruntled hair and flushed face. She crosses her arms across the laces of her dress with an amused grin. “Well, you’ve seen better days, haven’t you, love? We’re outside the palace, aren’t we?”
I nod my head and glance behind me, taking in a view of the palace from the outside. Then I turn all the way around. The exterior is different. There’s no white stone that I saw with Zoe—only red bricks now. It’s also more compact. Fortresslike. Something to fear as well as admire. This isn’t the Hampton Court Palace I walked into this afternoon.
A nauseous wave comes over me as I turn back to the woman. “And by any chance, could you tell me what year it is?”
I have to actively push down the urge to hyperventilate as I wait for her answer. She seems unsure whether she wants to reply at all when she finally says, “It’s the year of our Lord, 1540.” I breathe noticeably harder at her response, and the woman whips her arm up to cover her mouth. “You better not have the sweat!” she wails. “First time I talk to you rich lot and now I’m off to die for it!” She marches away with her mouth still covered. A man dressed in purple finery with a greasy goatee walks past me next, and I step in front of him to block his path.
“Excuse me, what year is it?”
He barely gives me eye contact, only puts his hands up and pivots around me. “No, no. I don’t speak to women. It’s a personal choice. Please respect it.” He continues on his way, and the crowd keeps moving, living their busy lives around me—their busy Tudor-era lives.
No. This can’t be real. I can’t be back in time. I just can’t.
But I think I am.
Okay, I need to focus on leaving this place; then I can figure everything out. I spot an exit in the distance, across the yard and through a short tunnel. I could go on foot, but it’s so hard to move in these clothes and I don’t know where I’m going. There has to be another way.
Looking to my right, I see a saddled horse tied to a railing. The last time I rode, I was five and wore a sweat-marinated helmet provided by the petting zoo. But if I’m going to go a substantial distance, it’s my only option. I nervously approach the animal, and the closer I get, the more I realize that horses are the size of dragons. I can only hope that it will trample me to death quickly, but as I place a hand on its coarse white hair, something strange happens—I innately know that I can ride this horse. It’s an inexplicable feeling I have in my gut, so loud and brazenly clear. Giving in to the sensation, I grip the saddle and hoist myself up like I’ve done so hundreds of times.
When I sit astride the horse, my skirt bunches up, revealing the stockings covering my ankles and calves. A collective hush falls over the crowd as countless heads turn to look at me. The women are shocked. The men seem hungry. Time to go.
I bring my salacious legs down at the horse’s sides with a firm kick, and we shoot off like a bullet through the yard. Adrenaline explodes in my chest as I sit deep in the saddle, aligning my body with the horse’s spine as I laugh instead of scream. Riding a horse at full tilt is a freedomI’ve never tasted before. The sound of hooves smashing against the stone beneath us echoes in my ears as we erupt through and out of the tunnel leading beyond the palace walls.
I’m still equestrienne drunk when we mellow our pace a few minutes later. I bring the horse to a gradual stop on the dirt road we’re on as I take in my new surroundings. There are grassy fields and trees as far as the eye can see. No electrical poles. No signs of technology. The impossible truth of where I am sets into my bones and sends a chill through me. I’m still deciding my next move when I notice a speck on the road in the distance. I shade my eyes as it gets closer and takes shape, revealing itself to be a horse and rider. In almost any other situation, I’d choose the bear rather than flag down an unknown man, but in this moment, I have to risk it.
The approaching horse slows as it nears, and I’m able to see the man astride it. He looks a little older than me, with tousled pitch-black hair that’s just short of his shoulders. His plain Tudor clothes are marred with dust, and his handsome but tired face mirrors my suspicion. He squints into the sun to get a good look at me. A split second later, his hard expression shifts to unguarded recognition.
“Catherine?” he asks, almost in disbelief. I don’t answer, and he instantly urges his horse forward, right next to mine. “Have I changed so much that you no longer recognize me?” His voice is inviting, almost magnetic—giving the impression that Ishouldknow him. “Or has the Dowager Duchess finally convinced you to hate the sight of Francis Dereham?”
Francis Dereham.
I know that name. Why do I know that name?
I focus inward to find the connection. I’ve always had a good memory, and my mind zips back to the audio tour I was listening to this afternoon. The narrator was talking about one ofHenry VIII’s queens. One that he killed. She was executed with her lovers—one of whom was Francis Dereham.
I meet his hopeful gaze and take a breath, fidgeting with the reins in my clammy palms.
“What year is it?” I ask him.
