“Yes,” I answer honestly. Because Catherine always is. This is the first time I’ve thought of her today, and it leaves me feeling off-kilter. “What if I wasn’t?” I then ask him. “What if I woke up and I was a little older, and my skin wasn’t perfect, and you couldn’t even recognize me?”
“It wouldn’t make a difference,” he tells me. “My heart would find yours.”
He gives me another kiss and gets up from the bed. I get up, too, still wrapped in my blanket as he sneaks out the door. I’m about to close it when I suddenly open it back up halfway.
“Simon,” I whisper, leaning my head out. He looks over his shoulder, most likely expecting me to whisper a sweet farewell when I actually say, “Just so you know, I’m pretty sure he’s out of the palace at the moment, but I do have a slightly murderous ex-boyfriend who may or may not be hiding behind a curtain somewhere in the vicinity. I’m sure you’ll be fine, but you should walk to your room fast to be on the safe side.”
He turns all the way around, his eyes widening in confusion. “What?”
“Just be aware of your surroundings. If you see something, say something. Good night!”
I close the door and turn to lean back on the wooden surface. My muscles are sore, and my mind is racing, but I’ve never felt better since I’ve been here.
Of course the best sex of my life just had to be waiting for me in 1541. It would be way too easy otherwise.
Chapter Eighteen
Through heavy questioning and consistent annoyance on almost every level of Hampton Court hierarchy, I have learned that this palace is in desperate need of an HR department. They need a caffeine-addicted, no-nonsense corporate warrior named Cindy. Cindy, who will flag the shit out of every nonexistent department and make them bleed with the biting rhetoric of her interoffice memos.
As it stands now, I’m in a standoff with the Master of the Household, Lord Fowley, a tired man in his mid-fifties in a very expensive doublet and cape. I continue to air my grievances to him as he rubs his well-trimmed beard.
“I don’t understand what it is that you’re asking of me, Your Majesty.”
I sit back in my chair. “All I’m asking is for humane, safe living conditions for our servants. These people dedicate their days and lives to helping this palace function. They see to our every need, and yet we’re not even remotely seeing to theirs.”
“Servants of Hampton Court are given food and board, as well as a salary. Those are extremely generous terms.”
“In theory, yes, but not in practice. To my knowledge, the only options servants are given are unjust, unhealthy, and unacceptable.”
Lord Fowley continues to glance at my sitting room door, no doubt in eagerness to leave. I nod to Lady Rochford, who then makes a show of locking it. The man sighs at his blocked escape and turns his gaze back to mine. “What is it exactly that you want, Your Majesty?”
I cross my arms and wait a beat. “I want to make improvements,” I tell him.
One of his oiled eyebrows shoots up. “What kind of improvements?”
“What are these rooms used for?” I ask Lord Fowley. We’re in one of the buildings surrounding the Great Gatehouse courtyard. Senior nobles are seldom here unless they’re passing in or out. The courtyard is public and is more of a transitional space into the palace than a place for the higher-ups to linger.
“Base court is primarily reserved for an overflow of guests.”
The Master of the Household looks at the primarily empty room we’re standing in. It’s modest, with just a few beds and hardly anything else, but there’s sunlight and the air is breathable. Curtains could be hung for more privacy.
“So, what you’re saying is, most of the people who stay here could pay for a room somewhere local? Which would benefit innkeepers and other small business owners, while giving hundreds of servants a decent place to sleep?”
“Possibly,” he answers sheepishly.
I look over at Bessie, and she makes a note in the hard book she’s carrying around with us.
We’re standing in a back room outside the kitchens. Several servants are wiping themselves down with wet cloths and small buckets, no more than a couple of feet apart. I’m standing beside a particular man who just washed his armpits with a cloth and then used that same cloth to wash his face.
“Tell me, how are servants meant to stay healthy when they don’t have regular, adequate opportunities to bathe, nor the time or facilities to do so?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Your Majesty.” A woman walks past Lord Fowley, ferociously scratching her hair along the way.
“And there’s another prime example. Do you enjoy headlice, Lord Fowley?”
He looks at the woman and quickly moves several feet away.
“Our workers need better sanitation and washing facilities. Improved health prevents the spread of disease and exhaustion and increases morale.” I then walk past him, giving a purposeful look to his scalp.
