Emmie and the Tudor King Read online

  Emmie and the Tudor King

  © 2019 Literary Crush Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior permission of the publisher or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any license permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Literary Crush Publishing

  75 E Center Street

  PO Box 451

  Springville, UT 84663 USA

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events of places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Natalie Murray

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First paperback edition June 2019

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Literary Crush Publishing at [email protected].

  Library of Congress CIP Data

  ISBN: 978-0-9984484-7-3

  ISBN: 978-0-9984484-8-0 (ebook)

  For Brent

  * * *

  Who watched his wife write a novel and never said:

  When will you be done that thing?

  Why can’t you make some real money?

  I need more help with the kids!

  And always said:

  You were born to do this.

  When can I read your book?

  Sure, honey, go and write.

  Sorry, Tudor ladies, he was born in my century. Phew.

  Contents

  Historical Timeline

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More books by Literary Crush Publishing

  Historical Timeline

  THE HOUSE OF TUDOR

  * * *

  England

  1485 Henry Tudor defeats King Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth to end the Wars of the Roses. He founds the Tudor dynasty and becomes King Henry VII, before dying of tuberculosis at age fifty-two.

  1509 Henry VII’s second son is crowned King Henry VIII. He marries six times and executes two of his wives. During his reign, Henry VIII breaks from the Catholic Church and declares England Protestant so he can marry Anne Boleyn.

  1547 Henry VIII’s longed-for son becomes King Edward VI at age nine and rules England for six years. Aged just sixteen, he dies of disputed causes.

  1553 In a Protestant plot to prevent the throne passing to Edward’s Catholic sister Mary Tudor, Henry VIII’s distant relative Lady Jane Grey is proclaimed queen for nine days and is never crowned. She is executed along with her conspirators.

  1553 Mary Tudor wins succession to become Queen Mary I. Her persecution of English Protestants earns her the nickname ‘Bloody Mary’. She dies childless, aged forty-two.

  1558 Mary’s half-sister Elizabeth fights off succession claims by her Catholic cousin Mary, Queen of Scots and is crowned Queen Elizabeth I. She cements Protestantism in England and rules the nation for forty-five years. Elizabeth dies unmarried with no heirs, despite a suspected romance with the Earl of Leicester, Robert Dudley.

  Or not.

  What if Queen Elizabeth I married her beloved Robert Dudley and gave birth to a son in 1560? A son that would become the last, and most notorious, Tudor monarch of all…

  Nicholas the Ironheart.

  I have both wagered love and land

  Your love and good-will for to have.

  * * *

  Lady Greensleeves,

  author unknown

  1

  He had one of those names that spelled terror. Nicholas the Ironheart. Like Jack the Ripper or Vlad the Impaler. Cue chills and my groan when my history teacher, Mrs. Campbell, handed out papers about him a month before high school finished forever. Couldn’t we just watch The Other Boleyn Girl for some Tudor history?

  Mrs. Campbell slapped a sheet onto my design sketchbook, her floral sleeve reeking of cigarettes. “Is the nickname ‘Nicholas the Ironheart’ justified for King Nicholas the First?” she announced, like none of us could read.

  Ugh. I only knew the sixteenth-century Tudor king was a prize-winning jerk and the grandson of the infamous head-chopper Henry the Eighth. I was pretty sure the Tudors were a bunch of psychos.

  Mrs. Campbell leaned against her cluttered desk, eyeballing me the way most Americans did whenever there was a British topic. Because I’d spent the first half of my life in England and couldn’t shake the accent, it was supposed to make me an expert on things like tea, cricket, and British monarchs. Never mind that I’d called America home for nine years now. Campbell should’ve read the memo by now. History was not my thing.

  “Work in pairs with whomever you like,” the teacher added.

  Cheers erupted, a celebratory pen flying from Logan Hunter’s fingers. I swapped a grin with my best friend Mia, who happened to be the smartest girl in the class.

  On our way to the lunch cafeteria, Mia pitched ideas about why King Nicholas the First wasn’t really a heartless savage. We slid into our usual corner beside the vending machines.

  “I think you’re confusing him with that other king, Nicholas the Wonderful,” I said mockingly, trying not to lose control of a slippery slice of pizza. “I’m pretty sure this one killed a whole bunch of people.”

  “We’ll get a better mark if we prove an unexpected angle,” Mia argued like it was non-negotiable, and it pretty much was. Mia did everything better than me, starting with her feline eyes and silky black hair, gifts from her Chinese mother. My mom had given me hair that didn’t know whether it wanted to be blonde or brown, curly or straight, and my grandpa once said my eyes looked like ripening olives, which is a weird thing to compare eyes to.

  “Happy Pizza Day, queens.”

  Josh Street dropped a plate of pepperoni beside Mia’s homemade tofu noodles. He sneaked in a quick kiss on Mia’s lips, and I pretended to gag. Before they’d hooked up at Avery Pearce’s Christmas party, the three of us had been best mates. Now Mia and Josh were a cringe-worthy rom-com. Despite that, I’d long forgiven them for making me the third wheel.

  “Happy day of birth,” I said through a smile, sliding Josh a crumpled packet.

  He pressed the present lovingly to his Labyrinth movie t-shirt before tearing it open. A bracelet made from odd-sized hex nuts fell into his palm.

  “A man-bangle. A mangle! Thanks, English.” He clipped the bracelet over his pine tree tattoo.

  “It’s kind of weird,” I admitted.

  “It’s your best ever,” said Mia, straightening her designer watch. “You should’ve used it for your application.”

  I scrunched my face. I was already late in applying to Central Saint Martins in London—one of the best design colleges in the world. For them to even consider me, I needed to design
something beyond epic. Something way better than a bunch of hex nuts strung together. I pushed away my pizza.

  Mia was huffing to Josh about our Nicholas the Ironheart assignment. It meant they had to shelve their weekend plans for his birthday, which was kind of a drag, given his mom was in rehab.

  Josh’s caterpillar brows pointed downward. “But I dropped my recording session, even though I’m, like, minutes from finishing my EP.”

  “So un-cancel it.”

  “Right, because the studio’s sitting around waiting for my call?” He pretended to put a phone to his ear. “Hey, this is Josh Street. I’ll be there in seven-and-a-quarter minutes. I’d like the room cleared of pink tortilla chips. Oh, and shower shoes made from unicorn tears.”

  Mia whacked his arm and spun to me. “Come over after school? Mom’s making xiaolongbao for dinner. We can work on the essay.”

  “Those dumplings with the hot soup inside? I’m already on my way.” If we worked on the essay tonight, I’d have the weekend free to scan thrift stores for old jewelry pieces I could rework for the Central Saint Martins application.

  After school, I strolled home via the local rest home to pick up my pay slip and tell Mom I was having dinner at Mia’s. She was glad, having just started her night shift. I helped her clean Mrs. Horne’s bedsore and hurried home to change.

  Our house was a two-story clapboard with a decaying wrap-around verandah and no dishwasher, but it was the biggest place we’d rented anywhere. I filled the dog bowl with fresh kibble and scooped up Ruby for a quick cuddle before changing into my favorite white sundress. I scanned the jewelry hanger I’d built from hooks and pegboard and chose a synthetic jade pendant I made when I was fifteen.

  It took seven months of living in Hatfield, Massachusetts (otherwise known as the back-end-of-nowhere), before I discovered I could get to Mia’s faster by crossing the field behind our house. I clicked my tongue at the dusty old horses that inhabited the field, but they didn’t flinch. They were nothing like Bonnie, the friendly mare Dad let me ride back when we lived by the English seaside in Essex. “Easy, Emmeline!” he’d shout as my nine-year-old legs squeezed the horse to a canter. When Mom and I moved to Hatfield, I waited for years for Dad to visit so I could show him the horses behind our house.

  My naive faith in him still made me cringe.

  As I neared Bayberry Street, the chaotic grass shortened to uniform blades. Nurtured white roses sprouted along the curb. Across the road, my classmate Avery Pearce’s mom was wiping down her bay windows that faced Jane Stuart’s junkyard. Mrs. Pearce liked to remind everyone that Jane’s junkyard was the sole reason Bayberry Street wasn’t featured in any magazine spreads.

  But today, Jane Stuart’s broken furniture, wheel-less bicycles, rusted appliances, and tangled cables were sorted into ordered piles. A folding table full of trinkets stood beside a cardboard sign stating YARD SALE: Must Sell Today!

  “There’s plenty left; we close at sundown!” called a woman with spiky red hair. The words Community Cleanup Care stretched across her tight t-shirt.

  I hurried to the table and dug through cheap synthetic pearls and vintage watches, but I found nothing suitable to rework into an application piece for Central Saint Martins in London. My chest sank, and I hoped the thrift stores would have something. Otherwise, I was never getting accepted or ever getting out of Hatfield.

  The woman fished a ring from the pile. “It’s a touch flashy for me, but you young girls love these sorts of things, don’t you?”

  I took the ring from her palm, feeling my breath catch. A giant synthetic blue table-cut diamond sat centered on a band of gold, haloed by imitation rosette rubies. The ring was so brilliant I actually thought it could be real. I didn’t have a loupe to magnify it, but when I blew on the stones, they didn’t fog. I rubbed the edge against the table, but it didn’t scratch.

  “How about ten bucks?” The lady gripped her hips.

  “But this is…I mean, is Mrs. Stuart okay to sell this?”

  “The Council ordered Jane Stuart to ditch everything that doesn’t sell today. If you’re feeling kind, you can give me five dollars, or I’ll have the ring back. My niece might like it for her dress-up box.” She held out her hand.

  My fingers closed around the heavy gold band. There were a thousand ways I could rework it into a piece so worthy of Central Saint Martins that they’d roll out a red carpet for me.

  I pressed a five-dollar bill into the lady’s palm and slipped the ring onto my thumb.

  When I looked up, Jane Stuart was watching me from behind her screen door. Her wild white hair and pale skin made her look like a ghost.

  Guilt pinched my chest as I quickly strode away toward Mia’s iron gate. There was no way the old hoarder Jane Stuart could have a ring worth millions of dollars. It had to be a fake, in spite of my breath and scratch tests saying otherwise.

  I always felt I should tiptoe up the curved staircase and along the corridor of Chinese silk paintings that led to Mia’s bedroom. She emptied a mound of books about Nicholas the Ironheart onto her bed, which smelled like the spa in Springfield she took me to for my eighteenth birthday. I groaned and kicked off my sandals, hearing the patter of rain against the balcony door. Mrs. Fairbanks’s restaurant-worthy Shanghai dumplings and salted duck warmed my stomach.

  “Play Say You’ll Stay again,” said Mia. “It makes me miss falling in love.”

  “Yikes, that was fast.”

  “You know what I mean. Those first days when you can’t sleep or eat.” She sighed.

  I opened my laptop and clicked on Atomic’s mesmerizing new track. Truthfully, I had no idea what Mia was going on about. I’d had a few dates, kissed a few frogs, but I’d never experienced anything close to love, at least the way Mia described it. I twisted the ring on my thumb. When I’d graduated design college and had an internship with a top jewelry designer…that’s when I’d think about a boyfriend.

  Mia scooted onto her knees. “I forgot to tell you. I saw Logan and Avery last night buying Garden Party tickets. They were totally butting heads over whether to get one- or two-day passes.”

  Garden Party was an annual music festival in Northampton, and this year Atomic was headlining. “Sounds epic,” I said sarcastically.

  “Shut up, it was one of those fights you have right before you break up. When you’re totally over the other person’s crap.”

  I chuckled. It had taken me a year to get over my missed chance with Logan, but if he really was breaking up with Avery, it was way too late for me to care. If I didn’t get into Central Saint Martins, I was going to London anyway.

  Mia snorted at her phone. “Uncle Pete’s making Josh play backgammon.”

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard, her eyes doing that ‘Josh thing’ they did nowadays.

  I exhaled and grabbed a library book titled History’s Monsters: Nicholas the Ironheart.

  Yawning, I scanned the introduction.

  * * *

  Nicholas I of England (1 June 1560—18 November 1599) was the son of Queen Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. When Queen Elizabeth died at the age of 39 while giving birth to her daughter Catherine, Nicholas was crowned King of England at the age of 12. The early years of his reign were peaceful, until his eight-year-old sister was murdered in 1580 under mysterious circumstances. The 20-year-old king’s reprisal was harsh. King Nicholas slayed thousands of suspected Catholics, believed to be in retribution for Catherine’s death. The reign of terror continued for nearly two decades, earning the Tudor king his famous epithet ‘Nicholas the Ironheart’.

  * * *

  I flipped to the pictures, pausing on a portrait I’d seen before. The date had the king at nineteen years of age, but he looked twice that. He was flabby and dour-faced, with a feathered flat cap and navy coat draped with a thick gold chain. His mouth was a thin straight line through his dark beard, his eyes as cold and blue as an Alaskan lake.

  Mia’s phone hit the cushion. “Josh is getting bori
ng. We should start.”

  After a monotonous hour of reading, Mia pushed play on a documentary she’d downloaded about Nicholas the Ironheart while my toes massaged her alpaca bedspread. Her earlier argument that the young king was more misunderstood than merciless had just started to make sense when the images turned darker. Paintings of decomposing bodies in London streets dissolved into drawings of Catholics being hanged. The narrator described a ravage of the nation that plunged England into poverty and civil war.

  I leaned into Mia, who snored in my ear.

  “Mia!” I whispered. Typical. She’d never once made the New Year’s Eve countdown. The screen filled with the same famous portrait from the book. The camera close-up traveled along the king’s grim face and down his wide velvet sleeve to his right hand clutching a gold-tipped sword. My stomach hit the floor as I focused on the ring flashing from his third finger.

  The center stone was a deep-blue table-cut diamond, circled with rosette rubies.

  When the image changed, I grabbed the book I’d had earlier and thumbed back to the portrait. I compared the ring on my thumb with the one on Nicholas the Ironheart’s finger. Every detail was identical.

  “Mia!” I hissed, but she didn’t stir.

  I switched off the documentary, my heart pounding, and clicked on a romantic comedy from Mia’s movie library. But I barely looked at the screen, my eyes firmly glued to the ring on my hand. How could I have bought a replica of some mad king’s ring on the same day we landed an essay about him? It was too creepy. I pulled the bedspread over my legs, the window shuddering with rain.