“And if we are not?”

The coastal air was thick with salt and added heavy volume to my unbrushed mane. I batted it with my free hand, careful not to loosen my fingers from Jean’s grip with the other. He offered yet another grim smile.

Flashes of Dudley’s nubby-toothed grin and the promise of his torture chamber gave me pause. The hunger in his broken voice gnawed at my soul. When he spoke of having time with me alone upon my return, before my execution, he became a starving dog. Only through my torture would his hunger be satisfied. The gruesome nature of King Henry’s chamber was known across the land and was not simply limited to the rack or the gallows.

When Mark Smeaton, the musician among the many men accused of adultery with the late Queen Anne Boleyn was examined, it was widely whispered that a knotted rope was tightened about his head in such a manner that he emerged blinded for the remainder of his short, sad life. And that wasn’t even in the infamous chamber.

It seems every instrument that could be used to inflict pain was rumored to be present in his dungeon. I shivered and gripped Jean’s hand tighter. Surely the French Court had an equally ravenous torturer.

“Let’s not dwell on such matters.”

I began to speak, but the words strangled in my throat. I was glad of it, since fear would have broken them into unrecognizable syllables anyway.

Jean brushed my cheek with his thumb. “Fret not, Wife. I will die before I’ll let any harm come to you.”

Carefully, we made our way up the rocky path to the castle that may well be our ultimate undoing—or our earthly salvation.

A pair of King Francis’s men stepped before us as we neared the castle gate. “Arret!”

My breath caught in my chest and my eyes trained on the open portcullis just inside. Jean and I came to a halt, just as the soldiers commanded.

“Indiquer votre enterprise,” the tall one with the thick moustache ordered.

“He said state your business,” I translated quietly, but Jean didn’t need me to translate for him.

“Nous avons besoin d’une rencontre avec King Francis,” Jean relayed in perfect French.

The men’s identical coffee brown eyes widened. They turned slightly and began to whisper. I figured them to be brothers.

“What do you want to see the King about?” one ventured in rolling, accented English.

Jean never faltered as he slipped between languages. “We’ve come from the Court of His Majesty, the King of England seeking asylum.”

The quiet brother nudged the other. “It’s her. The next queen.”

My insides knotted, and fear froze my legs. I loosened my fingers from Jean’s protective grip. Terrified thoughts came in spurts.

I could run...

I began to slink backward, despite my heavy legs.

One of the soldiers reached out a hand. “Dear lady, fear not. You’ll find France to be your friend. After all, anything that gives King Henry reason to fret, in turn gives our King Francis reason to rejoice.”

Jean’s hand found mine again. “How did you know she was the next English queen?”

“Monsieur, your king chose Mademoiselle Bridgette for his bride long, long ago.”

I remembered the strange looks that passed between the fat, plumed courtiers the night they came for dinner with Lady Dennis, Elizabeth, and myself. The way they behaved as though they shared a special secret. Had Lady Denny made me party to this match long ago? If my aunt would do such a thing, was there nobody in this world I could trust?

The French soldier continued. “King Henry invited King Francis to the dinner where he would make the choice of the next queen. She would be dressed in the finest blue velvet and silk, he said, so King Francis would know her straight away, even before she herself knew.”

“Alas,” the other brother said, “King Francis found himself indisposed and unable to attend such an—affair.”

The pair shared a musical laugh.

Perhaps they are twins, I thought. Still, the idea that His Majesty had chosen me so long ago and still proceeded with this grand, false production made me queasy.

It was all a game. A game of hearts and hope where His Majesty knew the score before the rest of us were even told the rules.

The tell-tale blue fabric may well have been worms crawling about my skin. “Sirs, perhaps you might afford me a change of clothing?”

Finally, they stepped aside. “Of course, mademoiselle. King Francis will guarantee your comfort during your stay, I’m sure.”

“Actually,” I began. My glance flitted to Jean. “It’s madam.”

“And who might you be, sir?”

Jean lifted his chin. “Since becoming a husband to a woman wanted by the King of England, I do believe I have joined the ranks of the most hated.”

The brothers exchanged a look and began to laugh anew before they started through the castle gate. “This way, young lovers.”

My breath left my body in a cleansing puff. Jean offered a wan smile. “Come my love. It is time.”

The French Court

Calais

“S

how the wayward travelers in!”

I clutched Jean’s hand tighter as the great wooden doors to King Francis’s Throne Room swung inward. People lined the walls, which were thick with tapestries, and a trumpeter announced our arrival with a hearty blast of welcome on his horn. A dozen candelabras lit the room with candlelight warmth. Smiles graced the faces of those who stared at us, no doubt wondering how these offbeat and bedraggled English wound up gracing the French Court at Calais.

My lips twitched upward as my gaze met that of some of the French women who lined the great hall. Everything about this placed exuded friendliness, and a welcoming air hung thick about the room.

A voice from the far end of the chamber silenced what little chatter there was.

“Legend tells of a pair of English travelers who appear at the French Court in need of assistance!” With one booted leg propped masterfully atop the opposite knee, Francis’s grin shone from his throne like a miniature sun.

An ornate golden crown, dotted with jewels of all colors, was nestled in his mounds of black curls. Dark brows accented deep, laughing eyes. His full lips parted with a mischievous smile beneath his full, black beard and revealed two rows of gleaming white teeth.

“That’s King Francis,” Jean whispered. “His large, prominent nose is as much his trademark as Henry’s marriages are his.”

Dressed in red and gold robes that billowed out around his tall, muscular frame, the King of France had the look of a schoolboy prince playing upon his father’s throne. Though he was roughly aged equal to Henry, Francis had conquered his years masterfully. This Frenchman still maintained his youthful appearance—and his wit.

“Tell me truly, could these bedraggled souls be those very travelers?” Francis did a quick motion to the tune of raucous laughter. At once, goblets of wine were pressed into our hands.

A woman’s voice joined musically with Francis’s. “Yes, I believe they are. What did this legend foretell, Darling?”