When all of history sits on your doorstep,
the adventures never end!
A Serialised Novel suggested by Readers
Chapter 2
A blast of trumpets drew them to the narrow nursery window. “It’s him,” Mary peered through the lead bars. “The Earl of Hogwitch.”
“So soon?” Edward wriggled in beside her. Into the courtyard below lurched a magnificent litter, its velvet curtains firmly closed. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“His retinue wear his colours.” Mary nodded at the stooped and straining litter-bearers. “Crimson slashed with green.”
“Ah, yes. For what is life,” Edward quoted the Earl’s favourite dictum, “but a mess of blood and bile?”
“And acrobats, it would seem.” Lizzy joined them. “They’re a new one.” Weaving in and out of the procession of Hogwitch’s horn-players, acrobats sprang and tumbled – quick, before Hogwitch’s hounds could bite their heels. A mob of Mastiffs, they were restrained (barely) by a troop of chain-mailed guards, who let them bite at the tumblers’ heels – and tear strips off the Earl’s ‘whipping boys’.
“Poor lads,” winced Liz. Everyone knew Hogwitch had orphans routinely rounded up from the streets - to strike when life enraged him. Pretty often, she now surmised: One lad was nursing a split lip, another squinted through two black eyes. A third had just stopped to wipe his bleeding nose when the carriage curtains parted, and a huge arm shot out. Sleeved in red silk, it ended in a fist the size of a ham, which opened to hurl something (possibly a smaller ham) at the boy.
As the child went reeling, the curtains parted further – and a head emerged. From her high viewing point, Liz caught the top of a green velvet cap, spiked with an ostrich feather. Hogwitch, she gulped, his cap slipping back to reveal a lumpy, close-shaved skull. One eye socket was slightly caved in; both ears were crinkled like the smashed leaves of a cauliflower, testament to the vicious, brawling life Hogwitch was rumoured to have led before his ship came in. A big ship...
A year on, and the folk of Tudorgate still spoke of it: How Hogwitch stood on the harbour wall, punching a fist in triumph as his battered galleon sailed in laden with riches and spoils from the Hidden Isles. Seven days it had taken to unload all the treasures and gold. A week for Hogwitch to slew off a lifetime of scrapping, swindling and shady deals to emerge the richest, most ruthless figure in Tudorgate. Lending Henry VIII funds to shore up the rapidly-emptying royal coffers, Hogwitch had gained first an earldom, then a seat beside the desperate king’s throne. Now he was hungry for more.
As he raised his greedy gaze to the nursery, Liz felt a sharp elbow shoving her from the window. “Nasty specimen,” sniffed Mary. “Dissect his bloated carcase, and I’d find it stuffed with–”
“Gold, that’s what,” cried Nursey, “not that it helped his ship’s crew, did it?” She dropped her voice to a whisper half the palace could hear. “When Hogwitch realised none of his returning sailors could point to the Isles on a map, he got that mad he hanged the sorry lot. Strung ‘em up, old man and boy, along his castle parapets. Then slung the bodies into the cess-pit to be chewed over by dogs.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” A silvery laugh tinkled towards them. “It’s no crime to tidy loose ends.” Gliding down the gallery came a beautiful woman – her gown purple as a bruise; her hair black as her glittering eyes. “Daughter Elizabeth, why aren’t you dressing for our big moment? And Edward, go wash your fringe.” Her laugh turned from silver to steel. “I didn’t escape the executioner’s axe to be thwarted by any greasy heir.”
“Of course, Lady Anne,” Edward back-pedalled to his library. Simultaneously Mary scarpered towards the kitchens, muttering something about her sack of saltpetre (‘‘perhaps I shouldn’t have stashed it by open fire”). As her siblings scattered, Liz suppressed a pang: Royal half-siblings only joined by their father, was it a surprise they never acted as one? True, having five step-mothers didn’t help...
On cue, a squeak of pinched feet came round the corner. With a rustle of silks and a rattle of jewels, they jostled into the gallery: Henry’s six, squabbling wives.
A blast of trumpets drew them to the narrow nursery window. “It’s him,” Mary peered through the lead bars. “The Earl of Hogwitch.”
“So soon?” Edward wriggled in beside her. Into the courtyard below lurched a magnificent litter, its velvet curtains firmly closed. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“His retinue wear his colours.” Mary nodded at the stooped and straining litter-bearers. “Crimson slashed with green.”
“Ah, yes. For what is life,” Edward quoted the Earl’s favourite dictum, “but a mess of blood and bile?”
“And acrobats, it would seem.” Lizzy joined them. “They’re a new one.” Weaving in and out of the procession of Hogwitch’s horn-players, acrobats sprang and tumbled – quick, before Hogwitch’s hounds could bite their heels. A mob of Mastiffs, they were restrained (barely) by a troop of chain-mailed guards, who let them bite at the tumblers’ heels – and tear strips off the Earl’s ‘whipping boys’.
“Poor lads,” winced Liz. Everyone knew Hogwitch had orphans routinely rounded up from the streets - to strike when life enraged him. Pretty often, she now surmised: One lad was nursing a split lip, another squinted through two black eyes. A third had just stopped to wipe his bleeding nose when the carriage curtains parted, and a huge arm shot out. Sleeved in red silk, it ended in a fist the size of a ham, which opened to hurl something (possibly a smaller ham) at the boy.
As the child went reeling, the curtains parted further – and a head emerged. From her high viewing point, Liz caught the top of a green velvet cap, spiked with an ostrich feather. Hogwitch, she gulped, his cap slipping back to reveal a lumpy, close-shaved skull. One eye socket was slightly caved in; both ears were crinkled like the smashed leaves of a cauliflower, testament to the vicious, brawling life Hogwitch was rumoured to have led before his ship came in. A big ship...
A year on, and the folk of Tudorgate still spoke of it: How Hogwitch stood on the harbour wall, punching a fist in triumph as his battered galleon sailed in laden with riches and spoils from the Hidden Isles. Seven days it had taken to unload all the treasures and gold. A week for Hogwitch to slew off a lifetime of scrapping, swindling and shady deals to emerge the richest, most ruthless figure in Tudorgate. Lending Henry VIII funds to shore up the rapidly-emptying royal coffers, Hogwitch had gained first an earldom, then a seat beside the desperate king’s throne. Now he was hungry for more.
As he raised his greedy gaze to the nursery, Liz felt a sharp elbow shoving her from the window. “Nasty specimen,” sniffed Mary. “Dissect his bloated carcase, and I’d find it stuffed with–”
“Gold, that’s what,” cried Nursey, “not that it helped his ship’s crew, did it?” She dropped her voice to a whisper half the palace could hear. “When Hogwitch realised none of his returning sailors could point to the Isles on a map, he got that mad he hanged the sorry lot. Strung ‘em up, old man and boy, along his castle parapets. Then slung the bodies into the cess-pit to be chewed over by dogs.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” A silvery laugh tinkled towards them. “It’s no crime to tidy loose ends.” Gliding down the gallery came a beautiful woman – her gown purple as a bruise; her hair black as her glittering eyes. “Daughter Elizabeth, why aren’t you dressing for our big moment? And Edward, go wash your fringe.” Her laugh turned from silver to steel. “I didn’t escape the executioner’s axe to be thwarted by any greasy heir.”
“Of course, Lady Anne,” Edward back-pedalled to his library. Simultaneously Mary scarpered towards the kitchens, muttering something about her sack of saltpetre (‘‘perhaps I shouldn’t have stashed it by open fire”). As her siblings scattered, Liz suppressed a pang: Royal half-siblings only joined by their father, was it a surprise they never acted as one? True, having five step-mothers didn’t help...
On cue, a squeak of pinched feet came round the corner. With a rustle of silks and a rattle of jewels, they jostled into the gallery: Henry’s six, squabbling wives.
First to enter was Katherine of Aragon, portly and pious in black. Trotting after her came Jane Seymour, chubby and chewing on a sausage. Giggly young Catherine Howard paused in the doorway to chat up a guard. She’d got as far as “Do you come here often?” when pushed through the gap by a much older, sadder-looking woman: Catherine Parr was Henry VIII’s current (and everyone fervently hoped last) wife. An experienced nurse, and established peace-maker, it was her job to bandage the foul-smelling sore on Henry’s gout-swollen leg - and ease the mental inflammation caused by the perpetual presence of his five, former wives. Decked in glittering diadems and rich brocade, the queens formed an exclusive club. Lizzy guessed that’s why (despite their bickering) they always travelled in a pack.
“Elithabeth!” Jane Seymour wolfed down her sausage, then fished another from her skirts. “Why aren’t you wearing your banquet dreth? The Earl of Hogwitch ith eager to thee hith betrothed.”
“Too eager by half! Has the man no restraint?” Katherine of Aragon raised her eyes heavenward. “Hogwitch must be a good 30 years older than Elizabeth.”
“Nothing wrong with that! Older men have more money,” Catherine Howard winked at Liz, “and a lot less acne.”
“Ew,” said Liz. “I don’t want to think about his face.”
“Indeed it does not look God-fearing,” shuddered Katherine. “These husbands can be devils! I have taken steps to preserve my child.” She clutched Mary to her chest.
“Ouch,” Mary banged her head against her mother’s massive rosary. “What kind of steps?”
“Big ones. Holy Ones,” she crossed herself, “for a devout Catholic girl.”
Good luck with that, thought Liz. Last time she’d seen Katherine with her ‘devout’ daughter: Mary had been trying to persuade her mother the earth went round the sun, while Katherine stuck her fingers in her ears, and sang, ‘Ave Maria’ on a loop.
“Focus, Elizabeth. Why aren’t you dressed for the feast?” Anne Boleyn’s black eyes narrowed. “And where are the earrings Hogwitch gifted you?”
“I’m not piercing my ears for a bloke.”
“Priceless black pearls,” exclaimed Anne, “harvested from the crystal seas of the Hidden Isles, yet you don’t deign to wear them? You’ve not even rubbed in the lead face paint I lent you! You want to look white and chalky, girl, not fresh and rosy.” She pinched her daughter’s cheeks. “Damn, that’s made it worse.”
Lizzy tried to pull free. But her mother’s grip was cruel and, gah, that eleventh finger didn’t help! Glimpsing the stump that dangled from Anne’s left hand, Lizzy could believe it held dark powers. Henry had certainly claimed so. Ten years ago, desperate to replace his second wife with a better model, he’d declared Anne to be a witch.
“Nonthenth,” her replacement had retorted. “Witcheth don’t exitht! They’ve all been WANISHED by the fairies.”
Yep, lucky for Anne - Henry’s in-coming wife Jane Seymour had proved so soft-hearted (Liz wouldn’t dream of saying simple) she wouldn’t “get mawwied to her ickle kingy wing” if he attempted to do anything harsher than divorce his previous wife. Instead she made him decree NOT TO CHOP OFF ANY MORE HEADTH. Lucky for Jane, it proved: When she nearly died giving birth to Edward, Henry was advised to replace her too - anything to boost his tally of male heirs (the weedy Edward not looking a great bet).
Three more wives had duly followed. But no more offspring. Result? “When Henry dies,” Anne never tired of telling her daughter, “all that stands between us and the Tudorgate throne are your two dratted siblings. And the interference of that ghastly German horse.”
Fortunately for Liz, this ‘horse’ was never too far away.
“Guten Morgen, meine Apfelstrudel!” Anne of Cleves, Henry’s fourth ex-wife galloped down the hall. Toppling a row of suits of armour with her broad skirts, she proceeded to take out two torch-holders with her (even broader) shoulders.
Fiercely loyal, Anne of Cleves (‘Clevesy’ to her mates) flattened anyone who threatened those she loved. And she’d loved Lizzy since her lonely arrival at Tudorgate as a ‘mail order’ bride. Henry had been hoping for a tasty, Teutonic hot-pot. Met with a hearty girl who could pull a hay-wagon, he’d compared Anne to a horse. The entire court had tittered, save for a curly-haired tot who toddled up the king, and headbutted him in the royal jewels.
Dispatched in disgrace, Lizzy had taken her jolly German stepmother with her. While Henry stomped about demanding a quickie divorce, Clevesey mastered Royal Nursery Rituals such as Long Gallery Skirt Sliding, and Raiding the Cheese when Nursey’s Got Her Head in a Chamber Pot. Divorce finalised, she swore to stick around as long as Lizzy needed protecting from her father’s rages – and her mother’s machinations.
“WHERE IST MEINE DARLINK, NAUGHTY-NOODLE SCHTEP-TOCHTER? ” Batting off Anne Boleyn, Clevesey swept Liz up into a hug. “You better get a moof on,” she muttered into her hair. “Your fatty-bum farter – ”
“Father,” Liz corrected her.
“Father, Farter...fattever,” shrugged Clevesey. “He’s going nuts.”
“Poor Henwy,” cried Jane Seymour, swallowing her last sausage. “He wants his din-dins”.
“He vants a smack on the bottom,” bellowed Clevesey. “He’s a spoilt, GRUMPIGE SCHWEIN EIN KARTOFFE-KOPF”.
Jane Seymour looked baffled. “Grumpy pig,”, translated Liz, “with a potato-head.”
Jane looked impressed (possibly because she didn’t know what a potato was. They’d only arrived from the Isles last year, and things generally took a bit longer to ‘travel’ to Jane). Anne Boleyn however looked scared; worse, guilty. As the royal wardrobe women bustled into the chamber, Liz watched her mother slide her six-fingered hand into her skirts - and heard the tell-tale crackle of a concealed parchment. What was her scheming mother up to now?
“Come,” Catherine Parr steered Liz towards her dressers, “your father’s debts to Hogwitch fester worse than any wound. Your betrothal will buy Tudorgate precious time, and your marriage need not take place for years - time enough to reconcile yourself to your duty.”
“But what about duty to myself?” protested Liz, as the wardrobe women started to disrobe her. “I want to be more than a...a whipping wife! I’ve seen over the Wall.”
“Sssh,” said all six wives in unison.
“Don’t speak of what is over the Wall,” said Katherine of Aragon, “it is not seemly.”
“Screw seemly,” Liz beat at her petticoats. “I want to travel in steamships...fly in soaring iron birds. I WANT TO LEARN TO TYPE!”
“Jeezus,” Anne of Cleves rolled her eyes, “Zink big, vy don’t you?”
“Don’t think at all,” warned Catherine Parr, selecting a rich gown for her. “Do as the menfolk command or it will be worse for you.”
“How worse?” yelled Lizzy, as heavy skirts encircled her waist, a rigid bodice encased her chest. “I’m a prisoner of my time!”
“Better that than a prisoner of Hogwitch.” Trapping Lizzy’s rebellious curls under a stiff headpiece, Catherine stroked her face briefly. “Play nice, clever one. Win what you can.”
From the wardrobe women Anne Boleyn took a small, jewelled box. Her slender white fingers extracted two huge black pearls, each affixed to a tiny silver spear. Swishing towards her daughter, she afford her a rare smile.
Dazzled, Lizzy smiled back.
She was still smiling as her mother stabbed her.
Prologue
Do you see that shooting star? No, not that one – look a little to the left. Yes, that’s it! Peer closely at that star, and you might see a small thatched cottage inside...
Chapter 1
Lizzy ran through the royal nursery pursued by her sister and a strong smell of burning. “Come back with my tinderbox!” Mary shrieked. “I’m experimenting.”
Chapter 3
“M’lady.” Maids of honour closed round her like an armed escort. “The King awaits.” With a crackling of skirts, Liz was led down the stone steps...
Chapter 2
A blast of trumpets drew them to the narrow nursery window. “It’s him,” Mary peered through the lead bars. “The Earl of Hogwitch.”
“So soon?” Edward wriggled in beside her. Into the courtyard below lurched a magnificent litter, its velvet curtains firmly closed. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“His retinue wear his colours.” Mary nodded at the stooped and straining litter-bearers. “Crimson slashed with green.”
“Ah, yes. For what is life,” Edward quoted the Earl’s favourite dictum, “but a mess of blood and bile?”
“And acrobats, it would seem.” Lizzy joined them. “They’re a new one.” Weaving in and out of the procession of Hogwitch’s horn-players, acrobats sprang and tumbled – quick, before Hogwitch’s hounds could bite their heels. A mob of Mastiffs, they were restrained (barely) by a troop of chain-mailed guards, who let them bite at the tumblers’ heels – and tear strips off the Earl’s ‘whipping boys’.
“Poor lads,” winced Liz. Everyone knew Hogwitch had orphans routinely rounded up from the streets - to strike when life enraged him. Pretty often, she now surmised: One lad was nursing a split lip, another squinted through two black eyes. A third had just stopped to wipe his bleeding nose when the carriage curtains parted, and a huge arm shot out. Sleeved in red silk, it ended in a fist the size of a ham, which opened to hurl something (possibly a smaller ham) at the boy.
As the child went reeling, the curtains parted further – and a head emerged. From her high viewing point, Liz caught the top of a green velvet cap, spiked with an ostrich feather. Hogwitch, she gulped, his cap slipping back to reveal a lumpy, close-shaved skull. One eye socket was slightly caved in; both ears were crinkled like the smashed leaves of a cauliflower, testament to the vicious, brawling life Hogwitch was rumoured to have led before his ship came in. A big ship...
A year on, and the folk of Tudorgate still spoke of it: How Hogwitch stood on the harbour wall, punching a fist in triumph as his battered galleon sailed in laden with riches and spoils from the Hidden Isles. Seven days it had taken to unload all the treasures and gold. A week for Hogwitch to slew off a lifetime of scrapping, swindling and shady deals to emerge the richest, most ruthless figure in Tudorgate. Lending Henry VIII funds to shore up the rapidly-emptying royal coffers, Hogwitch had gained first an earldom, then a seat beside the desperate king’s throne. Now he was hungry for more.
As he raised his greedy gaze to the nursery, Liz felt a sharp elbow shoving her from the window. “Nasty specimen,” sniffed Mary. “Dissect his bloated carcase, and I’d find it stuffed with–”
“Gold, that’s what,” cried Nursey, “not that it helped his ship’s crew, did it?” She dropped her voice to a whisper half the palace could hear. “When Hogwitch realised none of his returning sailors could point to the Isles on a map, he got that mad he hanged the sorry lot. Strung ‘em up, old man and boy, along his castle parapets. Then slung the bodies into the cess-pit to be chewed over by dogs.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” A silvery laugh tinkled towards them. “It’s no crime to tidy loose ends.” Gliding down the gallery came a beautiful woman – her gown purple as a bruise; her hair black as her glittering eyes. “Daughter Elizabeth, why aren’t you dressing for our big moment? And Edward, go wash your fringe.” Her laugh turned from silver to steel. “I didn’t escape the executioner’s axe to be thwarted by any greasy heir.”
“Of course, Lady Anne,” Edward back-pedalled to his library. Simultaneously Mary scarpered towards the kitchens, muttering something about her sack of saltpetre (‘‘perhaps I shouldn’t have stashed it by open fire”). As her siblings scattered, Liz suppressed a pang: Royal half-siblings only joined by their father, was it a surprise they never acted as one? True, having five step-mothers didn’t help...
On cue, a squeak of pinched feet came round the corner. With a rustle of silks and a rattle of jewels, they jostled into the gallery: Henry’s six, squabbling wives.
First to enter was Katherine of Aragon, portly and pious in black. Trotting after her came Jane Seymour, chubby and chewing on a sausage. Giggly young Catherine Howard paused in the doorway to chat up a guard. She’d got as far as “Do you come here often?” when pushed through the gap by a much older, sadder-looking woman: Catherine Parr was Henry VIII’s current (and everyone fervently hoped last) wife. An experienced nurse, and established peace-maker, it was her job to bandage the foul-smelling sore on Henry’s gout-swollen leg - and ease the mental inflammation caused by the perpetual presence of his five, former wives. Decked in glittering diadems and rich brocade, the queens formed an exclusive club. Lizzy guessed that’s why (despite their bickering) they always travelled in a pack.
“Elithabeth!” Jane Seymour wolfed down her sausage, then fished another from her skirts. “Why aren’t you wearing your banquet dreth? The Earl of Hogwitch ith eager to thee hith betrothed.”
“Too eager by half! Has the man no restraint?” Katherine of Aragon raised her eyes heavenward. “Hogwitch must be a good 30 years older than Elizabeth.”
“Nothing wrong with that! Older men have more money,” Catherine Howard winked at Liz, “and a lot less acne.”
“Ew,” said Liz. “I don’t want to think about his face.”
“Indeed it does not look God-fearing,” shuddered Katherine. “These husbands can be devils! I have taken steps to preserve my child.” She clutched Mary to her chest.
“Ouch,” Mary banged her head against her mother’s massive rosary. “What kind of steps?”
“Big ones. Holy Ones,” she crossed herself, “for a devout Catholic girl.”
Good luck with that, thought Liz. Last time she’d seen Katherine with her ‘devout’ daughter: Mary had been trying to persuade her mother the earth went round the sun, while Katherine stuck her fingers in her ears, and sang, ‘Ave Maria’ on a loop.
“Focus, Elizabeth. Why aren’t you dressed for the feast?” Anne Boleyn’s black eyes narrowed. “And where are the earrings Hogwitch gifted you?”
“I’m not piercing my ears for a bloke.”
“Priceless black pearls,” exclaimed Anne, “harvested from the crystal seas of the Hidden Isles, yet you don’t deign to wear them? You’ve not even rubbed in the lead face paint I lent you! You want to look white and chalky, girl, not fresh and rosy.” She pinched her daughter’s cheeks. “Damn, that’s made it worse.”
Lizzy tried to pull free. But her mother’s grip was cruel and, gah, that eleventh finger didn’t help! Glimpsing the stump that dangled from Anne’s left hand, Lizzy could believe it held dark powers. Henry had certainly claimed so. Ten years ago, desperate to replace his second wife with a better model, he’d declared Anne to be a witch.
“Nonthenth,” her replacement had retorted. “Witcheth don’t exitht! They’ve all been WANISHED by the fairies.”
Yep, lucky for Anne - Henry’s in-coming wife Jane Seymour had proved so soft-hearted (Liz wouldn’t dream of saying simple) she wouldn’t “get mawwied to her ickle kingy wing” if he attempted to do anything harsher than divorce his previous wife. Instead she made him decree NOT TO CHOP OFF ANY MORE HEADTH. Lucky for Jane, it proved: When she nearly died giving birth to Edward, Henry was advised to replace her too - anything to boost his tally of male heirs (the weedy Edward not looking a great bet).
Three more wives had duly followed. But no more offspring. Result? “When Henry dies,” Anne never tired of telling her daughter, “all that stands between us and the Tudorgate throne are your two dratted siblings. And the interference of that ghastly German horse.”
Fortunately for Liz, this ‘horse’ was never too far away.
“Guten Morgen, meine Apfelstrudel!” Anne of Cleves, Henry’s fourth ex-wife galloped down the hall. Toppling a row of suits of armour with her broad skirts, she proceeded to take out two torch-holders with her (even broader) shoulders.
Fiercely loyal, Anne of Cleves (‘Clevesy’ to her mates) flattened anyone who threatened those she loved. And she’d loved Lizzy since her lonely arrival at Tudorgate as a ‘mail order’ bride. Henry had been hoping for a tasty, Teutonic hot-pot. Met with a hearty girl who could pull a hay-wagon, he’d compared Anne to a horse. The entire court had tittered, save for a curly-haired tot who toddled up the king, and headbutted him in the royal jewels.
Dispatched in disgrace, Lizzy had taken her jolly German stepmother with her. While Henry stomped about demanding a quickie divorce, Clevesey mastered Royal Nursery Rituals such as Long Gallery Skirt Sliding, and Raiding the Cheese when Nursey’s Got Her Head in a Chamber Pot. Divorce finalised, she swore to stick around as long as Lizzy needed protecting from her father’s rages – and her mother’s machinations.
“WHERE IST MEINE DARLINK, NAUGHTY-NOODLE SCHTEP-TOCHTER?” Batting off Anne Boleyn, Clevesey swept Liz up into a hug. “You better get a moof on,” she muttered into her hair. “Your fatty-bum farter – ”
“Father,” Liz corrected her.
“Father, Farter...fattever,” shrugged Clevesey. “He’s going nuts.”
“Poor Henwy,” cried Jane Seymour, swallowing her last sausage. “He wants his din-dins”.
“He vants a smack on the bottom,” bellowed Clevesey. “He’s a spoilt, GRUMPIGE SCHWEIN MIT EIN KARTOFFEL-KOPFf”.
Jane Seymour looked baffled. “Grumpy pig,”, translated Liz, “with a potato-head.”
Jane looked impressed (possibly because she didn’t know what a potato was. They’d only arrived from the Isles last year, and things generally took a bit longer to ‘travel’ to Jane). Anne Boleyn however looked scared; worse, guilty. As the royal wardrobe women bustled into the chamber, Liz watched her mother slide her six-fingered hand into her skirts - and heard the tell-tale crackle of a concealed parchment. What was her scheming mother up to now?
“Come,” Catherine Parr steered Liz towards her dressers, “your father’s debts to Hogwitch fester worse than any wound. Your betrothal will buy Tudorgate precious time, and your marriage need not take place for years - time enough to reconcile yourself to your duty.”
“But what about duty to myself?” protested Liz, as the wardrobe women started to disrobe her. “I want to be more than a...a whipping wife! I’ve seen over the Wall.”
“Sssh,” said all six wives in unison.
“Don’t speak of what is over the Wall,” said Katherine of Aragon, “it is not seemly.”
“Screw seemly,” Liz beat at her petticoats. “I want to travel in steamships...fly in soaring iron birds. I WANT TO LEARN TO TYPE!”
“Jeezus,” Anne of Cleves rolled her eyes, “Zink big, vy don’t you?”
“Don’t think at all,” warned Catherine Parr, selecting a rich gown for her. “Do as the menfolk command or it will be worse for you.”
“How worse?” yelled Lizzy, as heavy skirts encircled her waist, a rigid bodice encased her chest. “I’m a prisoner of my time!”
“Better that than a prisoner of Hogwitch.” Trapping Lizzy’s rebellious curls under a stiff headpiece, Catherine stroked her face briefly. “Play nice, clever one. Win what you can.”
From the wardrobe women Anne Boleyn took a small, jewelled box. Her slender white fingers extracted two huge black pearls, each affixed to a tiny silver spear. Swishing towards her daughter, she afford her a rare smile.
Dazzled, Lizzy smiled back.
She was still smiling as her mother stabbed her.
Prologue
Do you see that shooting star? No, not that one – look a little to the left. Yes, that’s it! Peer closely at that star, and you might see a small thatched cottage inside...
Chapter 1
Lizzy ran through the royal nursery pursued by her sister and a strong smell of burning. “Come back with my tinderbox!” Mary shrieked. “I’m experimenting.”
Chapter 3
“M’lady.” Maids of honour closed round her like an armed escort. “The King awaits.” With a crackling of skirts, Liz was led down the stone steps...
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Email us to get more ideas for history fun. BE FIRST to read new Nick in Time chapters as we write ‘em!
