The Tudor Witch Book 1 Mistress

1523 Dover (Edited)

  Looking out towards the horizon—where the black rolling sea touches the twilight sky—a person might make out a smudge of color if they were to look hard enough. The smudge fades with every passing second.

I watch from the cold English shoreline until the vessel disappears completely from sight. I can not suppress the small pout, which wrinkles my normally smooth, carefree skin. The vessel is gone—my last attachment to Calais—leaving me alone on this freezing Island.

My long blonde hair has been tousled by the strong winds. My hair is meant to hang in thick loose curls until I am betrothed, so I tuck the strands under my cloak hood to conceal my disheveled hairdo.

Mother has always reassured me that I am a beauty. Others at court say that I am kind and sweet. I have had a few admirers in my few years at court: French men who fancied my pretty smile and soft features. Only a few have pursued my hand in marriage; most men's attention waned after they realized I was not inclined to lift my skirts for a quick dalliance. There has never been love.

* * *

I rub my hands over the tops of my arms, then turn away from the sea, it's salt spray stinging my face and burning my eyes. My sister Joan was sent to this country four years ago to marry a stranger. When she wrote, she spoke of cold weather, bitter winters and a court full of promiscuous sluts.

At least she got a good match. She was not the prettiest girl at court and she was older than me, yet, our father had still managed to get her someone above her station. Sir John Howard, not the ruthlessly skilled courtier we have heard about at court but a distant cousin, with the same old blood running through his English veins: We did not need to explain that to the court, though.

Joan says that the English men are young and vibrant. Favoring games, entertainment, sport and drink. There is always much to do, much to see, but I have been warned. They love to play beneath the bed sheets, their manhood at the front of their minds, and their King Henry, is the worst.

I emit an uneasy laugh as I reminisce her warning. She warned me of the Kings grandeur, and I remember the way the ladies swooned at his presence three years ago. Most had agreed he was handsome, strong, and daring. She had told me that I shouldn't be fooled by the King's charisma, and remain maidenly no matter what.

What she does not know, but I will soon tell her, is that mother is sending me for that reason and no other. She had once told me that the English King would be mine. I thought she was, perhaps, drunk on wine and unaware of the words coming out of her mouth. Then her gray friend convinced her she was right and the time was now, so she packed me away without a second thought to a strange country, to welcome its King into my bed.

There are a vast number of noble families which hold court and permanent residence at the palaces of the king. I know only a handful—those who have visited the French court in turn. They will not be allies, just acquaintances. I will be an outsider seeking the most coveted title of Mistress of the king. I will have few friends and family alliances and it is certain I will make enemies of them all when my intentions are made clear.

I would have to be careful. I am navigating through new waters in this strange country and I will have to be smart.