LITMIR.BIZ

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      My father allows us use of his residences at Lambeth and Stoke in Suffolk and when I ask my princess where the best place to start our family would be, she blinks back tears.

      “Stoke, my lord,” she tells me in her soft, husky voice. “The country. Far away from court.”

      “Then we shall remove to Stoke,” I tell her, taking her dainty hands in mine. “And there I will be your goodly and devoted knight and will love you till I die.”

      This passionate display sends her into a deep flush and she bows her head. My God, she is a beauty! I cannot believe she is mine.

      I find I am relieved to depart from court as well. I am not a born courtier. I am as yet unskilled in the art of empty flattery. I know my calling and that is to arms; should the king need my service, he is assured that I am ready to prove my worth as his loyal and able defender.

      We set up our meagre household and I find it isn’t altogether bad to be poor (though I will seize every opportunity to reverse my fortune—I’m not an idiot, after all). My princess is quite competent and demonstrates a keen ability for frugality. She is formal; I imagine being raised at court has instilled this in her and as a result she is not given to initiating demonstrations of affection.

      She does not talk much; she is a dreamer. One could never accuse her of being silly or frivolous. Often I find her staring out of the window or seated in the gardens, her expression soft with melancholy whimsy.

      “What are you thinking about?” I ask her one day when I find her seated beside the duck pond. She holds an old loaf of bread but is not breaking any off to feed the ducks that are gathered about in anticipation.

      To my surprise, tears light her eyes. She averts her head.

      “Princess?” I call her nothing else; to utter her sacred name would be sacrilege. So she is Princess, my forever princess, and her tears twist my gut with pain. There is nothing I long for more than to bring her comfort. I kneel beside her, taking her chin between my fingers, turning her head toward me. “What is it, my love?”

      She blinks rapidly. “I cannot help it, my lord,” she tells me in tones that ring with desperation. “I cannot stop thinking of them. I try to will away the thoughts … I pray to the Lord for guidance, that He will help me banish them from my mind—”

      “Who, my lady?”

      She buries her face in her pretty hands. “My brothers … the princes … the princes in the Tower.”

      “Oh, Princess!” I cry, gathering her in my arms, rocking back and forth. What can I say to this? Never once had I thought of how the event affected her. Truly she must have had to disguise her grief well at the courts of her uncle Richard III and now her brother-in-law Henry VII.

      “I suppose we’ll never know what happened, will we?” she asks, her eyes lit with an innocence I long to preserve.

      I shake my head. If Grandfather alluded to anything the day we discussed the ill-fated princes, I will never share it with this poor girl. What purpose would it serve except to further her grief and drive a wedge between us?

      “We must press on,” I tell her, stroking her cheek. “Pray for their souls, my love, and press on. We have so much to look forward to.”

      She offers a little half smile. “Yes,” she acquiesces. “Do you suppose they are in the faery country?”

      This was the last thing I would suppose, but what can I say? I shrug, offering a smile of my own. “You are truly English, I think—one moment speaking of God and the next of the fey. Only a true Englishman can seamlessly marry the two.”

      The princess covers her mouth with a hand. “Do you think it blasphemy?”

      I wave a hand in dismissal; I want to say I don’t believe in blasphemy any more than I do the faery folk. “Of course not.”

      I take her in my arms again, daring to kiss the lips I crave, daring to distract her the best way I know how.

      She is a peculiar girl, this princess of mine, but her peculiarities are so endearing that I am beside myself with love for her. She leaves gifts for the faery folk, strange little gifts. A sweetmeat, a piece of string, a thimble, rose petals. In the oddest places—windowsills, the hearth of the fireplaces, my chair in my study, pressed between the pages in one of my ledgers. She writes them little notes, then burns them. The messages will be sent to the faeries in the ashes, she tells me.

      When I ask her what she communicates to her faery folk, she answers in all seriousness, “To bid them safeguard my brothers.”

      Often she is seen in the garden, twirling about in her gauzy gown, her little voice lifted in song. I watch her when she thinks she is alone.

      It is a beautiful sight.

      A year into our marriage the princess approaches me in my study. She wears a dreamy smile as she climbs onto my lap and snuggles against my shoulder. As such a show is so opposite to her character, I wrap my arms about her, revelling in her closeness and warmth. I cover the soft cheek and neck in gentle kisses.

      “My love, my love,” I murmur against her rose-gold hair. “How now, dearest?”

      She pulls away, roses blooming on her cheeks. She reaches for my hand and places it on her belly.

      It takes a moment to realise what this gesture portends. When at last understanding dawns on me, I begin to tremble.

      “Truly?” I ask her.

      She nods. “Truly.”

      “Dearest little mother!” I cry, taking her in my arms once more.

      “We shall know such happiness! Never will our children question or wonder whether or not we love them. Never will they be afraid of us.”

      The princess pulls away, cocking her head. She places a velvet hand on my cheek. “As you were?”

      I blink, averting my head.

      She does not pry. Instead she leans against my shoulder once more.

      I hold my princess for a very long time.

      Family Man

      I watch my wife’s pregnancy advance in a state of awe. I chase the dark thoughts from my mind, cold stabbing fears of losing my princess and the baby, memories of my mother and the six siblings that succumbed to one childhood ailment or another.

      My princess does not grow plump in any area other than her belly and I love watching her waddle about, cradling the curve wherein rests the life I planted. At night I hold her in my arms as she guides my hand to where it kicks and stretches. I tremble and laugh as I feel the little feet and hands jutting out.

      “A regular knight we have, and so eager for combat!” I cry, rubbing her belly in delight.

      She does not say much. She never says much, but now and then I catch her humming, rubbing her belly with that ethereal smile on her face, a smile she shares with her faeries and her fancies. I take pleasure in the sight of her; I drink in her radiance.

      And then in the spring of 1497, the call to arms I have been waiting for arrives. I am to help subdue a rebellious lot of Cornishmen.

      My princess gazes at me from her bed, her soft blue eyes lit with pain. “But the baby is to arrive any day now,” she says, her voice taut with anxiety. “If you leave, you will miss it and what if something—what if something goes wrong?”

      My heart lurches. “I cannot disobey the king, my lady,” I tell her in soothing tones. “If I am successful, I may be given the favour of more royal assignments and you know what that would mean for the family. You must see that.”

      She furrows her brow in confusion, cupping her belly with a protective hand. “Then you must go,” she says, her voice weary. “I know well that one must not refuse royal service.”

      I

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