He doubled over and cried out.
“I’m so sorry, my lord, I lost my balance,” I said. But I did not draw near to help him, and my voice was not falsely contrite. He left my cabin muttering and did not return again. I smiled when I thought upon it and Bridget did, too, when I told her.
Winter warmed to spring, which then unfolded into summer. We became truly alarmed that my lady would give birth before we reached London, and there was not a married woman among us, much less a midwife. Cecelia had no such concerns. Her greatest joy was that her firstborn would be birthed in the land of the queen she’d so admired for her autonomy and freedom.
One night in late summer we were happily informed that we were nearing Calais, from where they would send a message ahead that we were nearly to England. I sat that evening with Bridget; we had become as sisters during the journey and there was no thought too private for me to share with her.
“I should have married Philip by now,” I said with regret, speaking aloud the relentless thought I’d pushed back a dozen times over the months past as I lay abed wondering what he and Karin were doing in Stockholm. “It is September. Autumn.”
“Do not fret,” Bridget said. Her voice did not convey the confidence of her words.
“Perhaps they will marry him to my younger sister in my stead, as Gustav Vasa did with Princess Cecelia’s first fiancé,” I worried.
Bridget lowered her voice. “There will be no need to marry your sister to your fiancé, because your father did not find you willingly in bed with another man, drag you out by your hair, and unman the culprit.”
I agreed, and we smiled bemusedly together in the pitching cabin. The king had a coin struck with Cecelia on one side and the virginal Susanna from Holy Writ on the other, circulating the idea of his daughter’s innocence every time the coin was used. I didn’t know if the coin had made it to Baden, but the margrave had not hesitated to take Cecelia as his bride.
“There may be other reasons for Philip to desire to wed Karin,” I said, twisting the ring on my third finger, which had grown bony during our long journey. “We have been so very long gone.” She took my gown. She took my fiancé. In truth, he desired her before we’d even left. “And my dowry was not paid, which makes our engagement uncertain. Or void.” He’s always preferred her to me. Who would not?
“ ’Tis nothing to think upon now,” Bridget said sensibly. “We are far from Stockholm, and near to England. We must act upon that which is here, and we do not know what lies just ahead.”
“Are you unsettled by that?” I asked her.
She, who was typically calm and self-assured, merely nodded but didn’t speak. I, too, was anxious and unsettled, though I didn’t understand exactly why.
We were thin and weary and our teeth hurt in our heads, but we were here; within days England beckoned on the horizon, green and gold and holding out her arms to welcome us, I hoped, like Freya, the mythological Norse goddess of beauty and love.
TWO
September, October, and November: Year of Our Lord 1565
Dover, England
Bedford House, London
The Palace of Whitehall, London
November: Year of Our Lord 1565
The Palace of Whitehall
A small party awaited us, splendidly dressed and accompanied by the finest horseflesh I had ever seen. I was anxious to make a good impression on the English; I hoped that they liked us and would welcome the princess as a royal sister. The princess disembarked from the ship first, all health and cheer as one might expect after her fine diet and warm clothing. She and the margrave were shown the honor and welcome befitting their royal status. We ladies stood to the side so as to give the princess precedence, but it soon became clear that something was amiss.
Christina Abrahamsdotter moved forward and then came back to tell Bridget and me, “A bee is harrying the princess.”
The princess was deathly afraid of bees, having been stung by a small swarm of them as a child. Her husband must not have known this, as he stood to the side looking chagrined. The princess continued to bat the air around her and cry out in a most undignified manner. “Hilfe!” she shouted, her belly making it hard for her to move away. “Help!” she tried in English.
Perhaps the Englishmen were unaware of the bee and simply saw her batting the air. Perhaps her brother Erik’s reputation as an unbalanced man had preceded her. But they stood still, which I thought very unchivalrous indeed for a country that prided itself otherwise.
I stepped forward impatiently, stood next to my lady, and when the bee hovered close, I clasped both hands around it. The margrave hurried his wife away just as the bee slipped its needle deep into the soft flesh of my palm. I said nothing, but grimaced. The other ladies ran to help Cecelia, as was proper. I unclasped my hand and let the bee fall away while my hand swelled in anger.
As I turned I noticed a tall, elegant man standing next to me. By his dress, his manners, and his silver-marked horse, he was clearly the highest-ranked gentleman present.
“Marquess of Northampton, my lady,” he said, bowing. He offered his arm, which I took with pleasure, drew me near, and to the astonishment of both English and Swedes, escorted me to the litters that awaited. Perhaps chivalry yet lived among the English.
“Elin Ulfsdotter,” I said, using my Swedish patronym first, as a good daughter would. “Lady Elin von Snakenborg,” I concluded, because my heritage was noble and I was proud of that, too.
He held my gaze, not overlong, but much longer than with any of the other ladies in waiting to whom he was introduced, and I blushed. Bridget smiled at me behind his back and, though weary from the journey, I felt it was a bright spot and a warm welcome and I smiled at her, and at him.
The Marquess of Northampton, or Lord Northampton, was not only the highest-ranking man in our welcoming party but one of the highest-ranking men in all of England. Princess Cecelia soon found this out and made it her business to be most attentive to him as he journeyed with us to Bedford House in London, where we would stay. The queen had sent some of her own hangings and tapestry for our warmth and pleasure, and they were rich indeed. I enjoyed needlework and marveled at the tiny stitches that joined so tightly as to almost be painted.
“Are you well?” A warm woman with a long brown gown came to me and made inquiries.
“Yes, my lady,” I said.
“Call upon me, Lady Sussex, or my husband, Lord Thomas, if you or the princess should need anything,” she said. I dipped a short curtsey and thanked her for her kindness. Aside from Lady Sussex, none of the other women had spoken to us at all, and when they did, they used loud, slow voices, though we assured them we understood English. It was disheartening, as we had come to offer warm friendship but found cool acceptance and reserve except for the Sussexes and our hosts, Lord and Lady Bedford. Within days, the queen herself came, from the Palace of Whitehall, one of her many royal residences.
Princess Cecelia had dressed for the occasion in a black velvet robe with a mantle of black and silver; a costly gold crown graced her blonde head. She looked magnificent. We ladies wore crimson taffeta that shone in the candlelight and rustled quietly as we walked. Although she was regal, our princess had not been trained by my mother and therefore was not given to withholding her emotions. As Queen Elizabeth approached, Cecelia reached forward, full body notwithstanding, and gave her a long embrace. The queen seemed genuinely moved by it and indicated by word and motion that they should retire to Cecelia’s receiving chamber.