Tangled in Time 2 Page 3

  La na la na la la na na

  Those nonsense syllables whispered softly in Rose’s ear and soothed her as she googled Queen Mary Tudor. She and leprosy coexisted in the same era, two bad diseases. Mary became queen July 6, 1553, the day her half brother, King Edward, died. It would be three more months until her coronation. But she was still queen. She could do a lot of damage before that crown actually sat on her head. Rose continued googling.

  “Good Lord,” she muttered. “Who’s this?” A picture popped up, a young woman, one Lady Jane Grey, who . . . Hope sprang in Rose’s heart. “She claimed the throne for nine days!” Rose opened her eyes wide. She remembered the young king talking to her about Lady Jane Grey. He wanted her to succeed him instead of Mary. Well, apparently she had, but only for nine days before she was hauled off to prison. Jane was held as a prisoner at the Tower and was convicted of high treason and beheaded. Rose leaned in closer and read the entry in Wikipedia: Lady Jane Grey had an excellent humanist education and a reputation as one of the most learned young women of her day.

  “A lot of good that did her!” Rose muttered. Doesn’t exactly pay to be a humanist among savages, she thought. She read on. The first victim of Queen Mary’s burning was John Rogers, in February 1555. Rose knew that when she was last at Greenwich Palace, it had been July 6, 1553. The first burnings were then two years off. But time was never exactly synced up. Time behaved differently in that other world. When she returned to England, a year might have passed, or perhaps only a week. One never knew. She could pop up in Greenwich for Easter or perhaps Hampton Court for Christmas in an entirely different year—say, 1554, or, most dreadfully, 1555, when poor Mr. Rogers was burned at the stake. According to Wikipedia, by the end of that year, seventy-five more people had been burned. Maybe even her father or Franny! She had to get back. She just had to. If she could rescue Franny and her father, it would be worth everything. She’d sew that evil queen’s clothes till . . . till . . . kingdom come, as her mom used to say. Her mother was fond of old-timey sayings—“anachronistic” ones. A word for next week’s spelling review list.

  She researched for a few more minutes and veered sharply off track from leprosy as she began making a list of Mary Tudor’s likes, dislikes, and habits. She knew a lot that Wikipedia didn’t know. Like that she went to chapel at least four times a day. That she liked her meat overcooked and her eggs undercooked. Rose also knew with her twenty-first-century knowledge that undercooked eggs could cause salmonella, and salmonella caused diarrhea. When Queen Mary was Princess Mary, she often was “indisposed,” which was a polite way of saying diarrhea, or “runny bunnies,” as her own mom used to call it when Rose got sick. So she made a long list of everything she knew about her “enemy,” Mary, now queen of England. I could be an FBI profiler, she thought. But she didn’t want to catch Mary. She just wanted to escape her. And the only way she could do that was to rescue her dad, and possibly Franny, and then never go back. As long as her father was in that century, she would not have a moment’s peace.

  The house had grown still. September had slipped out of the room. Probably back to her old haunts in the alley behind the house. September was basically a sixteenth-century cat. Social media and cat app games didn’t interest this feline for long. Tomorrow was trash day. Might be good scavenging. Although fastidious like most cats, September could get into a good brawl over fish guts, and Rose sensed that the twenty-first century was a little too tidy for her. Fish guts, chicken hearts, and livers were ground up in garbage disposals and rarely flung into garbage cans. But the cat still prowled.

  And so did Rose. She prowled downstairs, heading toward the greenhouse. There was a creak when she hit the second step. She hoped her gran hadn’t heard it.

  But she had. In her bed, Rose’s gran’s eyes opened. Rosalinda sighed, then murmured, “She’s going again. Crossing over.” She sighed a second time. “Godspeed,” she whispered. It was not so dangerous when Rosalinda had time traveled, back in her day. Back when Mary’s mother, Catherine of Aragon, was happy, happy as she had never been with Henry’s brother, who then had conveniently died. After his brother died, Henry began his pursuit of Catherine immediately. Oh, young King Henry was in those days slender and jolly, full of wit and wonder. Ten times as handsome and lively as his brother. But then it all went sour. Poor Catherine could not seem to bear a child, except for her withered daughter, Mary. Rosalinda had never encountered such an infant. The baby came out with a howl and a scowl on her face that she never relinquished. She was the grimmest baby Rosalinda had ever seen. Princess Mary seemed to have only two expressions—scowling and smirking. She couldn’t help it, Rosalinda supposed. God knew they all tried to make her laugh. Impossible. And now Rosalinda’s own granddaughter was going back.

  Rosalinda was unsure, of course, whose reign Rose would wind up in. She never asked too many questions. She herself had served early in Henry VIII’s reign. She sensed that her daughter, Rose’s mother, had been there in the thick of the darkest days of Henry’s marriage to his second wife, Anne Boleyn. And if things proceeded at that pace, perhaps Rose would skip a monarch and serve Elizabeth. Rosalinda knew, however, that Rose felt that her father was a man from that century. She most likely was right. But there was a certain unwritten understanding that neither Rose nor her gran would probe too deeply into each other’s affairs in those old times. The times, after all, could not be changed. They were beyond their control. Rosalinda’s job was in the present day, to raise her orphaned granddaughter to the best of her ability. And when she died . . . well, Rose would be left with plenty of money. But love? She had loved her as best she knew how. She would not make the same mistakes she had with Rose’s mother, Rosemary, when she forbade her to return. A stupid thing on her part. To lose a living daughter through reckless stubbornness was ridiculous. That she would not do again. EVER!

  Chapter 5

  The Virtual Rose

  Once upon a time, Rose thought as she stood in the greenhouse and touched the hollow space between her collarbones where the locket had once hung, there was a beautiful damask rose, cast in gold by my father, Nicholas Oliver. She knew she was being rather dramatic, but damn that Princess Elizabeth, who had taken her locket. Taken it by her stupid Tudor right. It’s the Tudor Rose. Only a Tudor can wear it. And with that Elizabeth had demanded it. Rose prayed that Princess Elizabeth would never find out that the rose pendant was not simply a pendant, but a locket. If she found the secret pin, it would open up. Inside were the two images, incomprehensible for the sixteenth century. She tried to imagine Princess Elizabeth looking at those photographs. The first one showed Rose and her mother at the beach, Rose in all her Disney gear and her mom in a swimsuit she used to call a mom-kini and the second showed Nicholas Oliver. He would be immediately recognizable to the princess.

  Ever since the day Princess Elizabeth had taken the locket, Rose had missed the pleasant weight of it touching her collarbone. She missed it especially when she rode her pony, Ivy, at the Hunter Valley Riding Academy, where she took lessons. The thump of it as she cantered along was such a pleasing feeling. She of course worried constantly that Elizabeth would discover the pin and open the locket. How would Rose explain it? Although she had been just a child of five or six when the picture was taken, she was clearly recognizable. And what about her mom in her mom-kini? Had so much skin ever been exposed in the sixteenth century in a public place? And her dad, Nicholas, could also be in danger because of his appointment in the court. He’d be recognized and possibly condemned as a witch. Yes, they were still into that in England. Henry VIII’s wife Anne Boleyn was said to be a witch, among other things, and then it was off with her head. Witches were gender free. Anyone could qualify.

  A slant of moonlight fell through the cupola, casting the leaves of the vines in silver. A wind from nowhere stirred the dangling plants. She felt the moist, cool air of the greenhouse dissolve and a new odor take over. There was a sudden mustiness laced with camphor. Candlelit shadows danced on t
he wall. She was in the sewing rooms of Whitehall Place in London. There was no futon piled with ice skating costumes; instead she found twenty or more gowns suspended from a webbing of ropes. Gowns for the coronation that was to happen in a matter of weeks, on October 1, 1553. Rose had googled the date when she was in her home century. On that single day the queen would change her gown and robes half a dozen times. A gentleman who was opulently dressed walked through the forest of suspended gowns and robes toward her. His head tilted back as he poked at various garments. His name was Edward Waldegrave, the keeper of the wardrobe. A small man walked behind him. It was Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador to the court.

  “And Rose, you have sewn in the panel, yes?”

  “I’m doing it now, sir.” She looked down at the gaudy yard of white and gold tinsel. Had it not been faded with age, it would have looked exactly like the gown Elsa, the Snow Queen, in the Disney on Ice show wore. But this wasn’t Disney, that was for sure. This wasn’t an ice skating costume but a coronation one, and the queen wasn’t Elsa but Mary Tudor.

  Simon Renard came over to the table where Rose was sewing.

  “Don’t you feel that might . . . uh, spoil the lines of the dress?” Simon Renard asked.

  “The queen insisted,” said Waldegrave. “This was from her father, given to her on her first birthday.”

  Rose rolled her eyes. It was hard to imagine a father giving a one-year-old a more boring gift. Oh whoopee, white satin with sparkles! Thanks, Daddy!

  “I feel it makes her look a bit old and maybe even flabby,” Renard said.

  Old, yes, thought Rose, but not exactly flabby. Mary was rather gaunt, but her skin hung loosely for one who was not quite forty. Dared she say anything?

  “I . . . I tend to agree, Sir Renard.”

  “She wants it,” Waldegrave said firmly. “She is our first queen in four hundred years, and what she wants, she gets!”

  There had been queens before Mary, but technically Sir Edward was correct. Those queens only attained their position through marriage. But Mary was not married, not yet, though everyone was working on that as hard as they could. She was a queen in her own right. She was next in the line of succession after her brother died. At least twenty times a day people were reminded that this was truly the first queen in her own right. Mary herself wormed it into all her conversations. Her ladies-in-waiting commented on this fact constantly. Servants frequently mentioned it too. It was almost as if they expected a tip, a farthing or two, if they did it in earshot of the queen.

  “Might it be ready for her when she comes for her fitting?” Waldegrave asked.

  “Yes, sir, I’m just doing the final stitches now.”

  “Excellent, my girl. Excellent.” Rose felt her shoulders slump. Can you just shut up? I’m not your girl! Which was worse, she wondered, Mr. Ross calling her “young lady” or Sir Waldegrave calling her “my girl”? She wasn’t anyone’s girl, except her dad’s. Nicholas Oliver.

  What was it with these guys—sixteenth century or twenty-first? My girl . . . young lady. However, there was zero chance she’d be pointing out Sir Waldegrave’s patronizing tone.

  Edward Waldegrave continued. “She shall be arriving momentarily in the blue velvet gown, over which she will try on the crimson robe of Parliament. That robe to the left.” He pointed to a deep red cloak trimmed in ermine with tassels of gold silk. Rose vaguely recalled that she herself had been charged with sewing on the new tassels.

  She began trying to calculate how long she had been gone from court. The last time she had seen the queen was in July. July 7, to be exact, the day after King Edward had died and Mary had made her swear loyalty. But time did funny things in this split world of Rose’s. A month in sixteenth-century England might equal just five or ten minutes in her home century. The people of that old world never seemed to have missed her or registered her being gone. It was as if a ghost had served in her absence. Oftentimes when she came back, she had a kind of memory, almost like half-baked dreams. There was a familiarity with something she had been working on or doing while she had been away. Those feelings were seeping back into her now.

  She recalled that relations between Mary and her half sister, Elizabeth, had begun to deteriorate. Mary had become suspicious that her sister was not attending Mass. Protestant services had been forbidden now. Ardent Catholics had condemned the Bible, as they felt many of the translations were anti-Catholic. It was rumored that Mary had sent out spies to report on any members of her court, from servants to ambassadors, who possessed or were suspected of reading the Bible. A confectioner in the kitchen responsible for all the sugar frosting on the cakes had been arrested for having been caught with a Bible. She also remembered that she had a new roommate, as her best friend Franny had gone back to Hatfield with Princess Elizabeth. She was now sharing a room with Sara, who had also been commandeered by the queen to serve in the wardrobe.

  Then rapid footsteps could be heard approaching the sewing room. The door was flung open.

  “Her Majesty the Queen is coming,” a footman announced. Rose and three assistant seamstresses dismounted from their stools, came out from behind the sewing table, and fell to their knees. Sir Edward and the Spanish ambassador, because of their elevated positions in the court, were only required to bow deeply, then approach the queen and kiss her hand. Rose thanked her lucky stars that kissing that hand was not required. She just might bite it.

  “Your Majesty, all is almost ready,” Waldegrave said.

  “Almost?”

  “Rose Ashley, the head seamstress, is finishing the final stitches on the ivory gown to be worn for the banquet.”

  “Good,” the queen said dryly. “You may rise.” She directed the remark to Rose and the three young girls who were assisting her. Rose looked up and felt her blood congeal. There, hanging from Queen Mary’s neck, was the gold locket. Her locket. The one Elizabeth had taken from her. The one made by her father. A feeling of nausea swept over her. This was worse, much worse than when Elizabeth had seized the locket. But how stupid of her not to realize that this would happen. Hadn’t Franny told her, the first time Mary came to Hatfield, that she took things? Franny’s words came back to her. Elizabeth never wants any of her personal servants around when Mary is here. She even locks up all her jewelry. Well, Queen Mary had already taken Rose herself. So why wouldn’t she seize the jewelry as well? Her eyes fastened on the locket. But then she became aware that the queen’s eyes were fastened on her.

  “What are those things hanging from your ears—jewelry?”

  OMG! My earbuds! How could she have forgotten to take them out?

  “You know servants are not permitted to wear jewelry in my presence?”

  She had to think fast. This was the first time ever that anything had really come with her when she had slipped from her home century to this one. She always arrived with none of her twenty-first-century clothing or “accessories”—barrettes or her iPhone, or sneakers. She was always period-perfect, dressed in her servant’s uniform, the black kirtle with the fitted bodice and the ruff. Beneath the kirtle she wore her chemise, and on her head the French hood, which resembled something a nun might wear. Her hair had all been tucked beneath the hood. Not a hair must be showing—let alone earbuds! It was a mysterious change of clothing. Rose never was aware of getting dressed, but she was always dressed appropriately.

  “Answer me!” The queen’s voice was pulled tight as a string. Her pale hazel eyes were cold and hard. The tip of her nose seemed to quiver, and it gave her entire face a feral look, like an animal tracking its prey.

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty. These are certainly not jewelry.” She began pulling them from her ears. “They are merely drains, Your Majesty.”

  “Drains?”

  “Yes, you see, Your Majesty, I am inclined toward ear infections . . . uh . . . my ears collect fluid . . . and . . .”

  “Cider and garlic do not work?”

  “Not very well.” Rose was trying to imagine stuffin
g a garlic clove in her ear. “And of course it is very important that I be able to hear all of Sir Edward’s instructions for the coronation gowns and robes. So I find if I wear these drains for a few hours a day, it does help.”

  The queen stuck out her hand. “I would like to examine them.”

  Oh Gawd! Rose thought. What will she think? Wire wrapped in plastic. Plastic! It hasn’t been invented yet. But she rose up and handed the earbuds to the queen.

  “What a curious material. What, pray tell, is it?”

  “Actually . . .” Rose hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Um, actually, it’s pickled pig gut that has been aged.”

  “Oh dear. . . . And you say it works?”

  “Uh, for me it does.”

  “I would like to try them. My left ear has been troubling me.”

  “Well, of course you could, but I don’t think it would be good.” Didn’t these people know anything about germs and contagious diseases (except for leprosy, of course)? They should. The sweating sickness had been so bad at one time that Franny’s infant sister had died of it the summer before Rose had first tumbled through time.

  “Why not?” the queen snapped.

  “Germs?” Rose said weakly.

  “Germs? What are germs?”

  Rose clamped her eyes shut. How could she forget? In science class just last week, they had looked though their microscopes at some slides of bacteria. Ms. Lafferty had told them that Louis Pasteur only discovered the link between germs and diseases in the 1860s. “Before that people knew that disease could spread, but they didn’t know the mechanism by which it spread.” Ms. Lafferty said the word “germs” was relatively new.

  “Germs are kind of like seeds. You wouldn’t want seeds from my ears in your ears, now would you?”

  The queen’s sallow complexion turned absolutely gray. She opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish. No words came out. Then her eyes became mean little slits. “How dare you suggest such a thing!” And she thrust the earbuds back into Rose’s hand.