Tudor Roses & Romance

Chapter 2: Running

A wise person once said it's better to arrive late than to arrive ugly. As valid as that may be, there's one thing His Majesty loathes above all others. That is lateness. He says, "Being late is a type of rudeness. It's saying you're time is more important than the crown's. I am The Crown."

On the way to the palace, stuck in traffic, Mary began freaking out. Her father is going to be so upset! There's nothing that can be done about it now, so in a nervous action, she zhuzhed up the sleeves of the denim jacket. Then began texting Fiona. Fiona texted her back, saying, Check your lipstick and teeth.

Mary whipped out the small purse mirror. She always forgets to check those; more often than not, lipstick is smeared on her front teeth. How embarrassing! As she peered, sure enough, some lipstick was there. A delicate finger ran over the front two and rubbed the red off. That would be super awkward smiling at her father or a certain duke, only to have them laugh in her face.

When the town car finally pulled down the long palace driveway, she checked the time. The phone's clock reads seven o'clock. Mary shook her head in irritation. She can imagine her father's chastisement. Upon arrival at Whitehall Palace, a footman escorted the Princess to the gilded dining room. Approaching, Her Highness thanked the footman and told him, "I'll take it from here."

The pudgy man bowed and turned to leave. She inched closer to the doorway and peered inside. At that moment, she realized this would be the dinner from hell. One time when her mother was making place settings for a state dinner, she told Mary, "The person nearest to death should always be seated close to the lavatory. I think I'll set the Duchess of Derbyshire there."

They both laughed because the Duchess was not near death. She's only well detested by the Queen. However, in this case, Mary would love for nothing more than to be seated nearest the toilet. It would be good to make a fast getaway. Truth be told, she would rather dig a ditch than be here. Her eyes took in all the attendees, making her stomach knot up and nerves take flight.

Her father is seated at the head of the oversized, ornate table, dressed in a maroon blazer and a plain white button-down shirt. On his hands are the official ruby Tudor signet ring and his gold wedding band, which gleamed in the light. At the other end of the table sat the King's newest wife, or as Mary likes to call her, the flavor of the year. The flavor of the year is His Majesty's third wife and counting. The distaste crawled up into her throat and left a foul aftertaste.

Her mother is divorced and living in Kimbolton. She had been living in a posh country home fit for a beloved queen, but then His Majesty decided to move her to Kimbolton. He claimed it would save him money because everything is about dollars and cents in his mind. So, now she lives in a ramshackle manor home, undergoing chemotherapy treatments for cancer and biding time among the living.

The King's second wife, and mistress, had been executed for treason (among other things). Henry has gone so far as to forbid anyone from speaking her name. As if he can make people stop talking about Anne Boleyn. Like the man has that kind of power, but Mary supposes he likes to think he does.

Now he's married again to a sickeningly sweet Jane Seymour--- the perfect wife. She's like some phony blonde Barbie. Her sweetness is similar to Catherine Willoughby's fake candy-coated kindness. It makes Mary want to barf. As they said in the '80s, gag me with a spoon. This wife changing is maddening. She can hardly keep up at times, and the gossip rags are devoted to it. They are dedicated to pursuing the King of England and writing anything they can about him. The time of the great stomach sickness comes to mind. Tattle-Tell magazine was so concerned over his health that they posted pictures of cases of toilet paper entering the palace.