Like Fire and Powder (Violent Delights Book 18)

Chapter 8: the coronation according to House Tudor and House York

Henry Tudor

They're going to try to kill me aren't they? All of them. They'll come out and stab me. That's all right. That's fine actually I'll go down in history for that. Not in the way that I want to but it is very Roman. See? That's fine. Even that would be fine. It would be all right that's not the worst thing that could happen. The worst thing that could happen has already happened the woman I love, who is to be my wife, hates me. I hate her as well, for hating me, but I also love her. Which I didn't need right now. After all these years. All the planning and scheming. Midnight escapes. Assassins. Near death experiences. After everything we've been through. I am home now. And they'll have to move heaven and earth to remove me. I can do this. I'm ready. Half the country wants to kill me. The woman I love hates me. But this is completely fine.
"Breath. For what you are trying to accomplish it's very important you breath normally as best you can I know you have issues with that, but it is significant," my uncle says, his hands on my shoulders.
"Just, tell me, what is our worst case scenario? And what's our plan for it?" I ask, breathing deeply. When I was a child and I'd be frightened, or he thought I was going to be frightened, of the bad men looking for us, he'd tell me the worst thing that could happen then how he'd fix it.
"We both die, and we wake up, on our backs in heaven, and my father is saying with absolute affection 'What the fuck was that?' Just about my life generally and my mother is saying, 'why did you feel the need to do that?' about my life, generally, and then 'we don't blame you, harry' to you and you probably can breath, probably, no guarantees," he says.
I actually laugh, "They will not say that."
"I promise you they will, your grandfather will be so confused by me generally, and your grandmother used to say that to me when I'd come in from playing covered in mud, from running into trees when it was rainy and muddy," he says.
"Running into—?"
"I was four I thought it was hilarious to run into a tree and slip in the mud and fall down I'd do it for hours then come in a mucky mess, be glad I'm the architect of your survival. No, real worst case scenario is that there are armed murderers in the cathedral, and when they go to crown you they try to kill us. And so I simply throw you over my shoulder and we make for the Snowdonia's and regroup, it'll all be fine I've got ten ways to do that, eleven if the ceremony goes long. I'll take your mum too if you're worried I've got two shoulders but I'm going to be perfectly honest there's like a seventy five percent chance that our would be murderers are friends of hers, like she's probably the godmother of their children, so she'd probably tell me to leave her I will ask her before the ceremony though, to choose an option, stay behind and befriend the murderers as my unwilling pious contact, or be thrown over shoulder and retreat to Welsh highlands she has never picked option two, however," my uncle says, smiling that easy, confident smile. There's no metaphors for how charming and reassuring his grin is, because most things he's already done, from tricking a wolf out of it's dinner, or talking our way into various courts in Europe.
"Okay. Yeah, all right, we'll do that, we'll go live in the Snowdonia's and eat fucking rabbits," I say, taking a deep breath.
"Exactly you hate my cooked rabbit."
"I love your cooked rabbit."
"You don't have to say that."
"Okay thank you."

Elizabeth Tudor

He's ugly. He's not even good looking. I have never hated myself before. But now? This is ridiculous. I should become a nun. I'm going to do it. This time I'm going to do it. I know I threaten it weekly, but this is really proof of why I'm not safe to be out. I could see falling madly for him if he were handsome. He is not. At all. He has those dumb stupid crooked eyes that glow when he thinks of money, and that absolutely completely ineffective manner of breathing. Like who doesn't know how to breath? He looks like he's gonna die. Strike that. He looks like he was never alive properly till he kissed me. And that's what the terrible thing is. Neither was I.
And that's the thing that's the thing I can't get past. His damn smile. That stupid, stupid smile when he's speaking with one of his friends or his uncle and he actually smiles and I want to watch it forever. I want to feel the way I felt when he was kissing me.
And I don't even like myself for this. I feel subhuman. I'm supposed to be better than this. God fashioned me a princess of England and it was to do something glorious not fall in love with this ugly Welsh rat. He's just this tiny little faint impression of a person. And kissing him was like watching the stars come out. And I never want to again and I can't get him out of my mind.
"I'm going to do it this time," I say, quietly.
"You are NOT joining a nunnery," my mother growls.
"You can't stop me."
"Actually I can you'll enjoy watching me," my mother says, supervising as the ladies put pearls through my hair. This has not made her popular with our ladies in waiting, for reasons she has yet to fathom.
"No. I've felt the call to god," I say. There was certainly heaven in his lips. But there was definite sin in the feeling of his hands upon my back.
"Lizzie, he's not that bad, all he does is count his money and —administrate the government. You said he doesn't even like you," Cecily points out.
"He doesn't. He hates me. And I hate him," I sigh. That's what makes this so painful. I want him. I think about him when I don't mean to. And I always thought I was so logical. Twice a day since he kissed me, I fall to my knees and pray to the Virgin Mary "Really? Him? Really?" It has yielded nothing. I am now assuming that the blessed virgin finds my situation amusing and allows it to continue. For the thoughts of sin have not been wiped from my heart much less my head much less my loins.
"That is usually how it is done in marriage, now you will be a good wife," my mother says.
"I will be a terrible wife," I predict.
"You loved our father," Cecily says, quietly.
"Yes. I did. That is what makes this all so terrible. I'm pleased that you will be free of such torment. I don't wish it on any woman. Men, and the whores that they bring with them, and their foolish deaths, are not worth your sentiment, avoid it if at all possible," our mother says.
"Well he's ugly, and rude, and cruel, so no chance of my caring for him," if I never see him again I'll probably quit eating and waste away in despair.
"Now, that you've both gotten terribly off topic, can we get through this coronation serenely as befits our station?" My mother asks.
"Yes," I say. If he looks at me, smiles, or worse speaks me I'll probably have to just walk to the abby and ask for sanctuary. I don't know if they can give me sanctuary from my own foolish heart but I'm willing to try.
"They don't even know how to do these things, they'll be acting odder than we are and be having more stupid conversations," Cecily predicts.
"Do not underestimate the enemy, darling," my mother says.