Page 69 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

L ondon.

As they rode through the gates, Amalia now more acquainted with the next queen than she ever thought possible, she said aloud what had been on her mind for days.

“I was unsure if we would reach the city.”

Just as she spoke the words, their coach came to a stop.

“It appears you may have hexed us, Amalia,” the empress said.

Amalia could not tell if it was a jest or not; Matilda’s countenance often difficult to read.

Her door swung open.

“I would steal her from you,” Roland said to the empress, “so that Amalia might ride alongside me. She’s not been to London before.”

“Go,” Matilda said. “’Tis a sight to behold.”

“Do you wish to ride with us?” Amalia asked both the empress and her lady’s maid, whom Amalia had also become acquainted with on the journey.

“I’m certain my captain will not allow it.”

“Nay,” the maid said. “I have seen it many times before.”

Leaving them, Amalia allowed Roland to help her mount as the coach once again began moving forward.

She’d been watching Roland, not having seen him much these past days as their eating and sleeping arrangements prevented them from more than quick, private conversations. But looking ahead now, she gasped.

On the horizon, jutting into the sky, was the very impressive-looking Tower of London. Constructed by William the Conqueror, the tower had been used as a residence, a fortress, and source of Norman power. But it was never something Amalia expected to see firsthand.

“You’ve seen it before?” she asked Roland.

He was watching her and not the landscape in front of them. “I have.”

Continuing their approach, they eventually made their way to the London Bridge.

“I would not have expected shops and houses along the length of a bridge,” she said, marveling at the vibrant and crowded thoroughfare.

Merchants, traders, and all sorts of travelers watched them as they rode past. Some even cheered, but many revealed no sign of their allegiances, for it must be known who rode in the coach behind them.

Roland simply smiled as the sounds around them drowned out any possibility of conversation.

As they crossed the bridge and made their way through the narrow and winding streets of the city, they passed a mix of tightly packed timber-framed and stone buildings.

From blacksmiths hammering to calls from street vendors, it was more lively than anything Amalia had ever seen in her life.

The very tower she’d first seen in the distance was where they headed now.

Its defensive wall was massive. The armed sentries at the gatehouse now spoke to Matilda’s captain far ahead of them.

She glanced at Roland. He’d not spoken since they entered the gates.

Like the others, he seemed prepared for threats, though Amalia thought once inside the city’s walls they were safe.

She asked him as much when the drawbridge finished lowering for their riding party.

“You seem ill at ease.”

“I like not the reception she has received thus far.”

Amalia had wondered about that very reception. If the empress garnered so much support, as reports had claimed, would there not have been more cheers? More smiling faces as they rode past?

They began to move once more, through the outer bailey with its defensive walls into the inner bailey. The white tower before them was even more impressive up close.

“I did not know ’twas actually white,” Amalia said.

“The Normans constructed it from Caen stone,” Roland replied. And perhaps would have said more, but the men they’d brought with them began to disperse. Two men, very finely dressed, emerged from the tower and waited, presumably for the empress, who had just stepped down from her coach.

Roland dismounted, as did Amalia, while the empress was greeted by two men.

“Who are they?” she asked as the empress was brought into the tower.

“Two of her strongest supporters. The man on the left, Brian FitzCount. On the right, her uncle, Bishop Henry of Winchester.”

“You know them?”

“I’ve met FitzCount. The bishop, I do not know, but have heard descriptions of the man, and by his dress and appearance here, can assume ’tis him.”

“Roland. Amalia,” Sir Eamon said, finding them. “You are both invited into the tower, requested by the Lady of the English herself.”

Lady of the English. Amalia had not heard Matilda called that before. The woman had, it seemed, many titles, but her most important one—queen—would be her last.

Less than twenty men, it seemed, were also invited into the tower.

“Where will the others go?” Amalia asked as they were escorted inside.

“In Tower Hamlets, as they are known, east of the tower. Temporary barracks also include open spaces along the river.”

Amalia was glad for the invitation, to sleep in a bed rather than on a bedroll in a tent. She did not know if it was her place as a healer with the men or her time spent traveling with the empress, be either way, she was glad for it.

She was even more glad to be whisked away by one of the handmaidens to a chamber that nearly rivaled the one in Lincoln Castle.

Though she, once again, had not been able to speak privately to Roland—they’d not kissed for days with no opportunity to be alone—a chamber such as this, and a hot bath, was welcomed.

Just when Amalia stepped into that very bath, there was a knock at her door. For a moment, her chest constricted at the thought of it being Roland. But a moment later, it opened, the same handmaiden who’d taken her to this chamber rushing inside.

Amalia sat in the tub, watching as she was followed by two others. They carried what appeared to be gowns and boxes of jewelry.

“My lady?—”

She did not wish to misrepresent herself. “I am not a lady,” Amalia began, but the maid stopped her.

“The Lady of the English said we are to serve my lady as an honored guest. We’ve brought a gown and jewels for this evening’s banquet and will assist you in preparing.”

Honored guest. Gown and jewels. Banquet?

“I was not aware of a banquet,” Amalia said.

“To welcome our new queen.”

Was there a lack of warmth in her tone? Amalia observed the others as well, but their expressions revealed nothing.

“What is the sentiment here?” she asked. “About Empress Matilda’s coronation?”

One of the women cleared her throat and backed out of the chamber with a small bow. The others exchanged a worrying glance.

“I am a lady’s maid,” she said. “Although serving as the healer to the contingency of men who arrived today has apparently afforded me privileges during this stay.”

At first, it seemed her attempt at relating to the maids would not work. But the one who had not yet spoken came closer to Amalia.

“You are a lady’s maid?”

“Aye,” she said, rubbing the scented oil that had been left for her into her hair. “I serve Lady Evelina Ashcroft but was given leave for this journey.”

“Because you are a healer?”

“I consider myself an herbalist, but know something of healing, aye.”

“My mother is a healer,” the girl said. She was younger than the other, who, while she arranged Amalia’s gown on the bed, was definitely listening intently.

“Here in the tower?”

“Nay, in a nearby village. I was brought here to serve...”

She stopped.

The girl looked to her companion.

“Empress Matilda?” Amalia guessed.

“Nay,” the girl said finally. “To serve the queen.”

She did not mean the one who would be queen, but who was queen already.

“The sentiment?” Amalia tried again, knowing she could not ask again.

“Matters not,” she said quietly. “We will have a new queen. ’Tis not for me to determine the course of such things.”

Amalia leaned up to see if the girl’s companion agreed. It seemed she too was resigned. But neither were they pleased.

Knowing she would get no more from them, Amalia stopped asking and instead finished her bath. When she stepped from the tub and used the drying cloth on herself, finally getting a glimpse of the gown they’d brought, Amalia gasped.

A long-sleeved silk underdress lay next to a velvet surcoat with wide, flowing sleeves. The front was cut low, to reveal the underdress. Both dyed to matching shades of deep green, they were as luxurious as anything she had ever seen, Evelina’s gowns included.

Next to them lay a belt adorned with jewels and a simple veil. She stared at the pieces, unable to imagine herself in such an ensemble.

“Shall we dress you, my lady?” the young serving girl who’d spoken to her asked.

“Aye,” Amalia said, hoping Roland would be present at the banquet. Imagining his expression when he saw her, putting aside any unease at the conversation about the empress, Amalia allowed herself, for the first time in her life, to be served as if she truly were a lady.

Even if it was not real.