A VERY TUDOR CHRISTMAS
England
,
1571
A brief but passionate flirtation with the dashing Sir Robert Erroll had Margaret Clifford dreaming they would be wed—until Robert left for the continent without a word, breaking her heart.
Robert never forgot Meg, or gave up hope that she would wait for him to make his fortune. But after three years abroad, he has returned to court to discover a cold, distant woman in place of the innocent maiden he left behind.
Yet Robert can sense the desire that still burns within her. And when a snowstorm forces them to take refuge for the night, he is determined, come Christmas morn, to have melted the ice that has built up around Meg’s heart....
A Very Tudor Christmas
Amanda McCabe
When I was trying to come up with an idea for a “Tudor Christmas” story, it was ninety degrees outside! I was having a hard time thinking about snow and carols, sleighs and Christmas puddings. Then one night I was watching the wonderfully funny and sweet
ShakespeaRe-Told
version of
Much Ado About Nothing
(Beatrice and Benedick translated into rival TV morning show anchors), and Robert and Meg appeared to me! A once-hopeful couple now torn apart, brought back together by their younger counterparts (and a little holiday magic).
The Tudors, especially Elizabeth I, loved the Christmas season, and it was filled with elaborate banquets, dances, masques, gifts and hunts. The holiday season of 1571 was kicked off by a lavish event indeed, the marriage of Anne, the oldest daughter of William Cecil, Lord Burghley, to the highly eligible young Earl of Oxford on December 19. The queen herself attended the ceremony at Westminster Abbey, and the nuptial banquet was held at Cecil House in Covent Garden.
A Christmas wedding seemed like the perfect setting for the romance of Robert and Meg! Sadly for poor Anne Cecil, her own glittering wedding didn’t lead to much happiness. In 1574, the earl left his pregnant wife to live abroad and didn’t return for three years. When he did come back, it was to a marriage filled with bitter estrangements, possible insanity and flagrant affairs (on Oxford’s part), and eventual reconciliation and five children. Anne died at age 31 in 1588, interred at Westminster Abbey with the due honors of the Countess of Oxford. David Loades, in his book
The Cecils
, says, “She seems to have been a gentle, submissive creature, battered by the storms of an unhappy marriage that she had done nothing to provoke.”
But Meg and Robert will surely have a much, much brighter future than the Oxfords, whose wedding helped bring them together! I enjoyed their winter romance so much, and I hope you do, too....
Chapter One
England, 1569
“Hush, Bea! They will hear you. We’ll never be able to hear what’s happening if they find us here,” Margaret Clifford whispered fiercely as she and her cousin squeezed into the tiny closet right above her parents’ great hall at Clifford Manor. Beatrice was her best friend, but she was three years younger than Meg’s eighteen, and inclined to be giggly. It had been that way ever since Bea’s parents, Meg’s mother’s sister and her husband, died and Bea came to live with them as a toddler.
Beatrice clapped her hand over her mouth and huddled closer to Meg as they knelt on the floor. “I won’t say a word, Meg, I vow it.”
“I never should have let you come with me,” Meg murmured. She had tried to slip out of their shared chamber without Bea seeing her, but she hadn’t been quick enough. Beatrice had begged and cried so very much that Meg knew she had to drag her along. Time was short, and she had to discover what her parents were talking about with Lord and Lady Erroll.
Meg drew her velvet skirts close under her and she lowered her knees to the rough plank floor and tried to peer through the tiny knothole to the hall below. Bea clutched at her sleeve, fairly vibrating with excitement, and Meg had to shush her again. She could barely hear as it was. And it was vital that she hear.
God’s truth, but it was so maddening that her parents refused to talk to her! They treated her as if she was the veriest child, younger even than Beatrice. She was not a child at all now. She was more than old enough for...
For marrying.
Was that why the Errolls had come to Clifford Manor now? Meg curled her fists against the wood floor, feeling her heart pounding. Please, let it be true!
Yet it all seemed too, too glorious to ever be true. Ever since she had seen Robert Erroll at the Christmas festivities a few months ago, ever since they’d danced, touched, looked into each other’s eyes, she had not been able to think about anything else at all. Even when she walked in the garden with Bea, or when her mother shouted at her for snarling the embroidery silks, she could only see Robert Erroll’s sky-blue eyes. Could only remember how it had felt when their fingers twined together.
Remember—and wonder when she might see him again.
Until today. Today when she’d been walking along the lane, and glimpsed a horse galloping toward her....
* * *
“‘Or call it winter, which, being full of care, makes summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, more rare...’” Meg hummed the Christmas song as she swung her basket. Go fetch some eggs from Mistress Brown, Margaret, her mother had snapped, shooing Meg’s little twin brothers out from underfoot. You are of no use to me with your daydreaming today. Beatrice can finish the mending.
The Cliffords were an old family, at Clifford Manor for centuries, but not rich enough to hire people do all their mending for them. Or fetch their eggs.
It was a chilly day, a cold wind snapping at her cloak as smoke curled from Clifford Manor’s old chimneys behind her, but Meg didn’t care. She had a few moments to be alone away from the chaos of her home. Not even Beatrice was with her today to interrupt her thoughts. The farther she walked, the quieter the countryside grew, until she could imagine she was dancing again.
Until she spun around the corner of the lane, humming louder, and saw the great black horse swooping down on her.
Meg screamed and ducked toward the hedgerows, snagging her cloak. She almost fell into the mud, and the panic fell over her like a cold cloud as her hood drooped down in front of her eye.
The horse thundered by, mere inches from her foot. As she struggled to push herself right, she heard the great beast whirl around and a man’s shout.
Meg shoved her hood back and glanced back over her shoulder to see a man leaping down from his saddle. His clothes were fine velvet and leather, cut close to a handsome body and far too fine for the local gentry.
“Are you hurt?” he shouted, and reached up to sweep off his plumed hat as he ran toward her.
The panic was brushed away in a warm rush of joy as she saw it was him. Robert Erroll. Back again at last.
“I—I am quite fine, Master Erroll,” she called, hurrying toward him. “You do seem in a great hurry.”
“Mistress Clifford!” he said, a wide, bright grin breaking across his face. He was so very handsome, with his dark hair ruffled by the wind around his face. “I’m on my way to your own house. My parents are to call on your family, but their new coach is too slow for me. I’m most happy I came on ahead now, if it means I can see you.”
Meg laughed as she tilted her head to look up at him—he was so wondrously tall. And he laughed with her, too, his face even more beautiful in mirth, if that was possible.
“Pretty Mistress Margaret,” he said. “I have thought of you often since our New Year’s dance.”
Meg felt a burst of raw, pure joy that he remembered, as she did. “Have you indeed, Master Erroll?” she answered pertly. A country miss she might be, but surely she knew better than to seem too eager. Especially with a man like this, a handsome, strong court gentleman. “Most extraordinary of you.”
His laugh rang out even louder, sweeter. “Do you mean to say you have not thought of me at all?”
“Life is busy here, you know. Not so busy as at the queen’s court, perhaps, but we have little time for idle thoughts.” Meg turned and slowly strolled along down the lane, wondering wildly all the time if he watched her, if he would follow.
And follow he did. She heard the fall of his booted feet on the dirt, and he quickly caught up to her as they reached a low stone wall. He caught her arm in his gloved hand.
Meg swung around to him, startled and excited and scared all at once.
“Court is full of color and scandal and events of all kinds, assuredly,” he said. “But you would rival any lady there with your beauty and sweetness, Mistress Margaret. I’ve never seen eyes like yours....”
The tips of his fingers trailed over her cheek, the merest featherlight touch, but it made Meg shiver as she stared up at him. Oh, how she wanted to believe him! How she wanted his sweet words to be true. And indeed he looked at her as if she had always dreamed a handsome suitor might, with a solemn wonder writ on the chiseled planes of his face.
But she also knew that her eyes were the plainest of browns. And she knew, too, that what she was doing here with him was not something a proper young lady should do. That if her parents saw her they would be angry, and part of her wanted to run away from these feelings.
The bigger part of her, the part she feared meant she was not entirely proper, made her stay.
“I—I fear you seek to flatter me, sirrah,” she said, trying to laugh.
“No flattery. If you could see the women at court...” He gently traced a strand of her brown hair that had escaped her hood. “There are none like you.”
His hands slid down her arms, his touch light, teasing. Until suddenly his arms were around her waist, tugging her closer to him. She went with him, unresisting. She was overcome with curiosity, with that heady, overpowering emotion he always evoked when he came near her. It made her feel dizzy with it, with his nearness, and she clutched at his shoulders to hold herself up.
How wonderful it was to feel like that, Meg thought giddily. Like too much spiced wine, or lying in warm grass on a summer’s day. He made her senses whirl and spin, just from the feel of him under her hands, hard and warm and alive.
It frightened her, but it was also so very exciting.
As she looked up into his blue eyes, she felt as if she was caught in a dream. Yet everything was so much more immediate, so much brighter and clearer than anything else she had ever known. Then, wonder of wonders, his eyes grew darker. His head bent toward hers and he kissed her.
The touch of his lips was so soft at first, like the brush of warm velvet, sweeping over her mouth teasingly. When she swayed closer, her hands clutching at his shoulders, that kiss deepened.
“Beautiful Meg,” he whispered hoarsely before claiming her mouth again. Hotter, more urgent, rougher.
Something hidden deep in Meg’s heart responded to that urgency, growing and filling her until she feared she would burst with the splendor of it all. Her lips parted on a moan, and she felt his tongue slide shockingly against hers. His hands twined in her hair, sending the pins scattering to the ground as he used the dark strands to hold her with him. She moaned and opened her mouth willingly to his passionate kiss. His touch, the taste of him, made her feel wonderfully as if she was flying.
In his arms she felt free at long last. She felt truly alive, and she wanted that so very much, even if it was only for a moment and then she had to go back to her dull life. Surely a moment couldn’t hurt her?
Or maybe a moment could end everything she had ever known. She didn’t care. She only wanted him.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders to keep from falling to the ground. His hands fell free from her hair to unfasten the ties of her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. The cold wind brushed over her, making her shiver, but then there was only the heat of his body all around hers.
His open mouth slid from hers to kiss her neck, the soft curve of her shoulder above the neckline of her plain gown. His teeth nipped lightly at her skin, making her gasp and shiver all over again. Her head fell back as she hoped he would kiss her even more, even further, letting the delicious feelings wash over her.
“Beautiful Meg,” he whispered roughly. He caught the hem of her skirt in his fist and dragged it up until she felt the cool wind rush over the bare skin just above her stocking, just as she had hoped he would. He caressed her through the thin knit of her stocking, his fingertip dipping behind the ribbon of her garter.
It was shocking—and wonderful. No one had ever touched her thus, and she wanted yet more and more. His hand slid higher, enticing, teasing, and when she moaned he gave a hoarse laugh.
“Passionate Meg,” he said.
“Passionate for you,” she answered, holding him tighter.
Everything vanished until there was only him and her and that kiss, that touch. Only that one perfect instant she wanted to go on forever and ever.
But it was a forever that was shattered all too quickly.
At first Meg was sure the rumbling sound was her heart, pounding inside her with such joy she knew it would burst. She held even tighter to him, for he was the only thing that could keep her from shaking apart. But he tore his mouth from hers and stumbled back, letting the cold wind rush over her again. Her skirts fell around her in disarray.
Then she heard it, closer with every second. A carriage rolling on the lane, not her heart at all.
“Quickly!” Robert said. “We can hide behind the wall.”
Before Meg’s whirling mind could make sense of what was happening, he wrapped his strong, warm hands around her waist and lifted her over the stone wall. He caught up her fallen cloak and leaped after her, drawing her down with him until they crouched on the chilly ground, their backs to the rough stone.
Meg could hardly breathe. He was still so close to her, the heat of his hard, strong body wrapping all around her, but it felt as if he had gone from her entirely. He turned away from her to peer over the wall as the crash and rumble of the coach came closer.
A cold hollowness crept through her, and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She still could not fathom being torn from such pleasure. What had happened?
Had she kissed him all wrong?
She turned to peek over the wall. The coach was almost upon them, a glossy brown-and-gold vehicle splashed with mud and frost and drawn by a team of splendid matching bays. Ordinarily, Meg would have been fascinated to see it; only the queen and her highest nobles had such things for traveling. But now she was all too aware of Robert Erroll next to her, watching the coach with narrowed eyes.
Meg glimpsed a woman’s pale face at the window as it bounced past, the feathers on her velvet hat waving. The hair pinned beneath it was the same shining black as Robert’s.
Then they were gone, as suddenly as they came. Robert slumped down beside her, and Meg suddenly realized something.
“That was your parents,” she said. And he had hid her from them.
“Aye,” he answered. He lifted her up from their hiding place, still seeming so distant. “Come, let me see you home, Mistress Margaret....” And that, aside from pleasantries on the cold weather, was all he said to her on the walk back to Clifford Manor....
His parents. And he had not wanted them to see him with her. The more Meg remembered the scene that afternoon the more sure she was.
“Meg!” Beatrice hissed, tugging at Meg’s sleeve again. Her cousin’s touch pulled Meg back to the present moment, to their hiding place above her parents’ great hall. “What is happening now?”
Meg shook away the memory of Robert’s wondrous kiss, and his terrible distance after. She peered back through the knothole to see her parents with the two elder Errolls next to the blazing fire.
Robert had not appeared at supper, hours after he’d left her at the kitchen door with a bow and a quick kiss to her hand. Only his parents had been there, his portly, bearded father swathed in a velvet and fur doublet, and his beautiful, black-haired, chilly-eyed mother. Meg’s own mother had seemed quite startled they were there, though she had scrambled together a creditable feast and made sure Meg and Beatrice were well-dressed.
The conversation had only been of court news and the weather, naught about their son. And Meg dared not ask. She and Bea were sent away soon after the meal.
“Hush, or I won’t be able to hear a thing,” Meg whispered, peering closer.
Her father was pouring wine into everyone’s goblets. “We are honored by your visit, of course, Lord Erroll,” he said. “We get little enough word of court here.”
It was Lady Erroll who answered. “It is most unfortunate for you, Master Clifford. Everything happens at court, does it not?”
“But we must look in on our estates from time to time,” Lord Erroll said. “We are on our way there now. Knowing we were going there, the queen herself asked us to deliver a message to you.”
