Prisoner of the Queen (Tales From the Tudor Court) by Eliza Knight, E. Knight

date. I hoped Mrs. Helen was right. I had not had correspondence with the queen myself to make judgment on how I would be received. Jane still languishes in the Tower, along with her husband and now, again, my father.
    Lady Anne returned, her face pa le. She came to stand before me, so tall and straight, her eyes as dark as her gown. “Katherine.” Her voice sounded strained. “There is some news.”
    My stomach churned, and the dates I’d eaten threatened to expel. I put the other date I’d picked up back on the trencher.
    “ News of Wyatt’s Rebellion has reached the queen’s ears, as has your father’s part in it. They march on London at this moment. Queen Mary’s council has succeeded in persuading her to seek out and punish those involved.” She took a steadying breath, and my heart sank. “Jane and Guildford were found guilty of their charge of high treason. Guildford’s brothers were also found guilty—all are sentenced to death.”
    My lungs strained against my held breath. “What?” I choked out. I felt as though the blood of my entire body rushed to my feet. The room spun. “ But the queen has said she would grant them pardon.”
    Anne nodded, her expression skeptical.
    “What should I do?”
    “Pray.” The duchess left within minutes.
    But I could not move. I remained in my chair for what seemed like hours. In reality, I had no idea how much time passed.
    Mrs. Helen approached, placing a light hand on my shoulder. “Should you like to take a turn about the garden, my lady? I will fetch your mantle, ’tis not too cold as yet. The fresh air may have your appetite coming back.”
    I shook my head. How could I walk outside in the fresh air , or even think about eating, when my sister was locked away in a Tower, sentenced to death?
     
    February 1, 1554
     
    “Oh, dear God,” I breathe out, for I couldn’t find my voice. I ran to the chapel, my knees weak, bile rising in my throat, my lungs unable to fill with air. I stumbled over the threshold and down the aisle until I reached the altar, dropping to my knees, ignoring the pain of a ragged piece of stone on the floor cutting into my flesh.
    “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil—” My voice cracked, and a torrent of emotion whipped through me. I could no longer recite the Lord’s Prayer as I’d been taught from the moment of my birth, only lament to the most Holy of Holies, that He have mercy on my sister! “Oh, Jesu, have mercy on us! Oh, Lord God, have mercy!”
    Thomas Wyatt the Younger, the upstart, who should have been banished from England years before, had undone us all! He had signed the warrant for my sister’s death. Wyatt’s Rebellion. And my own father!
    “Lord, I pray to you! Show the queen my sister’s innocence. Do not let her once again be blamed for the evildoing of men!”
    My father ’s actions were perhaps the most vile of treacheries. How could he have joined in Wyatt’s Rebellion?
    My hands shook as I held them up in supplication, and tears streamed down my face. I didn’t feel the cold, even though I’d left my cape in my chamber. Father’s actions were paramount to running me through with his sword. I sank all the way to the floor, my head resting on the cold stones.
    And t o think the queen had said she would let Jane go free… My sister should never see the light of day again.
    To be so utterly out of control… To have no say. To be able to do nothing…
    The rebels marched on London as I breathed this breath. They would soon meet with the queen’s army, and I prayed they would relinquish their weapons and go in peace rather than battle it out, for we all knew what the outcome would be: The queen would win.
     
    February 11, 1554
     
    “My lady, this