The confinement bedchamber is musty and cold from long disuse. Even the tapestries on the walls look faded and neglected. I move to the window to open it and let in a burst of chill, fresh air. Down below, a dozen gardeners go about their clearing work.
“Best if you don’t stand too close to the window, Majesty,” Jane whispers behind me.
“A cold wind is blowing up,” Margaret adds.
“No need to cosset me so,” I tell them, smiling. “I won’t blow away in the wind.”
They are both silent, looking chastised. I walk around, checking on the sparse furniture and the solid flooring. The bed looks well made up and fresh, just about the only item that is in this large, cold room. I look to the windows that let in much daylight and reflect that, when I enter here, there will be large drapes up and no
