1523 Calais (Edited)

Mother is positive; her astrologer Jean Nitte has declared it the right time. Astrologer. Surely a false name for a profession which is frowned upon by most. I do not know why she puts up with the old man, who is easily over fifty with graying hair and a wrinkled, leathery face. He speaks in too many circles, his speech always vacuous. Mother likes him, but I think he is a fraud, with nothing clear to say.

When I thought my dislike for him could not get any worse, I was proven wrong. His dictations to my mother affect my future and I do not like his advice. Mother is a fool to follow his words. She informs him too much about her desires and he plays her on a string, telling her what she wants to hear.

He comes to our house under the guise of a tutor, for the court would not welcome him if they discovered his true identity. Even here it is dangerous to invite him into our home, so we must pretend he is here to teach me latin, and to that effect, after his murmuring to my mother, I have to listen to him ramble for a further hour or two on aspects of language.

He smells like old stale sweat and dusty books. His fingers are stained from ink and his eyes are squinted. Now the dolt is telling my mother that I should move to England.

"I will not go!" I cross my arms.

"If I say you will, then you will go," she says simply.

She stretches her hand and I know she is imagining the painful squeeze she can give me if I disobey. I have a life at the French court; I do not want to be sent off to England like the rest of my family.

"Maybe he means Joan." I try to bargain rather than outright refuse.

She frowns and narrows her eyes. "She is already married. It has to be you," she replies.

I bristle in response. "How can you let this man—this charlatan—dictate my life? You said you knew this stuff yourself. Why are you listening to his false ramblings?" I all but cry out.

She glares at me, exasperated. "Keep your voice low. If you are going to mention the forbidden, at least speak in latin so the servants can not hear you."

I gulp, not realizing how loud I had been. It is a dangerous thing bringing that man here, but we had more damaging secrets in our family.

* * *

The servants pack my belongings in heavy trunks and send them on their way. My trunks would arrive before me, making my journey much faster. Rather providing me a sensible carriage for transportation, my mother expects me to ride a horse with no luggage to impair my speed. You would think someone was dying at her haste.

We prayed together in chapel the morning before my journey. It was a ruse, one we do every day. After that, we went for a walk around our extensive gardens. A passerby would think we were pleasantly talking—about frivolous matters, perhaps. Truthfully, we were speaking of something far more urgent. My mother made offerings the night before—in secret—and we were asked to gather together that night for the safety of my journey.

Today, I do not get to say goodbye to my father. He is at court still and did not come with us to our family home. He believes I am visiting my sister Joan and my brother Philip at the English court and he will expect me back soon enough. Mother has other plans and if her charlatan is right, I will not be coming home.

The carriage from our family home to the docks is all the comfort I will have. I sit opposite mother taking in the dark clouds overhead, which have opened, showering the ground with rain.

"That does not appear positive," I remark.

I say it with tranquility, but the truth is, boats scare me. I had asked for good weather and it seems the Gods do not wish me to go. At least we can agree on that.

"You will be fine," she says, as though it is definite. "Remember, when you arrive, you will be met by your sister's household, a guard or a handful, they will escort you to Godington house, your sister's new estate."

"Yes, mother," I reply. I have heard the plans over and over—enough that it has already been drilled in my head.

"From there, you will head straight to court. Joan will accompany you. Philip has residency there so he will take care of you when you arrive."

I try to picture the boy—the man—my brother will be. Philip has always been an overactive, confident child, but his face is hard to imagine. I have not seen him in four years.

The carriage pulls to a stop and I take a deep breath. There would be no heart-felt affection from my mother. No public display of tears. She is too placid for that. She has sent the other two off without a tear; I would be no different.

Swollen dark clouds cover the sky from my view of the shore of Calais. They clash together, leaving thunder in their wake. The English Channel answers to the thunder's call, housing strong, howling winds which pick up the sea in large sprays in response.

The weather is petrifying. My first crossing to England and I am doomed to die a terrible death of drowning.

Looking upon the ship—which is swaying in the harbor, aching to break free of the ropes —sends shivers down my spine.

Even in sweats of fear, my mother ushers me onto the vessel. I automatically move myself to the far end of the decking which looks out towards the black, rolling water. The crew is adamant. They say it is the best time to sail: the tide is right, and the storm is not heading towards us, only passing by.

The sailors of the vessel untangle the ropes keeping the boat from sailing, and let loose the large billowing sails. When the sails catch the ferocious wind, the sailors use it to steer us on towards England.