Nicholas Oliver was displeased. He had been called to London by the uncles of the young king, Thomas and Edward Seymour. Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford, had been appointed the “Lord Protector” of the king, who was considered, at the age of nine, too young to rule. Nicholas thought he had been called to review the state of the king’s jewels, but found himself in the midst of a hornet’s nest of jealousy. The Earl of Hertford’s wife, Anne, was an arrogant, grasping woman. Since the day of Edward’s coronation, she had been scheming to get what she felt was her fair share of crown jewels since her husband was the protector of King Edward. What had begun as “skirmishes” were mounting into battles, especially when Thomas Seymour began to openly court the newly widowed queen, Catherine Parr, the stepmother to the young king and to Princesses Elizabeth and Mary. Courting aggressively to the point that Nicholas had been summoned on this day to discuss a wedding ring for Catherine. Her late husband, Henry VIII, had been in the grave not yet three months!

But perhaps worst of all was that he felt haunted—haunted by the beautiful gold rose pendant that he had created for his beloved Rosemary. He had been shocked to see Princess Elizabeth wearing it, and he prayed that she had not discovered the pin for the locket. And now the princess had moved into Catherine’s home. The dowager queen felt it was her duty to care for Elizabeth. He had arrived at the appointed hour on this late-March day for yet another discussion about the wedding ring and a necklace.

“Ah, Master Oliver, the dowager queen is in the knot garden awaiting your arrival,” the gentleman usher of Chelsea Manor greeted him.

The knot garden, how fitting, Nicholas thought. Every time he visited, he felt as if he were at the nexus of jealousy, politics, jewels, and intrigue—a veritable knot.

A small table had been set near the center of the knot garden, where there was a ring of snapdragons that were almost in full bloom.

The dowager queen and her soon-to-be husband, Thomas Seymour, were sitting at the table holding hands and whispering to one another.

“Ah! Master Oliver.” Thomas Seymour jumped to his feet. “You brought the sketches for the design.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

Nicholas drew the furled drawings from his portable case.

“The Seymour coat of arms with the wings of a hawk rising out of the coronet of a baron,” the goldsmith explained as he pointed with his finger to the drawing.

“Yes,” Thomas Seymour murmured. “But then again, she is a queen.” He clasped the dowager queen’s hand and gave it a kiss. “Perhaps some reference is needed, yes?”

“Well, yes,” Nicholas replied.