Succession by Livi Michael Read Free Book Online Page B

despair.
    And York had not sailed to Ireland. He had petitioned the kingmany times for money, and rumour had it that he was preparing to mortgage his lands and would soon be bankrupt. So there were many reasons for the new duke to be cheerful as he went, wearing his ducal robes, to keep his appointment with the queen. It had even occurred to him that she might want to discuss the question of the succession.
    No one else had been named heir since Gloucester had been gone. York was the obvious choice, but the king and queen did not like York. They liked him, Somerset.
    However different they were, and they
were
different – he retreating into sanctity, she like a caged beast – this much could be said: there was no disagreement about the people they liked, who were beloved by them, for they loved like children do, with that same terrifying openness and disregard. There was no limit to their affection, or to their generosity.
    And even though it was a sensitive issue, it was not the worst time to broach this subject with the queen, because the king would agree with her. In his present state, it could be taken for granted that he would agree to most things.
    So the new duke entered the queen’s privy chamber with confidence, but was disconcerted to find her with her hair unbound, wearing only a simple gown over her chemise, which parted as she moved. She stood a few paces away from him, her eyes anxious, her face taut.
    ‘My husband the king is unwell,’ she said when he did not speak.
    The duke made a movement as if to leave. ‘I must go to him,’ he said. ‘I will see what I can do. He should be here, with you.’
    ‘No, wait,’ she said, stepping closer, so that her gown parted again. ‘He does not want company – he cannot bear it. He – does not want to be touched.’
    Ah
, thought the duke. All the rumours he had heard were true. And he had thought of it before, of course he had. She had made her preference for him quite plain.
    Now she was standing very close and, without looking at him directly, she touched him, her hands moving awkwardly to his chest, his face, his lips.
    Unexpectedly, he felt a terrible pity for her, because her touchtold him what she had not said, that she did not know how to touch a man; that she was a young, beautiful woman in a hostile land and her husband could not permit himself to desire her; that in the cold, pure air of his chastity she would know neither the heat of love nor motherhood.
    It confused him, this compassion, for he was not easily moved to sympathy. In a fleeting moment he could see it all: unclothing her, she raising her hips to his, then bearing his child, his son, who would be heir to the throne.
    Also he could see himself, hanged, drawn and quartered for treason. The king was not vengeful, but the duke had many enemies at court.
    So much time can pass in a single moment!
    He lowered his face to her scented hair, knowing as he did so that this was the single most dangerous moment of his career. Briefly, he wondered whether it was more dangerous to offend a queen or a king. Beneath the scent he could detect another odour, sharp and sour. He enclosed her hands in his, removing them gently from his face. Then he murmured, ‘My lady, you are afraid.’
    She stood absolutely still for a moment, and neither of them spoke. Then, subtly, he could feel her withdraw.
    ‘Why should you not be afraid?’ he continued. ‘The king is sick, and the nation also, and you are their queen. All you want is to heal them. But you do not know how.’
    She was pulling away from him, mortified by his presence. Nothing would ever be the same again between them. Greatly daring, he moved her hair from her face, as a lover might.
    ‘This is your country, and you are its queen.’
    She was listening to him, and she didn’t move. But he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say next.
    ‘Our lives are not our own,’ he said, somewhat desperately. ‘They are not ours to give – you