The King's Grey Mare by Rosemary Hawley Jarman Read Free Book Online

appreciation, from a man who loved pretty women in gay dresses. Mary have mercy! Realization struck at her. A normal man. Again and again she saw the chalkfaced King, a film of spittle on his lip, eyes protruding as if he were being strangled. In God’s name, what kind of a King was he? That crust of ashes on his forehead marked him as a saint, yet he had accused her vilely, unjustly. He had railed likewise at his Queen. ‘Madam! ye be much to blame!’ Margaret’s face had darkened swiftly; she had dashed one glance towards the scar-faced man. Though he had come from pilgrimage with the King he had seemed apart from Henry, he had served only the Queen with wine. She wondered vaguely at his name and lineage. Now she would never know, for the King would surely dismiss her from court. Ismania’s laughter rang silently in her mind. For the first time she longed for her mother; the austere comfort, the powerful presence, Jacquetta’s strange philosophies.
    ‘Melusine.’ She spoke the name aloud.
    The room became quieter still, as if it waited for an answer. Then, far below, the river’s lapping voice grew louder, surging about the thick walls, drifting on mist. She rubbed her wrists, her flesh stared in points of chill. Somewhere a night-bird cried mournfully, and it seemed as if the dark chamber were full of swirling fog. She thought ardently upon Jacquetta’s rune-like wisdom. She lives in us. She fortifies us. Receive her power .
    ‘Melusine,’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘I am your child.’
    A shudder assailed her. From the time when she had been old enough to lisp the responses in the Mass, she had been familiar with the punishments awaiting heretics. The fiery eternity of torture, justly applied by a fierce God. Heat stronger than ten thousand candle-flames. Even on earth, they burned you if you forsook the old saints, the law-givers. Folk said that that pain was over quickly, if the faggots were green and the smoke thick. Not so with the fires of Hell. There, you burned for ever.
    And then the strength and horror of these matchless doctrines ebbed utterly into the silence, a darker deeper silence through which she said softly:
    ‘I need one to protect me.’ Because she spoke to an empty room she laughed, to chase fear. She thought of Jocelyne de Hardwycke more seriously than ever before. He was the son of a powerful lord, and none would insult her with Jocelyne as husband. He was well-favoured and courtly, and he was for Lancaster. Truly, she had dreamed of love, the coup de foudre , the unmistakable face of love; but love was only a small part of life. She might well wed Jocelyne. The Queen would raise her brows at this volte-face , but she would doubtless be pleased after all.
    ‘So, send me a husband, Melusine,’ she said more boldly. The night-bird cried again. In her mind, she added: And let him be kind, and let me be loved more than any woman.
    The feeling of cold had left her. Almost banteringly she continued, her voice thrown back from the stone walls: ‘And bring Ismania a punishment for mocking me; only a light one!’ she added hastily. Although this was but a game, played for comfort’s sake, even games could go awry. A sudden banging on the door sent her to her feet. In the doorway, ringed by light from the fiery cresset he carried stood the page, Barnaby. He called: ‘Anyone there? Ho! Dame Woodville?’
    He entered, warily looking about him, and saw her.
    ‘All alone, my dame?’ He looked her over, smiled foolishly. ‘You’ve changed your gown. I liked t’other better.’
    ‘Spare me your likes and dislikes, Master Tom,’ said Elizabeth stiffly. ‘Where are the ladies?’
    ‘Below, playing at cards with your love-lorn knight,’ he replied. ‘As for your gowns, I tried to warn you of the King’s humour.’ He yawned, losing interest. ‘Come with me now. God’s nails, I am weary worn.’
    ‘Come with you where?’
    ‘To the Queen. She commands it.’
    Renewed dismay filled her.