The Three Crowns epub by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online Page A

her; it seemed that it was only to each other that they were unkind. But she knew instinctively that they would be upset if they knew she had overheard their conversation, and that was why she remained.
    After a long time they seemed to tire of the quarrel. She heard the door open and shut, and she wondered whether her father was now alone.
    She opened the door of the anteroom cautiously and looked out. With great relief, seeing that the apartment was empty, she tiptoed away.

     
    A postmortem showed that there was no poison in Margaret Denham’s body but the rumors still persisted and many were certain that the Duchess of York had murdered her for jealousy.
    Sir John Denham continued to write his pieces which gave pleasure to certain members of the Court. It was beginning to be said that the affairs of the Duke of York were as notorious, though not nearly so skillfully managed, as those of his brother.

FAITH AND DEATH
     
    I t was the thirtieth of January, a very solemn day for members of the royal family and therefore throughout England.
    Mary knelt on the window seat watching the snowflakes falling down. Every now and then the bells could be heard. All over the country they were tolling for Charles the Martyr.
    Mary did not know why her grandfather was a martyr; she only knew that she had to be very solemn when she spoke of him. Her father’s eyes grew very bright when he mentioned Charles the Martyr; and she did not like to ask questions because it saddened him to talk of the subject. She had heard whisperings about the Dreadful Day. In Whitehall she averted her eyes at a certain place because that was where it had happened. It was a dreadful shadow which hung over the family, and which must never be mentioned all the year, only on that cold and dismal day which was the thirtieth of January.
    Mary breathed on the glass and rubbed a hole in the mist. It was very cold outside. Perhaps one day she would ask her father to explain. It would be when he was in a merry mood. Then perhaps he would tell her quickly and it could be forgotten.
    She started suddenly because someone was standing behind her, and turning she saw Elizabeth Villiers, smiling her secret sly smile.
    “How long have you been standing there?” demanded Mary.
    “Does it matter?”
    “I asked you a question.”
    “I know, and I asked you one.”
    “It is not good manners to answer a question with a question.”
    Elizabeth laughed; she had a habit of laughing at ordinary remarks as though they were foolish in some way which Mary was too young to understand.
    “When I was riding this morning I saw the King with my cousin, Barbara Villiers,” volunteered Elizabeth.
    Mary sighed. Elizabeth brought her cousin Barbara Villiers into the conversation whenever possible. When she called her sister Barbara she always called her Barbara Villiers, although the others were merely Katherine, Anne, or whatever the case might be. Mary herself had never seen Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, but she was constantly hearing of her; and she was a little tired of the woman.
    “My cousin Barbara is more important than the Queen.” “My cousin Barbara only has to say what she wants and it is hers.” “The King loves my cousin Barbara more than anyone on earth.” “My cousin Barbara is really Queen, not that dull old Catherine.”
    Mary did not believe that. She loved her Aunt Catherine who was always kind to her; and she loved Uncle Charles; and when she saw them together they always seemed to be fond of each other and no one ever suggested—certainly not Charles—that Catherine was not the Queen.
    “You are always talking of your cousin Barbara Villiers,” said Mary, turning back to the window.
    “Well, would you rather talk of Margaret Denham who was killed because of your father?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You are a baby. You don’t know anything. You don’t really know why everyone is so glum today. All you know is that