VIII by H.M. Castor Read Free Book Online Page B

carved on the ornate fireplace, lit from below, seem to grin demonically. My mother doesn’t move – I wonder if she is asleep.
    Moving round the chair to stand before her, I see that her eyes are open, but she stirs and looks confused for a moment, as if I’ve woken her from a dream. “Mama!” I blurt. I probably look crazy – bright-eyed and barely able to stand still. “You don’t have to worry, I’ve realised what they meant!”
    “What, sweetheart?” With an obvious effort, she is smiling at me, trying to look interested.
    “Those prophecies from the City.” The smile is gone: my mother is instantly alert, aghast. I hurry on. “I was hiding in the room. I know I shouldn’t have been, I’m sorry – I just happened to be there. Anyway, York will be king – it’s not him, the one they call the Pretender. It’s me. Mama – aren’t I Duke of York too? Aren’t I the proper one? It’s me who will be king!”
    The blow reaches me before I know what is happening. Her left hand, ringed and surprisingly heavy, slams across my face with the force of a leather strap. I find myself twisted round, looking suddenly at the floor.
    There is a moment of silence.
    One of the tiny claws holding the stone of her ring has caught the skin below my right eye. My fingers drift up to it, absently – I look at my hand and see blood.
    The next moment she has bundled me to her. I am pressed, too hard, into her bodice, my cheek rammed against the jewelled border of her neckline, so that the stones make painful pits in my skin.
    She is weeping – huge shuddering sobs. I think: I have made her weep . And she is rocking me. “Hush, hush,” she says at last, when her breathing has steadied. “Hush… hush.” But I am making no noise.
    At last she puts me at arm’s length, her hands on my shoulders. Her face is blotched, her eyes puffy. “You must never say such a thing again, Hal,” she says, shaking me slightly. “Understand?”
    I am the one crying now. I nod, gulping.
    “Those prophecies were complete nonsense. The ravings of charlatans, agitators, enemies of the crown. They’ve been burned. Your father is king and – God willing – your brother will one day succeed him. Listen carefully.” I can’t bear the way she’s looking at me: it’s ferocious, piercing – like nothing I’ve seen before. “Never mention those prophecies to anyone. Lives depend on it. My life. Maybe yours too. This is a time of danger: rebels are approaching London; your father is leading an army to meet them; foreign rulers are trying to stir up trouble… Ridiculous prophecies are always circulated when there is unrest like this. Do you understand?”
    I nod energetically, and press my knuckles against my eyes. I can’t speak.
    “If ever you do mention the prophecies – to anyone – I will deny all knowledge of them. I will say you have made them up. And you will be flogged for it. Understand?”
    I nod a second time.
    “Don’t spy on me ever again, will you? Will you?” She peels my hands from my eyes – makes me meet her gaze.
    I shake my head miserably. My cheek is throbbing now where she hit me. I want to run away.
    “Oh God, look at you. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” She searches in her purse for her handkerchief, wets it on her tongue and wipes the blood from my cheek. “There. Better now. Aren’t we?” And she smiles at me valiantly. It is so vulnerable, that smile. It makes my heart lurch inside my ribcage, like I’ve missed a tread on the stairs.
    So I mumble, “Yes,” and do my best to smile back.
    The jewels round my mother’s neck wink in the firelight as she takes a deep breath and opens her eyes wide. “Oh! Aren’t we silly sometimes?” She is brushing herself down now, finding a clean corner of handkerchief to blot her eyes. I know what she is thinking – that if my grandmother sees her, she must not look as if she has been crying.
    That night in bed I hide under the covers, clutching Raggy