The Forbidden Queen полностью

‘There are no festivities planned,’ I warned. ‘We live quietly.’ I thought I sounded ungracious and tried to make amends. ‘That is to say that usually we see no need to feast and…’ This was no better. Windsor sounded much like a convent of aging nuns.

‘Quietly?’ Edmund interrupted, grinning. ‘It’s no better than a damned tomb. It’s a dismal place. Old King Edward, who feasted and frolicked at every opportunity, must be turning in his grave. I think we should celebrate.’

‘Celebrate what?’ James asked warily, which gave me pause. It made me think that he might have had experience of some of Beaufort’s wilder schemes. I could imagine Edmund Beaufort being wild.

‘Your release, man. Let’s make it a Christmas and Twelfth Night to remember.’ And Edmund Beaufort actually grasped my hand, linking his fingers with mine before I could react. ‘What do you say, Queen Kat? Shall we shake Windsor back into life? Shall we make the old rooms echo with our play?’

Edmund Beaufort was irrepressible. Queen Kat? No one had ever called me that. But my heart was lighter. For the first time in many weeks my spirits had risen, and my room was full of noise and laughter. I did not know whether to laugh or rebuke him for his lack of respect. I did neither, for he gave me no time.

‘Do you object to games and dancing, Majesty? I do hope not.’ Releasing me as fast as he had seized hold of me, he swept me another magnificent bow, as full of mockery as it was possible to be, following it with a dozen agile dance steps that took him to plant a kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. ‘We’ll celebrate around you if you’ve no taste for it—and you can sit on your dignity and let us get on with it.’

I laughed at the irreverent picture, and at Beatrice’s astonished discomfiture. But there he was, waiting for my reply.

‘Well, Cousin Queen? Do we celebrate with you or around you? Or do we leave you to your misery and take ourselves off to Westminster instead?’

I was struck by an overwhelming longing to be part of this youthful group.

‘Let me arrange the festivities for you,’ Edmund Beaufort pleaded in false anxiety. ‘I will die of boredom if you refuse. Let me loose to bring this place back to life again.’

And you too. I heard the implication that was not spoken.

Entirely baffled, I felt the prickle of tears at his concern.

‘I’d let him if I were you,’ James remarked. ‘He’ll only badger you into insensibility if you don’t.’

‘Please let us dance, my lady,’ Joan added.

‘And even play games. We are not too old for games,’ Meg observed.

‘I would like it too,’ Beatrice added solemnly.

I raised my palms, helpless before all the expectant faces. ‘It seems that we celebrate,’ I managed.

Edmund crowed at his success. ‘Then we will. I’m at your feet, my lady. Your wish is my command.’ True to his statement, he flung himself to his knees and raised the hem of my gown to his lips. When he looked up his face was all vivid life and expectation. ‘We will turn night into day. We will transmute shadows into brightest sunlight.’

That was what I wanted.

The years fell away from me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘What am I?’ I asked Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, Henry’s youngest and least appealing brother, and now the newly appointed Protector of England. King in all but name as far as I could see, but it had been Henry’s wish, and so I must bow to it. And to him. It was exactly one week since I had accompanied Henry’s coffin to his burial in Westminster Abbey.

‘You are Queen Dowager.’ He spoke slowly, as if I might not quite understand the significance of it, and looked down his high-bridged nose. He would rather not be having this conversation with me. I did not know whether he still doubted my facility with the language or questioned the state of my intellect.

Of one fact I was certain: Gloucester was a bitter man, bent on grabbing as much power for himself as he could. Henry, in his final days, had conferred on this younger brother the tutelam et defensionem of my son. On the strength of that, Gloucester had claimed the Regency in England when Lord John of Bedford had shouldered power in France, but Gloucester was not a man to make friends easily.

The lords of the Royal Council declined—very politely but firmly—to invest Gloucester with either the title or the power to govern in this way, only agreeing to him becoming principal counsellor with the title of Protector. Gloucester had not forgiven them, directing most of his animosity at Bishop Henry Beaufort, whom he suspected of stirring up the opposition.

‘You are the supremely respectable, grieving widow of our revered late king,’ he continued, in the same manner.