The Forbidden Queen полностью

Would Edmund wed me out of the love he bore me, would he risk wedding me without permission? That was the question to which I needed an answer. The one question I dared not ask. But indeed I did not need to, for Bishop Henry delved into the recesses of his sleeve and drew out a single sheet of a folded document, sealed with the Beaufort crest.

‘Edmund asked me to give you this, my dear. He will explain.’

I held it to my breast, tears bright in my eyes. I could see in the compassionate twist to Bishop Henry’s mouth that he expected it to be Edmund’s farewell to me and, with tears still threatening, I waited until he had tossed off the final dregs of his wine and made his departure—bound for Rome, he informed me, with a cardinal’s hat in his sights since his ambitions in England had been so rudely curtailed—before I broke the seal and read it. I would not expose my broken heart further to the self-serving bishop. But as soon as I was alone I ripped the letter open. Better to know the worst. The lines were simple, the letter short, sufficient for my slow reading.

To Katherine, my one and only love.

How I miss you. It seems a lifetime since we shared the same breath. I long to hold you, to know that you are mine. Soon we will be together again, and I will see you smile.

As you will now know, Gloucester does his damnedest to keep us apart, but I swear he will not succeed. What will be the penalty if we wed, with or without the Young King’s permission? I think that there is no penalty that can be enforced against a Queen of England and a Beaufort in such a case as ours. Is my family so lacking in authority? What can they do to us? No reprimand can keep me from you. No punishment can weigh in the balance against our being together.

I know you will rejoice with me. As proof of my standing at Court, I have been given the overlordship of Mortain. It is a signal honour. How much more proof do I need that my feet are firmly on the ladder to political ascendancy?

Hold fast to your belief in me, my love. I will be at Westminster when you bring Young Henry to Court at the end of the month. We will make our plans.

Always know that I love you.

Your servant, now and always.

Edmund Beaufort

‘Oh, Edmund!’

I cried out in my astonishment as I curled my hand around the enamelled brooch with the Beaufort escutcheon, the lively lion supporting the dominant portcullis, my talisman, that I pinned to my bodice every morning. I was his, loved and valued beyond all others. And here, in his own words, he had vowed to pursue our union. Had I not always known it? Edmund was bold enough, outrageous enough, confident enough with his Beaufort breeding and Plantagenet blood to take a stand against Gloucester and Parliament—against the whole world if need be—to claim the woman he loved. To claim me as his own.

He was Count of Mortain. Was he not in high favour?

As I crushed the letter in my hand it was as if he stood beside me. My mind was suddenly full of his laughter, my head echoing with his murmured words of love. My lips could still taste the quality of his desire as I pressed them to the parchment where his words of love flowed from his pen to me. My body ached for him. We would be together again at Westminster. We would stand side by side, my courage bolstered by Edmund’s love, and challenge the right of Parliament to keep us apart. If necessary we would defy Gloucester. Edmund would assuredly find some way for us to circumvent Gloucester’s cunning maze.

He loves me and he will not desert me.

I held the words close in my heart, repeating them as if they were a nostrum, a witch’s spell to bind us together, against all the odds, as I ran up the stairs to the very top of the great Round Tower, to look out towards London. I could not wait until I saw him again.

‘Edmund!’