Read Online The First Princess of Wales by Karen Harper - Free Book Online Page A

for him. He noted the look of puzzlement his two friends exchanged over his last comment. St. George, let them wonder what brought on his black moods in increasing frequency lately. Damn, but even his closest friends did not need to know his every thought and whim just because they served him so assiduously. He was their liege prince, not their private property!
    He whacked his leather riding gloves on the narrow, polished oak table in the slate entry hall and paused. He could hear the crowd dispersing and his horses being unpacked and led away around to the mews on the next street already, and soon the bustle of the carrying in and the voices of his entourage would be upon him again. He took his favorite hooded female peregrine, Greta, from the gauntleted arm of his falconer Philip Pipe, crooked his finger to his lutenist Hankin, and stomped up the stairs with the musician in his broad wake.
    The house, which was frequently his retreat and his haven from all the demands of who he was and what he must become, welcomed him this warm spring day with cool, quiet arms. Below ground, two huge cellars were stocked with food and choice wine for his closest friends, or for the rare occasions he chose to entertain here. On the ground floor were the oak-paneled hall and the parlor with its own fireplace, and the kitchen and larder at the back. The second floor above ground held his large combined solar and bedchamber with its own stone-lined fireplace and private privy and
garde-robe
rooms where his clothes were stored. Above, under the slanting eaves, were various chambers used almost exclusively by servants since, except during the day, only a few of his men stood guard and the rest stayed at their own London townhouses nearby.
    The private solar he entered now was richly appointed with blue Persian carpets and green tapestry depicting forests of the hunt. A large table, cushioned heavy chairs, a massive red canopied feather bed, and huge storage chests were the only furniture in the vast room.
    “My Lord Prince, you wished a song?” Hankin, his lutenist, was asking. The slender, brown-haired man stood ready, his full-blown, pear-shaped instrument in his hands. No qualms of insignificance held his servants back from their love of rich colorings in their garments, Edward noted grimly to himself, eyeing Hankin’s fine tunic and hose of gold and scarlet, albeit covered with road dust. St. George, what did it matter? He paid them well to keep them richly clothed. He cared for them well enough, too, whenever he had not fallen into the mire of one of these dark moods.
    Mire—Sir Mud and Mire, the saucy, little blonde had dared to call him. He could not wait to see that pert look turn to surprise when she learned who it was she had rudely scolded. Damn, but he would like to be the one to tell her himself, and yet, would that not turn her meek and mild and simpering like the rest of them? He felt a slight, unbidden stirring in his strong loins. By the blessed saints, his mere thoughts of the little witch were breaking down his body’s usual stony reserve.
    He smiled again, the look lighting his grim face so that the waiting Hankin marveled at the change which came over his handsome, often austere, young lord’s countenance. Hankin cleared his throat.
    “Aye, Hankin. If you are not too tired from that jaunt, tell the steward to fetch me some food and hot water for a bath. And, except for Lord Dagworth, have the others go on home. I will have no need for them until the morrow early. Then come back in and play me something to lighten this foul mood!”
    Hankin’s eyes widened and he gripped the neck of his lute tightly. “Aye, Your Grace. At once.”
    The door was left ajar as he hurried out, for Edward could hear the voices of his men below. Always, always their voices just beyond some door. At times he wanted, needed them, but not today. He leaned his powerful shoulder against the recessed windowsill and glanced down at his puffy