Read Online The Tudor Rose by Margaret Campbell Barnes - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Campbell Barnes
Ads: Link
honour.”
“They say a sudden glimpse of power can change a man.”
“But even then, when he could have had anything he asked, he was never one to put himself forward for power. He loved my father as I do, and seemed content to serve him.”
“Does it not occur to you, Bess,” suggested Stafford, choosing his words carefully, “that in some odd, distorted sort of way he may be seeking to serve him—or his kingdom—now?”
“For Heaven's sake do not let my mother hear you speak like that!” warned Elizabeth, with an anxious glance over her shoulder. But she herself sat in silence with the thought, and when she spoke it was in a more hopeful tone. “Well, anyhow, I am glad that Anne Neville has come,” she said. “Both the boys like her, and she will be kind to them.”
Stafford put his hand on hers as it rested on the stone sill beside him. “I doubt if she will have much opportunity of seeing them,” he said gently.
“Tom! What are you trying to tell me?” cried Elizabeth, her frightened gaze searching his face.
“It was awkward for your uncle, I suppose. Particularly with his own son coming. So he has had your brothers moved to the lodgings over the gatehouse.”
He used the word lodgings euphemistically, momentarily forgetting how well she knew the labyrinthian lay-out of the Tower since her half-brother's governorship. “But those rooms are always used for—state prisoners,” she said, looking down almost unseeingly at their joined hands. And then, as Stafford made no reply, she asked piteously, “Does it mean that they will really not be allowed to—go out?”
“There is a walk on the leads of the battlements,” he reminded her. “From there they will at least be able to watch the ships go by.”
“Who, then, will look after them?” she managed to ask.
“A man called Slaughter—Will Slaughter.”
“God in Heaven, what a name!” ejaculated Elizabeth, crossing herself involuntarily.
“He was a trusted archer of Gloucester's troops. Black Slaughter, men call him.”
“Why do they call him so?”
“Because he is dark and hirsute, I suppose.”
“Let us pray it be for his hair and not his heart!” she murmured.
Seeing her blue eyes all awash with tears, Stafford put aside ceremony and lifted her little hands in his strong ones to cover them with kisses. “Do not worry so for them, dear Bess!” he entreated, his dark head bent close above her fair one.
For a blessed moment or two they stayed close in that sweet companionship. How good, she thought, to have a strong man hold one—a man who cared. So must girls feel, she supposed, who were answerable only to their husbands and not to the State. How easy, she thought, to care for some small country manor, living to please one man. How doubly sweet to bear and bring up children. Against the warmth of Tom Stafford's shoulder her generous mouth curved into a happy smile. For a moment she imagined herself playing with his children on some ordinary sunlit lawn. But even the escape of dreaming was short-lived. She was a Plantagenet and must obey her destiny, walking head high with tragedy if need be. “I will try not to worry, dear Tom,” she promised, gently withdrawing her hands. “But perhaps you could come again and give me news of them—after the coronation?”
Much as he longed to come, Stafford hesitated. “I am no longer of the Queen's household—”
Elizabeth laid her fingers persuasively on his sleeve. “I know how she insults you, and the risks you run. But if it be possible come to me here. I will walk alone in the cloister before vespers. I have lost so much happiness that it would be hard to think I shall not see you again.”
Daring and ardent was Stafford's kiss on the palm of her hand, but brief as ardent. A memory for a girl to live on. Not enough to hold her his, perhaps, but a stirring of the senses strong enough to teach her hunger for some other man's love.
It was days later
“They say a sudden glimpse of power can change a man.”
“But even then, when he could have had anything he asked, he was never one to put himself forward for power. He loved my father as I do, and seemed content to serve him.”
“Does it not occur to you, Bess,” suggested Stafford, choosing his words carefully, “that in some odd, distorted sort of way he may be seeking to serve him—or his kingdom—now?”
“For Heaven's sake do not let my mother hear you speak like that!” warned Elizabeth, with an anxious glance over her shoulder. But she herself sat in silence with the thought, and when she spoke it was in a more hopeful tone. “Well, anyhow, I am glad that Anne Neville has come,” she said. “Both the boys like her, and she will be kind to them.”
Stafford put his hand on hers as it rested on the stone sill beside him. “I doubt if she will have much opportunity of seeing them,” he said gently.
“Tom! What are you trying to tell me?” cried Elizabeth, her frightened gaze searching his face.
“It was awkward for your uncle, I suppose. Particularly with his own son coming. So he has had your brothers moved to the lodgings over the gatehouse.”
He used the word lodgings euphemistically, momentarily forgetting how well she knew the labyrinthian lay-out of the Tower since her half-brother's governorship. “But those rooms are always used for—state prisoners,” she said, looking down almost unseeingly at their joined hands. And then, as Stafford made no reply, she asked piteously, “Does it mean that they will really not be allowed to—go out?”
“There is a walk on the leads of the battlements,” he reminded her. “From there they will at least be able to watch the ships go by.”
“Who, then, will look after them?” she managed to ask.
“A man called Slaughter—Will Slaughter.”
“God in Heaven, what a name!” ejaculated Elizabeth, crossing herself involuntarily.
“He was a trusted archer of Gloucester's troops. Black Slaughter, men call him.”
“Why do they call him so?”
“Because he is dark and hirsute, I suppose.”
“Let us pray it be for his hair and not his heart!” she murmured.
Seeing her blue eyes all awash with tears, Stafford put aside ceremony and lifted her little hands in his strong ones to cover them with kisses. “Do not worry so for them, dear Bess!” he entreated, his dark head bent close above her fair one.
For a blessed moment or two they stayed close in that sweet companionship. How good, she thought, to have a strong man hold one—a man who cared. So must girls feel, she supposed, who were answerable only to their husbands and not to the State. How easy, she thought, to care for some small country manor, living to please one man. How doubly sweet to bear and bring up children. Against the warmth of Tom Stafford's shoulder her generous mouth curved into a happy smile. For a moment she imagined herself playing with his children on some ordinary sunlit lawn. But even the escape of dreaming was short-lived. She was a Plantagenet and must obey her destiny, walking head high with tragedy if need be. “I will try not to worry, dear Tom,” she promised, gently withdrawing her hands. “But perhaps you could come again and give me news of them—after the coronation?”
Much as he longed to come, Stafford hesitated. “I am no longer of the Queen's household—”
Elizabeth laid her fingers persuasively on his sleeve. “I know how she insults you, and the risks you run. But if it be possible come to me here. I will walk alone in the cloister before vespers. I have lost so much happiness that it would be hard to think I shall not see you again.”
Daring and ardent was Stafford's kiss on the palm of her hand, but brief as ardent. A memory for a girl to live on. Not enough to hold her his, perhaps, but a stirring of the senses strong enough to teach her hunger for some other man's love.
It was days later
Similar Books
