The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles by Arnopp Judith

Author:Arnopp, Judith [Arnopp, Judith]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2016-12-07T16:00:00+00:00

February 1473

I miss Harry. My bed seems vast and cold without the familiar body slumbering beside me, the touch of his hand on my hip. I never recognised how much his loving meant; never realised I would ever come to miss the indignity of our coupling.

It is not only when night falls that I realise his lack; I miss his conversation at supper, our strolls about the garden at dusk. I miss his friendliness, his sincerity, his – oh, I miss everything. There is no-one to advise me now. I may be married but Stanley leads his life as a single man. I live mine as a nun.

When I am away from court, despite the new furnishings, the improvements I have introduced to the solar and the gardens, I feel like a visitor in his home. He is a busy man, always away on the king’s business or in attendance on the king. As a result, when the queen requests me to return early to my duties, I am relieved to go.

She favours me, sometimes even before her close relatives, who continue to dominate the royal palace and secure for themselves the best, most prestigious appointments. Some of them are shameless in their efforts to attract the king’s favour. My motives are little different. I put myself in the way of the king and queen for the sole purpose of securing Henry a safe passage back to England, but I hope my intentions are less transparent.

Compared to the restraint of King Henry’s court, Edward’s is brash and strident, given over to pleasure. The older families, the Talbots, and the Vaughns, look down their noses at the thrusting new members at court. The displeasure on Cecily Neville’s face is eloquent, as if there is a nasty smell somewhere in the room.

This evening is no different. There are those members of the gathering who revel in the celebration, and those who clearly wish they were somewhere else. As soon as she can, the queen excuses herself, pleading a headache. The king looks up, blows her a kiss before turning back to his favourites. The last thing we hear as the doors close behind us is the laughter of Jane Shore, his favourite mistress. My back is stiff with indignation as I follow the queen to her apartment. If the king put more energy into the government of his country, and spent less time investigating the bottom of his wine cup and the intrigues beneath his mistress’s petticoats, the country would be a better place.

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