The White Queen Read Free

Woodville,” I say
     proudly, though I know the king will recognize the name of a man who was high in the
     favor of the Lancaster court, fought for them, and once took hard words from him in
     person when York and Lancaster were daggers drawn. We all know of one another well
     enough, but it is a courtesy generally observed to forget that we were all loyal to
     Henry VI once, until these turned traitor.
    Sir William raises his eyebrow at his king’s choice for a stopping place. “Then I
     doubt that you’ll want to stay very long,” he says unpleasantly, and rides on. The
     ground shakes as they go by, and they leave us in warm quietness as the dust settles.
    “My father has been forgiven and his title restored,” I say defensively. “You forgave
     him yourself after Towton.”
    “I remember your father and your mother,” the king says equably. “I have known them
     since I was a boy in good times and bad. I am only surprised that they never introduced
     me to you.”
    I have to stifle a giggle. This is a king notorious for seduction. Nobody with any
     sense would let their daughter meet him. “Would you like to come this way?” I ask.
     “It is a little walk to my father’s house.”
    “D’you want a ride, boys?” he asks them. Their heads bob up like imploring ducklings.
     “You can both go up,” he says, and lifts Richard and then Thomas into the saddle.
     “Now hold tight. You on to your brother and you—Thomas, is it?—you hold on to the
     pommel.”
    He loops the rein over his arm and then offers me his other arm, and so we walk to
     my home, through the wood, under the shade of the trees. I can feel the warmth of
     his arm through the slashed fabric of his sleeve. I have to stop myself leaning towards
     him. I look ahead to the house and to my mother’s window and see, from the little
     movement behind the mullioned panes of glass, that she has been looking out, and willing
     this very thing to happen.
    She is at the front door as we approach, the groom of the household at her side. She
     curtseys low. “Your Grace,” she says pleasantly, as if the king comes to visit every
     day. “You are very welcome to Grafton Manor.”
    A groom comes running and takes the reins of the horse to lead it to the stable yard.
     My boys cling on for the last few yards, as my mother steps back and bows the king
     into the hall. “Will you take a glass of small ale?” she asks. “Or we have a very
     good wine from my cousins in Burgundy?”
    “I’ll take the ale, if you please,” he says agreeably. “It is thirsty work riding.
     It is hot for spring. Good day to you, Lady Rivers.”
    The high table in the great hall is laid with the best glasses and a jug of ale as
     well as the wine. “You are expecting company?” he asks.
    She smiles at him. “There is no man in the world could ride past my daughter,” she
     says. “When she told me she wanted to put her own case to you, I had them draw the
     best of our ale. I guessed you would stop.”
    He laughs at her pride, and turns to smile at me. “Indeed, it would be a blind man
     who could ride past you,” he says.
    I am about to make some little comment, but again it happens. Our eyes meet, and I
     can think of nothing to say to him. We just stand, staring at each other for a long
     moment, until my mother passes him a glass and says quietly, “Good health, Your Grace.”
    He shakes his head, as if awakened. “And is your father here?” he asks.
    “Sir Richard has ridden over to see our neighbors,” I say. “We expect him back for
     his dinner.”
    My mother takes a clean glass and holds it up to the light and tuts as if there is
     some flaw. “Excuse me,” she says, and leaves. The king and I are alone in the great
     hall, the sun pouring through the big window behind the long table, the house in silence,
     as if everyone is holding their breath and listening.
    He goes behind the table and sits down in the master’s chair. “Please sit,”