The Crippled Angel Read Online Free Page A

shadowed with pain.
    And yet never did she complain, or moan about the injustice of life.
    Silently, Neville reached out a hand and took hers. If his relationship with Bolingbroke had slid from deep friendship into wary politeness, then his relationship with Mary had taken the opposite path. Neville spent several hours each day with Mary—no doubt occasioning much gossip in court—talking, playing chess or, as now, merely sitting with her as he held her hand.
    Her condition had stabilised somewhat over the past five or six months. From what both Mary and Margaret had told him, Neville knew that the mass in her womb had stopped actively growing and had instead shrunk to a small, hard lump; Mary no longer exhibited signs of pregnancy, nor expelled blackened spongy portions of the growth. Nevertheless, it continued to suck at Mary’s vitality, and often to cause her great pain and discomfort.
    But not to any mortal extent.
    Neville wondered what Bolingbroke thought about this.
    Bolingbroke and Mary no longer shared the same bed, both claiming that her illness made it impossible for Bolingbroke to sleep well. Bolingbroke had moved to chambers in a distant corner of the royal apartments, where he made no secret of occasionally sharing his nights with an accommodating lady of the court. Mary shrugged away her husband’s unfaithfulness, and from the few words she’d said to him about it, Neville knew that she was secretly glad to escape the burden of her husband’s sexual demands. She was not bitter, nor angry, and spoke of and to her husband with the greatest respect and good humour.
    Neville thought her a saint, but he was unsure about how Bolingbroke regarded Mary’s continuing grip on life. As a man ( as a man-demon ), Bolingbroke loved and lusted for another woman, Catherine of France. As a king, he lusted for the day he could hold a male heir in his arms.
    Mary stood in the way of both lusts, and showed no sign of moving into the waiting pit of her grave any time in the near future.
    Mary’s hand tightened very slightly around his, and Neville wondered if she somehow not only could read his thoughts, but thought to offer him comfort instead of asking it for herself.
    Then the door to the chamber opened, breaking the spell between them.
    A guard entered. “The Lady Margaret Neville,” he said, bowing in Mary’s direction, “with her children.”
    Mary let Neville’s hand go, then smiled. “Let her enter,” she said, and the guard bowed once again and opened the door wide.
    Margaret walked through the door, her seven-month-old son Bohun nestled in her arms. Directly behind Margaret was her maid, Agnes, with Margaret’s two-year-old daughter Rosalind tugging at one of Agnes’ hands as she looked curiously about her.
    Both Margaret and Agnes sank into deep curtsies. Then Margaret took Rosalind and walked to where Mary andNeville sat. Agnes retired to a stool in a corner by the hearth to await her mistress’ pleasure.
    Margaret glanced at her husband as she approached, then smiled warmly at Mary. “How do you this day, madam?”
    “Well, thank you, Margaret. I think that perhaps you and I can walk a little about the gardens this afternoon. It shall be a beautiful day.”
    “Gladly, madam.” She started to say more, but then Rosalind broke free from her grip and scampered over to Mary, clambering up on the couch and cuddling in close to the woman. Margaret half reached out to grab her away, then saw the expression on Mary’s face and dropped her hand.
    “Do not let her hurt you, madam,” Margaret said.
    Mary’s face had lit up as Rosalind snuggled into her body, and now she lifted her eyes to Margaret, and laughed a little. “What? This child? Hurt me? Nay, how can love hurt?”
    Again Margaret felt her eyes sliding towards Neville, who she knew was regarding her steadily.
    “You are so blessed in your children,” Mary said in a half whisper. One of her hands slowly stroked Rosalind’s shining dark