The First Princess of Wales Read Online Free

barely touching her elbows with his big hands. “She has been ill, ill and so unhappy since our dear father died. This, of course, you know.”
    She nodded mutely, her eyes as purple as the flowers crushed in her hand against the neck of the lute she held before her as if it could be a buffer against her brother’s coldness.
    Edmund’s mind raced. Of course, she knew that much, but what else had she been told or had she guessed? She seemed so young and naïve to him still; yet she was very clever, and after all, she was the one who had been living here in this house with a half-demented, grief-crazed woman all these years.
    “Joan, let me explain, and then we must go in for a quick meal before we set out. See, through the gate. I can hear the horses being brought around already.”
    “I am not the slightest bit hungry, my lord.”
    “I do not care. By the saints’ precious blood, lady, you need some sustenance before you ride six hours to Rochester. Now, mark my words well. Our lady mother—it is not that she detests the sight of you, not at all. Rather, she loves your face too much and it hurts her.”
    Joan’s voice sounded strangled in her throat. “Loves my face? It hurts—her!”
    His hands reached to steady her at the elbows. “Our father. You did not know him, I know,
chérie,
as you were not yet born, but you resemble him greatly and you were the last child. You do see what I am trying to say, do you not? They were very, very much in love, our parents, and quite simply, you bring back all the agony of her departed happiness and the tragedy of losing him.”
    “But that is all wrong, Edmund! If that is what she feels, it is so wrong. If that were me, I would cherish that child, hold her close, a gift and memorial of the lost love,” she protested, her voice quivering.
    “Hush, Joan. We cannot judge other people, nor be other people. I am telling you she loves you, but it is just too hard for her.”
    “Let me go, my lord. That is fine, just fine. I understand, really; it is all right. She has always tolerated a short visit from me on saints’ days, several times during Yule. I am the one who could not bear it after a while with her, and I would make excuses to leave that little inviolate sanctuary she keeps up there.” She gestured wildly toward the small window above, from which the Lady Margaret could view the vast beauty of Kent if she were so moved. Was there a face, a wan, sad face, pressed to the glazed panes of glass and lead even now? No, of course not. This whole nightmare of Mother, this whole day she was leaving home, was one hideous dream.
    Joan skirted the frustrated Edmund and strode headlong for the house before he caught her and swung her around to face him again.
    “Look, Joan, I know it cannot have been easy, but she has been ill and more and more terrified to go out of that little room as the years have passed. She is almost fifty-two now, she senses death over the horizon, and she wants to make amends. She has been sick and hateful and she knows it.”
    “Now! There, you have said it. She has hated me!”
    “No, no, that is not it. Hates that she lost one husband, then a second. Hates what life has done to her and hates those who murdered our father.”
    Joan’s sharp mind halted, then spun back through all the whispers and half-bits of knowledge about her father’s death, things she had heard over the years and buried in her mind: beheaded for treason; an innocent, gentle man beheaded for treason against the crown when all he had tried to do was inquire into the murder of the present king’s father, a foul murder committed by an inhuman demon usurper named Roger Mortimer.
    Her breath caught in her throat at her next words. “But, my lord, our dear King Edward had the murderer of both our father and his own arrested and executed as soon as he could seize his right to rule back from Mortimer. Was Mortimer not hanged, drawn, and quartered? Who then is there left for Mother to