Free The White Queen by Philippa Gregory

when he kisses me, all I want are his kisses, andall I want to hear are the sweetest words in the world, when he says: “Bed, Wife.”
     
    In the morning I am combing my hair before the little silvered mirror and pinning it up. He stands
     behind me, watching me, sometimes taking a lock of golden hair and winding it round
     his finger to see it catch the light. “You aren’t helping,” I say, smiling.
    “I don’t want to help, I want to hinder. I adore your hair, I like to see it loose.”
    “And when shall we announce our marriage, my lord?” I ask, watching his face in the
     reflection.
    “Not yet,” he says swiftly, too swiftly: this is an answer prepared. “My lord Warwick
     is hell-bent on me marrying the Princess Bona of Savoy, to guarantee peace with France.
     I have to take some time to tell him it cannot be. He will need to get used to the
     idea.”
    “Some days?” I suggest.
    “Say weeks,” he prevaricates. “He will be disappointed and he has taken God knows
     what bribes to bring this marriage about.”
    “He is disloyal? He is bribed?”
    “No. Not he. He takes the French money but not to betray me: we are as one. We have
     known each other since boyhood. He taught me how to joust, he gave me my first sword.
     His father was like a father to me. Truly, he has been like an older brother to me.
     I would not have fought for my right to the throne if he had not been with me. His
     father took my father up to the very throne and made him heir to the King of England,and in his turn Richard Neville has supported me. He is my great mentor, my great
     friend. He has taught me almost everything I know about fighting and ruling a kingdom.
     I have to take the time to tell him about us, and explain that I could not resist
     you. I owe him that.”
    “He is so important to you?”
    “The greatest man in my life.”
    “But you will tell him; you will bring me to court,” I say, trying to keep my voice
     light and inconsequential. “And present me to the court as your wife.”
    “When the time is right.”
    “May I at least tell my father, so that we can meet openly as husband and wife?”
    He laughs. “As well tell the town crier. No, my love, you must keep our secret for
     a little while longer.”
    I take my tall headdress with the sweeping veil and tie it on, saying nothing. It
     gives me a headache with the weight of it.
    “You do trust me, don’t you, Elizabeth?” he asks sweetly.
    “Yes,” I lie. “Completely.”
     
    Anthony stands beside me as the king rides away, his hand raised in a salute, a false smile on his face.
     “Not going with him?” he asks sarcastically. “Not going to London to buy new clothes?
     Not going to be presented at court? Not attending the thanksgiving Mass as queen?”
    “He has to tell Lord Warwick,” I say. “He has to explain.”
    “It will be Lord Warwick who will explain to him,” my brother says bluntly. “He will
     tell him that no King of England can afford to marry a commoner, no King of England
     would marry a woman who is not a proven virgin. No King of England would marry an
     Englishwoman of no family and no fortune. And your precious king will explain that
     it was a wedding witnessed by no lord nor court official, that his new wife has not
     even told her family, that she wears her ring in her pocket; and they will both agree
     it can be ignored as if it had never happened. As he has done before, so he will do
     again, as long as there are foolish women in the kingdom—and that is to say forever.”
    I turn to him and at the pain on my face he stops taunting me. “Ah, Elizabeth, don’t
     look like that.”
    “I don’t care if he doesn’t acknowledge me, you fool,” I flare out. “It’s not a question
     of wanting to be queen; it’s not even a question of wanting honorable love anymore.
     I am mad for him, I am madly in love with him. I would go to him if I had to walk
     barefoot. Tell me I am one of many. I don’t care! I