Free The King's Grey Mare by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

knights approached one another at a gallop, she knew that Warwick had not done with tormenting her.
    ‘Do not imagine I have forgotten the slight you offered my liegeman, Dame Woodville,’ he said, almost amiably.
    She looked away again, pretending to be absorbed in the joust. With a splintering crash, the two destriers met on either side of the palisade. Wiltshire’s lance, held crosswise at an angle, found its mark in the ornaments on Buckingham’s helm. Simultaneously, Buckingham’s point lodged in the decorations of his opponent’s gorget. Both knights were unhorsed. The riderless horses thundered on, one of them plunging into the barrier dividing the lists from the spectators. The air was rich with cries.
    ‘You could have had my good lordship, Dame Elizabeth,’ said Warwick softly. ‘Yet you called down a murrain upon my person.’
    One of the combatants was cast like a beetle on its back, helpless in his heavy armour. Esquires rushed to aid him. Elizabeth saw herself again in the hall at Grafton Regis, crying: ‘Pox take Warwick!’ and the outraged faces of the visiting Yorkists. Evidently they had lost no time in relaying her insult to their chief. She stared unseeingly at the lists. The contestants were horsed again and riding, faster this time, lances held loosely, ready for the moment of impact and the hard high thrust.
    ‘So, Dame Woodville,’ pursued the inexorable voice, ‘a knight of Jerusalem does not suit your lady’s palate. Likewise my patronage is to be spat upon … did you think it wisdom to make an enemy of me?’
    The assault of his eyes drove into her. Under that terrible look the high preparation of words cringed and died. She feared and loathed him. Then the Countess of Somerset, who had been listening closely while feigning interest in the joust, saved her. Turning, she said kindly: ‘They fight like lions.’ (Wiltshire and the Duke were on foot, hacking at each other with broadswords.) ‘Isabella, is the sport too rude for you? Jesu! you are trembling. Will you not rest a while in our chariot? Barnaby – where is the boy? – will escort you.’
    ‘ Merci, merci, madame ,’ whispered Elizabeth. How clever of the Countess! A little of her courage returned and she cast one bitter glance at Warwick as he rose to allow her to step down from the loge.
    ‘Yes, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘You run from me. How fortunate are women – they may run while men must fight. Run, Dame Woodville. We shall meet anon.’
    Barnaby gave her his arm and she leaned on him, affecting faintness as they walked down the tapestry-hung passage between the loges, to where there was calmness and birdsong and the air was sweet with crushed grass and blossoms. Barnaby grumbled all the way; he had been enjoying himself. She dismissed him.
    ‘Will you be safe?’ he said. ‘God’s Eyes, I never thought to play wetnurse. Go rest then, lady. I’ll see you later! He ran off, eager to witness the next joust, which was to be between Lord Clifford and the Great Talbot. He had laid heavy wagers on Buckingham’s victory and was furious at missing the outcome.
    Elizabeth could see the litters drawn up by the roadside, with grooms and pages sleeping in their shadow, but she did not go to them. Instead, she turned and walked down a little leafy road, where Eltham’s crumbling palace stood among great oaks. There was a small stone archway through which she passed to find herself in a garden so beautiful that she stood entranced for a moment. Two or three tame peacocks bowed and danced upon the clipped lawns, yew hedges bounded the abundant rose-beds, and there was a large lake, white with lilies, their delicate stars nestling on broad flat leaves. Between the flowers the water was so clear that she could see every detail of her pale reflection. She knelt, and the pallid Elizabeth wavered up at her and smiled softly, with teeth like white seeds between scarlet lips, and eyes still shadowed with a remnant of