Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“I remember, Your Majesty. We grieved for her.” Despite her irritation, tears rose in her eyes at the king’s apparent sadness. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“And her baby, my grandson and heir, a fine boy, the Lord took him as well! One can never understand why, but they are in the afterlife now, in Heaven.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Even so, I wish sometimes I could speak to them. Speak to my daughter.” His eyes bored into hers, intent with his famed obstinacy.
“How many of us wish we might speak to those who have gone before us,” said Elizabeth. “It’s a common longing.”
He sat up straighter. “I saw her once. Charlotte. I know it was her. She wore a green gown, deeper green than yours, her favorite gown in life. I called her name and she faded away. Do you believe in ghosts, Lady Augustine?”
“I—Yes. Perhaps. I believe they exist in some form.”
“People have told me that you see ghosts.”
“Your Majesty, I—”
“They’ve told me you have the ability to commune with the dead. I’ve heard it whispered by more than one courtier. By many!”
Elizabeth bit her lip, wishing she could look over at August, wishing she could run to his arms and escape this sad, awkward audience.
She’d never once in her life “communed” with a dead person, but to deny what the king said would be seen as an affront to a monarch known for his erratic rages. She feared to anger him, but agreeing would be untruthful. She squeezed her hands in her lap.
“What—What is it you wish you could say to your daughter?”
At this, to her horror, the king burst into dramatic tears. “I wish to know that she has found eternal happiness,” he cried. “And to—oh God—to apologize to her, and beg forgiveness. I was a poor father while she was on this earth. Profligate, selfish, preoccupied by my royal duties. I never thought she would die birthing my grandson.”
His agonized voice rang out in the awful silence. He struggled to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, which he then used to cover his face. She took the opportunity to look back at August, who appeared as unsettled as she felt.
“Dear lady, you must speak to her for me,” he pleaded from behind the silken cloth. “I command it. I know you have the power to do so. It’s not the devil’s work to possess such talents, not in one as innocent and kind as you.”
“No, it is not the devil’s work,” she agreed. “Not to wish a loved one well.”
“It is the Lord’s work.” He blew his nose into his wrinkled handkerchief, then shoved it back in his pocket. “If you could commune with them for me, with my daughter and her sweet son, we should consider it wholesome and good, and a great service to your king.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Though I am not very practiced at such activities. My powers are paltry, I’m sure, compared to some.”
His grief turned to suspicion.
“If they are paltry, why are you known for your abilities? Why do people speak of your perceptions and visions?”
“Your Majesty, as you know, gossip is often embellished.”
“How argumentative you are, Lady Augustine. I am your king.”
“I—”
“Do you argue like this with your husband? He ought to punish you for it. Here!” He gestured to August. “Come discipline your wife, Augustine. Give her one of those spankings you’re rumored to mete out anytime the opportunity presents itself.”
If she hadn’t already lost her composure at the sudden turn in the conversation, she would have lost it at the look on her husband’s face.
“I will do so, Your Majesty,” he said. “Later, though, in the privacy of our household. That is where discipline belongs.”
“You swear it?” The king scowled, shifting his large bulk. “You ought to do it here, now, while she is hemming and hawing at me in my own royal receiving room.”
“It is better done at home,” August repeated. “But I do swear I shall discipline her. As a loyal subject, I would never disregard a royal command.”
He said these words pointedly, while looking at Elizabeth. The king had commanded her to help talk to his daughter. August was telling her she must play along and give this mad king, the son of a mad king, what he wanted. She did not think it very reasonable, though, that the monarch would entreat her for help at the same time he consigned her to corporal punishment from her husband.
“I would spank her myself,” the king groused, “but for the blasted effort. Here your monarch sits in grief, only asking a small favor…”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Elizabeth. “Here, give me your hands.”
The last thing she wanted in her quest to abate gossip was to become the king’s personal medium. But there seemed to be no help for it.