Six of One Read Online Free PDF Page A

the younger woman wistfully. At that point, the older woman’s voice softened considerably.
    “I don’t think anyone expected you to give up the earthly ghost before I did, daughter-in-law. You paid the ultimate price because your heart was dutiful—perhaps too dutiful. However, forsooth, here we are talking about paying the ultimate price again. We’d better knock-knock-knock on wood!”
    This is really too much! I thought to myself, although in retrospect, I suppose zounds! would have been a more appropriate exclamation. I had had quite a job pretending to be asleep up until then. It had been difficult enough when they were talking about my spittle; now, the knocking on wood was making it well-nigh impossible. I decided it was time for a better look at the players in the little vignette that was unfolding around me. As I cracked my eyelids open just the littlest bit more, I found that I could observe them undetected. Jessica Fletcher would have been proud.
    The mother-in-law character was quite an old woman and actually reminded me more than a bit of Harry’s grandma. She was tall, lean, and ascetic—someone who brooked no nonsense, by the look of her. This did not seem to daunt her daughter-in-law one bit. The younger woman was attractive in a matronly way, gracious looking and poised. Both women were in period dress, and their costumier had done them proud.
    Their stiff, gabled headdresses sat upon their heads perfectly, like dormers fitted to their faces by some mad construction worker. The old woman’s headdress was covered with pleated, dove-colored linen, with veiling that descended down to her bodice to form a sort of wimple over a fine, pin-tucked linen chemise. Her gown was black; if the satin brocade fabric were not so rich and elegant, she would have looked decidedly like a nun.
    In marked contrast, the old woman’s daughter-in-law was dressed so vividly that she literally glowed in the firelight. Her gown was red velvet—not the modern fantasy-wear crushed panné velvet, but real, rich red velvet. The hanging bell sleeves of the dress were trimmed with ermine. Unlike the older woman, she was wearing jewelry: a single necklace of garnets and pearls arranged in a simple flower shape.
    I am no modiste, but even I could tell, in the dim glow of the firelight and candles, that these were not your usual Renaissance Faire costumes. Red velvet and black brocade, no lights, blankets on the walls, embers in the grate, a turret chamber—where , I wondered once again, am I?
    “We’re disturbing our guest,” said the sweet-voiced woman. “I think we’ve knocked wood enough, mother-in-law. Better to cease speaking about the ultimate price altogether, than to try to baffle the devil with our racket every time we mention an unnatural… you know.”
    “Our guest has been sent a long way to join us, and the subject of the ultimate price—no, let us not pussyfoot around, Elizabeth—the subject of untimely death will come up more than once tonight. We shall have to talk about it, and she shall have to hear it, even if it is difficult or unpleasant.”
    “As you would have it, mother-in-law,” the younger woman replied.
    “And things do happen for a reason” continued the older woman. “You paid the ultimate price doing what you saw as your duty. You died before your time trying to ensure heirs for the fledgling Tudor dynasty and my son, Henry VII.”
    “That’s true. When our son Prince Arthur died, leaving Prince Henry as our only remaining son, I told my husband the king that we were both young enough, that we could make good the loss and shore up the dynasty with a new baby. I really believed that I could do it, up to the very last minute. But birthing that last baby killed me, and the poor little mite died right after I did.”
    “You were dutiful, Elizabeth, but misguided. Your son Henry needed no dynastic rear guard! Weren’t my only son, Henry VII, and I proof that one mother with unshakable faith