Dammit Pantera, this beer is warm!
“My mother, the three-titted, six-fingered witch, the whore who fucked her brother and her minstrel. You look for her in the royal palaces, next time you’re there. See if her face hangs there. No. She is gone, taken from history as if she never was. And I, a prize to be married off for the best price, accused of whoring myself to Thomas Seymour! So valuable, as a virgin at least, to my brother or his keepers that what I want is as nothing.” The tears flow down her cheeks. “Bring him back, Guy Fletcher, so that just once, I can say quite what is in my head, in my heart. So that I can say to him, ‘Edward, I love you, it matters not who you are or who I am. Edward, I love you, the one who loves me despite that I am a princess, and not because of it. So that he can hear those words which I have thought so often and never said.”
Northampton turns to de Winter. “And you, Sir, who are you?”
“George de Winter, My Lord. Son of the Baron of Sheffield.”
“And I can count on your loyalty?”
“You can. As you can count on my friend’s.” De Winter gestures at Longshawe.
Northampton’s eyebrow rises. “I see. To whom do you report? Your father did not speak of you.”
“I am in the service of Lady Mary, My Lord. She does not expect me to write a dispatch to her at every chance.”
“So… the Protector’s man, and the heir to the throne’s man. Let us hope that we can work together.”
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought