Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
‘No!’ screamed Kate. ‘No!’ She began trembling violently, and would have fallen, but the Countess and Mattie were at her side at once, supporting her and trying to calm her. All around, folk were looking aghast at each other, dismay in their faces. Their lord had backed the losing side. What would this mean for them? Suddenly a great swell of lamentation burst forth.
‘Hush, you faint-hearted fools!’ William cried. ‘There is no need for your howling. By a lucky chance, I did not get to Bosworth in time. I was delayed, rooting out so-called rebels. And when I did arrive, they were breaking up the camps and burying the fallen. Fortunately, King Henry was still there, preparing to depart. I hastened to where he was sitting before his tent, wearing the royal circlet that had been Richard’s, and made my submission on my knees, apologising for my tardiness, and offering him my sword and my allegiance. And he was most gracious to say he accepted both, as tokens of my future loyalty.’ William’s steely eyes raked around the assembled company. ‘So if you value your skins, good people, you will remember that our loyalty has long lain with the Tudor, because we were persuaded thereto by the widespread fame that the late tyrant Richard had shed the innocent blood of his own nephews.’
Kate stared at her husband in horror. She could not speak; this was too much for her to take in, and worse – far worse – than anything in her nightmares. People gawped at her as she stood there with wild, ravaged eyes and a countenance white as a corpse. In a few faces she detected compassion; in most a chilly distancing and an aversion born of fear. And that, she suddenly realised, was how it was going to be from now on. She was the tyrant’s daughter – and she was alone in a hostile world.
As William raised his sword and a cheer for the new King, the Countess and Mattie led a half-fainting Kate away from the courtyard and helped her up to her chamber, where they made her lie down. Mattie stayed with her, holding her hand, while she lay there in a shocked daze, trying to come to terms with what had happened. All she could think of was that her father was dead and those people – her own household officers and servants – had looked at her with hostility. She did not think she would ever want to leave this room again. She could not face the changed world outside.
Mattie sat silent, her sweet, pert face sad beneath the white coif, her hand warm on Kate’s. It seemed like hours that they stayed there thus. At length, the Countess came back.
‘Drink this,’ she commanded, offering Kate a goblet with steam rising from it. ‘It is wine infused with camomile leaves and honey, to soothe you, my daughter.’ At her kindness, Kate began to cry again.
‘There, there,’ Anne soothed, cradling her in motherly arms. ‘Let it go, sweeting, let it go.’ And she did. She cried as she had never cried before: for her father, dead in the field and lost to her forever; for John, her lost love; for Anne the Queen; and for a world that would never live again. And then she cried once more for her father, because his enemies would now rejoice in vilifying him, and that loving, careful prince she had known would be lost to history.
She cried herself to sleep, and Mattie gently laid a sheet over her, and closed the shutters against the sunset. Hours later, when Kate awoke to the awful realisation of her terrible loss, the Countess was sitting beside her, reading her missal.
‘You’ve had a sound sleep, child,’ she said, ‘and a good thing too.’
‘William – where is he?’ Kate whispered. ‘I must ask him …’
‘He is out, visiting our neighbours to tell them the news and ensure their silence,’ Anne told her. ‘If you want to ask anything, ask me. William and I talked late last night, and I now know nearly as much as he does.’
‘My father the King … what happened? I would rather know.’
The Countess took her hand. ‘Very well, then. It was a most savage battle, William said, although it lasted but two hours. Henry Tudor did not engage in the fighting but stood behind the lines beneath his standard. That wily knave Lord Stanley waited with his forces to see which way the battle was going. King Richard’s army fought fiercely, but neither Stanley nor Northumberland came to his aid, although Norfolk was killed fighting for him. In the end, Richard made a desperate, furious charge, aiming to cut down Henry Tudor, and he would have succeeded, but at that moment Stanley and his men bore down on him. William said he fought like a noble soldier, and went down crying “Treason!”, dying manfully in the thick press of his enemies.’
She crossed herself, and Kate did likewise. So he had died valiantly, fighting to the last. But what a dreadful death it must have been, with all those soldiers falling upon him. It did not bear thinking about. If she did, she would surely be sick.
‘What happened to him … afterwards?’ she faltered.
‘When William reached Bosworth, your father’s body had been carried back to Leicester, on horseback, and he heard it was to lie exposed to the public for three days in the Grey Friars’ church; after that, no doubt, it would have been buried by their charity.’ Anne was plainly picking her words with care, and Kate suspected that there was a lot more she was not telling her. After all, who would show respect to a vanquished king who had been branded a usurper and a tyrant? She did not want to hear any more: it might be more than she could take. It was bad enough that her father, the last Plantagenet King, and the end of a line of illustrious rulers that stretched back for more than three hundred years, should be accorded no royal tomb or solemn obsequies, as befitted his rank.
‘One day I will visit the place where he lies,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, I will pray for his soul. He was my father and I loved him.’ She bit her lip. ‘My lady, I must ask you: do you believe that he was the tyrant they are saying he was, and that he ordered the murder of the Princes?’
The Countess did not answer immediately. She seemed thrown by the question and it appeared that, again, she was searching for the right words. ‘A tyrant is one who governs without recourse to the rule of law,’ she began. ‘I have heard that Richard carried out some questionable deeds when he was Lord Protector. I have heard it said he had the Princes killed, and now, of course, it will be hard to find any that say otherwise. It is always the victors who write history. I honestly do not know the truth of it all, my daughter; and I hope I am just and wise enough to weigh fairly what I hear. It is possible, that’s all I can say; but it is by no means certain.’
Kate realised that that was not very far removed from what she herself thought, although she had hoped and prayed all along that her father was innocent, and that she would find some proof of that. But where she would find it now was anyone’s guess.
She could not stay secluded in her room for ever. When her tears had dried, she felt only anger, and with that came indignation. Why should she hide, when she had done nothing wrong? She had nothing to be ashamed of. So she donned the same black gown she had worn out of respect for Queen Anne, washed her face, combed and plaited her hair, covered it with a black veil and, gathering her courage, walked along the gallery to the parlour for supper.
The room was full of men, booted, spurred and cloaked. They had come, she learned later, to show solidarity, for all had been steadfast to King Richard, and now they were falling over themselves to demonstrate their loyalty to the Tudor – she could not bring herself to think of him as King Henry. William was directing his page to offer them drinks. When he saw Kate, his face froze into a glare.
‘What do you think you are doing coming here dressed like that?’ he spat.
Anger flared in her. Her grief was too raw for her to care what she said. ‘I am in mourning for my father, the late King,’ she asserted. The men stared at her, embarrassed and looking not a little fearful. Of course, they would not want to be associated in any way with King Richard, or his daughter.
‘Do you so far forget yourself as to mourn a tyrant?’ William roared. ‘Get back to your chamber, woman, put on some brave attire, and then come back and join these gentlemen and me in a toast to our new King.’
‘My father was not a tyrant!’ she flung at him. ‘And even if he was, he was a tyrant whom you were pleased to serve, and whose bounty to you was lavish!’
In two bounds William had crossed the floor, and, before she could put up a hand to protect herself, had slapped her cheek hard. ‘Are you mad?’ he growled. ‘Don’t you know it might mean death to express loyalty to your father now?’
‘Your husband speaks truth,’ put in an elderly man standing by the fireplace. ‘King Henry has dated his reign from the day before Bosworth, so that all who fought for Richard are now deemed traitors. Some are already punished, some are fled; and who can blame them? I hear my lord of Lincoln is among those who will be called to account, when he can be found.’
Her heart turned ice-cold at that. So John had fought for her father at Bosworth. He had been loyal to the end, unlike this craven oaf of a husband of hers. But where was John now? If they were looking for him, he must have gone to ground somewhere. Were some good folk succouring him in hiding, or had he managed to escape abroad? She sent up a silent prayer for his safety and comfort. God grant that there was good news of him soon!
‘Even this new King must have a heart,’ she said bravely, her face smarting. ‘Surely even he would not deny a daughter the right to mourn her father? And if he were to appear here now, I would challenge him on that.’
‘I won’t be allowing you within a mile of him,’ William vowed. ‘Do you think he’d even allow you into his presence, the bastard spawn of his enemy?’ His brutal words stung, but Kate was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
‘I will withdraw, my lord, but I will not be returning,’ she said. ‘Since the sight of me in mourning offends you, I will remain within my chamber. Goodnight, masters.’ And she swept out.
Back in her room, her composure deserted her, and all her grief and hurt and anger exploded in yet another outburst of heart-wrenching crying. This time she weathered it alone, weeping her heart out into her pillow, with no one to see or to comfort her. It was only later that Mattie came to her, at the usual hour; and then she found her in an exhausted sleep, the ravages of pain etched upon her young face.
Katherine
August 1561. The Tower of London.
The great forbidding fortress of the Tower of London looms into view, and within me my child stirs. He must sense my terror. Poor, unknowing little lamb – he can have little idea of the trouble his presence in my womb has caused. What has he ever done to deserve imprisonment? Nothing! He is an innocent.
I shift uncomfortably. The barge that has conveyed me to the City glides smoothly across the black water, but I am great with child now and cannot remain in one position for long. They have seated me on cushions, with brusque consideration for my condition, but they speak no kind word to me. I have offended majesty, and therefore no longer merit normal, comforting, human discourse. And thus it has been since Lord Robert Dudley betrayed my crime to the Queen.
I did not see Elizabeth after that, but I can well imagine the explosion that followed Lord Robert’s revelations. It was Mrs Astley who came to inform me frigidly that I was banished from her Majesty’s presence and must keep to my chamber, which I did shrinking with dread. Less than an hour later, there came a loud rapping on my door, and there stood one of the captains of the Queen’s guard with a warrant for my arrest. He led me, all of a tremble, down to a waiting litter, and an armed escort bore me off to London. I do not like to think of that terrible journey, or the curt hostility of my warders. Colchester, Chelmsford, Brentwood … all passed in a blur of terror, and when we reached Tilbury, I knew very well where I was going.
The walls and towers of the great fortress are nearer now. I can see the cannon on the wharf, the court gate in the Byward Tower. We are making for St Thomas’s Tower beyond it, beneath which is the sinister water-gate through which so many doomed wretches have passed and never emerged again.
I cannot enter the Tower, I cannot! It is a place of horror to me, and I would never voluntarily have come here to save my life. My dear sister Jane died here on the scaffold these seven years and six months since, butchered to death at just seventeen, and she innocent of any crime! But I – I have offended grievously, and I am horribly aware that I too might soon find myself standing before the block.
If only Ned would come home and explain everything, then maybe the Queen could be made to understand that we have never meant her any ill. But he has now been gone beyond seas for five months, and can have no idea of this ordeal I am suffering. My fervent hope is that he will hasten home soon and succour me. I have thought ill of him, I know, and all but abandoned him, yet I am very sorry for that now. In my extremity, beside which all other troubles seem trifling, I see clearly that that was but a fantasy, born of anxiety and unwarranted suspicion. In my dreadful predicament, I remember only the love Ned gave me, and his marrying me in defiance of the Queen’s express order. I know in my bones he is still my sweet lord, my dearest true husband, and I dare not think of that now, or I will surely die of longing and grief.
My mind is filled with horrible imaginings: of my sister, my father – who also perished here during that dreadful winter – and of Guilford Dudley. I recall how Guilford went weeping to the public scaffold on Tower Hill. I never liked him, but I was filled with pity when they told me. Three heads lost to the axe: a savage ending. And they were not the only ones who suffered in this place. Who has not heard of Queen Anne Boleyn and Queen Katherine Howard? They do not spare women the block in this kingdom. Will I be next? Oh, sweet Jesus, spare me that, I beseech Thee!
The solid walls are above us now, menacing and implacable; the barge passes under the gloomy arch below St Thomas’s Tower, and as it slows to a halt, it rocks, battered by the waves slapping at the steps of the water-gate. I grip the boat’s sides instinctively, but in truth, I do not care if it sinks and drowns me. Better that than a worse fate.
In front of us, the heavy oak gates, slatted in iron, grind open inch by inch, to reveal a tall, thin man with a soldierly bearing, wearing sober, well-cut clothes. He looks to be around fifty years old; he has thick greying hair, a drooping moustache, and high cheekbones in a craggy, lined and rather sad face, and wears an unnervingly grave expression. He waits with a small detachment of yeomen warders. These men, I realise, with a sick feeling, are to be my gaolers. I pray God they may not also be my executioners.
After the guards have helped me to my feet, I alight from the boat with trembling legs and dread in my heart. But as I make to mount the stairs, the tall gentleman descends hastily and offers his arm.
‘Sir Edward Warner, at your service, my lady,’ he says. ‘I am the Lieutenant of the Tower, and you will be in my charge.’ I am relieved to find him so courteous and thoughtful, and his tone cordial, even a touch avuncular, although a treacherous little voice in my head is reminding me that a similar kindness was extended by the Tower officials of the day to my sister, and, so I have heard, to Anne Boleyn.
‘Follow me,’ Sir Edward murmurs in a low voice, his expression pained as he sees the terror in my face. ‘There is nothing to fear.’ I take much courage from that, for I had expected yet more cold treatment from those appointed to have custody of me; even so, with my fate yet to be decided, no comfortable words can unravel the tight knot of fear in my breast.
‘I understand how you must feel, my lady. I too have been a prisoner in this place,’ says the Lieutenant as we ascend the stairs. ‘It was my punishment for supporting the claim of your sister, the Lady Jane. I was held here a year after Wyatt’s rebellion, and then languished in disgrace until the accession of our blessed Queen Elizabeth, for which I daily give thanks.’
I cannot myself feel so thankful, naturally, but I am heartened by Sir Edward’s words, and especially cheered to learn that he had espoused the claim of my sister, for surely that will dispose him to look kindly upon me. I am almost content to follow him, although I am aware of the warders with their pikes at my back.
We turn into a cobbled lane, which looks vaguely familiar, and looking around me, I recognise the place where Harry and I boarded Pembroke’s barge on that momentous night eight years ago, and remember the inexplicable terror that seized me in this very place, when I was suddenly desperate to get out. Was that some premonition of my present imprisonment? I am terrified now – but that was worse. God forbid it was a portent of what is coming to me …
The Tower seems vast, all high, forbidding walls and stern buildings, and I have no idea where I am being led. What I dread most is being immured in a dungeon – and coming upon the spot where my sister’s lifeblood was spilt. That I could not face.
‘Where are we going, Sir Edward?’ I enquire.
The Lieutenant steers me through an archway. In front of me, to my left, there is a wall, with trees beyond. ‘Ahead is the inner ward,’ he tells me. ‘You are to be accommodated in the Bell Tower.’ He points upwards. ‘The garden of my lodging is next to it, beyond the wall.’ If there is a garden next to my prison, it surely cannot be that grim. I hope I will be able to see it from my window.
The archway leads to a narrow passage, and it is here, near the exit at the far end, that I suddenly feel desperately cold, even though it is August, and warm. Sir Edward and his men remain oblivious, but for a space I am freezing, and enveloped in a sense of panic and horror that I know is not entirely connected with my circumstances. Then we turn left, and the feeling disappears as instantly as it came – only to be succeeded by something far worse. For as we emerge into a wide-open space, in front of me is the vast expanse of Tower Green, enclosed by more towers and walls, while to the right, the great white keep known as Caesar’s Tower rises towards the sky, its gilded onion domes gleaming in the sunlight. But I barely notice them, because beyond the green is the chapel. I stop dead in my tracks.
The Lieutenant has seen me staring ahead in horror. Briskly, he takes my arm and steers me towards a tall timbered house on the left, one of several fine residences in that corner of the bailey. It’s an impressive building, with a high stone tower behind it, but I barely notice either because I am feeling sick to my stomach, knowing that my sister’s butchered remains lie in that chapel, and that somewhere on Tower Green stood the scaffold on which she died. If the Queen had wanted to punish me, she could not have devised a better way.
Fighting down nausea, I turn my head away and stare fixedly ahead. We enter the Lieutenant’s Lodging, a fine modern house with spacious panelled rooms and rich furnishings such as normally grace a knightly household. Sir Edward leads me along a passage, then through an anteroom furnished sparsely with benches, and so to the door of what he tells me is the Bell Tower.
‘This is the only entrance,’ he explains, as if he anticipates that, heavy with child as I am, I will try to escape. ‘Her Majesty’s orders, you understand. It is a secure place.’
‘I am no threat to her Majesty,’ I cannot resist saying. ‘I am her loyal subject.’
He frowns. ‘Come, my lady,’ he says.
The Bell Tower is very old. The Lieutenant informs me – as if we were enjoying a tour of the place – that it was built by King Richard the Lionheart many centuries ago. I can well believe that. The downstairs chamber, octagonal in shape, has great thick, rough walls pierced by tall glazed windows. Today, they admit shafts of sunlight, but even so, the place is cool and dank, and I know it will be freezing in winter. Please God, let them not force me to give birth to my child in here!
But the Lieutenant is moving on, leading the way up a steep spiral stair.
‘Sir Thomas More was imprisoned down there thirty years ago,’ he tells me, ‘and the cold was a martyrdom to him.’ So had his execution been, in many people’s eyes, as I have read. He too defied his King, and paid the ultimate price. I shudder at the thought.
‘You, my lady, will be more comfortable,’ Sir Edward assures me.
He opens a door, indicating I should enter, and I am relieved to see that the upper chamber, which is circular in shape, is much better appointed than the room below, with wooden shutters at the windows and clean rush matting on the floor. A threadbare tapestry hangs on the whitewashed wall, its colours so faded that I can only just make out a battle scene. There is a carved wooden tester bed made up, thankfully, with good bleached sheets, a battered-looking draw-table, two stools and an empty iron brazier. But I will not be here when winter strikes, I promise myself, calmer now. By then, I will have protested my innocence before God and the Queen’s Council, and been vindicated. For surely it is the intent to do harm that counts. Alas, says a warning voice in my head, I should know better. I have the example of my sister before me. I can only pray, most fervently, that Queen Elizabeth is more merciful than Queen Mary.
I am not alone, for I am allowed the services of a maid, Honor, on account of my rank. My lady the Countess of Hertford – for so I am, whatever they may say – cannot go unattended, even in prison. So little Honor, who is just fourteen years old, will share my dreary, anxious days here and sleep in the serving maids’ chamber in the Lieutenant’s Lodging at nights.
The infant inside me kicks lustily. God grant it will be a son; that would please Ned, for all men want an heir to succeed to their titles and lands – if, of course, there are any, after this dreadful business is concluded. And suddenly I am fearful for the little one’s sake as well as my own. For if my child is a son, then from his birth, he will pose a greater threat to the Queen than my sisters and I ever could.
Kate
August 1485. Raglan Castle.
The next morning, when Kate awoke, Mattie was bustling around, pouring water into a basin and laying out fresh body linen. The black dress Kate had discarded the night before had been hung up and brushed, and was hanging on its peg. She struggled to regain her wits. Her head felt terrible, and her eyes were stinging.
‘What time is it?’ she muttered.
‘Good morning,’ Mattie responded. ‘It is nigh eight o’clock. How are you today, my lady?’
‘Wretched,’ she sighed. ‘My head aches and I feel sick. God knows I wept a storm last night – and I had cause. My lord was hateful to me, hateful! In faith, I do not know how I can bear to live with him any more. And he doesn’t want me now that my father is dead. I am an embarrassment to him, an obstacle in the way of his gaining favour with the Tudor. I tell you, Mattie, I shall go into a convent, and then he and I can be rid of each other.’
‘I’d hold your horses a bit if I were you,’ Mattie said, folding some clean linen. ‘When did you last bleed, my lady?’
Kate thought back. In the anxiety and turmoil of the past weeks, she had not taken much notice of her body’s rhythms. But now it dawned on her that she had not seen her courses for some time. She looked at Mattie in dismay.
‘I reckon it’s seven weeks since I had to wash your clouts,’ Mattie said. ‘I think you’re with child – and that makes two of us!’
‘Mattie!’ Realisation was dawning. ‘Yes – it must be. I feel a little sick today, just like before. Dear God, what shall I do? My lord hates me. He will be angry to think I am pregnant with King Richard’s grandchild.’
‘Him? No, like all men, he wants an heir. You tell him you’re expecting, and he’ll perk up, see if I’m right.’
‘This is unreal,’ Kate said. ‘And you too, Mattie! Are you pleased?’
‘Delighted, and Guy too. And I’m pleased for you, my lady. When God closes one door, He opens another. This will help to blunt the edge of your grief.’
Kate thought that nothing could do that, but it was true that a baby would give her something else to think about. And whatever anyone else might say, she rejoiced in the knowledge that it was her father’s grandchild she was carrying, and that something of him would live on, something she could cherish.
She rested in her chamber that morning, and Mattie gave out that she was indisposed. When the sick feeling had passed, she got up and had her maid dress her in her mourning gown, then she seated herself at the table. In her portable writing desk – a curiously wrought box with painted panels, a velvet lining and secret compartments – lay her bundle of jottings about the Princes. She sat there thinking about them, poring over them, trying to make sense of them. She wondered if she should try to write down her findings so far. She wanted to be able one day to tell her child the truth about his grandfather. But how could she do that, when she did not know the truth herself?
Yet maybe – just maybe – her doubts would be resolved soon. Henry Tudor had sworn his intention of marrying Elizabeth of York, and no doubt he would make good that vow shortly. For he held his throne only by right of conquest, not through right of blood. There were others of Yorkist descent who had more right – Warwick and his sister, and John, of course. It was clear that Henry Tudor believed that the precontract story was a nonsense, otherwise he would not have vowed to wed Elizabeth of York. Soon he must honour that vow, and it was possible that he would make some proclamation about the fate of the Princes – although, Kate thought dismally, it was bound to be injurious to her father’s memory, which could only be to the Tudor’s advantage. Even if Henry had no proof that Richard had killed his nephews, he would find it politic to say he had.
She wondered again how Henry Tudor had been sure they were dead. He must have learned something from Buckingham, probably through his mother, Lady Stanley. She made herself face the possibility that Buckingham had learned that her father, alarmed by the plots in the boys’ favour, was planning to do away with the Princes. For those plots had been proof that a lot of people still held that the sons of Edward IV were the true heirs to the throne – and that they were still a threat to Richard.
They had been close, the King and the Duke: her father might well have confided his intention to his friend. That was sufficient to explain Buckingham’s disaffection. But did Buckingham, or Henry Tudor, ever find out that the Princes were actually dead? Maybe Buckingham had known nothing of their fate after all.
She laid down her pen. She had written nothing. She supposed she would have to wait to see what transpired now, although she knew she might wait a long time for news to filter through to Raglan. For certain it was that her husband would not willingly enlighten her.
She tied the papers up again and was just about to put them away when the door opened and William walked in. Their eyes met: hers flashed with hurt and anger at the remembrance of his cruelty the night before; his alighted on her black dress.
‘Your maid said you were indisposed,’ he said.
‘I was. I am feeling better now.’ Kate’s tone was cool. She was not going to make this easy for him. In fact she would not have cared if she never saw him again.
‘I spoke harshly last night,’ he muttered. ‘But you must know that I am in a very difficult position. Married to King Richard’s daughter, and thus bound to him in his lifetime, I fear I might find myself under surveillance on a suspicion of disloyalty. I have done what I can to forestall that, but – God, woman, were you insane, proclaiming your loyalty to your father by appearing publicly in mourning for him? People will talk! Those gentlemen that were here – everyone’s running scared, fearing the Tudor’s vengeance. They won’t scruple to throw me to the wolves to save their own hides. I hadto reprimand you.’
‘You didn’t have to call me a bastard spawn!’ Kate retorted with spirit. She wanted him to apologise.
‘I had good reason. Drawing attention to your bastardy suggests I despise you for your father’s sake. I need people to think I was coerced into this marriage.’
Kate gaped at him, appalled. ‘Is that true?’ she whispered. ‘Were you coerced?’
He would not meet her gaze. ‘I do not despise you yourself,’ he muttered, ‘but I would I had never consented to this match. I had my reservations, the stain of your birth being paramount, although that was compensated for by your father’s generosity.’ His words stung. She felt the colour flare in her cheeks. He was cruel, cruel!
‘Hearing me berating you last night, no one could have doubted my loyalty to King Henry. We must needs distance ourselves from your father, and make it appear that we had abandoned him because of his wickedness.’
‘You make me feel like Judas,’ she said, bitter. ‘Just tell me you don’t believe there is any truth in those allegations you made against King Richard, that he murdered his nephews.’
‘All part of the same strategy,’ William said.
‘But do you believe it? That he had them killed?’
‘What else is there to believe? No one has seen them alive in more than two years.’
‘There could be many explanations for that!’
‘Then believe what you want to believe. But keep your mouth shut on that issue, d’you hear me? Because, mark me well, we will no doubt be told that he had them murdered.’
They faced each other, all conversation run out. He had not apologised, and even if he had, forgiving him was another matter. For all his good reasons for uttering them, the things he had said to her had injured their marriage irrevocably.
