“She sat down at the table, murmuring her thanks to me for seeing her, already apologizing for taking up my time. ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ I assured her. ‘That’s why I’m here. To try to help.’ ‘It seems trivial, bringing this to a princess.’ I met her faltering gaze. ‘What?’ She began rummaging in her battered leather shoulder bag. ‘It’s my youngest son, you see. Richard. We named him after your brother, the King. My husband was a great royalist—’ ‘Was?’ ‘He got killed on Salisbury Plain in t...he fighting. Near Stonehenge, they told me.’ One of the main battles during the invasion had taken place there, the Aztecs annihilating our southern armies. The woman had a Liverpudlian accent. I wondered if her husband had been in the army but did not ask in case of embarrassment, having posed similar questions on other occasions only to find that the deceased were innocent civilians, conscientious objectors or even collaborators shot by our own people. I saw from her notes that her name was Cynthia and that she had four children, the youngest twelve years old.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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