By Joy Mawby
new wine
‘It was not
your fault,’ my friends tell me. ‘It was your mother’s. She should not have
insisted.’
But I’m the one who asked the King
for it to be done. I’m the one who, smiling, carried the head before me on a
platter. And now I see his head each time I hear the musicians play in the great
hall.
I shall not dance
again.
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