She Didn't kneel

✨ Flash Fiction – She didn’t Kneel, by Augusta Gosling

(A tiny prequel to Venom’s Kiss)

London, 1490.

Six months a widow, I had crossed the Narrow Sea to seek the truth about my father's death. The whispers in France had been too persistent to ignore. Lady Margaret Beaufort held the keys to every locked door in England. I had come to ask her to open one.

The room was colder than I expected.

Stone walls, whitewashed and bare, gave off no warmth. A single candle burned low on the table, casting shadows that stretched and twitched like nerves. I stood just inside the threshold, spine straight.

The servant had said Lady Margaret would join me shortly. But “shortly” in courtly terms could mean anything. A test of nerves, or loyalty.

I didn’t sit.

I studied the chamber: the crucifix above the bed, the velvet cushion worn at the knees, the Latin books in tidy rows. Not a single item out of place. Nothing for comfort. Everything for control.

My hands trembled slightly—but only I would know. Too late to turn back. I had sent the letter. I had crossed the threshold.

The footsteps came without warning—measured, sure.

I had been told to kneel when she entered.

I didn’t.

The door opened. She stepped in.

Margaret Beaufort was not a grand woman. Not tall, not adorned. But her presence entered first—quiet and sharp, like the point of a blade pressing beneath the ribs.

Her gaze landed on me and held.

“Lady Courtenay.”

“My lady.”

“Your French was fluent in your letter. Was it truly your hand?”

“It was.”

“And your husband, the Count de Poitiers?”

“Dead these six months.”

She tilted her head. “Of illness?”

“Of betrayal.”

A flicker. She crossed the room and sat at the table. She didn’t offer me a seat.

“You wish to serve the king?”

“I wish to serve England.”

“You speak like a court-trained dove,” she said. “And yet your eyes say fox.”

I remained silent.

“They say your father was loyal to the end.”

“He was,” I said. “Richard had his head struck from his shoulders. His and my brother’s both. Loyalty gave him no mercy.”

“No,” she said. “Kings rarely offer it.”

That, I knew, was no confession. It was a warning.

I stepped forward, just a little. “I didn’t come for mercy, my lady. I came to be of use.”

She studied me. A long, calculating silence.

Then she nodded once. “You’ll begin in the library. I’m told you read quickly. And remember what others forget.”

“I do.”

“You’ll report to Sir Rhys Vaughan.”

The name sat in the air like the drop of a blade.

I hadn’t heard him enter. But he was there now—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, silent as a shadow. I’d passed him in the hall earlier and mistaken him for a guard. He hadn’t looked at me then. He was looking now.

Dark eyes, unreadable. Not curious. Not kind.

“Sir Rhys,” Margaret said without turning. “She’s yours now.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But something in me tightened. Not fear, exactly. Not yet.

Margaret rose to leave but paused beside me. “If you plan to betray me, do it early. I have no patience for women who wait until the knives are drawn to show their true face.”

I met her eyes. “I prefer to choose the blade myself.”

A flicker of approval. Or amusement. Then she was gone.

And I was alone. Or almost.

Sir Rhys hadn’t moved.

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me at the door.

“Lady Courtenay.” I looked back. “She meant what she said about betrayal.”

“So did I,” I replied, “about choosing my own blade.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but not unkindly. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps not. I left before either of us could say more.

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