Read Online B008257PJY EBOK by Sandra Worth - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandra Worth
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the wars between King Edward and the Kingmaker. One of his favourite punishments for minor infractions of the law was to roll men downhill in barrels filled with spikes. That, Richard thought, dismissing the messenger and turning back to his lords, should put the fear of God into Harry, the pretty duke of Buckingham.
~*~
On All Hallow’s Eve, the day after Buckingham was delivered to Salisbury, Ralph Ashton came to Richard. He was a man large in build, with pale yellow hair and rheumy hazel eyes. His features were so sharply etched and impassive, they seemed carved of rock, and he clanged as he walked, for he carried a sword at his side that slapped against the nails in his black leather outfit.
“Buckingham has confessed. He lost no time when he realised I was in charge of matters.” Ashton’s mouth thinned into a cold smile. “He begs one boon, however.”
Standing on the dais in the silk-curtained hall of the Bishop’s palace, his lords and knights gathered around him on the lower steps, Richard eyed Ashton without warmth. He preferred not to have such men in his service, but he could no longer pick and choose. The realm had been torn by strife for thirty years. First England had been ripped apart over York and Lancaster; then the Yorkist party had divided itself between King Edward and Warwick the Kingmaker. On Edward’s death, it had divided again between those who wanted Richard and those who wished to see King Edward’s sons on the throne. Now Edward’s party had thrown in their lot with Buckingham and the Lancastrian Tudor, and that included much of southern England, for the South had hated the North ever since Ludlow when Henry’s ferocious French-born queen, Marguerite d’Anjou, and her northern hordes had invaded them, burning, raping, and pillaging as they went. And to the South, he was a Northerner. Winning their trust would take time. In the meanwhile, his base of support had been shaved perilously thin and he had to reward loyalty wherever he found it.
“What does he ask?” Richard demanded.
“To see you, my lord.”
“Never,” Richard spat.
“’Tis what I told him, but he begs an audience. He is most desperate, my liege. I’ve seen men die, but none so fearful. He is beside himself, weeping, hysterical, half out of his mind. What should I tell him?”
“Tell him he is to be executed on All Soul’s Day and to make ready.”
A shocked murmur of protest arose from his men. “All Soul’s Day falls on the Sabbath, my lord!”
“I don’t care if it falls on doomsday!” roared Richard, his grey eyes dark, glittering. “He dies on All Soul’s Day, and that’s final!”
They were all staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Desperate to get away, he fled the dais. His heart racing, he halted in the passageway to catch his breath and leaned his head against the damp stone and closed his eyes. All Soul’s Day, the second day of November, had been young Edward’s birthday.
~*~
Men hammered in the drizzling rain, erecting a new scaffold in the marketplace for Buckingham’s execution. Richard was conscious of the din as he listened to Ralph Ashton. “My lord, the traitor beseeches you to see him. He has lost all dignity. He is feverish, filled with abject terror, and wildly implores this one boon.”
Richard looked at the scaffold rising in the shadow of Salisbury Cathedral and let his gaze drift upwards, to the spire standing dark against the grey skies. “You may tell him that well should he be filled with terror, for on Sunday he will be judged by God.”
“My lord, he says there is something you need to know.”
Richard hesitated. Then anger swept him. “Never again will I see his vile face in this world!”
Richard didn’t sleep that night but lay in his bed listening to the chanting of the townsfolk. It was All Hallow’s Eve and evil spirits were about. The castle servants had fastened hazel branches over the doors and windows to keep out witches and
~*~
On All Hallow’s Eve, the day after Buckingham was delivered to Salisbury, Ralph Ashton came to Richard. He was a man large in build, with pale yellow hair and rheumy hazel eyes. His features were so sharply etched and impassive, they seemed carved of rock, and he clanged as he walked, for he carried a sword at his side that slapped against the nails in his black leather outfit.
“Buckingham has confessed. He lost no time when he realised I was in charge of matters.” Ashton’s mouth thinned into a cold smile. “He begs one boon, however.”
Standing on the dais in the silk-curtained hall of the Bishop’s palace, his lords and knights gathered around him on the lower steps, Richard eyed Ashton without warmth. He preferred not to have such men in his service, but he could no longer pick and choose. The realm had been torn by strife for thirty years. First England had been ripped apart over York and Lancaster; then the Yorkist party had divided itself between King Edward and Warwick the Kingmaker. On Edward’s death, it had divided again between those who wanted Richard and those who wished to see King Edward’s sons on the throne. Now Edward’s party had thrown in their lot with Buckingham and the Lancastrian Tudor, and that included much of southern England, for the South had hated the North ever since Ludlow when Henry’s ferocious French-born queen, Marguerite d’Anjou, and her northern hordes had invaded them, burning, raping, and pillaging as they went. And to the South, he was a Northerner. Winning their trust would take time. In the meanwhile, his base of support had been shaved perilously thin and he had to reward loyalty wherever he found it.
“What does he ask?” Richard demanded.
“To see you, my lord.”
“Never,” Richard spat.
“’Tis what I told him, but he begs an audience. He is most desperate, my liege. I’ve seen men die, but none so fearful. He is beside himself, weeping, hysterical, half out of his mind. What should I tell him?”
“Tell him he is to be executed on All Soul’s Day and to make ready.”
A shocked murmur of protest arose from his men. “All Soul’s Day falls on the Sabbath, my lord!”
“I don’t care if it falls on doomsday!” roared Richard, his grey eyes dark, glittering. “He dies on All Soul’s Day, and that’s final!”
They were all staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Desperate to get away, he fled the dais. His heart racing, he halted in the passageway to catch his breath and leaned his head against the damp stone and closed his eyes. All Soul’s Day, the second day of November, had been young Edward’s birthday.
~*~
Men hammered in the drizzling rain, erecting a new scaffold in the marketplace for Buckingham’s execution. Richard was conscious of the din as he listened to Ralph Ashton. “My lord, the traitor beseeches you to see him. He has lost all dignity. He is feverish, filled with abject terror, and wildly implores this one boon.”
Richard looked at the scaffold rising in the shadow of Salisbury Cathedral and let his gaze drift upwards, to the spire standing dark against the grey skies. “You may tell him that well should he be filled with terror, for on Sunday he will be judged by God.”
“My lord, he says there is something you need to know.”
Richard hesitated. Then anger swept him. “Never again will I see his vile face in this world!”
Richard didn’t sleep that night but lay in his bed listening to the chanting of the townsfolk. It was All Hallow’s Eve and evil spirits were about. The castle servants had fastened hazel branches over the doors and windows to keep out witches and
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