Read Online B008257PJY EBOK by Sandra Worth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Worth
Ads: Link
the souls of the wicked departed. In town, after an evening of apple-bobbing and fortune-telling around the half-finished scaffold in the market square, people were circling their homes with lighted candles for the same purpose. At the castle there had been mummery and entertainment for the servants, and in a light moment Richard had allowed his fortune to be told by a wise-woman. He would die young, she said, like all the men of his line, and his time would come soon after he saw the castle of Rougement.
Welladay, what else was new? Only Edward had died in his bed. Everyone else he had known and loved had died before his time, and violently. On Sunday there would be one more.
~*~
All Soul’s Day blew in with freezing rain and a blustery wind. After Mass, as the mighty cathedral clock tolled the hour of noon, Henry Stafford, second Duke of Buckingham, was led into the crowded market square. From a small chamber high in the palace, Richard heard the axe fall and the pigeons scatter skyward.
As his lords talked among themselves that evening, he sat quietly around a table in the great hall staring into his wine, trying to understand the sense of loss that dogged him. Why had Buckingham’s death affected him so? Maybe because he had felt alone at Edward’s death, and then came Buckingham with Edward’s merry laugh and George’s golden curls. In a moment, he became everything.
There was something else. A sense of unfinished business nagged at him. What had Buckingham wanted to say? Might there have been more to young Edward’s murder than he had confessed to Ashton?
Maybe he should have heard him out. And maybe it was nothing, just more lies… Maybe all he’d wanted was one last chance to beg for his life. Whatever it was, it was too late now. He’d never know.
He shook himself to dispel his gloom. A messenger had arrived. Richard lifted his head and forced himself to concentrate on what the man said… Henry Tudor had appeared near Dorset harbour with only two ships. They had tried to lure him to shore by waving lanterns and shouting that the rebellion had prospered and that the Duke of Buckingham had sent them to conduct him to his camp. But Tudor, sensing danger, had sailed away. “He was probably awaiting a password,” offered the messenger.
The old sea-dog, Howard, who had joined them after taking care of the rebels, slapped a hand against his ample thigh and growled, “By God I wish I’d been there! I’d have given him a password he’d ne’er have forgotten!”
“I wish you’d been there, too, Howard,” Richard said dully. “Tudor’s the only threat left. We’ve survived the others… No doubt we’ll take care of him soon enough.”
“My lord, may I speak?” requested a man in a loose russet robe down the table. It was Thomas Hutton, who had returned from the court of Brittany. His brown eyes burned in his lined, bearded face, and his tone held urgency. Richard inclined his head.
“I observed Henry Tudor in Brittany and gained a sense of the man,” said Hutton, leaning close and speaking low. “As so few here at court have met him, I request permission to speak bluntly, my lord, for it would be wise for all concerned to know what they are up against.”
Richard motioned him to his side and he slipped in between Francis and Scrope. “’Tis not surprising that Tudor didn’t fall into the trap,” Hutton went on, “and—if I may give a word of warning, Sire—he will not be easy to trap. He has the suspicious wariness of a hunted animal, for in a sense, ’tis what he is.”
His voice was deep and carried a unique force. Silence fell like a mantle over the table. His gaze moved from Catesby to Howard, from Jack to Ratcliffe, and lingered on Francis. A strange look came over his face. Then Hutton met Richard’s gaze. In the flickering candlelight those penetrating dark eyes might have been the eyes of a seer, for they seemed to hold wisdom beyond understanding. So might Moses
Welladay, what else was new? Only Edward had died in his bed. Everyone else he had known and loved had died before his time, and violently. On Sunday there would be one more.
~*~
All Soul’s Day blew in with freezing rain and a blustery wind. After Mass, as the mighty cathedral clock tolled the hour of noon, Henry Stafford, second Duke of Buckingham, was led into the crowded market square. From a small chamber high in the palace, Richard heard the axe fall and the pigeons scatter skyward.
As his lords talked among themselves that evening, he sat quietly around a table in the great hall staring into his wine, trying to understand the sense of loss that dogged him. Why had Buckingham’s death affected him so? Maybe because he had felt alone at Edward’s death, and then came Buckingham with Edward’s merry laugh and George’s golden curls. In a moment, he became everything.
There was something else. A sense of unfinished business nagged at him. What had Buckingham wanted to say? Might there have been more to young Edward’s murder than he had confessed to Ashton?
Maybe he should have heard him out. And maybe it was nothing, just more lies… Maybe all he’d wanted was one last chance to beg for his life. Whatever it was, it was too late now. He’d never know.
He shook himself to dispel his gloom. A messenger had arrived. Richard lifted his head and forced himself to concentrate on what the man said… Henry Tudor had appeared near Dorset harbour with only two ships. They had tried to lure him to shore by waving lanterns and shouting that the rebellion had prospered and that the Duke of Buckingham had sent them to conduct him to his camp. But Tudor, sensing danger, had sailed away. “He was probably awaiting a password,” offered the messenger.
The old sea-dog, Howard, who had joined them after taking care of the rebels, slapped a hand against his ample thigh and growled, “By God I wish I’d been there! I’d have given him a password he’d ne’er have forgotten!”
“I wish you’d been there, too, Howard,” Richard said dully. “Tudor’s the only threat left. We’ve survived the others… No doubt we’ll take care of him soon enough.”
“My lord, may I speak?” requested a man in a loose russet robe down the table. It was Thomas Hutton, who had returned from the court of Brittany. His brown eyes burned in his lined, bearded face, and his tone held urgency. Richard inclined his head.
“I observed Henry Tudor in Brittany and gained a sense of the man,” said Hutton, leaning close and speaking low. “As so few here at court have met him, I request permission to speak bluntly, my lord, for it would be wise for all concerned to know what they are up against.”
Richard motioned him to his side and he slipped in between Francis and Scrope. “’Tis not surprising that Tudor didn’t fall into the trap,” Hutton went on, “and—if I may give a word of warning, Sire—he will not be easy to trap. He has the suspicious wariness of a hunted animal, for in a sense, ’tis what he is.”
His voice was deep and carried a unique force. Silence fell like a mantle over the table. His gaze moved from Catesby to Howard, from Jack to Ratcliffe, and lingered on Francis. A strange look came over his face. Then Hutton met Richard’s gaze. In the flickering candlelight those penetrating dark eyes might have been the eyes of a seer, for they seemed to hold wisdom beyond understanding. So might Moses
Similar Books
