Read Online The Rose of York by Sandra Worth - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Worth
Tags: General Fiction
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Arthur’s love for Guinevere. Suppressing his unease, he sipped wine from a gilded wine cup and glanced down the table.
Next to the King sat Lord William Hastings, who had married one of Warwick’s many sisters. Hastings was Edward’s bosom companion and Richard thought they made an odd pair, since Hastings was eleven years older and his hair was already silvering at thirty-two. But, like Edward, he laughed easily and his blue eyes raked women boldly. Richard had heard the ladies talk and he knew they thought Hastings irresistible. Men found him genial, too, yet Richard had always felt uncomfortable around him. Maybe because Hastings was too rowdy for good company, or maybe because he reminded him of what he wished to forget…
Ludlow.
He’d met Hastings at Ludlow Castle on his sixth birthday. On that same October day he’d also met his two eldest brothers, Edward and Edmund, who had been sent away to learn knightly conduct in another noble household. Edward was then seventeen, Edmund barely sixteen. There had been much joy at Ludlow.
And fear.
Richard’s goblet slackened in his grip. It was at Ludlow that he’d first met Queen Marguerite. He blinked to banish the image of the fiery queen astride her horse in the marketplace, looking down at him with loathing and contempt. God’s curse on her, all England’s woes flowed from her evil doings—hers, and her corrupt favourite, Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. If Marguerite d’Anjou hadn’t wed mad King Henry, or if King Henry had kept his wits, Richard’s father would never have died. It was Marguerite’s mortal hatred that forced his father to remember that he—by his descent from an older son of Edward III—held better title to the throne than King Henry himself. By the time Richard had turned six, there had been several bloody battles between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians. Fearing that Fotheringhay Castle was no longer safe, his father moved them to Ludlow, his stronghold on the Welsh Marches.
Ludlow . Absently, Richard picked up the candle before him, brought it close and stared into the flame. He could feel its heat in his face. Danger , it warned. Danger …
Aye, there had been danger at Ludlow. And treachery. And unspeakable horror. The world had changed after Ludlow. He stared into the flaring flame. The bright hall dimmed and receded, laughter faded; time hurtled backwards and Ludlow rose up before his eyes.
Standing high on a hill near the River Teme, Ludlow Castle had been cold and damp, the walls thick, the windows narrow. The castle had been crowded with his father’s soldiers, friends and servants. Since there was little furniture besides some trestle tables and a few benches and stools, they sat on the stairs, slept on rushes and lounged on cushions. The air was pungent with the smell of horses, dogs, sweat. And the scent of fear. Death lurked in the shadows at Ludlow.
Besides his father and three brothers, Edward, Edmund, and George, there was Richard’s uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, and his son Warwick, and many others whose scarred and pockmarked faces flitted in and out of the shadows in the castle. As the gloom deepened, torches and tapers were lit. Richard crouched in a corner, trying not to notice the grotesque shapes the candles threw on the walls, concentrating instead on his nine-year-old brother George, who sat at his mother’s feet by the cupboard, bare because his father had pawned his plate to pay his soldiers. As she embroidered a war banner, George waved a plume, shook his golden curls, laughed his merry laugh, and regaled her with tales of how he would single-handedly vanquish their enemies. Richard remembered that she had smiled.
But there was no smile on his father’s face. Tense and drawn, he carefully went over the battle plans with Salisbury, Warwick, and the fierce leader of the Calais regiment whom Warwick, the Captain of Calais, had brought over with him. Andrew Trollope reminded Richard of a pirate with
Next to the King sat Lord William Hastings, who had married one of Warwick’s many sisters. Hastings was Edward’s bosom companion and Richard thought they made an odd pair, since Hastings was eleven years older and his hair was already silvering at thirty-two. But, like Edward, he laughed easily and his blue eyes raked women boldly. Richard had heard the ladies talk and he knew they thought Hastings irresistible. Men found him genial, too, yet Richard had always felt uncomfortable around him. Maybe because Hastings was too rowdy for good company, or maybe because he reminded him of what he wished to forget…
Ludlow.
He’d met Hastings at Ludlow Castle on his sixth birthday. On that same October day he’d also met his two eldest brothers, Edward and Edmund, who had been sent away to learn knightly conduct in another noble household. Edward was then seventeen, Edmund barely sixteen. There had been much joy at Ludlow.
And fear.
Richard’s goblet slackened in his grip. It was at Ludlow that he’d first met Queen Marguerite. He blinked to banish the image of the fiery queen astride her horse in the marketplace, looking down at him with loathing and contempt. God’s curse on her, all England’s woes flowed from her evil doings—hers, and her corrupt favourite, Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. If Marguerite d’Anjou hadn’t wed mad King Henry, or if King Henry had kept his wits, Richard’s father would never have died. It was Marguerite’s mortal hatred that forced his father to remember that he—by his descent from an older son of Edward III—held better title to the throne than King Henry himself. By the time Richard had turned six, there had been several bloody battles between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians. Fearing that Fotheringhay Castle was no longer safe, his father moved them to Ludlow, his stronghold on the Welsh Marches.
Ludlow . Absently, Richard picked up the candle before him, brought it close and stared into the flame. He could feel its heat in his face. Danger , it warned. Danger …
Aye, there had been danger at Ludlow. And treachery. And unspeakable horror. The world had changed after Ludlow. He stared into the flaring flame. The bright hall dimmed and receded, laughter faded; time hurtled backwards and Ludlow rose up before his eyes.
Standing high on a hill near the River Teme, Ludlow Castle had been cold and damp, the walls thick, the windows narrow. The castle had been crowded with his father’s soldiers, friends and servants. Since there was little furniture besides some trestle tables and a few benches and stools, they sat on the stairs, slept on rushes and lounged on cushions. The air was pungent with the smell of horses, dogs, sweat. And the scent of fear. Death lurked in the shadows at Ludlow.
Besides his father and three brothers, Edward, Edmund, and George, there was Richard’s uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, and his son Warwick, and many others whose scarred and pockmarked faces flitted in and out of the shadows in the castle. As the gloom deepened, torches and tapers were lit. Richard crouched in a corner, trying not to notice the grotesque shapes the candles threw on the walls, concentrating instead on his nine-year-old brother George, who sat at his mother’s feet by the cupboard, bare because his father had pawned his plate to pay his soldiers. As she embroidered a war banner, George waved a plume, shook his golden curls, laughed his merry laugh, and regaled her with tales of how he would single-handedly vanquish their enemies. Richard remembered that she had smiled.
But there was no smile on his father’s face. Tense and drawn, he carefully went over the battle plans with Salisbury, Warwick, and the fierce leader of the Calais regiment whom Warwick, the Captain of Calais, had brought over with him. Andrew Trollope reminded Richard of a pirate with
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