Read Online The Rose of York by Sandra Worth - Free Book Online Page A

his scarred cheek and blackened teeth. Hideous as he was, Richard knew his father felt lucky to have this fighter of known repute. Without Andrew Trollope and his seasoned fighting men, he had no chance against Marguerite’s forces.
    “We’re outnumbered,” said the Duke of York.
    “Fear not,” grinned Trollope. “We’ve something the Bitch’s army ’as naught of. Heart! Bah, we’ll chop ’m up like raw liver, for they’re naught but gutless swine and know not what real fighting’s about!”
    The corners of the duke’s handsome mouth lifted slightly. “Nevertheless, we’ll accept their terms if they offer us any concession at all.”
    “Nay, Father!” Edward broke in. “You must fight and seize the throne! You knelt to them after our victory at St. Alban’s, and here we are again. Nothing can be resolved as long as that she-wolf rules idiot Henry.”
    “Idiot he may be, but king he is,” the Duke of York replied. “And if there’s a way to preserve my oath and save my men, I shall do so, my son, and you’d be best advised to hold your tongue.”
    At nightfall the envoy returned for the last time. There were no concessions, only demands. The castle prepared for battle.
    “See you at dawn, my lord,” said Trollope with a confident bow as he left to guard the bridge.
    At dawn, Trollope was gone. He and all his men. Crossed over to Marguerite’s side.
    “We can’t flee,” said the Duke of York. “’Tis dishonourable.”
    “We can’t fight,” said the Earl of Salisbury. “Trollope knows our plans.”
    “But the townspeople—if we abandon them…”
    “They’ve had no part in this. Marguerite will let them alone.”
    “Marguerite spares no man. Hers is a blood lust I’ve seen in few.”
    “We’ve no choice,” Salisbury said.
    Everyone fled as best they could. The duke and the earls made it safely away but some of their men were slain and the prisoners were hung and quartered. Then came the punishment of the townspeople…
    Richard’s grip tightened on the candle. He closed his eyes. There was no refuge; no refuge anywhere. People were running, horsemen in pursuit. Swords and axes swung. Men, women, and children staggered, fell. Blood overflowed the gutters as it did on Butchers’ Row before a feast day. The sky was on fire, houses ablaze, blackening the air. From the church came the squeals of animals and the cries of people trapped inside. Shouted orders rang out, mingled with the wails of the dying in a din torn from the bowels of Hell. He felt sick, his knees buckled, and hot urine trickled down his legs. He grabbed his mother’s hand tightly and pushed up against her skirts to keep from falling off the steps of the high market Cross. The sickly sweet odour of burning human flesh stung his nostrils…
    “Richard, you’ve burned yourself!” cried Anne. She dabbed at his hand with a wet cloth. “Richard, you look strange. What’s wrong?”
    Richard grabbed his wine cup unsteadily and downed a gulp. “Nothing,” he lied.
    Anne slipped her hand into his. “Don’t look back, Richard. I get scared too when I look back.”
    He hated that she could see his fear, but she was right, of course. What was it John had said? In last year’s nest, there are no eggs . Yet he couldn’t help wondering whether he’d ever forget; ever feel safe again. Ever feel one of them. His gaze flicked the table. He didn’t belong here. Everyone here had forgotten. They were all laughing. Not only could he not join in, but he caught menace in their laughter. What was wrong with him?
    He turned his eyes on the arched entrance of the hall and fidgeted with his ring. He wished John would come. John understood. Not that they had ever spoken of fear. The closest they had come was a remark John once made, something about fears of the past breeding fear for the future. Aye, there was naught to be done about the past. One could only do one’s duty and hope for God’s blessing. He gave Anne a nod and fixed