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

his gaze on the entrance.
    “He might be detained at the front, Richard,” said Anne softly, reading his thoughts.
    At that instant, trumpets blared and a herald’s voice announced, “John Neville, Lord Montagu!” All below the rank of lord stood, and though he was a duke, Richard half-rose from his chair with excitement, almost spilling his wine. Anne jumped up from the table with a squeal of delight and ran to her uncle. Richard watched with an ache as John scooped her up in his arms, laughing, and she gave him a kiss. It seemed to Richard that he’d been thought too old for that since the day he was born. Followed by his ever-present hound, John strode to the King and went to kneel, but Edward rose and embraced him warmly.
    “What joy to behold you, fair cousin!” He turned to motion for a chair and caught Richard’s expression. Under his breath, he muttered, “It seems you must sit with Dickon or break his heart, John.”
    A servant set a chair for him between Richard and Bishop Neville.
    “How goes Bamborough, John?” demanded Edward from down the table.
    “We’ve not made much progress, my King. The weather’s been against us.”
    “We should learn from the Italians,” Edward called out. “By gentleman’s agreement they never fight in winter!”
    John grinned. The table dissolved into laughter.
    Richard’s gaze fixed on his golden brother. How he envied Edward. Nothing troubled him. Already he’d put the unpleasant subject of Bamborough aside to engage in carefree conversation with Warwick on his right and Will Hastings on his left. Every so often there was a burst of laughter from the three at the centre of the table. Amid one of these, Will Hastings rose. He stood for a moment, a tall, glittering figure in purple satin slashed with black velvet. The minstrels hushed their instruments and all eyes turned to the royal table.
    Waving his flagon unsteadily, swaying on his heels, Hastings performed a pantomime. Pointing in front of him and pretending to hide his eyes, he shrilled, “Fie, fie, for shame and forsooth, cover thy b-b-b-breasts, shameless maidens!”
    The hall roared with laughter and Richard’s mouth curved at Hasting’s imitation of the monk-king Henry—whom some called Holy Harry—and his horror of nudity. Hastings tilted his dark brows at Edward. “Laugh not so hard, my lord, or your crown will fall off as mine does. And without my crown, who would guess I was king? ’Tis a good thing my servants catch it for me.”
    Playing along with his friend, Edward exclaimed, “Too bad Somerset couldn’t catch you when you fell off your throne, Harry!”
    The company in the hall hooted with approval. Richard grinned. Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, was the leader of Queen Marguerite’s forces. Some said he was also her lover and the father of her son, Prince Edouard.
    A grizzly-bearded friend of Warwick’s, Lord Wenlock, yelled, “But no doubt Somerset caught your queen when she fled from your bed—if ever she was in it.” He gave a loud burp.
    Beside Wenlock sat Sir Friendly Lion, John Howard, who had escorted Richard to Middleham nearly two years earlier, and next to him a former Lancastrian, who had avoided taking sides in the wars by leaving England to study in Italy. Richard knew Warwick distrusted the Earl of Worcester, John Tiptoft, even though Tiptoft was married to one of his fleet of sisters. Their end of the table lay far from Richard, yet a fragment of Tiptoft’s comment reached him.
    “I could make Somerset regret he was born,” Tiptoft was boasting to Howard. “They have a cage in Padua, you know, that is used to…” His voice was drowned out by the noise in the hall, but its ominous quality and the strange flash of his protruding dark eyes fascinated Richard. He noticed that even the seasoned warrior John Howard had paled. He couldn’t help wondering what happened to a man in a cage. Maybe vultures pecked out his eyes and flesh like they did to Prometheus. That