Read Online The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III by Sharon Kay Penman - Free Book Online
Authors: Sharon Kay Penman
Tags: Biographical, Biographical fiction, Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Historical, War & Military, War stories, Great Britain, Kings and rulers, Great Britain - History - Wars of the Roses; 1455-1485, Great Britain - History - Henry VII; 1485-1509, Richard
Ads: Link
their mounts through rain-swollen rivers spanned by perfectly adequate bridges. But he could never quite convince himself that Ned ever knew the fear he did, and when others praised him for his daring, he felt a secret shame, as if he'd somehow perpetrated a gigantic hoax upon the world, a hoax that would one day inevitably be unmasked.
Doubting his courage, he now doubted his judgment as well, could no longer be sure why he viewed the planned assault with such disfavor. Yet even had he been sure, it would have been impossible for him to have given any answer other than the one he gave when his father at last turned to him and said, "Well, Edmund, what say you? Shall we show Lancaster the price to be paid for breaking the truce?"
"I think we've no choice, sir," he said soberly.
WHERE the River Calder suddenly snaked into a horseshoe curve toward the west, the ground rose somewhat and afforded a clear view of Sandal Castle and the sloping expanse of Wakefield Green. A
small group of horsemen now waited within the trees of this snow-covered hillock. As they watched, the drawbridge of the castle began to lower, slowly settled over the moat. The favored banners of York, a
Falcon within a Fetterlock and a White Rose, took the wind, flared to full length through the swirl of falling snow.
Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, leaned forward intently, permitted himself a small tight smile.
"There they do come," he announced needlessly, for his companions were watching the castle with equal absorption. It was unlikely York had a more bitter trinity of enemies than these three men, Somerset, Lord Clifford, and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Only Marguerite herself nursed a greater grudge against the man now leading his army against the Lancastrians on Wakefield Green.
The Lancastrians were not standing their ground, were retreating before the Yorkist advance. It was clear to the three watching men that the Lancastrian forces seemed on the verge of catastrophe, on the verge of being trapped between the banks of the River Calder and the oncoming Yorkist army. Yet none of the three evidenced alarm; on the contrary, they watched with grim satisfaction as their own men gave way and the Yorkists bore down upon them in exultant sweep toward easy victory.
The Lancastrians at last seemed to be making a stand. Men came together with shuddering impact. Steel gleamed, blood spurted over the snow. Horses reared, lost their balance on the ice and plunged backward, crushing their riders beneath them.
Beside Somerset, Lord Clifford forced his breath through clenched teeth. "Now, God damn you, now!"
Almost as if his imprecation had been heard, from the woods on both sides of Wakefield Green came the hidden left and right wings of the Lancastrian army. Under the Earl of Wiltshire, the cavalry was sweeping around and behind the Yorkists, between them and the distant snow- shadowed walls of Sandal Castle.
The foot soldiers of the right wing continued to surge from the woods until all of Wakefield Green seemed to have been engulfed in a sea of struggling humanity. Even to an untrained eye, it was evident that the trapped Yorkists were hopelessly outnumbered. To the practiced eyes of Somerset and Clifford, the Yorkists numbered no more than five thousand. Facing an army of fifteen thousand.
Clifford had been searching in vain for York's personal standard. Now he abandoned the effort and spurred his stallion down the hill, into
what was no longer a battle, what was now a slaughter. Somerset and Northumberland also urged their mounts forward, followed after him.
Edmund swung his sword as the man grabbed for the reins of his horse. The blade crashed against the upraised shield, sent the soldier reeling to his knees. But Edmund did not follow through on his advantage; his sword thrust had been an instinctive gesture of defense, perfected through years of practice in the tiltyard at Ludlow Castle. Edmund was in shock; he'd just seen his cousin Thomas killed,
Doubting his courage, he now doubted his judgment as well, could no longer be sure why he viewed the planned assault with such disfavor. Yet even had he been sure, it would have been impossible for him to have given any answer other than the one he gave when his father at last turned to him and said, "Well, Edmund, what say you? Shall we show Lancaster the price to be paid for breaking the truce?"
"I think we've no choice, sir," he said soberly.
WHERE the River Calder suddenly snaked into a horseshoe curve toward the west, the ground rose somewhat and afforded a clear view of Sandal Castle and the sloping expanse of Wakefield Green. A
small group of horsemen now waited within the trees of this snow-covered hillock. As they watched, the drawbridge of the castle began to lower, slowly settled over the moat. The favored banners of York, a
Falcon within a Fetterlock and a White Rose, took the wind, flared to full length through the swirl of falling snow.
Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, leaned forward intently, permitted himself a small tight smile.
"There they do come," he announced needlessly, for his companions were watching the castle with equal absorption. It was unlikely York had a more bitter trinity of enemies than these three men, Somerset, Lord Clifford, and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Only Marguerite herself nursed a greater grudge against the man now leading his army against the Lancastrians on Wakefield Green.
The Lancastrians were not standing their ground, were retreating before the Yorkist advance. It was clear to the three watching men that the Lancastrian forces seemed on the verge of catastrophe, on the verge of being trapped between the banks of the River Calder and the oncoming Yorkist army. Yet none of the three evidenced alarm; on the contrary, they watched with grim satisfaction as their own men gave way and the Yorkists bore down upon them in exultant sweep toward easy victory.
The Lancastrians at last seemed to be making a stand. Men came together with shuddering impact. Steel gleamed, blood spurted over the snow. Horses reared, lost their balance on the ice and plunged backward, crushing their riders beneath them.
Beside Somerset, Lord Clifford forced his breath through clenched teeth. "Now, God damn you, now!"
Almost as if his imprecation had been heard, from the woods on both sides of Wakefield Green came the hidden left and right wings of the Lancastrian army. Under the Earl of Wiltshire, the cavalry was sweeping around and behind the Yorkists, between them and the distant snow- shadowed walls of Sandal Castle.
The foot soldiers of the right wing continued to surge from the woods until all of Wakefield Green seemed to have been engulfed in a sea of struggling humanity. Even to an untrained eye, it was evident that the trapped Yorkists were hopelessly outnumbered. To the practiced eyes of Somerset and Clifford, the Yorkists numbered no more than five thousand. Facing an army of fifteen thousand.
Clifford had been searching in vain for York's personal standard. Now he abandoned the effort and spurred his stallion down the hill, into
what was no longer a battle, what was now a slaughter. Somerset and Northumberland also urged their mounts forward, followed after him.
Edmund swung his sword as the man grabbed for the reins of his horse. The blade crashed against the upraised shield, sent the soldier reeling to his knees. But Edmund did not follow through on his advantage; his sword thrust had been an instinctive gesture of defense, perfected through years of practice in the tiltyard at Ludlow Castle. Edmund was in shock; he'd just seen his cousin Thomas killed,
Similar Books
