Geoffrey Condit Read Free Page A

Trevor, your uncle, was executed with Somerset after Tewkesbury,”  Buckingham said, face grim.
        Peter became formal.  “A miscalculation on his part, Your Grace.”
        “I hope that behavior doesn’t extend to other members of the family.”  Buckingham hesitated at the top of the stairs.
        Peter grimaced.  “It does not.”
        Buckingham turned to Catharine.  “You must remember our conversation, Lady Trobridge.  I leave no stone unturned, nor do I stop until I’ve accomplished my goal.”  The arrogant turn of his lips, and amused glint in his gaze touched a nerve in Catharine.
        God rot you in Hell!  She clenched her fists, wanting to strangle the man.  She said, “I will remember your every word, Your Grace.”
        “Lady Catharine, don’t try to kill me with your eyes.”  Buckingham turned to Peter.  In a voice so low only they could hear, he said, “I pity your new husband.  What an excellent wedding night you shall both have.”  He continued down the stairs to his gelding.  “We will see you in London.  At Court.”  He signaled to his master-at-arms.
        Buckingham’s standard bearer with his banner moved out ahead of him.  The red cross of St. George preceded the red and black of Stafford.  Catharine counted the knots, and read the diagonal white over black motto.  In short order, horses hooves thundered over the drawbridge.  Then dust drifted away and relief flooded her.
        For the first time she allowed herself to take a good look at her new husband.  But she wasn’t prepared for his cold anger, and the crushed scroll in his great hand.  The title of her family and heritage were there.
        “Sir, be gentle with that paper,”  she said.  “You hold my family honors and lands.”
        He glared at her.  “I am married to a Lancaster woman whose family is forfeit, and I am suppose to be pleased?”
        “The Barony of Westmoreland is extensive.”
        “The Barony of Westmoreland is a hotbed of contentious idiots,”  he said, face red with anger.  He stared up at the sky.  “I don’t need the Trevor name poisoned in Court circles by being associated with Lancaster sympathies.”
        “Your uncle fought for Lancaster.”
        “And died, executed after Tewkesbury.”  Peter pressed his lips hard together.  His hands shook, and his golden eyes caught hers.  Catharine could feel their frightening power pour over her.
        “He was my plight-troth,” she said.
        “My father warned him.”
        “He was so kind ... ”
        “What did you know of him, my lady?  He died when you were a child.”
        “He gave me this.”  She pulled the locket and gold chain from her bodice.  The delicate chain flowed over her hand.   “I remember the day he gave it to me.  Before the Battle of Tewkesbury.”
        “Your uncle murdered a Prince of the Blood on the bridge at Wakefield Green.  What a charming pedigree you share.”
        She shuddered, remembering the bloodied cloak an old retainer had shown her, stains dark and dry.  Royal Blood.  “I know,” she said.  “The man was blood crazy.  They called him Queen Margarite’s Sword until he died taking an arrow through his throat at Ferrybridge  Crossing.”
        “So,  I’ve inherited all the sentiments and memories with the Barony.  These are dangerous things.  A constant sword in the guts of York.”  He reached out to touch her golden locket.  It fell open.  A small braid of brown hair lay inside.  They stood mesmerized for a long moment until Catharine snapped it shut.  “Uncle Will,”  he whispered.   “Wasted.  Wasted.  God, and for what?”
        Catharine closed her eyes, wanting to shut out the horror of the last hour.  Then she opened them to capture his golden ones.  “If you think my lord of Buckingham married us as a random malicious act, you’re fooling yourself.  The man