The Rose of York Read Free

and the fear, and the only thought he had was that he mustn’t cry. Nurse had said that men didn’t cry, and he knew his father had expected him to be a man.
    “ Ludlow ,” Cecily breathed. “That’s how he was at Ludlow.” She turned desperate eyes on her nephew. “You weren’t at Ludlow, nephew. What Marguerite did there was Devil’s work. And what she has done at York has changed the world forever.” She lowered herself to her knees, clasped her hands together and looked up at him beseechingly. “I humble myself to you, my Lord of Warwick.”
    A shocked gasp went around the room to see England’s true queen kneel at Warwick’s feet. Even Warwick seemed stunned. He stared at her a long moment. Then he gave a tense nod.
    “Make haste, then. We’ve no time to lose. She’s closing in on London even as we speak.”
     
    ~*~
     
    Richard stood in the courtyard, unable to stop his teeth from chattering. He didn’t know what was happening. Men were shouting, running to and fro, bringing horses from the stables and swords from the armoury. Torches flared in the blackness, and the courtyard smelled of smoke and manure. Some of the horses were frightened, too, for they neighed wildly and reared up on their haunches.
    Richard shivered. He was so cold. He felt Galahad’s soft head nuzzle him from behind, as if to tell him it would be all right. All at once strong arms lifted him up high in the air and dropped him roughly into the saddle. He wanted to cry.
    “What’s the matter with you?” Warwick’s harsh voice pierced his consciousness. “Be a man, you snivelling coward!” Galahad’s reins were forced into his hands.
    Richard didn’t want to be a coward. He wanted to be like his brothers, brave and bold and strong. Especially his oldest brother, Edward, to whom Galahad belonged. He bit back his tears.
    “Can you ride like a man, or must we carry you like a babe?” demanded his cousin.
    “I can ride,” Richard managed, hugging Galahad’s belly closer with his trembling knees and forcing himself to meet his cousin’s eyes. Galahad was his friend. Galahad would help him ride. A groom hastily adjusted the stirrups and placed his feet into them.
    “But I need my lute,” Richard said, trying not to whimper. “I can’t ride without my lute.” He chewed his lip to make it stop quivering.
    “God’s Blood, someone get him his damned lute!” Warwick yelled.
    His nurse disappeared into the amber light flowing through the open doorway and ran out with his instrument. One of Warwick’s men strapped it tightly to his saddle.
    “ There! ” said Warwick, and gave Galahad a smack on the rump.
    Galahad leapt forward.
     
    ~*~
     
    My father is dead .
    Panic gripped Richard anew, sending his heart pounding with terror. He bent low in the saddle and spurred Galahad with desperate urgency. The black night reverberated with the thunder of fleeing horse hoofs, all pounding the same message: His father was dead. His brother, Edmund, too. Now they were coming for him.
    It isn’t fair , he thought, choking back a sob. They were the ones who had stolen the throne. They were the ones killing people and burning the land. His father was the rightful heir to the crown, not Henry of Lancaster! His father would have set things right. But his father was dead, and his brother Edmund slain as he made for Sanctuary. The Lancastrians had won.
    It isn’t fair!
    The frigid December wind whistled past, drying his tears, stinging his cheeks, whipping his hair. He could feel Galahad’s lathered belly burning and heaving for breath. Richard bent low in the saddle to make it easier on him and caught a wave of spume in his eyes. Poor Galahad. He released the pressure of his spurs on his flank and pulled on the bit to ease their pace. The road glistened in the light snow. They twisted around a corner and galloped between two dark hedgerows. He thought of his mother and gave a shiver. He wore no hat or gloves and his ear lobes were numb,