The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Read Free Page B

But he did understand, with chilling clarity, that when the day was done, his father and Ned and Edmund might be numbered among the dead.
His brother's pillow covering had slipped; he could see the tip of a protruding feather. He edged closer and fished it out, eyeing George with caution. But George was snoring softly and soon there was a downy pile between them on the bed. He began to separate them into two camps, which he mentally identified as "York" and "Lancaster." The feathery forces of York were led, of course, by his father, the
Duke of York, and those of Lancaster by the King, Harry of Lancaster, and the Frenchwoman who was his Queen.
He continued methodically plucking feathers from George's pillow and aligning them in opposing camps, but it didn't help. He was unable to forget his fear. What if his father were to die? Or Ned? Ned and
Edmund were men grown. Old enough to ride into battle tomorrow. Old enough to die.
He began to build up the army of York until it vastly outnumbered Lancaster. He knew his father did not want to fight the King, and he did not think the King truly wanted to fight his father. Again and again he'd heard it said that the King shrank from shedding blood.
But the Queen had no such qualms. Richard knew she hated his father, with all the passion the King lacked. She wanted his father dead; Richard had heard his cousin Warwick say so that very day. He wasn't all that sure just why the Queen should hate his father so; but he had heard men say that his father had a better claim to the English crown than the King and he suspected this might have something to do with the Queen's unrelenting hostility. It was confusing to Richard, though, for his father repeatedly vowed that the King was his sovereign and liege lord. He didn't understand why his father could not just assure the Queen of his loyalty to King Harry. If she understood that, perhaps she would not hate his father so much then. Perhaps there need be no battle. . . .
He stiffened suddenly and then jerked upright in the bed, jarring George into wakeful wrath. He emerged from the coverlets with an oath pirated from Edward, irritation giving way to outrage as he inhaled a mouthful of feathers.
"Damn you, Dickon," he spluttered, grabbing for the younger boy.
    Richard was generally adroit at evading George's vengeance, but now he made no attempt to escape, and George soon pinned him down against the mattress, somewhat surprised at the ease of his victory.
"George, listen! Can you not hear? Listen!"
Buffeting him with the pillow, with more exuberance now than anger, George at last heeded Richard's muffled protests and cocked his head, listening.
"Men are shouting," he said uneasily.
DRESSING hastily in the dark, they crept from their bedchamber in the Pendower Tower. All of Ludlow was suddenly deep in unfriendly shadows, had become a sinister refuge for every malignant spirit that could be conjured up by the feverish imaginings of two fearful small boys. By the time they reached the east door of the great hall, they were stumbling over each other in their urgency to gain the security of torchlight and known voices.
The great hall was sixty feet in length, thirty feet in width, and crowded with men, men rudely roused from sleep, men who were fastening hastily donned garments, buckling scabbard at hip and thigh, kicking impatiently at the castle dogs that were circling about in frenzied excitement. At first, Richard saw only the swords, what seemed to him to be a forest of naked blades, each nearly as long as a man's height and capable of shearing a head from its body with one stroke. Gradually he began to pick out familiar faces.
His mother's brother, Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury. Salisbury's grown son and namesake, Richard
Neville, Earl of Warwick. William Hastings, a youthful friend of his father's. And by the open stone hearth, Ned and Edmund.
It was some moments, however, before he was able to find his parents. The Duke of York and