Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) Read Free Page B

wave of grief tightened his throat, so that his voice cracked. Despite his efforts to breathe, the air huffed out of his lungs until they were empty and his eyes suddenly blurred. With a huge effort, Warwick pulled in a long, slow breath through his teeth, then another as he found he could speak again. In all that time, his two brothers had said not a word.
    ‘I miss his counsel and his affection,’ Warwick went on. ‘I miss his pride and even his disappointment in me, for at least he was there to feel it.’ The other two chuckled at that, something they had both known. ‘Now it’s all set, with no more change. I cannot take back one word or have him know one more thing I have done in his name.’
    ‘God will hear your prayers, Richard,’ his brother George said. ‘Beyond that is a sacred mystery. It would be the sin of pride to think you might discover God’s plan for us – or for this family. You never can, Brother – and you must not grieve for those who feel only joy.’
    Warwick reached out and gripped the bishop by the back of the neck in affection. To his surprise, the words had brought him a little comfort, and he was proud of his younger brother.
    ‘Have you news of York?’ George Neville went on, his voice calm.
    Of the three Neville sons, the bishop seemed to have taken their father’s death with the least turbulence, with no sign of the rage that ate at John, or the grim spite that opened Warwick’s eyes each morning. Whatever else lay ahead, there was a price owed, for all the troubles, all the pain they had endured.
    ‘Edward writes nothing,’ Warwick said, showing his irritation. ‘I would not even know he had defeated the Tudors without their own ragged refugees, taken up and questioned by my people. The last I heard, Edward of York was sitting on a mound of dead Welsh archers and drinking away the loss of his father and brother. He has ignored the messages I’ve sent telling him how sorely he is needed here. I know he is only eighteen, but at his age …’ Warwick sighed. ‘I think sometimes, the great size of him conceals what a boy he still is. I can’t understand how he can delay in Wales and revel in his grief, while Queen Margaret comes against me here! His concern is only with himself, with his own noble grief and rage. It’s my feeling that he cares nothing for us, or our father. Understand me, lads: I say this to you, to no one else.’
    John Neville had been made Baron Montagu by his father’s death. The elevation showed in the richness of his new cloak, the thick hose and fine boots, bought on credit from tailors and cobblers who lent to a lord as they never had to a knight. Despite the layers of warm cloth, Montagu glanced at the billowing walls and shivered. It was difficult to imagine any spy being able to hear over the thrum and whistle of the wind, but it cost nothing to show caution.
    ‘If this gale grows any more fierce, this tent’ll be snatched up and taken over the army like a hawk,’ Montagu said. ‘Brother, we need that York boy, for all his youth. I sat with King Henry this morning while he sang hymns and plainsong under the oak. Did you know some smith has put a rope on his leg?’ Warwick looked up from his thoughts and John Neville raised both palms to ease his concern. ‘Not a shackle, Brother. Just a knotted rope, a hobble, to stop our royal innocent from wandering away. You talk of the boy in Edward, but at least it is a fine, strong boy, given to temper and firm action! This Henry is a mewling child. I could not follow him.’
    ‘Hush, John,’ Warwick said. ‘Henry is the king anointed, whether he be blind or deaf, or crippled, or … simple. There is no evil in him. He is like Adam before the Fall, no – like Abel, before Cain murdered him for spite and jealousy. Telling me he has been tied brings shame on all of us. I will order him freed.’
    Warwick crossed to the lacings of the tent, tugging at the cords until a widening flap brought the wind