The Rose of York Read Online Free Page B

wrong, weren’t you?”
    “Aye,” Richard said with relief. “You said it means a foe falls, not a loved one.”
    “And this owl in daytime comes to bring us tidings of joy.” He came to Richard’s side, rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, and leaned close. “I daresay, Dickon, victory bells are about to peal for us.”
    “Victory?” Richard’s heart almost leapt out of his breast. “That means we’re going home, doesn’t it, George?”
    “Aye. How about a game of butts?” George said, picking up his archery set, a Yuletide gift from Caxton.
    Richard regarded him uncertainly. How could George be so casual about such wonderful news? It didn’t make sense, unless he had just made it up. George sometimes did that, thinking to cheer him. He felt suddenly wretched. He shook his head and watched George leave for the courtyard, his bow slung over his shoulder. A moment later, there was a shout of glee. An arrow must have hit its mark.
    How he wished he had George’s light heart. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, when all he himself could do was worry. How went the war for the Yorkists? Was his brother Edward safe or had he been killed like Edmund? Warwick—how did he fare? What would become of him and George if Edward and Warwick were dead? They’d be alone in the world then, without money or means. Would Caxton keep them, or would they be thrown into the streets to fend for themselves like the ragged orphans he saw begging their bread in the depth of winter? Worse, would he and George be handed over to Henry of Lancaster’s savage queen?
    His breath caught in his throat. Without Edward, they were lost. Edward was everything, all that stood between them and the horrors of Lancaster. Edward was their last hope. O, Edward…
    Pray God his brother still lived!
    With a trembling hand, he drew his Latin book close and bent his head to memorise the Latin verse his tutor had assigned for the afternoon.
     
    ~*~
     
    Easter came and went. Richard found solace in his lute and the missives that came from England. His mother had written that Edward had won a battle at Mortimer’s Cross early in February, but his sister Meg wrote days later that Warwick had lost one near St. Alban’s. Warwick’s own captain, Trollope, who had turned traitor at Ludlow, had led the Lancastrians against him and, in defiance of both honour and convention, had attacked at night, catching Warwick by surprise and routing his army. The Queen’s seven-year-old son, Edouard, in a suit of golden armour covered with purple velvet, had judged the captives and watched their executions.
    Thankfully, better news followed. Before the month of February was out, Edward had entered London to cheering crowds and was proclaimed King. The last Richard had heard, in early March, both York and Lancaster were recruiting large numbers of men. Edward himself had written this time. There would soon be another battle, he said, and Richard should pray for him. Edward had added a postscript. He’d put a high price on Trollope’s head, and no doubt the ravens would be dining well shortly.
    Richard laid aside his lute. That was Edward. Always trying to make him laugh, even when matters were at their worst. He hugged his knees and swallowed hard. There had been no word since. Nothing. The battle must have been fought by now. What if York had lost? He screwed his eyes tight and began a prayer.
    “My lord...”
    Richard jerked up his head. Edward Brampton, his brother’s trusted man-at-arms, who had fled London with him that awful Yuletide months ago, stood at the door. Brampton’s face was pale and very grave. Richard’s heart began to pound.
    “My lord, you are wanted in the Hall. A messenger has arrived. There is news from England.”
     
    ~ * * * ~

Chapter 3
     
    “And Arthur yet had done no deeds of arms, But heard the call and came.”
     
     
    In the tender spring of 1462, amid the dust of falling pebbles, as sheep bleated gently and church bells rang the