The Rose of York: Love & War Read Online Free PDF

Lancaster.
    The iron-barred portcullis rose with a loud grinding of chains that sent a flock of doves scattering from the ramparts. He bit his quivering lip and reminded himself that his cousin Warwick, though proud, stern, and courageous, was only an earl, while he was a duke, and Warwick was descended from only one of the five sons of Edward III, not three, as he was. But that scarcely helped.
    The lowered drawbridge clanged into place. With a flourish of trumpets, he clattered through the arched stone gateway, followed by his knights. Crowds of people lined the inner court, the ladies in colourful silks, the knights in furs and velvet, the squires and servants in bright red jackets bearing the Warwick badge. He’d never seen such a retinue, even at the royal court.
    Richard tightened his grip on his tasselled reins and strained his back trying to appear tall, for everyone was staring. But the eyes disappeared as he drew near, swept away into deep bows. Flooded with relief, he trotted past the chapel to his left and onward to the massive stone Keep. His gaze fell on a group at the foot of the sweeping outer staircase that led to the great hall. They held themselves as erect as he and their eyes never wavered. With a mixture of fascination and dread Richard realised that here, in their golds and scarlets, stood the awesome Nevilles. He recognised Warwick, and his youngest brother George who was Edward’s chancellor and came often to court, but he wasn’t sure about the tall, lean knight in silver with a hound at his feet. The knight stood straight as a lance, a hand to the dagger at his belt, his tawny hair blowing in the wind, reminding him of the rendering of Sir Lancelot in his illuminated manuscript.
    Far too soon he closed the gap to find himself face to face with the Neville family. Fearing to speak in case his voice trembled, and not daring to look at Warwick, he focused on Lancelot. Close up, the silver knight was not young. He had the weathered face of a soldier and there were crinkly lines around his arresting blue eyes.
    Lancelot grinned. “Welcome to Camelot, my fair cousin,” he said with a twinkle. “I’m John Neville. And this…” He looked down at the bright-eyed wolf-hound who sat wagging his tail, “is Rufus.” The hound barked in greeting.
    So this is Warwick’s brother, the famous Lord Montagu! thought Richard. He had a prince’s bearing to go with his lion’s heart, this military genius of courage and chivalry. Feeling his colour rise, Richard dropped his gaze to the chirping sparrows flitting about the stone steps. Lancelot could probably see straight through his stomach to his missing guts. Then, unable to hold back his curiosity, he braved a look up at John Neville’s face and was surprised to find Lancelot surveying him, not with the contempt he expected, but with a kindly expression. “Is it true you cannot be bested in a feat of arms, like Sir Lancelot, my Lord of Montagu?” he blurted out, voicing the question always linked to his famed cousin.
    John Neville laughed, a deep laugh that dimpled both sides of his generous mouth. Richard’s heart warmed. His Cousin John’s good looks reminded him of his mother Cecily, called “The Rose of Raby” for her beauty, though his mother’s hair was gold, and John’s the colour of sand, and her eyes were blue periwinkles, while his were a twilight sea. There the resemblance ended. John’s brow was lofty, his jaw square. He was well-made and sun-bronzed, as someone would be who spent much time outdoors. For this reason, and in some other intangible way Richard couldn’t explain, he reminded him of his dead father, the Duke of York. Richard sensed that here was someone worthy of trust. Someone who could be a friend.
    “I may have shared Lancelot’s good fortune on the field of battle,” John Neville smiled, “but Lancelot never had the pleasure of being entertained in a dungeon.”
    His eyes looked sad to Richard beneath his