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

merriment. Now Richard remembered that John had been taken prisoner when he chased a fleeing Lancastrian straight into enemy territory after a victorious battle. For his recklessness he spent time in a dungeon in the city of York and was freed only when King Edward won the city back from Henry of Lancaster and his vicious queen, Marguerite d’Anjou.
    Rufus barked, and Lancelot’s voice cut into Richard’s thoughts. “My lord Duke, may I assist you to dismount?”
    Shy as he was, smiles rarely came to Richard, but he gave one to John, and put out his arms.
    “Benedicite,” said George Neville, the youngest of the three Neville brothers and a bishop at twenty-three. “’Tis joy to see you again, fair cousin of Gloucester.”
    Richard thought the holy smile hovering on his lips strangely out of place on his rosy, youthful face, and he inclined his head in solemn greeting, unwilling to risk speech again.
    With a flash of jewels, the majestic Warwick bowed. “Joy and good wishes, worthy cousin Gloucester.” Like his brother Lancelot, Warwick was handsome, but the lines of the Kingmaker’s face were sharply drawn, his demeanour stiff, and the nasal quality of his voice hinted of his famous arrogance.
    “God’s greetings to you, my lord,” Richard said with a courtly bow, remembering his manners.
    “May I present my Countess, Your Grace…”
    Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick, curtsied, rustling her high-waisted gown and fluttering the gauzy veils of her butterfly headdress.
    Warwick continued. “My eldest daughter, Bella. And Anne.”
    Richard made a proper bow to Isabelle. She was skinny and, though near his age, towered over him by almost a full head, making him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t like her bright pink dress or her pasty complexion; and anyway, he didn’t like girls. Girls were always preening like cats or jabbering like magpies— all except for his sister Meg. He turned to Anne.
    He blinked as if he gazed into captured light, so bright a glow bathed seven-year-old Anne Neville. She wore a gown of shimmery golden gauze that floated in folds from the high waistline, and her hair, unbound beneath a flower circlet, flowed behind her bright as a field of buttercups. Her eyes were huge and reminded him of flowers. Violets , he thought, for their lavender was flecked with brilliant blues and ringed with deepest purple. She dropped her gaze and Richard had a moment to observe her unnoticed. She was about his height— not quite, though, he was pleased to realise—and she brought to mind not jabbering magpies, but an angel he’d once admired in the dazzling coloured glass of Canterbury Cathedral.
    She curtsied with grace. He bowed, and caught the scent of lavender. Then the angel lifted her lids and gave him a shy look from beneath her lashes, as if she feared her full gaze would be too bold an intrusion, and what he saw there stunned him. The violet eyes shone with terror. Richard stared, speechless. Never had he expected a Neville to fear meeting him. He was seized with a fierce protectiveness towards the girl as he turned to climb the stairs of the Keep with his cousin Warwick.
     
    ~ * * * ~

Chapter 4
     
    “But those first days had golden hours for me.”
     
     
    Anne followed her parents and Richard into the great hall, seized with excitement. She had dreaded the Duke of Gloucester’s arrival but when she’d looked up into Richard’s clear grey eyes, her anxiety had melted like icicles in the sun. The young duke was not what she had expected the King’s brother to be—not big and blond, loud and bold like Edward, whom she had once met and found fearsome. On the contrary, he wasn’t much bigger than she, and he seemed as shy as she was. She liked his thick dark hair and the funny little dimple in his chin, but there was a look about him that made her think he’d been hurt somewhere, though she didn’t see a bandage.
    She watched him enter the huge chamber beside her father and uncles. He