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

cattle penned in the market bullring broke the eerie unnatural stillness that enclosed the village as the advance guard of the Lancastrian army rode across Ludford Bridge and into
Ludlow.
They'd encountered no resistance; the Yorkist earthworks that had blocked the road to Leominster were unmanned. Advancing up Broad Street, they passed through Broad Gate unchallenged. In unnerving silence, they moved north, toward High Street. There they drew rein abruptly, for a woman and two small boys were awaiting them upon the steps of the high market cross.
the Lancastrian army was surging into Ludlow. The narrow streets were jammed with jubilant soldiers.
The Swan and Rose banners of Lancaster caught the wind, fluttered aloft over the heads of the Duchess of York and her two youngest sons.
When the mounted knight first came into view, sunlight striking with blinding brilliance upon polished plate armor, Richard wondered if he might be King Harry. But the face half-shadowed by the upraised visor was far too young; this man was not all that much older than his brother Ned. Richard risked a whispered query to George, and was much impressed by the latter's boldness when George whispered back, "You're not likely to see Harry here, Dickon. They say he's daft, not able to tell a goose from a gander in the dark."
    Richard had, from time to time, overheard puzzling and cryptic references to the King's health, said with such sardonic significance that he comprehended, however imperfectly, that there was something "not quite right" with the King. But the hints were so clearly not meant for his hearing, were given so guardedly and grudgingly that he instinctively shrank back from the subject, even with Edward. He had never heard the truth put so baldly as now, in the midst of the soldiers of that selfsame King, and he looked at George with mingled apprehension and admiration.
George was staring at the young knight, by now approaching the steps of the market cross. Tugging at his mother's sleeve, he murmured, "Ma Mere? Who is he? The man who betrayed us ... Trollope?"
"No . . . my lord Somerset," she said quietly, and none could have guessed from the even matter-of-fact tones that she had just named a man who had more reason than most to hate the House of York, a man whose father had died the loser on a battlefield her husband had won. And with that, she moved down the steps to meet him.
Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, was just twenty-three years of age, but to him had been entrusted the command of the King's army. Marguerite d'Anjou, Lancaster's French-born Queen, might defy convention by riding with her troops, but there were certain constraints even she was forced to recognize, not the least of which was that there was no Joan of Arc in English folklore.
Somerset had not dismounted. Curbing his restive stallion with a practiced hand, he listened impatiently as the Duchess of York made an impassioned and persuasive appeal on behalf of the villagers of Ludlow.
Cecily Neville was, at forty-four, still a strikingly handsome woman, with the lithe slimness of early youth and direct dark grey eyes. Somerset was not altogether indifferent to the attractive image she presented, standing alone on the market cross, flanked by her young sons. He suspected, however, that her posture was one carefully calculated to appeal to chivalric susceptibilities. He had no liking for this proud woman who was wife to his sworn enemy, and he noted, with gratifying if rather grim amusement, that the role of supplicant did not come easily to her.
While he felt compelled to accord her the courtesy due her rank and sex, to let her speak for Ludlow, he had no intention of heeding her plea. Ludlow had long been a Yorkist stronghold; a day of reckoning, would have a salutary effect upon other towns wavering in their loyalty to Lancaster.
He interrupted to demand what he already knew. York's Duchess answered readily enough. Her husband? He was gone from Ludlow, as was her