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

brother, the. Earl of Salisbury and her nephew, the Earl of
    Warwick. Her sons, Edward, Earl of March, and Edmund, Earl of Rutland? Gone, too, she said coolly.
Somerset rose in his stirrups, gazing down High Street, toward the rising stone walls of the outer castle bailey. He knew she spoke the truth; her very presence here was all the proof he needed that the
Yorkists had fled. He was remembering, moreover, that there was a bridge behind the castle, spanning the River Teme and linking with the road leading west into Wales.
He gestured abruptly and soldiers moved onto the steps of the cross. The children shrank back and he had the satisfaction of seeing sudden fear upon Cecily Neville's haughty handsome face. She gathered her sons to her and demanded to know if my lord Somerset meant to take vengeance upon innocent children.
"My men are here to see to your safety, Madame." Her defiance had rankled; she was, after all, only a woman, and York's woman at that. He saw no reason not to remind her of the realities of their respective positions, said bluntly that he'd wager she'd be thankful for the presence of an armed guard before the day was done.
She whitened, hearing in his words the death knell of Ludlow; knowing now that there was only one man who could avert the coming carnage, that strange gentle soul who yearned only for peace of spirit and was wed to the woman the Yorkists saw as Messalina.
"I wish to see His Grace the King," she said steadily. "He has no subjects more loyal than the people of
Ludlow."
Her request was impossible, but it could not be acknowledged as such. He swallowed a bitter retort, said tersely, "It suited the King's Grace to remain at Leominster."
Cecily, however, was no longer watching Somerset. Richard, who was standing so close to her that he was treading upon the hem of her gown, now felt her body stiffen, in a small indecisive movement, quickly stilled. And then she was sinking down upon the steps in a curtsy, a very precise and controlled gesture that was totally lacking in her customary grace. Richard hastily followed her example, and it was kneeling upon the steps of the market cross that he had his first glimpse of the Lancastrian Queen.
His first impression, quite simply, was one of awe. Marguerite d'Anjou was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, as beautiful as the Queens of Joan's bedtime tales. All in gold and black, like the swallowtail butterflies he'd chased all summer in such futile fascination. Her eyes were huge and black, blacker even than the rosaries of Whitby jet so favored by his mother. Her mouth was scarlet, her skin like snow, her dark hair covered by a headdress of golden gauze, her face framed in floating folds of a glittery shimmering material that seemed to be made from sunlight;
    he'd never seen anything like it, couldn't keep his eyes from it, or from her.
"Where is your husband, Madame? Surely he'd not abandon you to pay the price for his treason?"
Richard loved the sound of his mother's voice, clear and low-pitched, as musical to him as chapel chimes.
The Queen's voice was a disappointment, shrill and sharply edged with mockery, so strongly flavored with the accent of her native Anjou that he distinguished her words with some difficulty.
"My husband swore oath of allegiance to His Grace the King and has held true to that oath."
The Queen laughed. Richard didn't like the sound of it any more than he had her voice. He unobtrusively edged closer to his mother's side, slipped his hand into the sleeve of her gown.
With a sudden shock, he realized those glittering black eyes had come to rest upon him. Frozen under her gaze, he stared up at the Lancastrian Queen, unable to free his eyes from hers. He was accustomed to having adults look at him without seeing, accepted that as a peculiarity of adult vision, that children were so little visible to them. He saw now that this was not true of the Queen, that she saw him very clearly. There was something very cold and queerly