him kneels Richard. He is weeping.
“Help me off,” I say.
We’ve been riding from Sheriff Hutton to Middleham to transact business and collect revenues. I have been allowed to come along, accompanied, naturally, by Richard. We ride in the middle of the party, surrounded by knights, when we hear a sudden shout. I dig my heels into Doucette to make her go faster, but the docile little pony merely snorts and continues at her customary pace while Richard’s gelding surges to the front of the line.
I disengage myself from Richard and stand over my father. Is he dead? I stare at him hard, but he doesn’t move.
A thunder of hooves reverberates, and my brother Salisbury vaults off his horse. Instantly, everyone doffs their hats and kneels.
Father is dead.
Salisbury motions everyone up and stands beside Richard. “Did you see him go down?”
Richard shakes his head.
“He clutched his chest, grimaced, and tumbled off,” says Sir Ralph Neville the Older , riding up. Sir Ralph is one of father’s numerous younger sons by his first marriage, thus my half-brother.
Salisbury bends over and places a stubby finger on father’s forehead. “He’s as cold as marble,” he mutters. He fishes two golden sovereigns out of his leather pouch and places them over the lids to close them. Then he straightens up and gives orders for father to be borne to Castle Raby.
I stand still, looking at father. He doesn’t move. I stare at the fallen leaves on the ground, then lift my eyes to the huge oak tree that stands in my path. It has been blasted by a summer storm and is dead. Underneath it are the green shoots of new trees. Papa is like that oak, sheltering us from storms. What will become of us now? What of Mama? Will she have anything, or will she be forced to beg like those old women I see by the edge of the road when I ride my pony into Staindrop?
“He’s already acting as heir!” exclaims Sir Ralph.
I look up.
Sir Ralph clutches the reins, causing his stallion to prance.
“I thought he was,” says Richard.
“Well, you thought wrong,” snaps Sir Ralph, swinging his stallion around. “My nephew and namesake is heir. I must ride to Brancepeth and tell him so before that upstart takes more than is his right.” He digs his knees in, and the stallion bounds off across the desolate moorland.
I stare after the rapidly fading figure of Sir Ralph Neville the Older, the cold wind snapping my veil. I am ten years old. It is just over a year since I was forced into that betrothal with Richard. The seasons have rolled around, bringing in the bright, chill days of October.
What does this mean? I know, of course, that Sir Ralph is my father’s second son by his first marriage. Sir Ralph’s elder brother, Sir John Neville , died some five years ago, and so Sir John’s eldest son, Sir Ralph Neville the Younger, stands to inherit.
Or does he?
What about brother Salisbury? He is the eldest son of my father’s second marriage to Mama, Joan de Beaufort, and father has always treated him as the heir. Salisbury has royal blood flowing in his veins like me, for our mother’s father, John of Gaunt , was son to King Edward III.
Has father actually gone against English law and custom and disinherited the children of his first marriage?
“Where’s he gone?”
I turn to see Salisbury standing there.
“Brancepeth,” says Richard.
“Aye, he would,” mutters Salisbury, flicking mud off his blue velvet tunic. “We have not a moment to lose.” He claps his hands. “We ride to Raby.”
“To Raby!” shout the men in response.
I follow Richard as he strides beside Salisbury into the great hall of Castle Raby. They bow before the high table, where Mama presides in state. Before her stands a tall young man I do not recognize.
“He’s already here,” mutters Salisbury.
The stranger turns, and I draw breath, for Sir Ralph Neville the Younger is the veritable image of my lord father. Salisbury smiles and takes the new Earl of