Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) Read Online Free PDF Page B

blade. Men in Derry’s trade knew that best of all was to kill the man before he even knew he was your enemy.
    None of his thoughts showed in his expression as Derry regarded Lovelace, the man still coming to terms with having sold Warwick for no more than a pint of dark ale. The spymaster didn’t dare drop silver or gold on the table with so many soldiers about. If he did that, he knew he might as well knock Lovelace out himself and save a coin. Instead, he reached out and clasped Lovelace’s hand, pressing a gold half-noble between them. He saw the poor knight’s eyes tighten with embarrassment and relief as he glanced into his hand. The coin was small, but it would buy a dozen meals, or perhaps a new cloak.
    ‘God be with you, son,’ Derry said, rising to leave. ‘Trust in the king and you won’t go wrong.’
    The moon was new and hidden, but Edward of York could see his hands in starlight. He turned the left in front of his face, watching his fingers move like a white wing. York sat on a Welsh crag and he had not bothered to askits name. His feet dangled over emptiness, and when he dislodged a stone, it fell for ever and never seemed to strike. Depths yawned below his feet and yet the darkness was so thick he felt he could almost step out on to it.
    He smiled drunkenly at the thought, reaching with one foot and padding it around as if he might find a bridge of shadows to take him across the valley. The action shifted his weight from the lip of the crag and he scrambled suddenly, kicking in a spasm, the panic gone as soon as it had come. He would
not
fall, he knew it. He might have drunk enough to kill a smaller man, but God would keep him from tumbling down some Welsh rock. His ending was not there, not with all he still had to do. Edward nodded to himself, his head so heavy it continued to sway up and down long after he intended it.
    He heard the footsteps and murmuring voices of two of his men as they began to speak, barely a dozen paces behind him. Slowly, Edward raised his head, realizing they could not see him in the blackness by the ground. With his limbs lit such a bone-white, he thought he must resemble some spirit. In another mood, he might have lurched up with a great howl, just to make them cry out, but he was too dark for that. The night around him sank in when it touched his arms. No doubt that was why he saw the white skin – because it had drawn in the darkness and was still drawing, filling him up until his seams would creak with it. The idea was beautiful, and he sat and wondered at it while the men talked behind him.
    ‘I don’t like this place, Bron. I don’t like the hills, the rain or the bloody Welsh. Scowling out at us from their little huts. Thieves, too, like as not to steal anything that isn’t tied down. Old Noseless lost a saddle two days backand it did not walk off on its own. This is not a place to stay – but here we still are.’
    ‘Well, if you were a duke, mate, perhaps you’d take us back to England. Until then, we wait until Master York says we move. I’m content, I’d say. No, mate, more than content. I’d rather be sat here than marching or fighting in England. Let the big lad drown his grief for his father and brother. The old duke was a fine man. If he’d been my dad, I’d be drinking away the days as well. He’ll come right in the end, or burst his heart from it. There’s no point worrying which it will be.’
    Edward of York squinted in the direction of the pair. One was leaning against a rock, blending into it like one great shadow. The other was standing, looking out and up at the field of stars blazing around the north as the night crept on. York had a feeling of irritation that his grief, his private pain, should be discussed by mere knights and pikemen as if it were no more than the weather or the price of a loaf. He began to scramble up, very nearly toppling off the edge as he came to his feet and stood swaying. At four inches over six feet, York was a