Free The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III by Sharon Kay Penman Page B

restraining hand upon his shoulder.
"Easy, man," he cautioned softly. "It was a bloody piece of work, I grant you. But it's done, and you'll not be changing that by throwing your own life away."
"Done?" Rob echoed, his voice raw, incredulous. "Done, you say? Jesus God! After today, it is just beginning."
AS Marguerite d'Anjou rode through the Yorkshire countryside toward the city of York, snow-blanketed fields glistened with a crystalline brilliance that blinded the eye, and the sky over her head was the deep vivid blue more common to July than January.
Her journey up into the rugged terrain of western Scotland had proven to be a fruitful one. At Lincluden
Abbey just north of Dumfries, she'd met with the Scottish Queen-regent and a bargain had been struck, sealed with the intended marriage of their respective children. In return for Marguerite's promise to surrender to Scotland the border fortress of Berwick-upon-Tweed, Marguerite was to be provided with a Scottish army with which to march upon London. She was at Carlisle when word reached her of the slaughter at Sandal Castle, and as she neared the town of Ripon on her way south toward York, she was met by the Duke of Somerset and the Earl of Northumberland, and there given the full and gratifying details of her enemy's destruction.
Ahead rose the white limestone city walls of York. The massive twin turreted towers and barbican of
Micklegate Bar marked the chief gateway
    into York, guarding the Ermine Way which led south, led to London. As Marguerite was approaching from the northwest, however, she thought to enter the city by way of Bootham Bar. Somewhat to her surprise, Somerset insisted they bypass Bootham, take the longer route through Micklegate.
She now saw why, saw that a crowd had gathered before the city gate, ready to welcome her into York.
The Lord Mayor was clad in his best blue, as were the city aldermen, while the sheriffs wore red. There were certain conspicuous absences, for there were some in the city who'd come under the magnetic influence of the Earl of Warwick, whose favorite residence lay some forty-five miles northwest of the city at Middleham. But all in all, it was an impressive turnout, gave proof once again that the city of York held fast for the House of Lancaster.
The honor of greeting the Queen had been conceded to Lord Clifford, who was not a man to be denied much. Marguerite smiled down at him as he knelt before her, smiled again as she gave him her hand to kiss. He was smiling, too, in admiring tribute both to her beauty and her Scots triumph.
"My lord Clifford, I shall not forget the service you've done me and my son. I shall never forget Sandal
Castle."
"Madame, your war is done." He stepped back, and then gestured upward, toward the city gates high above their heads. "Here I bring you your King's ransom."
Marguerite followed the direction of his outflung arm, stared up at Micklegate Bar, and saw for the first time that it was crowned with a grisly cluster of human heads, set upon pikes.
"York?" she said at last. When Clifford nodded grimly, she looked upward in silence for some moments and then said, "A pity you didn't face his head cityward, my lord Clifford. Then York could look out over
York," and all within earshot laughed.
"Maman?" The beautiful child who rode his pony at Marguerite's stirrup now drew closer, staring like the adults, up at Micklegate Bar. Marguerite turned at once, gazed down fondly at her son, and waved a graceful hand in the air.
"They are our enemies, bien-aime, and now no more. For which we may thank the lords of Somerset and
Clifford."
"All our enemies?" the child asked, already losing interest in the unsightly trophies so far above his own eye level.
"All save one, Edouard," Marguerite said softly. "All save Warwick."
"Edward of March, too, Madame," Somerset refninded her. "York's eldest son wasn't at Sandal Castle, was off at Ludlow."
"A pity," she said succinctly and then shrugged. "But he's no threat
    in his