Free The Rose of York by Sandra Worth

had to hurt a great deal. Now that he thought about it, Tiptoft’s bony face resembled a vulture’s. He could see him pecking out someone’s eyes with that curved beak he had for a nose.
    With a glint of gold and gems, Warwick leaned back in his velvet chair. Directing himself to Hastings, he said dryly, “Aye, Harry, as you can’t tell a hart from a hind, you’ve sent us much trouble by letting Somerset do your husbandly duty. Now there’s a bastard prince claiming the throne.”
    Will Hastings looked down his nose at Warwick. “Prince Edouard is the child of the Holy Spirit !” he sniffed.
    Howls and shrieks shook the hall. Anne, who understood little of this, peered at Richard.
    “When mad Harry was shown the queen’s new-born babe,” he explained, “instead of claiming the child as his, as is the custom, he said it was the child of the Holy Spirit.”
    “Oh,” Anne said, filled with admiration for Richard, who knew everything.
    Edward dried tears of laughter from his eyes. “Indeed, Harry, the boy’s not likely to be yours—unless you found a way to get into Marguerite without removing her clothes.” Whistles and the loud stamping of approving feet met this remark.
    As the company in the hall resumed their conversations, the minstrels took up a lively tune and servants returned to their duties, clearing tables, filling wine cups, and bringing sweet courses. There was pudding to choose from, and marchpane, stewed fruits, and almond cakes. Richard chose cheese and Anne selected cake. Smiling at one another, they ate in silence.
    From his royal seat beneath the canopy, Edward observed Richard. His baby brother had changed much, he thought, watching him tear into the bread and cheese he loved. His dark hair, bobbed at the ears, shone with a healthy lustre; his grey eyes were clear; and his complexion no longer dead white but lightly bronzed by sun. Tonight he was attired in bright crimson and gold, a stunning change from his favourite dull greys and wines. He could scarcely substitute this new Dickon for the sickly child he remembered two years ago, after the battle of Towton, standing on the deck of the ship that had bought him home to England from his exile in Burgundy.
    Dickon had been wearing a plain dark tunic that made him seem sadder than ever. In the dimness of dusk, with his dark hair and pallid face, he looked like a waif. “Are you going to bring back Camelot?” Dickon had asked, gazing up at him with his solemn eyes.
    “I certainly hope so,” Edward had replied.
    “Then I wish to be one of your knights of the Table Round.”
    “Indeed?” Edward had smiled. “But such a knight must have training.” He exchanged a look with Bishop Neville who had come along to greet the royal brothers, Dickon and George.
    Barely suppressing a smile, Bishop Neville said, “Sire, may my brother Warwick have the honour of training a future knight of the Table Round?”
    “I can think of no better household, fair cousin,” Edward had replied. “Dickon, go to Middleham and there learn to be a knight so you may serve your King and seek the Holy Grail when you are grown.”
    Edward came back to the present slowly, looking down the dining table at his young brother. Dickon had grown into a broad-shouldered boy with muscular arms, and about him there was a quiet strength. Edward thought of frivolous George, three years older, who seemed such a child in comparison, and wondered again how his two brothers could be so different. He frowned, as thinking of George always made him frown.
    Leaning past Warwick, he addressed himself to the Countess. “Middleham’s been good for Dickon. He looks well and seems to be mastering the accomplishments of knighthood.”
    “He practices hard, my lord. I’ve never seen a boy his age work so earnestly at his lessons.”
    “Does he relish the art of war so much then?”
    “No, my lord. He relishes peace. He says he does it for you, for to keep peace in the kingdom you will