Free The Rose of York by Sandra Worth Page B

mother, hoping her guard would drop and he’d learn who his father really was. But after the death of the Duke of York, she withdrew from the world and spent most of her day in prayer, living almost a monastic life, and Richard resigned himself never to know the truth of his birth. Instead, he sought comfort in the tales of the Round Table, for the legendary Arthur had suffered the same doubts. It was another reason why he had taken King Arthur to heart.
    “Why so sombre, little brother?” Edward demanded. “Is the wine not good? Is the bear not amusing?” He raised his rubystudded cup to his lips.
    “Tomorrow you leave,” Richard said.
    “But you’re coming with me,” Edward exclaimed with surprise.
    “Not to fight Marguerite. To observe the siege. I’m not in danger. You are.”
    Edward regarded him a moment. “More reason to laugh today, Dickon.” He drained his flagon and set it down with a resounding clang. In one agile leap, he was across the table, making a sweeping bow to the bear. Gasps of horror sounded around the room and mouths fell open. Women clutched their crucifixes; men unsheathed their daggers and leapt to their feet. The dwarf blanched, took a step forward. “But my Liege…”
    Edward waved him away. The hall fell deadly silent. Her eye caught by a jewel twinkling in Edward’s crown, the bear stared at him as if bewitched. Edward turned, picked up a bowl of custard from a table, and held it out to her. Sniffing the air, she ambled over, stuck her snout into the silver bowl and licked noisily. When she looked up, yellow custard covered her face. Slowly laughter erupted, softly at first, then rose in volume until it filled the hall. For a moment Richard forgot his worries and laughed as happily as any child.
    “Dickon laughs,” Edward announced. “My little brother laughs!” He leapt over the table and back into his seat. “Now, Dickon, ’tis your turn to perform. What shall it be? A dance? A song?” He looked around and a chorus of Aye’s swept the room. “Sing for us, Dickon!” he demanded.
    A minstrel hurried to the table with a lute. Richard’s eyes met Anne’s. Then he bent his ear to the instrument, strummed gently, and sang:
    “Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me,
    I fain would follow love, if that could be;
    I needs must follow death, who calls for me.
    Call and I follow, I follow….”
     
    So pure and melodious was his young voice that the hall remained quiet for some moments after Richard set down his lute. Then loud applause shattered the silence. Edward said, “Dickon, that was splendid—but far too sad, little brother. Play a gay ditty.”
    “I don’t know one, my lord.”
    Edward gripped his shoulder. “Then learn, Dickon. Life can’t be all grief or we couldn’t survive it.” He tousled Richard’s dark hair and rose to his feet. The hall hushed. “On the second of October, the feast of St. Thomas, His Grace the Duke of Gloucester celebrated the eleventh year of his birth, in honour of which we wish to make an announcement.” He turned to Richard. “My gracious brother, we appoint you Admiral of England, Ireland, and Aquitaine.”
    Richard blushed. Edward lifted his gold and ruby cup. “To Lord Richard of Gloucester!”
    “To Lord Richard of Gloucester!” echoed the hall.
    When he sat down, Edward leaned close and said in a low voice, “I regret I had to take back the lands I gave you in August, Dickon, but George raised such a fuss, I felt compelled to transfer them to him. This is compensation.”
    Richard nodded. Lands, titles, money didn’t mean as much to him as they meant to George, who never seemed to have enough to suit him.
    Edward smiled and shifted his large frame in his chair. His bright blue eyes swept the room. Abruptly his expression changed. He moved forward in his chair with interest, and stared as if mesmerised. Richard followed the direction of his gaze. It had caught on a golden-haired beauty at a table below. He watched