Free Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors by Conn Iggulden Page A

quickly, where others dithered and discussed. It had led to errors in the past – to rash decisions made too quickly. In this case, on this day, it would mean Warwick was already on the road. Richard was certain of it.
    Warwick had been at Towton. He had killed his own horse and fought on Edward’s right hand, with the young king in all the first flush of youth and strength. Richard of Gloucester knew Warwick would not leave the north to Edward, to a king who could raise armies. No. Warwick would be coming north with all the dice thrown into the air and every man he could call, buy or borrow, to make an ending.
    Edward came unsteadily down the stairs, leaning on the banister. Richard swallowed, overwhelmed by the need to move and yet held perfectly still on that spot, by oath to the king, by loyalty to his brother.
    Even without armour, even in bagging hose and with his pale belly showing under an open coat, Edward was a huge presence, a weight in the room that was only part due to his physical size. Lowering his great head so as not to crash it into the beams, Edward seemed to fill the tavern as a bear would, so that the guard edged back from him. Without a word, he pulled up a tall three-legged stool and seated himself, swaying and blinking. Richard knew then that his brother was still wildly drunk. No doubt the room was spinning as Edward sat and breathed out sour fumes.
    ‘Fetch His Highness a bucket,’ Richard murmured to the guard. Sir Dalston looked offended at the order, but scurried off and found a cracked and ancient leather pail. He deposited it at the foot of the king as if it was frankincense or myrrh, bent right over as he edged away. Edward appeared to watch him, but his eyes were glassy.
    Richard’s temper surged. He would have slapped or shaken any other man to alertness, but his brother would not forgive such a slight, not ever. Edward was more than capable of rough horseplay with the guards or his knights, but there came a point and it never varied. The king would not allow himself to be humiliated, or dominated physically, in any way at all, no matter how slight. Richard still remembered Sir Folant de Guise, who had made the error of taking the king in a headlock when they’d been in their cups together. Edward had borne it for a single instant, then reached between the knight’s legs and practically torn his purse from his body. Richard’s lips tightened at the memory of Sir Folant’s high shriek.
    They stood in perfect silence for a time, three men in a ring facing Edward on his stool, while he swayed and looked at nothing. He had raised an arm along the polished wood of the bar and they all started when he rapped suddenly on the wood with his knuckles.
    ‘Ale, here,’ he called. ‘To clear my head.’
    ‘
More
ale?’ Richard said in exasperation. ‘Are you not concerned at the news? Of Warwick marching north? Of George with him?’ The last was a needle of spite between them, spoken in part to wake Edward from his slack-jawed state. Their brother had fallen in love with Warwick’s daughter some years before. With awe-inspiring lack of foresight, the union had been forbidden by Edward. They had married then in secret. George had been driven towards Warwick by newties of family and loyalty – and when both men had been accused of treason, they had run together, with Warwick’s daughter about to give birth.
    Richard of Gloucester watched in distaste as his brother’s demand for a drink was met by Sir Dalston, the knight edging around the bar and pulling the stopper from a cask. Sir Dalston was a burly knight who regarded the king with the same uncritical affection as did his mastiff hounds. The knight did not care how drunk Edward was or could become, only that the king had asked for ale. The king would have ale.
    Richard watched as his brother was presented with a foaming earthenware jug, dark brown and glossy. His eyes opened wide and his smile was childlike as he grasped it in scarred