Free B008257PJY EBOK by Sandra Worth Page B

for the advice that had saved his nephew’s life, Richard sought her counsel. “One cannot forget,” she added, “that Stanley is Henry Tudor’s stepfather.”
    “I’ve considered that. No, Anne, Stanley is too calculating a man to risk his neck for a bastard with no claim to the throne, even if he is married to the mother.”
    They had reached a bench overlooking the river near the watergate. Fatigued and out of breath, she took a seat. Richard hadn’t dispelled her fears and the dark thoughts kept coming. “Nor do I trust Henry Percy, whom you’ve made Great Chamberlain.”
    Richard took her hand into his and smiled at her with twinkling eyes. “That, my dear lady, is because you are a Neville.”
    “Aye…” she sighed, unable to return his smile, “I am… and would feel safer if a Neville were still Earl of Northumberland, my love.”
    Richard looked down at the curve of the trusting cheek that now rested against his fur-clad shoulder, and the lightness he had enjoyed a moment before evaporated. Anne’s uncle, John Neville, had always been true to York, and for his loyal service Edward had rewarded him with the earldom of Northumberland which had belonged to the traitorous Percys. After John’s brother Warwick raised a rebellion against Edward and joined with the Lancastrian cause, Edward had stripped John of his title and returned it to Percy, though John had remained faithful to York and had fought for Edward against his own brothers. Eight months later, humiliated, broken-hearted, and nearly penniless, John had joined his brother’s rebellion and died at Barnet.
    Richard shifted his gaze to the river, which had turned deep blue in the twilight. The colour of John’s eyes. “My lady… I know,” he said roughly beneath his breath. Lifting an arm, he drew her tight against him, and they sat silently by the water’s edge, watching the quiet Thames flow past.
     
    ~ * ~

Chapter 9
    “And still she looked, and still the terror grew,
    Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court.”
     
    Christmas of 1483 was a happy affair at Windsor, a celebration of Richard’s accession to the throne and his victory in crushing a rebellion without bloodshed. The castle was decorated with evergreens, strewn with dried rose petals and violets, and lit by hundreds of torches and yule candles. Snow fell softly outside, while inside the castle minstrels played in the gallery, fires crackled in the hearths, and the aroma of spiced apples and roasted chestnuts wafted through the merry halls crowded with laughing guests.
    But as Richard sat on his throne watching the mummery, his heart was not as light as he would have wished. Brittany and Tudor preyed on his mind. A wool fleet bound for Calais had been forced to return to England to avoid capture by Brittany, and Tudor still haunted his nightmares. As soon as the Christmas festivities ended he would have to force Duke Francis to make peace—and hand over that Lancastrian remnant. Maybe all he needed was to give his admiral, that fierce old sea-dog and master of naval warfare, Howard, enough money to launch a serious campaign. Surely he would make Duke Francis see reason…
    The thought might have banished his care had it not been for a certain emptiness. Ned was not with them. He was ill again and they dared not bring him to foul London, so full of pestilence and plague. Needing to reassure Anne, whom he knew pined for her child, he leaned close and took her hand. “We would have kept Christmas at Middleham had affairs not been so pressing, my love. But I must take care not to appear too much a Northerner to the South… Next year, God willing, we can hold our Christmas there.”
    “Oh, Richard, I know it’s no one’s fault. It’s just such a concern when Ned is ill.”
    “Now, my little bird, remember—”
    Anne turned her large eyes on him. With a faint smile, she recited dutifully, “‘Richard liveth yet.’”
    Richard thumbed his own broad chest.