"Sharon K. Penman - The Sunne In Splendour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Penman Sharon K)

me to-"
The Duchess of York had been listening to her sons in disbelief, now said sharply, "I cannot credit what
I'm hearing! Did you not hear me say I had no intention of leaving Ludlow? What, pray, had you in mind,
Edward? Throwing me across your stallion as if I were a saddle blanket?"
They turned startled faces toward her, dismayed and flustered by her fury when they'd have taken their
father's more familiar wrath in stride. At that moment, suddenly looking so young to her that her anger
ebbed and a surge of protective pride caught at her heart, threaded through with fear for them. She
hesitated, searching for the right words, for that patience peculiar to the mothers of teen-age sons.
Reminding herself that they were citizens now of two countries, passing back and forth across the
unmarked borders between manhood and boyhood with such frequency that she never knew with
certainty where they'd be found at any given time.
"Your concern does you credit, Edward, does you both credit. Do you think I'm not proud that you're
willing to risk your lives for my sake, for your little brothers? But the risk would be taken for no good
cause. To spare us discomfort, you might well bring about your own deaths. Do you think I could permit
that?"
"The risk wouldn't be that great, Ma Mere," Edward began, and she shook her head, reaching up and
touching him lightly on the cheek in what was, for her, a surprisingly public gesture of affection.
"I do not agree. I think the risk would be of the greatest magnitude imaginable. And for nothing, Edward,
for nothing! We're in no danger here. Do you truly think I'd ever keep George and Richard in Ludlow if I
thought any harm might come to them?"
She saw she'd scored a telling point, saw Edward concede it with a grimace.
"No, Ma Mere, of course you would not. But-"
"And if I were truly to face danger from Lancaster, Edward, it would be no less at Wigmore. The castle
there belongs to York; it would not be hard to guess our whereabouts. No, I do mean to stay in Ludlow.
I have no fears for myself or your brothers, but I will confess to you that I do fear for the villagers. They
are our people; I should be here to speak for them."
"As you will, Ma Mere," Edward said at last. "I daresay you are right." But he was still young enough to
add, in a troubled undertone, "I do hope to God that you are."
DESERTED streets, shops tightly shuttered, market stalls empty: even Ludlow's dogs were strangely
silent. Only the lowing of cattle penned in the market bullring broke the eerie unnatural stillness that
enclosed the village as the advance guard of the Lancastrian army rode across Ludford Bridge and into
Ludlow.
They'd encountered no resistance; the Yorkist earthworks that had blocked the road to Leominster were
unmanned. Advancing up Broad Street, they passed through Broad Gate unchallenged. In unnerving
silence, they moved north, toward High Street. There they drew rein abruptly, for a woman and two
small boys were awaiting them upon the steps of the high market cross.
the Lancastrian army was surging into Ludlow. The narrow streets were jammed with jubilant soldiers.
The Swan and Rose banners of Lancaster caught the wind, fluttered aloft over the heads of the Duchess
of York and her two youngest sons.
When the mounted knight first came into view, sunlight striking with blinding brilliance upon polished plate
armor, Richard wondered if he might be King Harry. But the face half-shadowed by the upraised visor
was far too young; this man was not all that much older than his brother Ned. Richard risked a whispered
query to George, and was much impressed by the latter's boldness when George whispered back,
"You're not likely to see Harry here, Dickon. They say he's daft, not able to tell a goose from a gander in
the dark."
Richard had, from time to time, overheard puzzling and cryptic references to the King's health, said with
such sardonic significance that he comprehended, however imperfectly, that there was something "not
quite right" with the King. But the hints were so clearly not meant for his hearing, were given so guardedly
and grudgingly that he instinctively shrank back from the subject, even with Edward. He had never heard
the truth put so baldly as now, in the midst of the soldiers of that selfsame King, and he looked at George