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

with mingled apprehension and admiration.
George was staring at the young knight, by now approaching the steps of the market cross. Tugging at his
mother's sleeve, he murmured, "Ma Mere? Who is he? The man who betrayed us ... Trollope?"
"No . . . my lord Somerset," she said quietly, and none could have guessed from the even matter-of-fact
tones that she had just named a man who had more reason than most to hate the House of York, a man
whose father had died the loser on a battlefield her husband had won. And with that, she moved down
the steps to meet him.
Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, was just twenty-three years of age, but to him had been entrusted
the command of the King's army. Marguerite d'Anjou, Lancaster's French-born Queen, might defy
convention by riding with her troops, but there were certain constraints even she was forced to recognize,
not the least of which was that there was no Joan of Arc in English folklore.
Somerset had not dismounted. Curbing his restive stallion with a practiced hand, he listened impatiently
as the Duchess of York made an impassioned and persuasive appeal on behalf of the villagers of Ludlow.
Cecily Neville was, at forty-four, still a strikingly handsome woman, with the lithe slimness of early youth
and direct dark grey eyes. Somerset was not altogether indifferent to the attractive image she presented,
standing alone on the market cross, flanked by her young sons. He suspected, however, that her posture
was one carefully calculated to appeal to chivalric susceptibilities. He had no liking for this proud woman
who was wife to his sworn enemy, and he noted, with gratifying if rather grim amusement, that the role of
supplicant did not come easily to her.
While he felt compelled to accord her the courtesy due her rank and sex, to let her speak for Ludlow, he
had no intention of heeding her plea. Ludlow had long been a Yorkist stronghold; a day of reckoning,
would have a salutary effect upon other towns wavering in their loyalty to Lancaster.
He interrupted to demand what he already knew. York's Duchess answered readily enough. Her
husband? He was gone from Ludlow, as was her brother, the. Earl of Salisbury and her nephew, the Earl
of
Warwick. Her sons, Edward, Earl of March, and Edmund, Earl of Rutland? Gone, too, she said coolly.
Somerset rose in his stirrups, gazing down High Street, toward the rising stone walls of the outer castle
bailey. He knew she spoke the truth; her very presence here was all the proof he needed that the
Yorkists had fled. He was remembering, moreover, that there was a bridge behind the castle, spanning
the River Teme and linking with the road leading west into Wales.
He gestured abruptly and soldiers moved onto the steps of the cross. The children shrank back and he
had the satisfaction of seeing sudden fear upon Cecily Neville's haughty handsome face. She gathered her
sons to her and demanded to know if my lord Somerset meant to take vengeance upon innocent children.
"My men are here to see to your safety, Madame." Her defiance had rankled; she was, after all, only a
woman, and York's woman at that. He saw no reason not to remind her of the realities of their respective
positions, said bluntly that he'd wager she'd be thankful for the presence of an armed guard before the
day was done.
She whitened, hearing in his words the death knell of Ludlow; knowing now that there was only one man
who could avert the coming carnage, that strange gentle soul who yearned only for peace of spirit and
was wed to the woman the Yorkists saw as Messalina.
"I wish to see His Grace the King," she said steadily. "He has no subjects more loyal than the people of
Ludlow."
Her request was impossible, but it could not be acknowledged as such. He swallowed a bitter retort,
said tersely, "It suited the King's Grace to remain at Leominster."
Cecily, however, was no longer watching Somerset. Richard, who was standing so close to her that he
was treading upon the hem of her gown, now felt her body stiffen, in a small indecisive movement,
quickly stilled. And then she was sinking down upon the steps in a curtsy, a very precise and controlled
gesture that was totally lacking in her customary grace. Richard hastily followed her example, and it was
kneeling upon the steps of the market cross that he had his first glimpse of the Lancastrian Queen.
His first impression, quite simply, was one of awe. Marguerite d'Anjou was the most beautiful woman