The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny by Sandra Worth Page A

trying to procure the King’s death by sorcery.”
    “He was innocent, too,” Anne whispered. “The Woodvilles.”
    “Aye, the Woodvilles drove Edward to it… They’ve been plotting George’s downfall for a long time, and with George’s own help they’re succeeding.”
    She closed her eyes on a breath. Why wouldn’t the past stay buried? Like an ugly tune that ended and returned to the beginning to start over, the past kept repeating itself. “You had a messenger today,” she said, her voice a bare whisper. Last year they had returned from the joyful Corpus Christi celebrations in York to a waiting messenger and the news that her uncle was dying. Yesterday they had attended those same ceremonies. In the outpouring of love and merriment around her, she’d managed to forget her sorrows for a few hours, but from the moment she’d espied the Sun in Splendour emblem of the royal messenger, she had felt unsettled. She’d persuaded herself that it was only fatigue. After all, they had celebrated for two full days and walked through the streets for hours. Now she had to face the truth. That emblem had always meant trouble. For her father, and for Richard.
    Richard nodded grimly. “That’s when I realised I could no longer keep all this from you. The messenger bore evil tidings, Anne.” His jaw clenched. When he spoke again, his voice was thick, unsteady. “George has been charged with treason and taken to the Tower.”
    ~*^*~

Chapter 7
    “O brother… woe is me!”
     
     
    Richard’s pleas to Edward to pardon George were singularly unsuccessful. Though his mother journeyed from her castle at Berkhampsted to add her voice to his, Edward remained curiously impervious to their entreaties. Richard was unable to comprehend his intransigence. Edward yielded neither to logic nor brotherly love, not even to their mother’s anger and condemnation. As he strode with Edward through the cloisters of Westminster Abbey on an overcast September morning before he departed for Middleham, Richard pressed his brother one last time. An unseasonably cold wind blew their cloaks about their legs and the silent arches threw long dark shadows across the stone walk. Richard shivered from the cold, but as much from the unease that held him in its grip.
    “You’ve always pardoned George’s treasons; what is different this time?”
    “The prophecy,” said Edward. “That ‘G’ will rule after me. It will not happen, by God!”
    “Once there was another prophecy. It said your sons would never rule and your daughter Elizabeth would be Queen in their stead. Have you forgotten? That also troubled you. They cannot both be true.”
    “Nevertheless, I am decided.”
    “God’s curse, Edward!” Richard blurted, halting in his steps. “What has come over you? Have you gone mad? We’re talking about our brother .”
    “A brother who’s spent his life wronging us. Why do you persist in your pleas? Of us both, you have more cause to hate him than even I.”
    “Whatever his sins, he’s our brother. You can’t live with his blood on your hands. I beseech you, for the love you bear me, forgive him.” He looked up desperately into Edward’s resistant face. A muscle quivered at Edward’s jaw and his mouth was clamped so tightly shut, it resembled a blade. The strain of the past months had taken a harsh toll. Richard thought of a lyre and a string pulled so taut that it would surely break. He drew a sharp inward breath. “Something is different this time… ’Tis not the prophecy that impels you, is it?”
    Silence.
    A gust of wind shrieked along the cloister, tore at their mantles, and was gone. All was still again except for the cawing of ravens. Richard stood transfixed, unable to drag his gaze from Edward’s face. It was as if Edward were aging before his eyes, as if the mask that hid the true set of his features was now melting away. He was shrinking, his face growing more pinched and haggard as, line by line, pain etched