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  “A tincture of bitter aloe, black poppy juice, and bethony, Sire. Good for bleeding and cough, and to ease pain and procure sleep.” Richard slid his arm behind Anne’s shoulders and supported her while he tilted the cup to her lips. She was so weak, she could barely swallow. Much of the foul liquid slid out from between her teeth and dribbled down the side of her mouth. She pushed the cup away, seized by another coughing spell. He handed it to the monk and gently wiped her mouth. Anne laid her head against his shoulder. “Is it bad today, my love?” he asked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth leave. The servants followed and the Countess, the last to go, shut the oak door behind her, leaving them alone.

  “Not now… when you’re here, Richard,” breathed Anne. “I always feel better when you’re here, my love.” He sat down on the bed, stretched out beside her. He tightened his hold of her. The doctors be damned, he thought. He took Anne’s small white hand into his own and rested his cheek against her brow.

  Anne said haltingly, “How goes it, Richard… with Tudor, I mean?”

  Richard tensed. “No news.”

  “But there is trouble… isn’t there?” Anne insisted.

  His gaze went to the window. The rippling blue Thames flowed past, dotted with colourful barges and masted ships. It was by sea that Tudor would come. All he needed was a fair wind. “There’s always trouble in the realm, but nothing that need worry your sweet head.” He kissed the top of her brow and stroked her hair.

  “Richard, it worries me… far more… when you… keep things from me.”

  “Truly, ’tis nothing, little bird…” His eye rested on John’s old hound, Roland, asleep in the corner, “merely the memories, which seem weightier today. Maybe because it’ll soon be spring.” Spring. He bit at his lip. Once there had been joy in the spring. No use looking back. In last year’s nest there are no eggs. John smiled down at him against the backdrop of a vast sky, the wind whipping his hair. He blinked. “I find myself thinking of your uncle John a great deal lately,” he managed over the tightness in his throat. Looking back was dangerous, he reminded himself. He mustn’t look back. He couldn’t go forward if he looked back.

  “Aye, Richard,” Anne said, hardly able to lift her voice above a whisper. “His was a tender heart, for all that he was a soldier… He fixed my wood doll once… though he lay in bed, wounded in the shoulder by an arrow…” Her voice trailed away.

  The laughter of children playing in the court below filled the silence. Aye, Richard thought with aching grief, they’d managed to lose the past in that sun-drenched place they’d shared with Ned. Then they’d moved—barely, slightly, imperceptibly—and the past had found them again.

  Church bells tolled in the Abbey and were echoed down river and across town. He winced. They had been tolling with increasing frequency since Christmas, for Anne. His hand dug into her shoulder.

  “I know, Richard…” Anne breathed. “If only we could erase the past… start over, rewrite it ourselves, as we would have it be… Then all would be joy, not sorrow.”

  “But it wasn’t all sorrow, Anne,” Richard replied with surprise. “Not after I met you. You changed everything.” Scattering caution to the winds, he did what he had vowed never to do and spoke the words he had always turned away. “I remember when— I remember when I rode into Middleham for the first time and saw you and heard your voice… You have a beautiful voice, you know—Flower-eyes.” He had purposely used his pet name of happier times to comfort her, unaware that his own mouth had curved at its mention.

  “Just so you looked at me that day I showed you the injured little owl,” she smiled.

  “I remember as if it were yesterday. I think that’s when I fell in love with you, but I didn’t know it, of course. I was too young. Only nine.”

  “Two years older than me when I fell in love with you.”

  “All this time, you never told me when that was.”

  She placed her cheek against his and gazed out the window. “When I first saw you practising with your battle axe alone in the rain.” She paused for breath. “You were so determined—not like the other student-knights, playing marbles and sharing jokes by the hearth… I often stole out after that, just to watch you—and caught many a cold and was scolded for it.”

  Richard smiled. “I remember when…” he said again, and suddenly the stone walls of the chamber melted, the years rolled away, and they were laughing together, sheltering in the hollow of their chestnut tree, holding court in their childhood realm of Avalon while rain fell in torrents around them. He tightened his hold of her hand and she joined her memories to his, and in her voice and her laugh echoed the melodies of old songs they had sung together. He could smell the sweetness of fresh-cut grass, hear the wind tear through the towering forests of the North, see birds wheel with dizzy freedom across the autumn sky. The music rose in volume and all at once they were dancing in the castle halls, and hounds were yelping as they ran across the moors and back to a castle filled with the smell of almond-cakes and sweet cinnamon wine at Yuletide. Those they had loved returned to greet them, smiling as though they’d not been dead all these years: John with his dimples and deep blue eyes calm as the sea at twilight, praising him in the tiltyard; Warwick, smiling down from a fine height; Desmond, Edward, George…

  Ned.

  Richard swallowed on the constriction in his throat and the light went out of his eyes.

  “What is it, my love?”

  He bit his lip and disengaged his arm. He moved to the window, stood with his back to her. “If only Ned—”

  A long silence fell, broken only by the song of the birds.

  Anne stared at his back. “Aye…” she whispered, “these are the things we would change… if we could.” A vast weariness came over her. She leaned back, closed her eyes.

  Richard left Anne asleep and tiptoed from the room. Heads turned in the antechamber. The Countess half-rose from her seat. He raised a finger to his lips and she nodded, sank back down. He slipped out into the passageway and was about to take the stairs down to the inner court when he halted. Elizabeth sat in a window seat in a small alcove off the private chapel, engrossed in a book. He went to her.

  “Elizabeth—”

  She jumped up with a gasp and her book fell to the floor. She made no effort to retrieve it.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I meant only to thank you for what you’ve done for my lady queen,” he said awkwardly, feeling strangely at a loss.

  Elizabeth blushed. “I wish I could do more, Sire.” Her blue eyes filled with tears. She dropped her gaze. “I have prayed but—”

  Dimly he noted that she didn’t call him uncle. But then, why should she? He had never treated her as a niece, or thought of her as blood. A Woodville, that’s all she’d ever been to him. He stood stiffly, unable, or unwilling, to leave. He realised now that he’d never really looked at her before, never really spoken to her or listened to her, or even seen her. Not as a person. A woman. Anne was right. She was beautiful. And she reminded him so much of Anne. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The happy, lost past suddenly seemed very near.

  Elizabeth lifted her eyes. They were Edward’s eyes, blue as the summer sky.

  She said, “You were dear to my father’s heart.”

  “And he to mine.” His pulse quickened. What was happening? This made no sense.

  Elizabeth cried out, “If we both loved him, how can we hate one another?”

  “I—” Richard tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come. It pained him to think she hated him, but he couldn’t deny that his loathing of her mother had coloured his perception of her. He pulled his gaze away with effort.

  Outside, river birds mewed, bargemen shouted, and a young couple laughed in the court below. Richard was assailed by a terrible sense of loneliness. He brought his eyes back to Elizabeth. She was flushed, her trembling lashes were lowered. “By your leave, Your Grace,” she said. “I will see if the Queen needs me.”

  “She is aslee
p,” Richard said. He felt inadequate, and utterly miserable, and sick with yearning for he knew not what.

  Elizabeth stood twisting her slender hands together. “Then I shall see if the Countess needs me.”

  He hesitated. He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to be alone; feared it suddenly more than anything else in the world. But he knew she should go. He gave a terse nod. Elizabeth almost broke into a run. She brushed past him with a rustle and he caught the whisper of a fragrance. Lavender. Anne’s fragrance. He looked down at the book that Elizabeth had dropped. He bent down, picked it up. Tristan and Iseult. His book; it bore his signature and motto on the flyleaf, Loyaulte me Lie… Richard of Gloucester. The marker was still in place. He opened the worn leather volume, moved to the window, and read.

  Gone was Iseult’s hatred, no longer might there be strife between them, for Love, the great reconciler, had purified their hearts from all ill will, and so united them that each was as clear as a mirror to the other. But one heart had they—her grief was his sadness, his sadness her grief. Both were one in love and sorrow, and yet both would hide it in shame and doubt…. Heart and eyes strove with each other; Love drew her heart towards him, and shame drove her eyes away.

  He lifted his gaze and stared in the direction in which she had disappeared. Sinking into the seat she had left, he gripped the book in his hand and read on.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 21

  “But hither I shall never come again

  Never lie by thy side, see thee no more—

  Farewell!”

  That night, alone in his bedchamber, Richard sat in a window seat, making no effort to sleep. By the light of the flickering candles, he read Tristan and Iseult. When he was done, he closed the leather-bound covers and wrenched the window open. The pale blue glow of moonlight reflected off the snow in the cold night. A few frosty stars twinkled in the sky. He could smell the dampness of the river and hear the water lapping below. He took a deep breath. He didn’t know why Elizabeth had intruded into his thoughts. She meant nothing to him. He loved Anne. Elizabeth was his niece—and a Woodville. He had always hated Woodvilles.

  He glanced down at the book in his hand.

  No, he cared nothing for Elizabeth, but around her swirled memories. In her eyes he saw a river’s edge and a girl with fair hair clinging to him beneath a starry sky. In her hair and the lift of her mouth, he saw a golden laughing god clattering into a cobbled court to embrace a small, fearful brother. He had noticed Elizabeth because Anne had forced him to notice her; and now, each time he looked at her, he saw Anne and remembered the sweetness of love; saw Edward, and remembered the warmth of brotherly affection.

  He laid the book aside and stirred from the window. Soon another day would dawn, and there was much business to attend on the morrow. In his mind, he heard Anne urge him to bed, as she used to do.

  ~ * ~

  In scarlet and gold, partly to disguise his low spirits, partly to raise them, Richard strolled with Elizabeth in the wintry gardens. Together they crossed the palace cloisters and passed the snowy central garth where a group of fur-clad nobles and ladies amused themselves tossing a gilded leather ball. Their laughter was subdued and their sober dress reflected respect for Anne’s condition, but still Richard was irked. The old cry of his childhood would not be crushed: It isn’t fair! Time was a friend to these strangers, bringing them pleasure, and it was an enemy to him, conquering Anne and taking away a piece of her each day. Already it was February. Without a miracle, how much longer could she survive?

  He stole a glance at Elizabeth. They had been walking along in silence for some time now and he knew he should say something, but he didn’t know what. He was assailed by a tumble of confused thoughts and yearnings, swept with loneliness and despair, and there were no words to convey to her what it meant to have her company for this short while.

  “’Tis a fine morning, my lord,” Elizabeth said, a blush creeping into her cheeks as she hastily dropped her gaze. “The sky has never been more blue.”

  “It will soon be spring,” Richard replied, the terrible ache in his heart growing with each step they took. She was dressed sedately enough in green and wore no jewellery besides the silver clasp of her cloak and gilt circlet over her hair, which was pulled back at the nape. Yet the contrast of her robes with the shining gold of her hair only heightened the beauty that reminded him of Anne. He cast a look behind him, to the high window in the white-stone palace where Anne lay ill.

  “I saw the first jonquil this morning; it broke through the snow,” Elizabeth said softly, catching his glance. “I picked it for the Queen. The joy on her face was—” her voice cracked and she fell silent.

  Richard nodded, his throat too constricted to speak.

  They took the path down to the river, continued to walk along in awkward silence, past strolling clerics and knights with their ladies, and others seated on benches amongst the hedges. Ahead, the great fountain splashed noisily. Swathed in furs, several young damsels sat on a carpet spread around its smooth stone rim, their admirers grouped at their feet, one strumming a lyre, another playing a flute. A love song floated on the wind. Richard was aware of the eyes that followed them, and he read their thoughts. As always, they didn’t understand, assumed the worst. The curse of God be on the fools! What did they know?

  “It seems a long winter this year,” Elizabeth offered. “I shall be glad enough of spring.”

  Richard cast about for an answer, but all he could find was, “Aye.” Her closeness was comfort, so why this confusion? He knew he should leave, yet he was unable to tear himself away from her side. With Elizabeth time didn’t seem such an enemy, but with Anne each moment was wracked with suffering as she groaned with leg cramps, fought for breath, and struggled to spit up the bloody flux from her lungs—while he watched helplessly. He was King, and he was helpless. The shadow of Anne’s loss drew nearer around him, darkening the world like an eclipse.

  A group of courtiers bowed. He acknowledged them with a taut nod.

  “I hear Lady Scrope had another girl,” Elizabeth said. “That makes three daughters.”

  He felt a rush of guilt. She’d been making effort at conversation, he none. He longed to sweep away the prattle, to tell Elizabeth of his love for Anne—of his regrets for her own losses; losses for which he bore responsibility—

  “Aye, three,” he said. “I shall have to consider what gift to send.” He bit at his lip and clasped his hands behind him as they strolled in silence once more. Gratefully, he thought of a question, “You know her well; do you have a suggestion?”

  She threw him a shy glance and blushed again. “Perhaps some cloth of gold—” Shrieks of delight interrupted her and she looked towards the Thames where a group of children played with a dog on the riverbank. “Or a hound,” she said with a wan smile. “My father, God assoil his soul, gave me a shaggy hound on my sixth birthday, and she brought me much joy.”

  Richard winced. For some reason, Edward’s memory pained him this day.

  “I shall send her cloth of gold,” he said more curtly than he intended.

  Elizabeth looked at him sharply. Their gaze met and locked. His heart jolted in his breast and his whole being filled with waiting. A line from Tristan and Iseult came to him: Each knew the mind of the other, yet was their speech of other things. He tore his eyes from hers. God’s Blood, this is Edward’s daughter—my own niece! He said, “My lady, I must leave you now. The Queen has need of me.”

  Elizabeth fell into a deep curtsy.

  He was half way down the snowy path when she arose. Swept with a wretchedness of mind she’d not known before, she watched him, his bleak, solitary figure. For some inexplicable reason, all she could think was that her father had loved him, too. Without warning, tears started in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Today was her nineteenth birthday, and she couldn’t help remembering.

  ~ * ~

  February gave way to bitter March. Wednesday, the sixteenth, daw
ned cold, but sunny. After Compline, Richard stole a few moments from his council chamber to go to the chapel. He had barely begun his prayers at the altar when he heard a commotion in the nave, the sound of footsteps on the stone floor, the clink of metal, the rustle of garments. He tensed, jerked around.

  “Sire, the Queen—” Ratcliffe broke off. The Archbishop of York was with him.

  Richard’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Archbishop Rotherham. He gripped the wooden transept fiercely with both hands.

  “No, my lord,” the Archbishop said. “She is still with us, but failing fast.”

  Richard shut his eyes on a breath, nodded thickly. They withdrew. He turned back to the altar. Pressing his palms together, he lifted his moist eyes to the crimson and gold image of the suffering Christ.

  O God, help me! Show me the mercy we don’t find on earth, he prayed in his despair. The candles flickered unsteadily. His vision blurred and he could barely make out the cross. He blinked, but he still couldn’t see. Had God hidden His face from him? With a choked gasp, he flung himself from the altar.

  Sounds of chanting came to him as he neared Anne’s room. At the threshold of her chamber, his legs failed him. He grabbed the pillar for support. The stone felt cold and dank to his touch. He pushed himself forward, stepped through the open door. At the far end of the room, their dark cowled figures barely visible in the shadows, four Benedictine monks were singing the prayers he had found so soothing when he had heard them in the abbey churches. Now they sharpened his panic. He turned his gaze on Anne.

  The silver curtains were tied back. She lay stretched out on the great bed, eyes closed, a pale, diminished, almost lifeless figure in white. Candles burned around her and a large silver crucifix hung on the dark silk-draped wall over the bed, glittering with menace in the flickering light. Once another crucifix had glittered so. In the Tower, the night Henry had died. Richard blinked to banish the memory. Was that the sin for which he was being punished now? He had tried to atone by transferring Henry’s body from shabby Chertsey Abbey, where Edward had buried him, to the splendid Chapel of St. George at Windsor. But like everything else he had done in his life, it hadn’t been enough.