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  She had begun a liaison with St. Leger when her Lancastrian husband, the Duke of Exeter, fled to France after the Battle of Towton that put Edward on the throne. Exeter, who had commanded Warwick’s left wing at Barnet, was captured at Tewkesbury, sent to the Tower, and released years later, in time to accompany Edward on his invasion of France. At some point along the sea journey, he had disappeared. Foul play was rumoured. With her husband dead, Nan had married St. Leger on his return to England.

  Richard found the whole business distasteful. But then, he’d never been close to his haughty oldest sister, and she had always kept aloof from him. He remembered how his beloved sister Meg had assured him, when he was small, that Nan was distant with everyone, but he’d had his doubts, even then. He knew exactly how he felt about St. Leger’s treason, however. His sister’s husband had hatefully, shamefully, betrayed the family ties and defiled the bond of kinship. He deserved to die. Richard immediately ordered his execution.

  Within hours he was besieged by his sister’s messengers offering large sums of money for his release. He refused. The next day she arrived in person to beg for his life. She had requested a private audience and Richard received her in a small chamber at the Bishop’s palace in Exeter, with only Gower present,

  “As he chose to become an agent of the Woodvilles, I see no reason to spare his life,” said Richard.

  “I love him!” she cried. “Do you know what love is?”

  Richard stared at her. Now he admitted to himself what loyalty had suppressed all these years: He didn’t care much for this woman, sister though she was. Age had heightened her stern demeanour by slashing deep grooves into her cheeks and pulling down the edges of her mouth. Nor did her dress soften her harshness. She had clad herself in a riding habit of brown and green and hidden her hair beneath a matronly wimple. Indeed, it surprised him that such a woman had ever found love. Clearly, she thought the same of him. Now he knew she’d never given a care to his predicament during the troubles with Warwick. He’d been seventeen, forced to choose between his brother and the girl he’d loved, and she had not spared him a thought in his misery.

  Yet in spite of everything—in spite of her disregard for him, and though treachery was the most heinous crime a man could commit—he could still have forgiven St. Leger, if St. Leger had had his excuse. What made his treason more heinous was that he was kin, without cause to turn against him. Like Buckingham—

  “Never did I wrong St. Leger! Never did I deny him favour. Always he was welcome and honoured in my court. He chose to be a traitor, and for no good cause—certainly no cause that I ever gave him. Such a man does not deserve to live!”

  For a bare instant his sister said nothing, didn’t even move. Then she lunged at him, screaming and pounding wildly against his breast. He seized her wrists in an iron grip and turned her over to Gower. Adjusting his velvet cap with the boar badge and straightening his doublet, he strode past her. In a voice low with disgust, he said, “Where is your dignity, sister?”

  “Where is your heart?” she shrieked. Shaking Gower off, she ran after him. “I’ll not call you ‘brother’—you boar, you beast—you vile murderer of innocent babes! May God destroy you for what you’ve done—Usurper!”

  Richard froze in his steps. Though he kept himself under rigid control, inwardly he felt as if a stake had been driven through his heart. It was not her curse that affected him as much as her words, which had scratched the secret core deep within his soul where he had buried the doubts, guilts, and fears of a lifetime. He clenched his fists and fled the chamber.

  ~ * ~

  In late November Richard returned the Great Seal to Chancellor Russell in the Star Chamber at Westminster. The business of the rebellion was concluded; rebels punished, loyalty rewarded. Richard dealt with the rebels with a light hand, executing only ten men and offering pardons to most of the leaders of the conspiracy, including Morton and Dorset. Even Sir John Fogge, who had repaid Richard’s kindness with treason, was pardoned and promised restoration to his estates. With Stanley’s wife, Margaret Beaufort, the prime mover of the rebellion, he was exceptionally lenient. Though she was stripped of her titles, he gave them to her husband to enjoy. As for Stanley, Richard rewarded him so lavishly that he raised eyebrows even among those who knew him well.

  “Is it wise, my lord?” asked Anne who came down to Westminster to be with him. Swathed in furs against the cold winter wind, they strolled along the garden walk to the river in the fading twilight. “Twice you’ve not only forgiven the Stanleys their treasons, but have granted them more power.” She spoke softly, taking care to fall silent when others passed. “Stanley’s brother, Sir William, is Chief Justice of North Wales, and Stanley himself is Constable of England, as Buckingham was. Everyone knows he’s a man of uncertain loyalty, this ‘Wily Fox.’ You’ve placed him in a position to do you great harm if he chooses.”

  Richard looked at her delicate face, at the lovely violet eyes wide with concern for him. It was a joy to see her again after so long, but it troubled him that she had been ill with more frequency than usual this winter and had not regained the weight she’d lost the year before. He felt a stab of guilt; the disruption of their happy life at Middleham, the trauma of events and the enforced separation from their beloved Ned was to blame. If he hadn’t taken the Crown—

  He banished the thought. He’d had no choice. “I must keep Stanley’s support. The only way to do so is to load him with wealth and titles so that he has too much to lose by supporting Tudor.”

  “That didn’t work for Buckingham.” Anne saw Richard flinch and instantly regretted her words. Yet they needed to be said. She spoke frankly nowadays. Grateful 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 i
n 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. “Aye. This is the sickly babe who was expected to die. And so it will be for Ned.”

  He looked suddenly boyish with his cleft chin, a smile on his lips, and a happy look in his clear, grey eyes. “Did I ever tell you that I love you?” Anne whispered.

  “Not lately. As I recall, I had a rebellion to quell, and you had embroidery to finish.”

  “Indeed, my lord. There’s little time for embroidery these days,” she said, feigning offence. “I start the day with the chamberlain and steward of the castle going over finances, crops, and animals. I arbitrate quarrels between servants, answer letters from supplicants, visit the sick, entertain your lords and otherwise run your estates in your absence. For two hours in the afternoon I see petitioners. Only after Vespers do I enjoy the luxury of needlework and Ned’s company.”

  “It has been a burdensome pace for us both, my love,” Richard admitted, his bantering tone gone. “We must snatch our small joys when we can, for time passes all too quickly.”

  The performance was over. They lifted their hands to clap and Anne’s gaze passed over their guests. There was Margaret, jolly old John Howard’s second wife, of whom she was very fond. With her was Howard’s only son, Thomas, Earl of Surrey, who had miraculously survived his wounds at Barnet. He is a fine young man, much like his father, she thought. Her eyes sought Howard. The genial white-haired baron was threading his way through the throng, back to his wife’s side. He pecked her lightly on the cheek and laughed.

  Anne’s eyes softened. She hoped that she and Richard would grow old together. Nearly sixty Howard was, but with a heart as merry as any twenty-year-old. As usual, he was not dressed soberly as became his years, but in a bright strawberry gown edged in miniver. Her eyes touched on his rotund stomach. She couldn’t suppress a smile. No doubt the Colchester oysters he loved so well had much to do with his girth. He was devouring them now with evident relish while a page waited with a half-emptied platter. From experience she knew he would not stop until none were left in the castle.

  Anne was flooded with affection. Howard was much like Richard: a fond husband and father. Dutiful. Hard-working. Energetic. In battle he was brave; with ladies always chivalrous. Like Richard he was a man of exceptional abilities, and like Richard he had married Margaret for love, not for titles or connections. Both appreciated music and learning, and were generous to the poor. Wherever he travelled, Howard opened his purse to those in need, and his workmen and ships’ crews always received something extra above their wages for drink. At his own expense Howard had sent many a deserving lad to Oxford or to learn a trade. They had shared much together, many happy hours, their two tiny families.

  She withdrew her gaze and looked around the room.

  Richard’s nephew Jack was dancing the pavane with one of the Bourchier girls while his three young brothers watched and his mother, Liza, bounced her youngest on her knee. Rob and Francis stood together laughing about something with their new friend, Humphrey Stafford, who had fought for Richard against his cousin Buckingham. Stafford was another genial young man, Anne thought; nothing like Buckingham. Down farther stood a group of Neville kinsmen and friends, the two Scrope cousins, Bolton and Masham, and William Conyers. With them was Richard’s squire, Gower, who had once been squire to her uncle John. Below the gallery, against the wall, Richard Ratcliffe and his lovely wife were gazing into one another’s eyes and laughing as they drank from a single wine cup. A smile softened Anne’s lips.

  Her gaze moved along several of Richard’s Knights of the Body, and touched on Richard’s trusted retainer, the gallant Sir Richard Clarendon, whose tall shining head attracted many a sidelong glance from the ladies. At the back of the great hall, past the line of dancers, she saw the Stanleys. She stiffened.

  Margaret Beaufort, her husband, and their henchman Reginald Bray stood apart by a traceried window, observing the dancers and whispering together. Bray had been Margaret Beaufort’s go-between in her treason with Buckingham, but Richard had pardoned him also. She watched as they all nodded at something Stanley said. Her eye moved to Stanley’s brother, Sir William, who emerged from the crowd on the far side of the hall and strode across to join them.

  How little he and Stanley resembled one another. Stanley was tall and thin; William, short and stocky. Stanley’s bushy hair was a flaming red; William’s wispy hair barely ginger. Stanley and his wife also made an odd couple. Margaret Beaufort was a tiny woman with a disproportionately long face that made her look top-heavy, almost dwarfish. He was jovial, and she was austere in manner and dress. Anne knew Richard found her fascinating. What was it he’d once said about her? That she both repelled and attracted at the same time, like a jagged rock that signals both land and danger to a sailor in a storm.

  She was indeed a striking figure in her usual black velvet and ermine gown, but hard. Her face was wolfish, sharply pointed at nose and chin, and her pale deep-set eyes held a vigilant expression. Once upon a time Margaret Beaufort had fooled her as she now fooled others, but Anne had come to know her in these troubled months. She strove to look a martyr with her wimple and pious ways, but she was too pious for true piety and her treasons spoke of a heart far too worldly. Richard kept forgiving her because virtue moved his admiration, but he was an innocent in some ways. He couldn’t believe that devotion in Margaret Beaufort might be pretence. Anne’s eye fell on a book the Beaufort woman held in her hands. She wouldn’t be surprised if it were a psalter. Blessed Mother Mary, the Devil assumes many guises, she thought, crossing herself.

  ~ * ~

  Had she known what Margaret Beaufort whispered about, Anne would have realised her anxiety had good cause. It would be two more days before Richard and Anne received the news responsible for the smile on Margaret Beaufort’s thin lips. Earlier that day, on Christmas morning in the Cathedral at Rennes, her son Henry Tudor had sworn an oath to marry King Edward’s eldest daughter, Elizabeth of York, and unite the red rose with the white.

  “It was Morton’s idea,” said Margaret Beaufort in a low voice as she stood watching the dancers from a distance. Her speech had a staccato ring to it, for she enunciated her words with the same precision and meticulous care she gave to everything she undertook. “And he has several more. One is very clever indeed.”

  To mislead anyone who might have overheard that remark, Lord Stanley gave a roar of laughter and called out to a dancer as she passed, “Clever devil, isn’t he? Be careful he doesn’t trip you, my dear lady!”

  Margaret Beaufort looked pointedly
at the dais and said quietly, “Ned is a sickly boy. His death would be an irretrievable disaster for the dynasty.”

  Lord Stanley blew his nose into a handkerchief. “I pray I haven’t caught my son’s cold,” he said loudly to no one in particular. “George has been sickly, you know, very sickly!”

  “Many would see such a death as divine retribution for the death of King Edward’s sons,” murmured their henchman, Reginald Bray, flashing his horse-teeth and feigning a smile designed to fool those watching.

  Margaret Beaufort’s eyes lit. “Divine retribution. What a nice touch. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Sir William Stanley joined them at that moment and Bray was unable to respond. As the two brothers exchanged remarks on the weather, Bray edged close to Margaret Beaufort. “But how?” he whispered. “He is well guarded.” A group of young people approached, laughing.

  Margaret Beaufort waited until they had passed. “The music tonight is charming, isn’t it?” she said in a conversational tone. “But that is scarcely surprising. Our noble King is a great lover of music.” She looked at Bray meaningfully. “As is the Prince of Wales,” she added pointedly. She turned to her husband. “My lord, I believe the King would find much pleasure in our minstrels. You must offer to send them to Middleham to entertain the Prince.” She met Bray’s pebble-hard black eyes, her own filled with meaning. “Our finest minstrels,” she said carefully, enunciating every syllable.

  Bray understood. A cold smile spread over his thick lips.

  Margaret Beaufort turned to her brother-by-marriage. “My lord, you seem a trifle melancholy this evening. Are the festivities not to your liking?”

  “Nay, lady, lavish they may be, but given by a babe-killer,” William Stanley muttered.

  Lord Stanley made a pretence of roaring with laughter. He slipped an arm around his brother’s shoulder. His lips fixed in a smile, he said quickly, “Guard your tongue, watch your step, and keep your head, brother.” He raised his wine cup in a mock salute.