Richard found his tongue and launched a barrage of questions. “Who is she? When did this happen? What did my mother say? Was he not intended for a princess of France—a match you had arranged, my lord? Is it not she?”

Warwick gave a short bark of laughter and endeavored to calm himself. “If I shouted just now, forgive me, Richard. I can see by your face and your stream of questions that you are as much in the dark as I was.” Richard breathed more easily, but the lull did not last long before Warwick was railing at Edward again. “I put him on the throne; I brought the northern lords to him; it was my brother who turned the Lancastrians away once and for all; and I am the only one Louis of France will listen to.” Warwick had no qualms about sounding his own trumpet, truly believing every word he said. Richard would later learn how inflated Warwick’s truths were. The man was quite convinced he was the kingmaker that the common people had dubbed him. In truth, he was the most powerful noble in the kingdom and Richard’s patron, and the impressionable youth was young enough to believe him.

The small door in the panelling beside the fireplace opened and the worried countess hurried in. “My lord, I regret I was not below to greet you. I was with the pantler,” she said, going straight to her husband, who formally kissed her hand. “I heard angry voices and came as quickly as I could. Is all not in order?” Becoming aware of Richard’s presence, she gave him reverence, but noticing the up-turned chair and broken glass, she gasped, “Who did this? What has happened, my lord? Were you not at Reading with the king?”

“Never fear, my dear,” Warwick assured her, swiftly righting the chair, “all was readied for me here. It was my temper, ’twas all. I brought it with me, and it got the better of me. I apologize if I have upset you. And aye, I left Reading two days ago. God help me, I had to leave or I might have embarrassed myself.” Seeing his wife’s confusion, he patted the chair. “Why don’t you take a seat. You might as well hear the story from the start along with Richard.”

“Story? What story?”

Thus, as the steward stooped lower than his station to pick up the broken shards of glass, Warwick began to pace before the fireplace, stirring up the dust from the rushes so the particles danced in the sun’s rays.

“The king, my cousin, the lecherous young fool, has succumbed to temptation one time too many, this time to dangerous effect. What is it they say: when the prick goes hard, the brain goes soft? Forgive me, Anne, my dear,” and he held up his hand to ward off an admonishment. “It appears Edward’s lustful eye fell upon a widow of no import standing prettily with her two little sons beneath an oak at her home in Grafton Regis.”