He lowered his eyes to the vellum again and read on. You may know that Antoine, the bastard son of Duke Philip, will come to London next month to take up the queen’s Flower of Souvenance challenge made to him by our English Anthony—Woodville that is. Richard had heard that the queen had revived the ancient tradition of asking a knight to carry out a deed of chivalry in her honor. Anthony had taken up the challenge, his namesake in Burgundy was to meet him in London for a joust. Richard did not have much patience with jousting, thinking his burgeoning skills as a soldier should only be exercised in real combat. “One should not use them to pretend to fight,” he once told Rob, who had once again rolled his eyes at his sanctimonious friend.

Margaret’s next statement surprised Richard as he well remembered her bemoaning that women had to marry where they were told. Ned has not yet agreed to my marriage and, I am astonished to tell you, he says he will wait for my response before signing anything. It sounds kinder than it is in truth, for, as I write, French emissaries are in London to negotiate with Edward through Warwick to see if there is a better match to be made for me. Dear God, I feel like a ball being kicked around Europe until I score a suitable alliance. I want to ask you, dear Richard, if you remember Count Charles during your time in Bruges. Is he a pleasant man? Richard cast his mind back to those months of exile in 1461 with George at Lord Gruthuyse’s house, but it was only the bastard Antoine he remembered. Tall and proud, the duke’s favorite son was far closer to his father’s heart—and side—than the younger, legitimate, French-favoring Charles. He also knew, having been privy to yet another diatribe from Warwick the previous autumn about Edward’s failed foreign policy, that Warwick had loathed Charles on sight. Probably not what Margaret wanted to hear, Richard decided. All I know of him is that he dislikes his father, Meg wrote on, likes soldiering a little too much, and that he has a ten-year-old daughter, Mary. She has even been dangled in front of Edward for George, who stormed off in a fury when he heard.

Richard chuckled. “Poor Georgie,” he said out loud. “Serves him right.” He doubted George would be satisfied being consort to a girl—nay, a baby—who would have to wait for her grandfather and father to die before he might attain title to Burgundy. “Poor Georgie,” he repeated, with an unkind smirk.

He had not noticed Traveller’s low-throated growl until a voice behind him said sweetly: “Why ‘poor Georgie,’ may I ask,” and when Anne Neville revealed herself, the wolfhound stopped growling, thumped his tail, and raised his big head to welcome her.