“What are you up to, my wily wife? Think you Gloucester lusts after our beautiful Kate? The king did confide in me that he fears his brother has a dull, moral streak and has eschewed the pleasures of the flesh—if I may be so profane—and Edward could wish he would unbend somewhat.” He propped himself up on one elbow and allowed Margaret to twirl his long mustache between her fingers. He would do anything for her when she gazed up at him lovingly from the pillow. “But, come, come, my dear, Kate is wed. Should we be encouraging adultery? And they are so young!”

Margaret’s deep-throated chuckle always aroused Jack, and he reached under the covers and fondled her breast.

“Trust me, Jack, I know more than I am bound to divulge now about Kate and her so-called husband,” Margaret said on a sigh of pleasure. She pulled his face to hers and gave him a kiss full of promise. “Let us invite her and see where it takes them.”

Raucous cock-crowing awoke Richard a few dawns later to a typical East Anglian winter day. The sun had disappeared into a gray, damp mist for a week now. Even hunting was unpleasant in the snow-melted mud and leafless forest. He was in no hurry to leave his warm, downy bed.

But then he remembered: Today was the day Kate would arrive.

He sat up, flung the curtains aside, and slipping off the high bed, nestled his toes in the rich Turkey carpet. Was he ready to face Kate again? He had carried the precious few memories of her in his heart for months now. His excitement mounted as he splashed his face awake, hardly noticing the thin film of ice that had formed in the washbasin. But along with his excitement came the usual qualms of an inexperienced fifteen-year-old—and especially one whose insecurity about his body was already taking hold. Would she find him attractive? What would he say to her? Would she even like him? What would they talk about? They had very different lives. And would his crookedness be noticeable? His fingers crept back there, and he grimaced.

His servant scrambled off his pallet to tend to Richard, who insisted on scraping the meagre beard he had now managed to produce. That had been another worry, as Rob’s had come in dark red when he was only thirteen, and Richard had begun to doubt his would ever sprout. Warwick had spotted Richard feeling his chin for it one day and remarked: “’Tis only peasants who have beards before fifteen, Richard. It will grow. Just as you did. Have patience.”