…Piers Mitchell explained the scoliosis. He had measured the remains…the curvature could have been as much as 80 degrees in life. …It was idiopathic scoliosis, that is, of no known cause: he hadn’t been born with the condition. …It was most likely progressive and may have led to a shortness of breath, due to increased pressure on the lungs. …The curve was a “C” shape in the upper torso, and would have made the right shoulder appear higher than the left…the right clavicle was a different size and shape, much bigger than the left.

—Philippa Langley, The King’s Grave

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Summer 1468–Spring 1469

London had never looked so festive as it did on the day its citizens bade a bittersweet farewell to one of England’s most precious assets: the king’s youngest sister, Margaret. The cheering throngs were sending the twenty-two-year-old princess on her dutiful journey to Bruges as bride of the powerful duke of Burgundy. It was said to have been one of the greatest matches of the century, and it may have been that Londoners understood its significance even then. Whatever the alliance may have been deemed later, Edward appeared mightily pleased with it then.

Richard slapped a bluebottle off his soft kid glove as a plague of them continued to worry his horse. The animal’s tail swished them from its rump and its shaking head kept Richard busy with the reins. It was unbearably hot that June day, not a cloud in the sky, and the scent of so many garlands and strewn blossoms, mingling sickly sweet with the masses of sweating bodies, horse droppings, and general London filth, was overwhelming. He saw one old woman swoon onto the dirt and called to an escorting guard to fetch water for her.

He was riding side by side with George, and although both regally robed in royal purple doublets with white slashed sleeves, Richard knew most eyes were on his handsome, garrulous brother, who flung coins into the crowd and bent to accept nosegays from giggling maids. Richard sat his horse quietly, hoping the tailor had adequately padded his jacket so his uneven shape would not show. They did not know him here in London, and most stared at him curiously. He knew he should wave, but his horse was skittish, and he kept his eyes on Warwick, who, astride an enormous black courser, was leading the procession with Margaret riding pillion, her scarlet cloth-of-gold gown draped artfully over the horse’s back and tail. Somehow from the February fracas to this auspicious occasion, Warwick and Edward had darned the hole in their former friendship, and Warwick had agreed to be Margaret’s escort. Richard was much relieved; perhaps now he could resume relations with the earl.