All should have been well, once Edward’s great rebels—as he had taken to calling Warwick and Clarence—had sailed off from Southampton. Unfortunately, he was only given that summer of 1470 to take stock of the turmoil the rebels had left behind before the news of a possible invasion sent the country reeling once more.

Who could have guessed that, being denied entry to Calais, Warwick had managed to evade both English and Burgundian fleets to find safe haven in France in May, where his old ally, Louis the Spider, sat waiting to lure him into his scheming web.

Richard reeled in shock two months later as he listened to the envoy from France tell Edward what had transpired there in June. They were clustered in a small audience chamber at Westminster, for once the thick stone walls useful for keeping out the summer heat. Edward was glowering at the quaking messenger.

“M…my lord of Warwick has entered into an alliance with…with Queen Margaret, my liege,” the elderly diplomat said. “Warwick has pledged his support for an invasion that will place King Henry back on the throne.”

He shrank back, waiting for the explosion, and he was not disappointed. Edward slammed his hands down on the arms of his chair and almost levitated from it, shouting: “You lie, you spawn of…of! Warwick and Margaret? It is not possible. Tell me you are lying!”

The man fell to his knees, his bony fingers clutched around his hat. “I swear on my father’s grave I tell the truth, Your Grace. King Louis has promised to help the two of them, if they will support France against Burgundy and Brittany. Th…they agreed.” He suddenly smirked and added: “Queen Margaret made my lord of Warwick kneel to her for a full fifteen minutes before she would speak to him.”

Richard thought he saw Edward’s mouth twitch, but the king was too worried and angry to appreciate the image of Warwick’s humiliation at that moment. Richard’s own mind was trying to process this extraordinary news and what it meant for England and the Yorkists, when the envoy stammered: “Th…that is not all, if it p…please you, my lords.”

Will Hastings growled: “Out with it, man. What else, pray?”

“The earl agreed to and has betrothed his younger daughter to Henry’s heir, Edouard of Lancaster.”

It was Richard’s turn to leap up. “Anne to wed Margaret’s whelp?” he cried, horrified. “Over my dead body! He is a degenerate—caring only for his weapons and harness who talks of nothing but cutting off heads or making war. Why, ’tis monstrous!” He began pacing in front of the window, chewing on his lip and picturing Anne being pawed by the brutish Edouard. He was surprised at the emotion evoked in him at thinking about his little Middleham friend’s helplessness. But if he were honest, Richard had another reason for abhorring Anne’s marriage to Edouard: Lately he had begun thinking about his own need for a consort, and Anne Neville’s pedigree and wealth had reluctantly stolen into his consciousness. If the Pope had given George and Isabel dispensation, why not him and Anne? Now Louis, Warwick, and Margaret of Anjou had thwarted his plan. Damn them.