“Who is that?” Herbert asked. “She seems to know you.”

“She is an acquaintance of Margaret Howard’s ’tis all. I met her at Tendring,” Richard said with a shrug. A pang of guilt assailed him as he watched Kate. Could he not even acknowledge her or his children to William, who probably had a mistress of his own? He grimaced. What a coward!

But his guilt had more to do with his all-consuming thoughts about Anne Neville at the present moment, which he knew would hurt Kate far more than pretending to Pembroke she meant nothing to him. Once Margaret of Anjou and Anne had been captured following the battle, Richard had been relieved to discover that Anne and Edouard’s marriage had not been consummated. Not only would there be no rival heir, but Anne was free to marry again and would need a husband. Richard was now determined to woo and win her. Soon, his time with Kate would come to a close.

Without warning, there was a change in the crowd’s mood, and jeering replaced the cheering. “It must be for the She-Wolf,” Richard muttered, sorry that he had not prevailed to have Anne ride separately from the erstwhile queen. How shrewd of Edward to include Margaret in the procession, he thought. I warrant she wishes the carriage curtain sides were rolled down. He also wondered if George were wishing himself far away from his former ally. What would have been his fate had he continued to throw in his lot with Margaret of Anjou?

“I wonder if she will be allowed to reside with Henry in the Tower,” Richard mused aloud. “She needs to be locked up on a remote island somewhere and the key thrown in the sea. As for poor Henry, he will never be a danger to anyone as long as Margaret is under lock and key.”

“I do not pity the man,” Herbert said. “He was good for nothing.”

Richard nodded. “He should have been a monk. He told me so himself. My wish for him is that he may while away the rest of his days in prayer.”

“Amen to that,” Earl William replied, smirking.

“Are you certain, Your Grace?” Richard tried to steady his voice, but he knew it wavered. “You are commanding me to order regicide—and indeed to commit my soul to the devil.”

Edward glared at him, his mouth set in a tight, straight line, his fingers gripping the arms of his throne. “You are constable of England, are you not, my lord of Gloucester? I seem to remember your having no qualms about accepting that honor.”

“I am, Your Grace,” Richard replied, quickly organizing his thoughts, “but I understood my duty is to bring the accused to trial and, upon that person being found guilty, to mete out an appropriate punishment. May I ask the nature of Henry’s crime, and how long will I have for a fair trial?”