It was a bold rebuttal to Edward’s appalling command to rid England of Henry and the Lancastrian line. Richard could not believe his brother’s request, and although the others in the small, secret council nodded, they would not lift their eyes from the floor. Even Archbishop Bourchier did not condemn the order. What a lickspittle, Richard thought angrily, and a hypocrite. He looked at George to see if he perhaps would stand up to their brother, but of course George had every reason to acquiesce. Nay, George was not going to risk provoking the king again. Richard’s only hope was Will Hastings, but he seemed to have found a wayward thread on his elegant sleeve and was busy trying to break it off. Besides, Will had possibly suggested the outrageous solution. Richard was on his own. How he pitied the former king. He had been saddened by the grief Henry had expressed upon learning of his only child’s death. In truth, what does he have to live for, Richard thought now.

“There will be no trial, Richard,” Edward answered. “As constable you have the right to administer punishment without one. You will arrange to end Henry’s life in the kindest and most discreet way possible. I want no signs of violence upon the body, do you understand. It must look like natural causes. Use money from the privy purse if you have to, but you will do it tonight.” He rose from the chair and towered over his brother. “I am the one whose soul may see hellfire, not you. You have but to obey an order from your king—the Lord’s anointed. For the peace of the kingdom, I must sometimes act in God’s place.” Then putting his hand on Richard’s arm, he said, “Come, let us pray together for you to have strength to do was is right for England.”

“I don’t need your prayers,” Richard snapped, shaking off the unwanted hand. “Save them for yourself, Your Grace.”

It was with heavy legs and an equally heavy heart that Richard climbed the spiral staircase to Henry’s apartment in the Tower. Richard had had no trouble finding an assassin within the Tower dungeons to carry out Edward’s bidding, and with a promise of freedom and a few guineas, the unsavory-looking man was now keeping a respectful distance behind his savior.

Upon seeing Richard, the guard outside King Henry’s room unlocked the door and bowed. “Wait downstairs for me,” Richard commanded, taking the flambeau from its sconce, and the turnkey gladly sauntered off, hardly giving the other man a glance.

The former king was housed in a large, well furnished room and was lying in the bed, a black velvet blanket covering his thin frame. He almost looks like a corpse already, poor man, Richard thought, ashamed. Could his prayer have been answered so soon? He had spent the past hour on his knees in the Tower’s chapel trying to think of a way out of this dreaded responsibility, and begging God to simply strike Henry down with some natural cause.