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.

“Louis of France is a cunning bastard,” Will broke into Richard’s musing. Taking off his bonnet and scratching his thinning scalp, Edward’s chamberlain commented: “He is shoring up Margaret’s support by offering her Warwick’s in case Henry should again sit on the throne. He thinks Warwick will not forsake the Lancastrians now and betray his son-in-law. He’s clever—even for a two-faced Frenchie.”

“Devilishly,” Edward agreed. “Is there any other tidbit you have left out, Master Pomfrey?” he demanded, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I know not if you were told the news, Your Grace, but when Warwick was denied entry to Calais in April and was forced to put back to sea in a storm, the duchess of Clarence was in childbirth. So great was her discomfort and labor, the babe did not survive.”

“Poor lady,” Richard sympathized, crossing himself, “what she has suffered at her husband’s and her father’s hands is pitiful.” He could not bring himself to feel sympathy for George, who he believed had put Isabel in mortal danger. He does not deserve to be a father, Richard adjudged. He conveniently chose to ignore his own shortcomings in that regard. His and Kate’s son, John, had duly been born in March, and Richard had not yet set eyes on the child.

“So Master Pomfrey, it stands to reason we should expect an invading army sometime soon, if Louis holds his two pawns’ feet to the fire. Am I right?” Once again, Edward’s temper had died as quickly as it has risen, and he sat down, steepling his fingers and training his watchful blue eyes on the man.