“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.

Henry’s eyes flew open at the light and locked on to Richard’s troubled ones. As Richard secured the torch, Henry suddenly saw the ruffian in Richard’s shadow. The man was clutching a cushion from the only chair, and the king blanched. “So is that the way of it?” he asked so quietly he unnerved the already-tense Richard. “I am a nuisance and must be eliminated. Is that it?”

Richard could not lie. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am but my brother’s messenger,” he murmured. “If I had my way, you would be allowed to end your days in a monastery. I hope you believe…”