In December of 1476, George of Clarence lost his beloved Isabel in childbirth together with the newborn, and from the first week of January, events further spiraled down for him. Richard, too, had grieved for his first immature infatuation and had written a letter of sympathy to his brother, who he knew had loved Isabel as much as George would ever love anyone but himself.

When the shocking news came that Charles the Bold had been killed while besieging snow-covered Nancy, Edward called for his brothers to join his council at Westminster and debate the implications for Burgundy. Richard reluctantly left his family at Sheriff Hutton, Anne having suffered yet another miscarriage at yuletide, to travel through the snow and ice to London. He took only a group of ten with him, it being easier to find suitable lodgings along the way for such a small number. Even so, the roads through the midlands were treacherous, and the horses could only be ridden at a walk. The journey took them more than a week.

“You understand our concern, Richard?” Edward said at a private supper with his brothers in his apartments as soon as Richard arrived. “We must heed Meg’s appeal.”

“But we are at peace with France now,” Richard said, frowning. “If we send troops to Meg, we will be breaking our treaty with Louis.” And you will lose your pension, he wanted to say but didn’t. “How else then can we help?”

Edward’s chair groaned as he shifted his considerable form. Richard had been shocked to see how much weight the king had gained even since the previous summer. Edward’s face was florid, and his once lively blue eyes had all but disappeared between his fleshy cheeks and brows. The ever-present goblet of wine was cupped in his fingers, which now resembled large sausages, and rested comfortably on his shelf of a belly. As ever, Will Hastings was at hand to pour more wine and add commentary when appropriate. Richard had begun to resent the jovial chamberlain, especially when he heard the man had produced yet another mistress for the king.

“Margaret, as dowager duchess, needs to find a strong husband for Mary,” Edward was saying. “As you realize, it is not wise, in view of Louis of France’s ambitions to break up Burgundy, to allow a woman to rule, let alone one as young as Mary.” He looked over at George. “How old is she? Twenty?” George was slumped in his chair, already the worse for drink. He nodded. “Tell Richard Meg’s idea, George,” Edward went on. His silky, easy-going tone did not fool Richard. Something was afoot.

“She wanted me to marry Mary and frighten Louis. But my dear brother has refused,” George responded, wine-fueled anger in his tone. “He doesn’t want me to be happy.”

Richard smirked. The last time Mary had been offered to George, he was insulted.