Middleham in June meant larks in the meadows and wild thyme on the hills. Anne eagerly pointed out her favorite dropwort among the tall grasses, their white and pink bulbous buds ready to burst into starry white flowers with showy yellow-green stamens. Richard was amused by his wife’s girlish delight in the colors of the countryside; he didn’t know a dog rose from cow parsley, but he sensed Anne would teach him. The many towers of Middleham soon rose on the horizon, and Anne sighed happily: “Home. We are home, my dearest husband.”

Husband? Richard had not grown used to the idea after only a week, and except when he had sworn to take Anne as his wedded wife in front of the priest at St. Martin’s, he had not yet referred to her as “wife.”

It had been a simple ceremony, with only Anne’s gentlewoman, Rob, and Francis as witnesses, because Richard did not trust that George would not again interfere. He had persuaded Anne to wait for the dispensation—holy law was strict regarding consanguinity—as he told her gently: “When you know me better, you will understand I am loath to break God’s law.” The words had almost stuck in his throat. What a hypocrite you are, Richard. Break God’s law? Haven’t you spent these past months trying to bury the memory of regicide in the depths of your unhappy conscience? But once again he pushed the guilt away.

Anne had been disappointed to wait, but by April the vital piece of paper had arrived from Rome and the young couple had breathed a sigh of relief.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Richard had said, placing the gold band on Anne’s finger. Her hand trembled and without a second thought, he had clasped it in both his and taken it to his lips. Her eyes sparkled as she finished the pledge and happily promised to love, honor and obey her husband from that day forth.