It was clear to any with an interest in the matter, that the king had favored his brother Richard, and it was no wonder there were rumors that George of Clarence was stocking arms and would soon declare war on his younger brother.

The happy result of the wait for their firstborn was that Anne had her mother by her side as she labored on Christmas Eve. “This will be a special child. A Christmas child,” Richard told her before being shooed from the birthing chamber. “I shall pray for his safe delivery for as many hours as you must labor, my dear Anne, and I shall think of a suitable name.”

Anne smiled weakly at him and then waved him away. “He will not be called Jesus, despite your love of Him,” she stated firmly. “Now go, before the midwife chases you out.”

Richard had not known those times when Kate had gone into labor for her two children, and thus he had not yet felt the terrible anxiety and guilt that a man experiences during his wife’s travail. He knelt in Middleham’s little chapel until his knees told him to take some exercise around the ramparts. He had prayed hard, Do not blame Anne for my guilt, dear Lord, and in Your gracious mercy see her safely delivered of her child—our child, he corrected. He gingerly made his way along the castle wall, watching for icy patches on the walkway, and once, when nearing the tower that housed Anne’s apartments, he heard her muffled screams. Shuddering, he gazed over the snow-covered meadows south of the castle feeling completely helpless. In the distance stood his one-time favorite sanctuary, the bare trees exposing the ruins to the elements, and, after a moment’s hesitation, decided he needed to be there now.

Donning his heavy, fur-lined cloak and whistling to his new wolfhound pup Rufus, so named for the reddish tinge to his coat, Richard trudged purposefully through the ankle-deep crusty snow. The unexpected noise startled two hares, who loped off as fast as their long legs could propel them from the excited hound, whose own overgrown legs skidded on the slippery surface. Richard had purposely waited before choosing another dog; none could have bested his first dog, but Rufus’s grandsire was Captain and, like Traveller, had been born at Fotheringhay. Traveller would have known exactly where Richard was headed, but Rufus approached the old stones only when Richard began clambering over them, and then he bravely made his mark. Several ungraceful attempts later to follow Richard higher, the dog eventually gave up, taking shelter under a crumbling arch.