Anne had another miscarriage in June, and Richard was plunged into a dark mood that caused servers to tiptoe around the great hall at Middleham during the midday meal and Richard’s retainers to grumble at his testy commands. Only Rufus dared be with him and licked his hand as if to say, I am here, you can count on me.

“It is nothing new. These moods began only after he knew his spine was crooked,” Rob Percy reassured John Kendall a week later, once Richard’s talented secretary had been ushered from the duke’s presence with an ink pot thrown at his head. “He believes his ailment is a sign that God is displeased with him. When something else is visited upon him—like Anne’s several miscarriages—he is certain God has abandoned him, and he goes into a solitary, black place in his mind. The man has such faith in the Almighty—indeed, enough faith for the three of us combined—and I cannot convince him that perhaps it is not he that God is punishing but Anne being punished for the sins of her father. He will not hear of it. As far as he is concerned, Anne is a saint.”

John Kendall dabbed at an ink stain on his fustian pourpoint with a wet kerchief and offered his assessment. “The Lady Anne is a sweet soul, but she is frail. Childbearing may not suit her and that is all there is to it. Duke Richard is a good man—is usually a good master,” he said, looking up from his cleaning task and shrugging, “but I am warning you, I would not go in there today.”

“Bad news? I mean besides losing the babe?”

“Aye, he will tell you I have no doubt, but it seems his brother Clarence has properly cooked his goose this time.”

Rob’s eyebrows shot up. “Christ’s nails, what now?”

They had not heard the latch click open on the office door and were startled when Richard’s voice interrupted: “He has accused a servant of poisoning Isabel and her child, which is ridiculous, and has had the woman hanged without trial and without Edward’s knowledge.” Rob let out a low whistle, while the other two men crossed themselves in remembrance of Isabel and her little son.

“Why is that such bad news, my lord?” Rob asked, crushing a lazy flea between his thumb and finger and flicking it to the floor. “Perhaps my lord of Clarence did have intelligence that they were poisoned by the woman—whoever she was.”

“Her name is unimportant, but George’s accusation that she was acting on the Woodville’s instructions is significant.”

Rob’s whistle was more pronounced this time. “I see where you are going with this, Richard. Coupled with George’s anger that Edward refused to allow him to wed Mary of Burgundy, which would have created a possible danger to the English throne…”