The harsh grating of the door hinges broke the momentary silence before Richard turned on his heel, exited the room and never looked back.

“Bye-bye babykins!” followed him down the stairs and out into the snowy half-light.

Although not far from it, Richard was not present at George’s execution. Unbeknownst to Richard, the two men Edward had hired had been instructed to administer poison to the hapless Clarence in answer to a desperate request by Duchess Cecily that her son not die publicly nor by the traditional beheading. “I am afraid he will not behave correctly and be scorned,” she had confided to Edward. “I could not bear that. He has had nightmares about a clumsy executioner. Let him drink himself into a stupor and then poison will allow him a death sleep. Do this for me, Son, I beg you.”

Cecily would have been devastated had she been able to read Richard’s mind when he learned of the plan. All the wrongs George had done the young Dickon had been festering and now blossomed into one wicked thought: He does not deserve to die kindly. He deserves to be suffocated, just like he attempted to do to me. He deserves to suffer.

“They are late!” Richard was pacing the audience chamber in Westminster a mile upstream of the Tower wondering what could have gone wrong. George’s guards had been told to ply George with his favorite malmsey until he would be oblivious to the poison. It sounded like a simple plan, but Richard had been skeptical. “What if the guards bungle the task? Can we trust them not to have been charmed by George?” Edward had dismissed his brother’s doubts.

Now Edward sat silently on his canopied throne awaiting the return of the assassins, fingering a silver adornment on his pourpoint. His calm unnerved Richard, who had joined Queen Elizabeth and Will Hastings in keeping the king company.

After what seemed like an age, the two men were finally ushered in and knelt, keeping their eyes on the ground and kneading their coarse felt hats. They were clearly on edge, but then who would not be, Richard mused, having executed a fellow human being. How well I know the feeling. But when the bigger man began to stammer, it was not from any empathy for the dead man but from fear of repercussions for an assignment gone awry. Richard’s heart sank.

“Is he dead?” Edward asked, rising and approaching the men. “Speak! Is the deed done?”

“He is dead, Your Grace,” the man answered, nodding. “B…but n…not in the man…manner in which was ordered.” He cringed, expecting a blow, but Edward quietly told him to tell the truth. “The d…duke dr…drowned, my lord. We had to hold his head in a butt of wine.”

“You drowned a royal duke?” Richard blurted in horror. Sweet Jesu, I should have insisted on a proper execution. What a shambles!