Surprised, Stillington placed his hand on the book and swore. “The lady’s name was Eleanor Butler—Talbot that was—the daughter of the old earl of Shrewsbury. ’Twas some time before the late king wed the queen. The lady took the veil and is long dead, my lord. She cannot make trouble, but I could not in all good conscience keep this secret to myself now that King Edward is dead. It means that the new king…”

“…is a bastard,” Richard breathed, his heart pounding. He did not add: and so cannot wear the crown.

The news was stunning. Richard had so many questions for the old man, which he answered without hesitation, swearing that he was telling the truth. He caught Buckingham’s eye and Harry pursed his lips in a silent whistle. The implications of the revelation were enormous.

“I witnessed the plight-troth when I was an archdeacon,” the bishop told the astonished group, “and as you know a plight-troth made with a witness is tantamount to…”

“…the giving of a ring,” Catesby interrupted. “The king’s marriage to Queen Elizabeth was thus invalid.”

Richard was regretting he had not dismissed Catesby. Could he trust the lawyer yet? He had not thought Stillington had anything of such importance to divulge and had wished merely to test Catesby’s loyalty with whatever insignificant item the bishop disturbed them. Who could have guessed it was this monumental?

As Richard put the pieces of the puzzle together, the truth became horribly clear: Edward had given Stillington a bishopric to buy his silence. But why had Eleanor not come forward and denounced Edward when he and Elizabeth first revealed that they had been secretly wed? Certes, he realized, she would have been laughed out of court. Who would have believed her—a widow woman with no man to fight for her? No wonder the poor lady took the veil! God’s bones, Edward, Richard thought, what an unholy mess you have left me. Yet how typical of his reckless, wayward brother.

“Who else might know of this, my lord bishop?” Richard demanded.

Stillington shrugged, but tiny pink patches appeared on his cheeks that alerted Richard. “You told someone else, did you not?” he pressed. “I can see it on your face. Who, who?”

The protector’s irritability was new to the bishop, and he trod warily. “It was my understanding that the Lord Hastings was in the king’s confidence. And…” he broke off, obviously riddled with guilt and weighing whether to confess to Richard’s scowl. He was regretting he had come for he did not like the look in Gloucester’s dark eyes. “…And, I foolishly made mention of it to Duke George of Clarence, b…but I paid for that folly with a t…term in the Tower,” he mumbled.