Richard swiveled to face his wife. “How dare you! Are you calling me a hypocrite?” he demanded. “Are you still jealous of Kate? After all these years? Nay, do not answer that, the subject is not important.” He ignored her tiny gasp of hurt. “What is important is how I deal with this new information and how I lead England out of a morass. This news will cause a crisis of the monarchy. According to English law, young Edward cannot be king and Hastings knew it and said nothing. He was willing to keep silent so that he might stay in power. And worse, he has been plotting to undermine my position as protector by going to the Woodvilles. I cannot allow him the freedom to continue down this path. He must be contained—nay, detained.”

Anne had retreated to the bed and was watching him stalk up and down. What had happened to the man she loved who had ridden grieving from Middleham not six weeks before? She had been stung by his retort, but she recognized he was merely lashing out at the nearest person because he was angry and afraid. She decided to appeal to his fair-minded, honorable self.

“I understand now why you are upset, my dear, but do not let your anger impede justice. William Hastings should be given the chance to defend himself in a fair trial. You will grant him that at least?” she implored him. “If not, what will people think of you? What will God think?”

“God knows I am right!” Richard shot back and then mumbled, “if He is even listening anymore.” Nothing Anne could say would change his mind. Hastings’ silence and subsequent plotting was a treasonable offense. “I must do what is right for England now,” he told his alarmed wife. “You can pray for me if you want, but I can no longer wait for His counsel.”

“My lord, I am innocent of treason, I swear!” Will Hastings cried, his ruddy face ashen with fear. “I have no knowledge of any plot to overthrow you. Whoever says so is a liar.”

Unmoved, Richard watched as the big man wrestled out of the guards’ hold to go down on his knees and beg for his life.

Despite telling Anne to the contrary, Richard had spent hours on his own knees the night before, but not only did his aching back interfere with his prayers but voices from his past insisted on whispering in his ear, tormenting him and shutting out anything God might have advised.

“He was my most loyal servant and friend,” Edward’s ghost reminded him.

“A good man and true,” Warwick’s agreed.

And even George from his grave had admonished him: “Don’t blame Hastings, blame the Woodville woman.” But then Richard of York’s face, all bloodied, its head crowned with paper, spoke, “Remember your duty, my son, to God, to England and to York.”