Returning to London in early December, it was clear to him from the reception he was given by the grateful citizens that he had been accepted wholeheartedly as king, especially as, with her complicity in the rebellion acknowledged, Londoners had lost all sympathy for Elizabeth Woodville.

Richard welcomed Anne to London for Christmas but was disappointed that Ned was not well enough to travel through the cold and snow.

“It is nothing serious, Richard,” Anne assured her husband as they snuggled together on her first night in London. “I would not have come if I thought our son were in any danger. He had the croup—he has had it before, but it takes a week or two to subside. Never fear, Mother will take good care of him.”

“Has he grown? Does he miss me? Can he hit the quintain squarely?”

Anne was amused. Richard was so full of questions, the way she remembered him from their childhood, that her heart glowed. She stared up at the beautiful canopy above the bed in the spacious firelit chamber at Westminster, the tapestry depicting a scene from the story of Ruth, and answered every one. Later, she whispered that she preferred Crosby Hall’s intimacy, but that “this is more comfortable than drafty Baynard’s.” She began to caress his chest and tease his nipple, which soon achieved the desired effect. “Never mind Ned,” she said seductively, sliding her petite body on top of his. “Have you missed me? Or have you found a mistress while I was away.”

Richard smiled and took her face in his hands. “If only I had had the time,” he said, feigning regret. “And even Jane Shore is no longer available. Oh! Would you believe she has conquered yet another willing fool—this time my own solicitor, Thomas Lyneham. He was supposed to prosecute her but he fell in love with her instead. They are to be married.”

Anne’s laughter roused Rufus, curled up on the Turkey carpet. He put his whiskered nose on the bed and wagged his tail.

“Lie down, Rufus,” Richard admonished him, and, chastened, the old dog padded away. “Now, my dearest wife, where were we?” He slipped Anne’s chemise over her head and pulled her to him. Soon the rediscovery of familiar urges and intimate places put all but pleasuring each other from their minds.

Their passion slaked, Anne lay content in Richard’s arms. She sighed pleasurably. “I love you, Richard,” she whispered. “The Virgin help me, but I love you more than God.”

Richard stiffened. “Do not say such things, dearest. You need not bring down His wrath on you as He has on me.”

Anne sat up and turned to him. “What now, Richard? What do you think you have done now to displease Him?” Richard would not meet her gaze and instead tried to pull her close again, but she resisted. “Can you not be happy for once? I pray you, tell me your troubles. How can I be a good consort if you can’t entrust your worries to me? If you won’t trust me, then I cannot be happy. ’Tis as simple as that.”