By mid-April, Richard’s fear of an invasion from across the channel compelled him to move north to Nottingham Castle, an impressive stronghold perched on a promontory, centrally located and giving him a commanding view to the south and west. Underneath, and dug into the bared sandstone hillside, ran a labyrinth of tunnels up into the castle, useful for an escaping royal in times past.

“How I envy you your return to Yorkshire, my love,” Richard said, kneeling to remove Anne’s tiny green slippers. After being readied for bed by their servants, taking off Anne’s shoes and stockings had become a tender task Richard had long ago insisted should be his. The intimate gesture often led to lovemaking that Anne looked forward to whenever they shared a bed.

“I am glad you will soon be with Ned,” Richard continued, stroking her thin calves as she caressed his bent head. “Do you realize it has been six months since I saw him, more’s the pity. ’Tis too long. I pray every day that whatever ailed him this winter will see him healthy now spring is here, and he can soon join us.”

“Mother says he is growing, so I am not concerned. Perhaps the sea air in Scarborough will do him good. I will take him there when it is warmer.” She yawned, pushed her husband away and got into the comfortable downy bed. “I confess I cannot keep my…” She did not finish as they heard unexpected sounds of an arrival in the courtyard.

“Who can that be at this hour?” Richard muttered, going to the window. His nerves always on edge, he assumed the worst: Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, had landed.

But the news was far worse.

Francis Lovell knocked on the door requesting immediate entry a few minutes later. Anne slipped on her bedrobe while Richard flung open the door. Francis and a muddied messenger in Richard’s own livery stepped into the room and went down on their knees.

“What is it?” Richard demanded, noting Francis’s pallor. “Is it Richmond?”

Francis rose and glanced at Anne in the bed. Her eyes spoke of concern but not fear, he noted, and he took a protective step towards her. The messenger, astonished to find himself in front of a king clad only in his nightwear, looked up and cleared his throat. “I…I have a message for you, your grace, from…from Middleham,” he stammered and handed Richard a letter. Clammy fingers wrapped themselves around Richard’s heart as he tore open the letter and read the few devastating lines from his steward at Middleham.

Anne flew to his side. “What is it, Richard? Is it Ned? Sweet Virgin, is it Ned?”

The floor was moving beneath him, and Richard was no longer able to stand. “Oh God,” he groaned, falling to his knees and reaching for Anne. “My dearest wife, brace yourself.” He pulled her close and held her face between his hands. “Our little Ned is gone. He’s dead!”