Now Kate was truly worried. She had known him to be angry at injustice and treason, but never this disconsolate. His grief had led to self-hatred, she believed, and time alone would heal him. But Kate, like Anne, had never known the deeper reason for Richard’s belief that God had forsaken him. No one but God knew the terrible burden he carried. For that sin, Richard would never forgive himself, but he had hoped that, in His infinite mercy, God had.

“You have every right to be angry at God, my dear Richard,” she said, kneeling beside him again and taking his hands. “But your subjects need you. The council needs you. Even though you are innocent, you must let them know you have no intention of wedding your niece. Only then will you quell the rumor.”

He stared at her for a few moments and held onto her loving fingers while he fought the urge to deny her request again.

“Please, Richard. It is the right thing to do,” she whispered. “Please think of Anne, think of our son and daughter and the hurt it would cause them. And think of the peace of England. I beg of you, deny it.”

Without warning, he pulled her to him and kissed her hard on her mouth, taking her breath away. It was the kiss of a desperate man, she knew, but she allowed herself to caress his head and hold him close one last time.

“I will think on it,” he murmured. “You are perhaps right. For now you have my thanks and my love.” He held her head between his hands. “You know I will always love you, Kate.”

It was Duchess Cecily, the indomitable York matriarch, who finally swept into Westminster’s draughty corridors and convinced her son of the need for a public denial.

“Your morals have been impeccable until now, Richard. You did right by Anne at the time of your marriage and gave up your leman—aye, I knew about her from the moment she played her harp for us at Margaret’s farewell. Since then you have wisely learned to conceal the passionate nature you had as a boy.” She paused to chuckle. “Always asking questions; always loudly championing the peasantry; even lying for George because you could not bear to be disloyal; and announcing your displeasure to the wrong people when injustice had been done.”

“I have tried, Mother,” Richard said, annoyed at her ability to reduce him to a little boy when she leveled her gaze at him. “I have tried to rule as Father would have done had he lived to wear the crown.” At that, he saw Cecily’s face soften and knew he had disarmed her, which he hoped might temper the sermon he was expecting. After all, she had just ridden all the way from Berkhamsted, when she had not even left her seclusion to attend his coronation. But now the York name was being besmirched, and the lioness had come to correct her cub.