Thomas paused, watching Richard slide his ring on and off his finger as he processed the information. Suddenly, Richard made a sound that was part laugh, part growl. “And here is irony. I sent Morton to Brecknock so he could whisper treason in Harry’s ear,” he said. “He is the one I should have executed, not Hastings. Let me borrow from my ancestor, the first Plantagenet, who famously said, ‘who will rid me of this meddlesome priest.’ Morton the manipulator; Morton the flatterer; Morton the deceiver; he is the snake who has bitten Buckingham and infused him with poison.” His control slipping and his voice shaking, he muttered, “I pray you excuse me, gentlemen, I need some air. Thomas, continue with your intelligence so Kendall here can chronicle it.”

“Your Grace, would you like me to accompany you?” Francis offered, stepping forward.

“I thank you, nay,” Richard answered, walking slowly to the door, his head heavy on his crooked shoulders. Harry’s betrayal was too great to comprehend, but he needed to be alone to try.

He trudged up the spiral stairs to the ramparts with only Rufus for company and faced the glorious west front of Lincoln Cathedral a few hundred feet away high on the hill, its soaring central spire reaching to heaven. Richard hardly noticed its beauty as the cool, damp October air reflected his gloom. Two guards were making their crossover on the northern wall; otherwise, he was alone.

Angry thoughts of his cousin raged around his brain like untamed animals, but all eventually returned to one place: betrayal. What had pushed Harry to treason? To break his sacred oath to his king? Richard recalled Harry boasting one night of taking a leaf from Warwick’s book: “I am a kingmaker,” he had crowed. Aye, Richard thought, and like Warwick you have betrayed your king.

He groaned. How had he come from Edward’s death to crisis after crisis in only six months? When he had started out from Middleham that bright April day grieving for his brother and intent on being a strong protector of the young boy king, he had felt confident, sure of his purpose in life, and a happy family man. Fortune’s wheel had spun him around so many times since then, he was dazed. Sometimes it felt things were not happening to him at all, that he was floating aloft watching himself react, no longer in control of anything. Harry had had a hand in turning that wheel, he could see that now, and Richard had gone along with him, reluctantly at times. And now Richard was king with too many deaths on his conscience already. Guilt and despair gripped him with icy fingers, and he steadied himself against the battlement.