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!”

Anne screamed, “How? When? Tell me!” A vile taste invaded her mouth, and she puked the bile onto the blue and white tiles, smattering Richard’s nightshirt.

Richard tenderly wiped her mouth with the towel Francis had found for him, and when Anne insisted again, he told her: “It seems he took ill of a fever a few days ago and nothing could be done to cool the heat in his blood.” He watched her tears fall, and cradling her to him, he, too, began to heave with sobs. “He is dead, Anne, our precious son is dead.”

Francis touched the messenger on the arm and jerked his head towards the door. The man, open-mouthed at the openly weeping royal couple, gladly got to his feet and preceded Francis out. Francis gently closed the door on the tragic scene, allowing husband and wife the privacy to grieve.