Richard kissed her hand tenderly. “Aye, I will always have you. You mean the world to me.”

Richard did win one victory for his efforts to safeguard the country that summer. The Scots were soundly defeated both on land and, commanded by Richard himself, at sea. King James III conceded defeat and, in a diplomatic ceremony in Nottingham’s castle, treated for a three-year truce.

“I don’t even like the man,” Richard grumbled to council as they watched the Scottish contingent file out of the great hall. “For all his flowery language of peace, I would not trust him as far as I could toss a caber.”

“I would not be surprised if half of his men sailed for France rather than support this treaty. He is not popular with either his lords or his subjects,” Thomas Stanley remarked, an edge to his voice, and even though he had not addressed Richard personally, Richard wondered if the equivocating earl of Derby was also referring to him.

By Christmas it was clear even to the most unobservant that Anne was dying, but Richard refused to accept it.

“She is still grieving, ’tis all,” he firmly told the doctor. “She needs some gaiety and an end to all these tinctures she is drowning in. What she needs is good mulled wine and yuletide reveling.”

He turned to his chamberlain, Francis. “This season will be the merriest yet. I command it,” he said. “My young nieces will cheer Anne. We will have mumming, my minstrels will play for dancing…” and he suddenly had an idea, “…and a masquerade,” he cried. “I attended one in Bruges during my exile with George. A masked pageant.”

The doctor’s bushy brows shot up in horror. “But her grace should not leave her bed, look you,” he said. “She is trop malade.”

“For pity’s sake, cease with the faux French, Doctor Gruffydd,” Richard snapped. “It does not suit you. Everyone knows you were born in Cardiff, look you.”

The man bowed and muttered an apology into his gray beard. Francis quietly shook his head, wishing Richard not be so brusque, but he understood the enormous strain his friend was under—and had been for six months now. He ushered the Welshman out and turned back to discuss the Christmas season. But when he saw despair in Richard’s slate eyes, he put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed it. “She will recover, I am certain of it.”

Desperate, and out of character, Richard grasped Francis to him and whispered, “Don’t let Him take Anne from me, too, Francis. Promise me.”

“Who?” Francis replied, taken aback. “Doctor Gruffydd? He is a good man, you know…”

“…not him,” Richard said, desperately. “Him,” and he pointed to heaven. “I am talking about God. He will not be content until he takes everyone from me.” He disengaged himself and sank into a chair.