At first, he was glad to see that his wife, all smiles and giggles, was entranced by her flowing gown, its sleeves brushing the floor. But as she tweaked a tuck here and a fold there in his costume and straightened his crown, Richard could not bear to hurt her by pointing out that white satin only accentuated her pallor, and the golden belt was pathetically clinging to her bony hips. With her already-graying hair pulled starkly into a long braid and crowned with white and red silk flowers, she resembled a ghostly wraith rather than a buxom, healthy Guinevere.

“Come in, come in, Bess,” Anne was calling as Richard kissed her hand. Excited, she told him, “We decided you should have two Guineveres to take you to the masque.” Going to the door, she pulled Elizabeth Woodville’s lovely daughter into the room, and Richard gasped. Bess may indeed have been clad in the identical gown, but there the similarity with Anne ended. Her regal carriage, glowing rosy skin, abundant red-gold hair cascading loose around her plump shoulders and voluptuous breasts all painfully emphasized who was to be queen of the night. She was the glorious sun to Anne’s pale, waning moon, and Richard, at a loss for words, could not prevent a frown.

“You don’t like it, Uncle?” Bess asked. “I did say to Aunt Anne that…” but she faltered.

Anne stood defiantly in front of the nervous young girl and chastised Richard. “It was my idea. If you are angry, be angry with me and not poor Bess, who falls over herself to please you.”

Richard’s gentlemen of the chamber, who had withdrawn to the other side of the room, stared at the odd scene. They were no doubt thinking about a rumor that Richard may have been eyeing his niece with something more than avuncular kindness. He would need a new wife, would he not, and one who could give him an heir?

Anne took her husband’s hands, her hollowed eyes brimming. “I knew I would not have the strength to dance with you, my love. I wanted you to have a surrogate Queen Guinevere. Please say you are not angry.”