Besides finding the girl no trouble to protect, it cannot be denied that Richard found solace in helping his brother’s children, perhaps to staunch the heinous whisperings that he must have killed his two young nephews. Wanting to be a benevolent uncle to his nieces, he failed to listen to his usual rational self and the quartet of councilors he trusted most, Francis, Rob, Ratcliffe and Howard, that he was causing gossip by being seen too often in close company with Bess. If he had heard their counsel, his moral self was so appalled by the thought of wooing his own flesh and blood, that he had dismissed the warning as ridiculous. Why must I always be misconstrued?

“I will go in, Doctor Gryffud,” Richard insisted, pushing the good doctor aside. “Never fear, I will not go close, but my wife will not die alone.”

He crept to the end of Anne’s bed, rendered vast by the skeletal figure lying in the center, her once-brown hair a snarled confusion of gray on her damp pillow. Anne had always been so meticulous about her appearance that seeing her thus disturbed him greatly. He turned to find one of her women, but they were huddled in a corner, weeping and afraid to go near her. He snatched a comb from the table of potions and bowls, and, fearlessly sat down beside Anne and began to gently untangle her hair. She did not move. He thought she was unaware of his presence, when her skeletal hand fluttered above the coverlet and found his leg. He stared at it aghast. How could skin be so transparent? He dared not touch it but was comforted that she knew he was there.

“My dearest Anne,” he whispered, tears he had kept in check for these past weeks slipping down his cheeks. “They would not let me see you. Pray forgive me for my cowardice. I should have come sooner.”