Her sunken cheeks, eyes deep in their dark sockets, and parched lips drawn away unnaturally from her gums gave the impression of a skull already, and he could no longer see the dear face he had lovingly kissed only a few months before. The first memory of her standing in Isabel’s shadow returned to him. Aye, she had always been there in his life, quietly loving him. Even knowing about Kate, she had loved him. “I am sorry I did not see you, sweetheart,” he confessed and wondered when was it that she had stepped out of Kate’s shadow and into his view and his heart? He could not remember now; it seemed forever ago. He thought of the years Anne had suffered from his selfishness: his youthful adoration of Isabel; then his affair with Kate; Anne’s many miscarriages—his desire perhaps the culprit—although Anne had never accused him of those. Indeed, hers was a life of untimely loss: her father, her only sister, her only child, and finally and cruelly, her own life. This birdlike creature had borne them all so stoically. Richard was in awe of her spirit.

He continued combing her long, fine hair and spoke to her. “Ah, Anne, you promised you would never leave me. You have not deserved such suffering, and yet you suffer. What, pray God, has brought us here? Oh, my dear, how do you expect me to go on living without you and our beloved Ned? You were always so good, so true, and so wise. Dear God in Heaven, what will I do without you?”

Richard broke down then and, gently gathering her precious body to him as though he could transfer his strength to her, he willed her to live.

Roused by her husband’s grief, Anne managed to say, “D…don’t cry, my love I c…can’t bear to hear you cry. You have been my strength, my rock, my love…” Her little speech gave way to a spasm of coughing, and Richard reached for a kerchief. Carefully wiping her mouth, he was appalled by the scarlet stain that spread over it. She closed her eyes, exhausted.

“Do not try and talk, Anne. I will not leave you again, and I pray to the sweet Virgin Mary that you will find her loving arms when mine can no longer hold you…” He forced himself then to summon the chaplain to perform the last rites. It was no good hoping, no good praying any longer. There would be no miracle—it was the ides of March after all—and his wife would die.