The duchess went to the door. “You have the measure of it, my son. And now I would counsel that you grieve for Anne apace longer, but then you must turn to the future. I know about the Tudor threat. Make ready and make it known. Ha! Margaret Beaufort’s son is no match for the best of mine.” Then she lowered her voice. “You do need an heir, ’tis true,” and she shook her finger at her youngest, “but not with your niece! End this rumor about Bess. Promise your aging mother.”

Richard kissed her hand. “Aye, Your Grace,” he promised. He opened the door for Cecily and bade her farewell, giving her a low, respectful bow; she would never ceased to awe him.

“Come and see me, Richard. Let us get reacquainted,” she urged over her shoulder. He nodded, not knowing the last sight he would have of his mother had just disappeared in a swirl of mauve silk.

In a loud, confident voice Richard told the mayor and aldermen of London, the lords and priests, the officers of his household and his council gathered at the beautiful great hall of the Priory of St. John, that he had no, nor had he ever had, intentions to wed King Edward’s daughter, Elizabeth. The chroniclers duly wrote it down for history to judge whether Richard was telling the truth. What their version did not record was that this unfortunate rumor was just one of many aimed at Richard by a burgeoning number of Tudor followers, who meant to undermine his rule and stall any progress Richard sought to make for the kingdom.

Even more difficult than the humiliating denial was his subsequent meeting with Bess. He owed it to the girl to tell her himself he had no feelings for her, other than those an uncle might have for a favorite niece.

“I pray you to forgive me if I, in any way, led you to believe otherwise, my dear Bess,” he told her gently in Anne’s sunny solar, where he now spent most of his leisure time. He could see Bess had been crying, and he felt sorry for her, but he dared not lay a comforting finger on her in case she misinterpreted the action. “You must see how wrong any arrangement between us would be. I am your uncle and the king.”

“And I a bastard—so they say,” Bess gamely retorted through tears that sparkled on her lashes. “I understand the king cannot wed one, but would you have considered marrying me had I not been, my lord? Could I have hoped?”