None had eaten since the previous day, and it was with a growling stomach that he rose and then entered the White Tower where Edward himself, his lords and councilors about him, was waiting to belt on Richard’s first sword. Two gentlemen strapped on Richard’s spurs, which made a satisfying clinking as the lad walked towards the king, who stood ready on a dais to dub him knight.

Edward’s voice rang out clearly across the hall: “Richard Plantagenet, be thou a good knight and true,” and as Richard bowed his head, his brother fastened the sword belt and scabbard around his waist. “I have no doubt that you will be true, Dickon,” Edward murmured, covering Richard’s hand with his own upon the sword hilt, “and I will put my trust in you.”

Later that afternoon, clad in blue and white, the newly created knights followed behind Edward in the procession back to Westminster for the coronation. A cacophony of pealing bells and loud acclamations greeted the cavalcade from the Londoners, who gawped at the giant young god astride his white destrier on his way to be crowned king of England. Richard’s heart could not contain an ounce more pleasure or pride in his family and country. He shouted: “God Save King Edward” as loudly as his compatriots. He could only imagine Ned’s exhilaration at the prospect of being anointed and crowned before God. Surely he, Richard, would never surpass such a pinnacle of earthly man’s success. For a second, he fancied the people were cheering for him and that it was he and not Edward who was riding to be crowned. Addlepate, the boy thought, how could that ever be?

No thoughts of “runt” crossed Richard’s mind that day; he was a royal prince—a Plantagenet prince—and for once he felt every inch of it.