The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny by Sandra Worth Page B

itself deeper into the creases around his eyes, the grooves around his mouth.
    “It must be done!” Edward cried out suddenly, his voice quivering in a way that Richard had never heard before. He pressed his hand to his brow, and dropped it, exposing eyes filled with agony. “I have no choice.”
    A sudden, terrible realisation struck Richard. He stared at Edward in speechless horror, his mind reeling. It is not the prophecy that compels Edward. It is Bess Woodville . This foul deed had her seal on it. She had found a way to force Edward to kill his own brother! He clenched his fists against the revulsion that flooded his body.
     
    Richard returned to Middleham in a despondent mood. The respite proved brief. Soon he and Anne had to return to Westminster to attend the Christmas festivities, which were to be crowned by a royal wedding. Finding himself strangely in need of a connection with his dead cousin, John, he borrowed Thomas Gower away from young George Neville for the journey. John’s faithful squire was now squire to John’s son, and not only had he rendered long and faithful service to the Nevilles, but he was a solid man, inherently dependable and, at forty-six, the same age John would have been, had he lived. With his carved features, kindly eyes, and reserved temperament, Richard found in him a comforting sense of John’s own presence.
    Spirits were high at the Woodville court. Gaiety was everywhere. With Edward, though, Richard knew it was forced, because he’d glimpsed his soul that day in the cloisters and knew that what Edward did, he did in spite of himself—not that the knowledge made it easier to bear. With a gloom and foreboding unmatched since the days of civil war, Richard ushered in the New Year of 1478 at Windsor, his hand clasped tightly in Anne’s.
    Anne shared Richard’s mood. Not only did court bring back wrenching memories, but the Queen and her ilk kept looking at her and whispering. She had overheard one of Bess’s sister’s remark: “How has she survived such storms when she looks as if the next breeze will carry her off?”
    “Do not fool yourself,” Bess Woodville had replied. “The tiny red finch, barely a spark of life and weighing scarcely more than a feather, is not swept away by the merciless winds of winter.”
    Then they had laughed.
    No, there was nothing redeeming about court, not a moment she enjoyed. Her head throbbed most of the time and sleep was fitful. It didn’t help that she worried about Richard, whose misery struck at her heart. A heavy burden of guilt weighed on his spirits for participating in a celebration that gave the Woodvilles cause to rejoice when his own brother lay confined to the dark of the Tower.
     
    Early on the morning of the wedding day, Richard escaped the Woodvilles and slipped out to St. Stephen’s Chapel. The January morning was bitter cold and a rare drift of snow swept the cloisters. In the side chapel of Our Lady of the Pew, he stood alone, admiring the lofty, narrow nave, the great columns gilded by thousands of leaves of gold and silver foil. Sunlight played on the cold, brilliantly coloured glass, sending darts of cobalt blues, violets, oranges, and yellows through the gloom. The peace which had eluded him since his arrival at court found him now. He knelt and murmured a prayer for George.
    No sooner had he risen than a door clanged and footsteps sounded on the stone. His cousin Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, strode up jauntily. “We must have had the same idea, Dickon—to get away from Woodvilles for a spell!” With a twinkle in his eyes, Harry chuckled, “’Tis the only place not infested with them, eh? Not enough gold around, I suppose…” He surveyed the nave festooned with pine branches and greenery. Richard almost smiled in spite of himself.
    “Yet even this dull church has its uses. Behold the holy Woodville altar!” Harry jerked his head in its direction. “Another heir, another sacrifice. Nevertheless, the