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did not see more of him. And now she would never see him again, that larger-than-life, vital man with the twinkling eyes, sensual lips, and ready wit. Her tears spilled over.
    “He became ill when he went fishing in the damp cold,” Richard said. “He is buried already.” His voice was bitter with anger as well as grief. “They did not wait. He was my brother and I loved him. I should have been there!”
    Anne looked at him, understanding how deeply that had hurt him. “It was the Queen’s doing, no doubt, and her Wydeville kin,” she commented, tart.
    Kate watched through her tears as her father’s brows furrowed.
    “They hate me,” he muttered. “Nay, they fear me too—and they will have cause! What’s worse, they have allowed me no time to grieve. Lord Hastings writes that I must act now, or the Wydevilles will seizepower. You see now why they sent no messenger to tell me of Edward’s death. They were playing for time, damn them. My brother’s son is a child, and they are bent on ruling in his name. But according to this letter, Edward, on his deathbed, named me Lord Protector of England.
Me
, not the Queen and her party.”
    The duchess had turned pale. Her thin hands were unconsciously pleating the ribbed fabric of her skirts. She was a slender slip of a woman, twenty-seven years old, with fair hair pulled back severely beneath her embroidered cap, light blue eyes, and a finely boned face. She was delicate, like her son, and the rich blues and scarlet hues of her gorgeous high-waisted gown served only to enhance her pallor.
    “What will you do?” she asked.
    The duke began pacing agitatedly. “I will see that my brother’s wishes are respected. Hastings advises me to gather a strong force and hasten to London, to avenge the insult done me by my enemies. He says I may easily obtain my revenge if, on the way, I take the young King under my protection and authority.”
    “But he is in Ludlow.”
    “Not now. He is being brought to London by his uncle, Lord Rivers, and his half brother, Sir Richard Grey—Wydevilles both!—with a small escort. My lord writes that the Queen wanted to send an army, but he warned her that it might court bloodshed, and threatened to abandon her cause if she persisted. She backed down, but I doubt it has made relations any the sweeter between them. After all, he and my brother shared—well, we have all heard of Mistress Shore and the others.”
    A look passed between the duke and duchess. Kate was aware that there were things about King Edward that her father did not want to discuss in front of his children. But for all his care, even she knew that Mistress Shore had been her uncle’s whore. You could not stop servants gossiping.
    “I will not speak ill of the dead,” Richard was saying, “or this good lord who has warned me of the danger in which I stand. For, as he writes, he has put himself in peril by sending this letter: he says that the hatred of his old enemies has been aggravated by his showing friendship for me.”
    Anne rose, walked over to her husband, and encircled him in her embrace. “My poor Dickon,” she murmured. “I am so sorry.”
    His eyes met hers. “How can I mourn Edward decently?” he asked, bitter. “My very life may be in danger. Remember my brother Clarence—dead through the malice of the Wydevilles! My lady, I must make ready.” And he put her from him, bent to kiss his son’s head, and briefly hugged Kate. “May God be with us all,” he said, and strode to the doorway that led to the stairs.
    There he stopped. He had his back to them, his slightly bowed back, for although he was strong enough to wield a sword with dexterity, he was a small man, so subtly misshapen that few were aware of it. It was a moment before they realized he was weeping, that great tearing sobs were racking his frame.
    “Oh, God, oh, God,” he cried. “I loved him. God, how I loved him!”
    “I must go to him,” the duchess said, rising, recovering