For the first time he was thinking of death ... his own death. He wondered what had put such a thought into his head. Was it the birth of a new child; seeing little Richard there with his wife Anne Mowbray—such babies—and thinking of Edward in Ludlow with a household almost entirely made up of Wood-villes? Would Edward be able to step into his shoes? Not yet. There had to be many years before that happened. Young Edward was not as strong as his parents would have wished. There was a deficiency somewhere which affected his bones and he would never be the size of his father. Edward knew how that great height of his had stood him in good stead.

But why think of these things on such a day.

There was Elizabeth looking not so very much older than she had on the day he had first seen her in the forest, though a great deal more regal, of course, more sleek, accustomed to the homage paid to royalty. They could have more children yet. More healthy sons perhaps to follow young Edward and Richard.

Then his eyes fell on the Countess of Richmond. A comely woman, Margaret Beaufort, perhaps a year or so younger than himself. Married now to Sir Henry Stafford but still calling herself the Countess of Richmond— a title she had acquired through her marriage to Edmund Tudor.

The Tudors had always irritated him. They had been good fighters and always the adversaries of the House of York. Naturally, they considered themselves to be the legitimate offspring of Queen Katherine and half-brothers to Henry the Sixth. They might be. It was possible that there had been a marriage between Queen Katherine and Owen Tudor. Then of course Margaret Beaufort herself was the daughter and heiress of John Beaufort, eldest son of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford.

He wondered if they had been wise to let Margaret come to Court. She had been quiet and showed no desire to do anything but serve her sovereign. But there was that son of hers, bom of her first marriage with Edmund Tudor. He was skulking abroad at the moment and he had his uncle Jasper with him.

Somehow it was not very comforting to think of the Tudors free. Surely they would not have the temerity to consider for a moment that they had any right to the throne! No, that would be absurd. But there was something about them ... a singleness of purpose ... an aura of some sort. It had been there in Owen and had stayed with him until the time of his execution in the market-

square of Hereford. He had even made a flamboyant exit. Edward remembered how a woman had washed his face and combed the hair on his poor severed head.

An insidious thought had darted into his mind. Beware of the Tudors.

Then it was gone and a warm feeling of well-being followed.

Life was good. All was going well in England. The King of France dared do nothing but send his annual pension and very soon he would be sending for the King's eldest daughter to be the bride of the Dauphin and the future Queen of France.

These were appropriate thoughts on such an occasion. On the birth of one daughter he should be thinking of the glorious prospects which were about to be opened to another.

Two peaceful years had passed. The King had grown a little fatter, the pouches were a little more defined under his eyes and his complexion had taken on a slightly deeper hue; his energy was as unflagging as ever. He could still occupy himself with state matters and commerce with an amazing skill and at the same time spend his nights in luxurious debauchery.

There might perhaps have been a slackening off of his sexual adventures. He had three mistresses now. They were the merriest, the wittiest and the most pious, he declared laughingly; and he was clearly satisfied with them all. It was not that he had given up the stray encounter but he did not go off in disguise as he had in his youth. Hastings and Dorset were still his companions; and each of them had a reputation almost as bad as his own.

But the people continued to love him. They did not want a monk. They had had that with Henry the Sixth. Edward had the reins of the realm firmly in his hands. He was driving along at a steady pace and everyone had come to understand that his method was so much better than those of other kings. They had had great conquerors, but what had happened to the conquests when the conqueror passed away? Some other king lost them. There had been King John, Edward the Second, Henry the Sixth. What had become of their predecessors' victories when they were in power? They were lost, frittered away, and it was as though they had never been. But the wool trade could prosper; a king

who had arranged that the King of France should support his country and so relieve his people of exorbitant taxes was a good king indeed.

There had been two sad incidents. The first was the death of little Anne Mowbray. Richard Duke of York had become an eight-year-old widower. The little girl herself had not been quite ten years old and she was with the Queen's household at Greenwich when she had passed away. Elizabeth had been saddened by her death for she had loved the little girl and she had always said it was so charming to see her and Richard together. The child was buried in Westminster Abbey and it was fortunate, said Elizabeth, that the possessions she had brought to her young husband were to remain his even though his wife had died before him and they had no children.

So apart from the unfortunate death of the child, the little Duke of York had come well out of his marriage. That was what Elizabeth liked to see—the most cherished possessions of the kingdom falling into her family's hands.

There had been an even greater blow for the royal family when the Princess Mary died after a short illness. Mary was nearly sixteen and her parents had been planning a brilliant marriage for her with young Christian, the King of Denmark, when she developed a sickness which made her weaker every day.

The Queen was overcome by her grief. Her daughter Margaret had died some ten years before, but she had been with them only eight months and that had been hard enough to bear, but to lose a daughter who had been with them for nearly sixteen years and had been healthy until this time seemed a bitter blow indeed.

They buried her at Windsor and the Prince of Wales attended the ceremony as chief mourner. Elizabeth was comforted a little by her daughters and in particular the eldest Elizabeth who was now known in the family as Madame la Dauphine.

But since the death of Clarence there had been peace in Court circles—at least outwardly, for although the resentment was there between the noble families and the Woodvilles it was rarely allowed to show itself to the King. That was what he wanted. He had never lost the desire to turn away from what was unpleasant as if by ignoring it it ceased to exist.

Richard was a great blessing, and Edward would never cease to be thankful to have the troubles of the North taken from his shoulders by someone as able and loyal as his brother.

Scotland had been a thorn in the side of every English king. Peace would reign for a while and then there would be war. It had gone on like that for centuries and always would unless some solution could be found whereby they could live peacefully side by side. A few years earlier he had agreed to a marriage between his daughter Cecily and the Duke of Rothesay, son of James the Third; and he had been paying annual instalments of the dowry ever since, a fact which pleased the Scots; moreover, Elizabeth had been most anxious to find a royal bride for her brother who had been widowed and a match had been arranged between James's sister. Princess Margaret and Earl Rivers.

Even so trouble continued: raids over the border, pillaging of English towns, raping of women and carrying off booty. Even Richard could not be everywhere at once.