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but strategic keep. Sir Henry, as Richard remembered him, was a loyal and kindly man, some years his wife’s senior. He had died the previous year, another victim to the incessant undeclared war between England and Scotland that had raged for centuries along the border between the two kingdoms. Sir Henry had left but one living child, Arabella, who was a year older than the king’s own son, her cousin.
    The difference in age between the two children was not readily apparent, for although Neddie was ten to her eleven, and frail of body, Arabella Grey was still petite, not having attained her maturity yet. She had a quick mind, though, the king noted, for she not only held her own at the chessboard with Neddie, she had already beaten him once this afternoon. The girl, Richard mused with a small smile, had obviously inherited her father’s intellect, for sweet Row had never been able to play chess or concentrate on anything more complicated than an embroidery pattern. The child had looks too, not that her mother was lacking there, but Rowena Neville Grey, with her light blue eyes and thick wheaten-colored hair, appeared almost plain next to her daughter, for Arabella, with that odd, pale gold, almost silver-gilt hair, and those light green eyes that slanted up slightly at the corners and which were overshadowed by dark brows and lashes, was a rare beauty. The king chuckled softly to himself. Why was it, he considered, that the heiresses from great families were more often than not horse-faced, while the daughters of the less distinguished were usually the beauties? It was obvious that God had a great sense of fair play.
    “Is she promised?” he asked aloud, nodding his head toward Arabella, even as he directed the question to her mother.
    “Henry and I had planned to match her with a cousin, but the boy died of a spotting sickness last autumn, my lord,” Rowena Grey replied. “Ohh, Dickon!” Her pretty face grew hopeful. “Would you make a match for her? I am so helpless when it comes to things like this, and who else can I turn to? Oh, I know how busy you are now that you are king, but could you not take but a moment of your time to find Arabella a husband? We desperately need a man at Greyfaire. I live in terror lest the Scots come over the border. I would not even know how to defend the keep.”
    “Why do you not remarry, Row? Arabella is young yet, but it would be easy to find you a new husband,” the king said.
    “Nay! I have naught to offer a man but the little dowry my Lord of Warwick gave me when I was wed to my Henry. I fear a suitor might cast covetous eyes upon Greyfaire, and find a way to do my daughter a harm in order that he might gain her inheritance. If once Arabella is married there is one who would have me, then so be it, but I shall not take another husband until my child’s future is safe,” Rowena Grey said firmly.
    “I think you show surprising good sense, cousin,” Queen Anne remarked. Then she turned a melting glance upon her husband. “Come, Dickon, find a husband from amongst your retainers for little Arabella. You would have Greyfaire in safe hands, would you not? Remember that Arabella’s father was a cousin to Lord John Grey, he who was the first husband of your late brother’s wife.”
    “Henry was ever loyal to your grace, however,” Lady Rowena quickly interjected, for although King Richard had loved his elder brother, Edward IV, and had always been his most loyal liegeman, he detested his brother’s queen.
    Elizabeth Woodville, several years King Edward’s senior, had, it was believed by many, entrapped her king into marriage. She had—in fairness, Richard thought—been a good wife to her husband, and given him a large family of children, including two sons, but she had used her position to enrich and ennoble her family excessively. Few called themselves her friends, and consequently, after his brother’s death last April, there were few to take up her cause when the