It was the middle of April a bright sunny day with a promise of spring in the air. There was no spring for us. It was the end of hope.

It was late morning when the messenger arrived from Middleham. Eagerly Richard and I received him, but when we saw his face, a terrible fear took hold of us.

I heard Richard's whisper: "It is ... the Prince of Wales ..."

The man did not speak for a moment; he was afraid as all messengers are when they carry ill ridings.

"Tell me." said Richard harshly.

Why would not the man speak? Why did he hold us in suspense? Half of me was urging him to speak, the other half begging him not to. I knew what he had to tell us before he spoke. It was what I had been dreading for months.

The prince is dead, your Grace."

I heard the cry of anguish which Richard could not suppress. I went to him and took his hand.

We just stood there, stunned by the news which we had feared so long.

Richard waved his hand to dismiss the messenger. He could not bear the sight of him. Later we would hear how our son had died. We did not need to know now. We could see it clearly, as though we had been present. We had feared so much ... lived with the fear so long; we had waited with such great anxiety for messengers, terrified of what news they would bring. And now it had come.

Few children can have been mourned so deeply as our little son. It was more than the death of a child; it was the death of hope; it was the end of a way of life; for me it was the beginning of those fears which came to mock me in the night.

Richard and I were very close to each other during the days that followed.

His continual cry was: "Why should this happen to me? Edward had many children and what sort of life did he live? He was never faithful to his wife; he had countless mistresses; he pandered to the flesh ... and yet, he left two sons and many daughters. Is this a punishment from heaven?" He turned to me in horror.

"Was Stillington's story true? Am I robbed of my son because I robbed Edward's of his crown?"

I tried to comfort him. He had never done aught than what he considered to be right, I reminded him. Edward's sons were illegitimate. They had no right to the throne.

"I cannot rid myself of this fearful guilt," said Richard.

"Edward was our son. He was more than our son ... he was our pledge to the people that there would be a ruler to follow me. I should have taught him wisdom, Anne. He was a good boy. He would have been a good man. He was bright. Think of young Warwick. There he is ... healthy ... sporting at Sheriff Button, while our Edward ... What does it mean, Anne? You and I are cursed?"

I said: "Perhaps there will be another."

I did not believe it. If I could not conceive when I was younger, and in a better state of health, why should I now?

The sound of his bitter laugh hurt me and the memory of it stayed with me.

No, there would be no more. The only son I had been able to give him was a puny boy who, with a struggle, had lived for eleven years.

I was no use as a king's wife. I was thirty years of age and barren ... and kings needed sons.

We mourned together, but something had happened. Perhaps it was in my mind. But I could not but be aware of Richard's disappointment.

"Let us leave Nottingham," he said.

"I never want to see the place again. Every time I see it I shall remember that messenger who came here on the most dismal of all days, with the most tragic news which could befall us. I hate Nottingham. This I shall call the castle of my care." Richard seemed withdrawn and I felt we were no longer as close as we had been before.

He was busy all the time. Summer was coming and affairs of state demanded attention. They did not stand still because the king and queen had suffered the greatest tragedy of their lives.

Richard knew he had put the country into a state of defence. The perpetual bickering with the Scots usually began in the summer but the English lords of the north who had their property to protect would doubtless keep them in order.

The great concern was Henry Tudor. What was he planning in Brittany? He had made one attempt, but by the Grace of God had been prevented from landing by a storm. Could the same good luck be expected if he were to attempt another landing?

There was a great deal to occupy Richard. I did not suggest returning to Middleham. That could only be a place of mourning for me now.

All peace had gone from my life. I could not believe in anything now not even in Richard's love. A canker had entered my mind and all I looked upon seemed tainted.

I saw myself, no longer young, weak, useless a barren queen. I fancied Richard had changed towards me. If he had loved me once he now looked at me through different eyes. I was no longer the woman at his side to help him, to comfort him. I was a burden.

He had chosen unwisely. I had been Warwick's daughter and, with my sister Isabel, the richest heiress in the kingdom. We had been fond of each other in childhood, it was true, and our marriage had been acceptable to him for what it brought. I had dreamed of a great love. But did true love drift away when disaster struck? There were times when I knew I was being foolish. The death of our son could not have changed Richard's feelings towards me. Was I responsible for it? Could I be blamed because I could not get a healthy child?

I tried to reason with myself. Richard is a king. He needs heirs. He has to think ahead. Above all things he needs a son to train, to lead, to teach how to take over the government by the time he, Richard, grows old or meets his death. Richard desperately needs a son.

I could not talk to him of the fears in my heart. There were many times when I did not believe in them myself. Richard had never been a man to show his emotions. I used to tell myself it was because they went so deep. They were not superficial as his brothers Edward's and George's had been. Both of them had known how to find the words which pleased, but they lacked sincerity.

So there was I, torn by doubts, entertaining all kinds of pernicious suspicions because I had considered myself and found myself wanting.

Richard was making a show of throwing off his grief but I, who knew him so well, could detect the abject misery in his eyes.

He said to me one day: "Katharine is of an age to be married."

Katharine, with her brother John, was still at Middleham, and Katharine must be about sixteen years old.

"I should like to see her settled," went on Richard.

"John, too, though perhaps he is a little young yet."

"Whom have you in mind for Katharine?" I asked.

"William Herbert, the Earl of Huntingdon."

"That seems very suitable."

"As for John, I should like Calais for him."

"Captain of Calais! That would be a very important post."

"He is my son," he said, I fancied, coolly.

And I thought, your son indeed a strong, healthy boy. My state of mind was such that I imagined what he must be thinking. I can get a healthy son by another woman, but not by my queen.

I heard myself say: "He is young for Calais."

"I thought perhaps next year. I need those I can rely on, and I can do that with my own son. But to begin with ... Katharine's marriage. I think the time is ripe for that."

Katharine joined us. She was a bright and pretty girl, very excited at the prospect of marriage and, of course, the Herberts were delighted by a union with the king even though there was illegitimacy, it was still a royal marriage; and the king would look after his own daughter.

So Richard's daughter was married and I noticed that when his eyes rested on her they were filled with pride ... and something else, I wondered? Was it resentment? Why should he be able to get healthy children by another woman when his queen failed him? It was becoming an obsession with me. I looked for it on every occasion. One day he said to me: "I have been thinking of naming Warwick as heir to the throne."

"Warwick... but...?"

"We must face the truth, Anne. You and I will never have a child now. It is too late and I would fear for you. But there must be an heir."

"Richard, you are young yet. Pray do not talk of such need for an heir."

"A king's life is often a short one."

"As all our lives may be." I was thinking of Hastings and Buckingham, and I believe he was too.

"Warwick's father was tainted with treason. Would that not exclude him?"

"It could be dealt with. He is the next in line."

"Richard, Warwick is not fit to rule. He is weak-minded. It would be like Henry the Sixth all over again."

Richard was thoughtful.

"There is my sister Elizabeth's son, the Earl of Lincoln I looked at him with sorrow and he went on gently: "These matters have to be considered. Sometimes they can be painful. One thinks of what might have been He turned away and soon after that he left me.

I went to my chamber and shut myself in.

If only I could bear a son! If only I could be strong! Would Richard love me then? There were too many ifs and if love must depend on such things, is it love?

Had he ever truly loved me?

I tried to pray. I tried to ask God and the Holy Virgin to help England and me. But how can one pray for something which, in one's heart, one knows one can never have?

There was a certain amount of talk at this time about the possibility of Henry Tudor's making an attempt to depose Richard and to set himself up as king in his place. His supporters had put forth a proposition which could be attractive to the people.