'Take me to the Countess. Now!' Warwick bellowed to his servants, as he shed his cloak. He had received a letter telling him that his wife was in labour. He had ridden through the night. This shall be my boy, he thought.
He could hear Anne's screams as he got closer to her bedchamber. He could only imagine the pain she was in. He had been absent for Isabel's birth. Then the cry of the baby was heard and he could no longer stand to wait. He entered the room, and rushed to the Countess' side.
'Anne!' he said to her. She was drenched in sweat, and the sheets were covered in blood, as was her nightgown. The maids were trying to clean her up as fast as they could as the midwife was holding the baby. Anne turned to look at him, exhaustion in her eyes, and something else. Was that worry?
'It's a girl, Richard. Another girl. I'm sorry...' she was crying, the thought of disappointing him again really plaguing her. Warwick couldn't help but feel the small yet very present feeling of disappointment at the news. But the look in his wife's face, the worry and shame it displayed, was too much for him. He felt the intense need to bring her comfort, make her smile, ease her fears. He stepped onto the bed and cradled Anne to comfort her. He kissed her forehead and said,
'We shall love her very well. And name her Anne, after her mother.' He kissed her again and as he did so he felt the tears at her cheeks and the smile at her lips.