The feast had lasted four hours and was showing no sign of abating. Despite the snow outside, Anne was sweltering under her rich furs. She wondered how many people had been packed into the hall – it felt like more than a thousand. Behind her, heat from the new fireplace was so intense that she was afraid her gown might catch fire. The traditional hearth in the centre of the room had been lit too, and the stewards and pages who served them had sweat dripping from their faces into the food which, miraculously, was stone cold by the time it reached them.

They were packed so closely together that beside her she could feel her husband of two months growing ever more tense. He hated their social duties even more than she did. She supposed he felt self-conscious about his physical appearance, and indeed sitting at table with the charismatic King, his glamorous Queen, and all her similarly well-favoured relatives, he did look out of place. The only one at high table shorter than him was the seven-year-old Duke of York, who took great delight in teasing him about his deformities and cruelly mimicking him. He was too young to know better, of course, but Anne couldn't help wishing that his mother or someone would take him in hand.

She loved Richard just the way he was. She wouldn't have exchanged him for the tall, blond king or for a dozen Woodvilles, or for… Like many others, she could not avoid dwelling on the conspicuous absence of the other brother of the Richard and the king: George, Duke of Clarence. He usually made a fool of himself at feasts: drinking far too much, talking far too loudly, and bragging about great feats that he had never in fact achieved. She had never much liked him, but she did feel for him imprisoned all alone in another part of the Tower just because of some stupid prophecy. She wondered whether he could hear the noise of their celebrations.

The musicians struck up a dance tune. Edward suddenly arose and everyone bustled to stand up too. Richard hated dancing more than anything, though from the way he moved when he was fighting, Anne thought he could be quite good at it if he tried. Moved with love and pity for him, she put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He irritably brushed it off and glared at her.

It wasn't that he didn't love her. She knew he loved her far more than men of his station were supposed to love their wives. He had spoken so movingly of his love on the day he gave her his ring. Admittedly he had never spoken of it since, and was always so cold to her. But on that day there were tears in his eyes. Real tears. No-one could feign that kind of passion. And he had offered to kill himself for love of her! What if she had accepted his offer? No. It had to be that he loved her. She felt her own eyes filling. It was wrong of her to be angry when he was cold or cruel – he was only that way because he had suffered so much, and it was her job as his wife to relieve that suffering, to enable him to feel love and joy and all the other things that made life worthwhile.

"…your Grace?"

She had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she had not noticed Earl Rivers, the Queen's brother, addressing her.

"Pray Pardon, my Lord, I… am feeling a little faint from the heat. I did not hear thee."

"I asked if it would please thee to dance a measure with me, since thy husband…"

"No." Richard cut him off. "My wife said she is feeling faint. I will escort her back to her chamber."

Anne wondered what Rivers had been about to say. Judging from the beginnings of a sneer at the corner of his mouth, it was unlikely to have been anything pleasant. But in any case, she was relieved that it had given them an opportunity to escape. She wondered whether perhaps Richard had noticed her distress as she had his, and was concerned for her welfare. He gave her his hand to help her up. Sometimes, at least in public, he could be quite affectionate. Paying honour to the King and Queen, they made their apologies and left.

He followed her into her chamber.

"I assume you're not pregnant yet?"

"Not as far as I know. I mean I… Richard… I…"

"Well you'd better get undressed then. Go away."

The latter was addressed to her waiting gentlewomen, who, true to their calling, had been waiting for her to come to bed. They made their curtseys and left with obvious relief. They were both terrified of Richard.

He wanted an heir. And when he wanted something, he was quite single-minded about obtaining it. Anne liked to think that although he gave no sign of it, he also appreciated her loving touch. It had occurred to her that before their wedding, no-one had ever shown him physical affection. His mother made no secret of having hated him since before he was born, and by all accounts his nurse alternated between keeping a terrified distance from the ugly, precocious boy and beating him ruthlessly. With a reckless stab of sympathy she, now naked, enfolded him in her arms. At once he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her down backwards onto the bed. As always, he remained fully clothed – the metal and leather of his doublet chafing painfully against her bare skin.

On the whole, she preferred sex with Richard to sex with her former husband, Prince Edward of Lancaster. Edward paid more attention to her pleasure, of course, but she always got the impression it was only because he needed to see himself as the kind of man who could give a woman a good time, not because he actually cared. Richard just took what he wanted and left. It seemed more honest, somehow. And so she told herself that honesty was why she preferred him. After all, it was absurd to think that she could actually enjoy the pain and humiliation, or find darkness and deformity more attractive than Edward's classical good looks.

As always, it was over very quickly. He rolled over onto his side with a grunt. Anne savoured the memory of feeling and watching him lose control for an instant. He was normally so in control – the thought that she had the power to make him briefly sacrifice it invariably made her aroused too. When they were together, it was seldom that she went to sleep unsatisfied.

However, it was equally seldom that she went to sleep for long. Richard began to twitch fretfully, and cry out with loud, frightened whimpers. Anne wished she knew what his nightmares were about, but she wouldn't ever dare ask, and the snatches of speech she caught were indecipherable.

She put her arms around him, half wanting to wake him, half fearful lest she did.

"Quiet, love. It is only a dream."

He gave a low moan, and half moved, half was manoeuvred until he was resting his head on her breasts. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, and yet she was in a sort of bliss. She gently stroked his back, running her hand down his strangely curved spine, and whispering soothing words.

Then he woke up.

"Get off me, woman!"

"You cried out, your Grace. I am your wife, I…"

"As your wife you have given me your share of your father's estates, you appear beside me in public, and you will bear my children. Those are your duties. Nothing more. Go away."

Anne took a deep breath. "Your Grace, on the day you gave me your ring, you said you loved me. You said…"

"I was lying. I am very good at that, though I must say it was easier than I expected. You are very stupid even by female standards and you disgust me. If you had any sense then I would disgust you too. Go away."

Anne searched for an excuse not to believe him, but couldn't find one. So she tried to find words for how she felt, but discovered that she wasn't really feeling anything.

"Don't just stand there and stare at me, woman. I said go away."

She considered protesting that it was her chamber and not his. It was the first time she had ever thought about trying to deny him something he wanted.

"You must allow me to get dressed, your Grace. You would not have your wife wandering the Tower naked."

He grunted in lieu of a reply, and turned his back to her.

Still no emotion. She was surprised at how calm she felt, how in control. She put on her smock and kirtle. She could have gone out like that, but it was cold, so she put her gown on too. She had not dressed herself for a while. It was not difficult, but the patterns of hooks, eyes and pins was unfamiliar, and she also found her hands were shaking a little. She did not say goodbye.

As on all feast nights, the royal apartments at the Tower were full. The sound of voices and music from downstairs indicated that the feast was still going strong, but of course she did not feel like returning there. She considered going to Richard's chamber, but he always locked it and she did not have a key. She could join her ladies, of course, but she wanted to be alone, and besides, she had no idea where they slept when in the Tower if not with her. She walked the corridors, the small problem of trying to find a place to sleep the night pushing from her mind the vast problem of her marriage.

From some of the doors she heard the muffled sounds of licit and illicit pleasure, from one only a loud snoring. Someone was chanting compline, not entirely in tune.

Then she came upon a small door that she remembered led not to anyone's sleeping chamber but to a small study containing nothing but a desk, a chair, and a couch. Perfect. She would sleep the night there (why was she so calm? How could she even contemplate sleeping? She pushed those questions to the back of her mind) and not think about her problems until the morning.

She pushed open the door. Someone had left a candle alight, though it had nearly burnt down. How careless. Devastating fires started that way. All the same she was grateful. She had no means of making light herself, and did not feel like finding her way in the dark.

By the candle there was a large book, and a vivid illustration on the right hand page caught her eye. A beautiful woman was standing on top of a cart with her hands and feet chained, and guarded by two Roman soldiers. She was wearing a golden crown, and her clothes were rich with barbarian splendour, but they were torn and dirty, and her face and body were contorted with agony. Beneath her, some more soldiers had tied up a young man with clothes similar to the woman's. One of them had slit his torso from top to bottom, and another was in the process of pulling out his entrails.

It was horrible. And fascinating. And the faces were so true to life! Not like a picture at all, more like looking at an image in a mirror, or at life itself. After many minutes, she sat down and turned from staring at the picture to examining the book itself. Surprisingly, the writing was in English. Opposite the picture it said:

"The Tragedie of TAMORA, Queen of the Goths, her Dreadful Revenge against TITUS ANDRONICUS, and her Horrible Downfall"

Keeping her finger in the place where the book was left open, she then looked at the cover:

"The Booke of Women, and their Dire Revenges against the Wicked Men who have done them Wrong, including the True Storie of the Valiant Hebrew Matron JUDITH and her foe HOLOFERNES; the Ancient Tragedie of MEDEA, and the Little Known Tale of TAMORA, Queene Gothick."

She turned back to look at the picture again. She had thought Tamora beautiful at first, but now she wasn't sure. Her nose and mouth were very big, and her skin and hair were dark. What she had at first interpreted as agony on her face now looked like savage anger. But if it wasn't beauty she saw, what was it that compelled her to keep looking, that filled her belly with longing?

She began to skim the text.

Tamora, it seems, was the Queen of the Goths, whoever they were. She had been captured in battle… Had she actually been fighting, Anne wondered. She had heard there was a Frenchwoman of her father's generation who led an army, and her former mother-in-law, the formidable Margaret of Anjou had certainly ridden at the head of one (though she had nothing to do with the fighting itself.) The idea intrigued her. She looked down at her own thin, pale arms – she could never imagine even holding a sword, let along swinging one, and as for actually hurting someone with it – the idea was impossible – horrible. But that didn't necessarily mean that no woman could do it. As a child she had begged her father to tell her everything he knew about la Pucelle. She fantasized about meeting her, about there being a woman who she could hug and play with as familiarly as her own waiting gentlewomen, but who was also strong enough to fight like a man.

But both la Pucelle and Tamora had been captured. 'la Pucelle' was burnt to death. Anne had always shuddered at the thought of that, but now she thought that Tamora's fate was even worse. She was forced to watch as her favourite son was tortured to death.

Anne turned the page. In the next picture, Tamora seemed rather happier. She was lying naked in a forest clearing, in the arms of a man with very dark brown skin. Anne coloured modestly at the sight of what they were doing, but she kept looking. She had seen a man with skin that dark once – he had come to court in the service of the Spanish ambassador, but one of her ladies had said he was from Africa.

It was not, however, on his dark limbs that her eyes rested. It was on Tamora, whose dusky breasts suddenly looked pale. She wondered what it would be like to lie against those breasts – so much fuller than hers, yet so much firmer than those of the larger women she had seen; to be kissed by those full, red lips, caressed by the strongest female hands she'd ever seen. She found that she was becoming aroused again, and, embarrassed, turned the page without bothering to read the text.

There were five people in the next picture. A man in Roman garb lay bleeding on the floor, and on top of him lay a pale woman, almost naked, and in an attitude of extreme terror. Two young men dressed like Tamora's son in the first picture were making as though to ravish her, and Tamora was pinning her shoulders down, and laughing.

Anne gave a little gasp of shock, and then to her utmost horror, heard a laugh from the dark corner of the room. She leapt up, but before she had time to flee, she heard a voice…

"It is a terrible thing to wrong a great Queen."