The Duke of Gloucester slipped out from the victory banquet, feeling uncouth and out of place among the brightness and merriment of his brother's court.
His private chambers were vast and luxurious. He stood for a while, wondering which room to choose, into which armchair to pour his misshapen body.
Slumping down into the nearest, he fingered its velvet with vague disgust.
A knock on the door. "Enter."
"There's a woman to see you, your Grace."
Gloucester looked up. "A woman?"
"Yes," said Ratcliffe. "You know? Like a man, but with soft bits on the front. I know you've been with the army for a while, but–"
Gloucester cut him off, unsmiling. "Who is she?"
"Lancaster's widow, your Grace."
Richard was the newest of Warwick's fosterlings, the youngest, the smallest, the weakest ... or so it seemed.
A great lout of a knight's son had taken an instant dislike to him.
To be honest, most people took an instant dislike to Richard, including his own mother, but Peter's dislike was more active than most.
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