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saying that my father had cursed their invitation to sit among his enemies.
    It was not the crown he was clinging to, but stubborn pride.
    In truth, my father thought kingship a burden. Always, he warred with his barons, blamed the clergy for condemning him, and was resentful that the people did not love him as they did my mother, Queen Isabella, nor fear him like they had my grandfather, the first Edward, called Longshanks by some. I had even overheard him say once that he would rather have been born a commoner. I found that hard to fathom, for it seemed not only a harsh life, but devoid of glory and purpose. Even then, as young as I was when he said the words, I felt a sense of honor to be born the heir to England’s throne. To me, the promise of a crown was uplifting—a gift I embraced with every sinew and bone of my being.
    Day by day, however, it was growing increasingly harder to hide my impatience. For so long, Mother had spoken to me of being king one day, not only of England, but France as well. My uncle, King Charles of France, had been married to his milk-faced bride, Jeanne of Evreux, for just over a year now. Already she had birthed one child, a girl, who died before her churching. A sad affair, but I was acutely aware that if she never bore him an heir, he might well name me as his successor.
    And then, yesterday, Bishop Orleton returned from another meeting with my father, bearing a document. When he gave it to my mother, her knees swayed beneath her and she clutched it to her breast as fiercely as if it were her own infant delivered from the threshold of death by some miracle.
    I knew its contents. Not the exact words, perhaps, but there could be no mistaking that the path of my destiny had finally been laid out before me. A thousand thoughts raced through my head as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, yet exhilarated. That morning I was awoken early, dressed in velvet as blue as the northern sea, my shoulders adorned with heavily linked chains of gold strung with jewels as big as coins. I was hurriedly escorted to Westminster Palace, where Parliament was convening.
    Hours dragged by while I was made to wait in the King’s State Bedchamber. I rested on my back with arms folded on the oversized, down-filled bed, staring up at the ceiling’s painted oaken panels. One in particular drew my attention. On a field of blue, a winged seraph wore a cloak of dove-white feathers, his eyes cast heavenward. A halo illuminated the tightly sprung coils of his golden hair. My eyes flicked to the panel beside it, where a stern-faced prophet with a long flowing beard of gray gripped a scroll in both hands. It harkened back Orleton’s arrival.
    I sat up, too anxious to remain still any longer. Grabbing the ermine-lined cloak draped over a nearby chair, I marched past my tutor, Richard Bury, who had just entered bearing an armload of books.
    “I apologize profusely, my lord,” he blubbered, his fat cheeks flushed with effort, “but they did not tell me you were leaving the Tower this morning. It took some time to gather everything. Are you ready to begin your lessons?”
    I lingered at the doorway only a moment, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst inside my chest if I didn’t do something . “Not today, Richard. I’ve too much on my mind.”
    “But your mother says —”
    His voice faded to a faraway buzz as I hastened down the corridor, Will close on my heels. Two flights of stairs and several turns later, I stood in the adjoining chamber just outside the vast hall where Parliament was gathered. A row of armed soldiers flanked either side of the door, their expressions as blank as unfashioned blocks of marble. I started toward the entrance, expecting the guards closest to fling it open for me. Instead, a pair of poleaxes crossed before me, their heavy curved blades clanking as they glanced off one another.
    “You are not to enter, my lord,” one of the guards said flatly, “until called for.”
    “Called