Christmas of 1483 was a happy affair at Windsor, a celebration of Richard’s accession to the throne and his victory in crushing a rebellion without bloodshed. The castle was decorated with evergreens, strewn with dried rose petals and violets, and lit by hundreds of torches and yule candles. Snow fell softly outside, while inside the castle minstrels played in the gallery, fires crackled in the hearths, and the aroma of spiced apples and roasted chestnuts wafted through the merry halls crowded with laughing guests. But as Richard sat on his throne watching the mummery, his heart was not as light as he would have wished. Brittany and Tudor preyed on his mind. A wool fleet bound for Calais had been forced to return to England to avoid capture by Brittany, and Tudor still haunted his nightmares. As soon as the Christmas festivities ended he would have to force Duke Francis to make peace—and hand over that Lancastrian remnant. Maybe all he needed was to give his admiral, that fierce old sea-dog and master of naval warfare, Howard, enough money to launch a serious campaign.
