My new wife is dead.” Holding his hat in his hand, Arthur stood before Eleanor in Windsor’s chapel. He looked haggard as the hat’s drooping feather, as if Margaret’s sudden death had sapped his energy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Eleanor said. She frowned. Sorrow was all she felt. Where was hope, where was longing to be with Arthur, now that he was free? “Margaret came down with a fever as we traveled. We had no physician. No one in our group aided her. She died before we reached the next town.” He sat beside her, but she slid down the pew. “My sympathies for you and her suffering,” Eleanor said. “But why tell me? Does Richard know of her death? Or that you’ve returned to court?” “Not yet. I wanted to see you first.” He turned, as if making sure no one else could hear. “I’ve lost more than my wife. Since she died without an heir of her body, her lands revert to the king. Edward hasn’t accepted me into his good graces. The attainder still keeps—”
