He held his breath and strained to listen in the long silence, knowing whatever happened would change his life. The piercing scream echoed again through the castle, then stopped. The silence worried him more than the screaming. It started again, louder and more anguished. It stopped when she called out his name.

‘Richard!’

He made a fist and squeezed until his nails dug into his palm. The sharp pain helped take his mind off what he was thinking. Richard stood up from the chair that had been left for him and paced the candlelit passageway. The thump of his heavy boots echoed despite clean rushes on the hard stone floor. There was nothing he could do to help her. His wife had screamed like this before. Their first child, Joan, had a difficult birth five years ago. He had sent for a priest when little Cecily, his favourite, was nearly the end of her two years later. It didn’t get any easier.

She called for him again, begging this time. ‘Please. Richard?’  Her voice wavered and he feared she was weakening.

The waiting would soon be over, one way or another. He forced the thought of what may happen from his mind. Women were supposed to have their mother or sisters to help them.  Alice’s mother was dead. She was an only child. It would bring bad luck if a man were to enter the birthing-room, so he could only pace the long, dark hallway and wait. He thought of himself as a patient man, able to put up with most things. This waiting was the worst he could remember.

He cast his mind back to the day he first saw her, eight years ago. Alice was an heiress, an attractive and spirited girl, barely fourteen years old when he married her. She looked beautiful on their wedding day, her long, dark hair under a shimmering veil of white gossamer silk. Her voice sounded clear and confident as she made her vows and pledged her life to him. As a younger son he would not inherit, so his marriage sealed his fortune.

Alice’s father, Sir Thomas Montacute, was now dead. Her condition meant she couldn’t travel to the funeral, so Richard had made the long journey south without her. That had been barely three weeks ago. Sir Thomas survived the battle of Agincourt, only to be killed by a shard of glass when a French cannonball smashed through his window during the siege of Orleans. Alice was his only legitimate heir and inherited her father’s title, his lands and his fortune, all now Richard’s by right of his wife.

He was becoming a man of great importance, soon to be acknowledged as Earl of Salisbury and Baron Montacute. Their new wealth would bring new challenges from those who would dispute his rights to the vast estates. As well as others of the Neville line, there was the long-standing and bitter dispute with the Percy family, who would steal his northern lands, given the chance. Even as he pictured the rampant blue lion of the Percy flag he remembered they would have to find an amicable truce, a promise he’d made to his sister Eleanor, now the wife of Sir Henry Percy.

Although he would now have the income from the Montacute inheritance as well as from his lands and properties in the north, Richard was ambitious. He wanted more for his family. He would see his daughters married well. He desperately needed a son. If this baby was another daughter it would mean waiting at least another year, if not longer.

He had been brought up to know they were watched over by a vengeful God, who punished men for their sins and could condemn their souls to eternal damnation. As he had grown older, Richard struggled with his faith, a secret he shared with no one, not even Alice. He liked things you could see with your own eyes, feel and touch. All the same, he wanted to believe. Richard dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor and put his hands together.

‘Please, Lord, let me have a healthy son.’  Almost as an afterthought, he whispered, ‘Dear God, keep his mother safe to care for him.’

If he had a strong, healthy son, he would teach him more than simply how to wield a sword. He would need to understand the politics of the court and parliament. The king was eight years old and under the care of the Lord Protector, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester. Richard had respect for the duke, who had fought at Agincourt with King Henry. Richard had also seen how the real power at court and council was wielded by Cardinal Henry Beaufort.

The cardinal grew rich by lending money to those who could not afford to repay him, turning their minds against the Duke of Gloucester’s slender grip on authority. He put words in the mouth of the boy king, all in the name of the church. His son must understand how to outwit those who would deceive him. He must never trust the clergy. Richard would teach him caution in his choice of friends, to be careful where he placed his trust.

Richard could bear the silence no longer. He held his breath and listened at the door to the birthing-room. Made of thick oak, the heavy old door was studded with black iron nails. He could hear nothing. In frustration he knocked on it, a loud rap that echoed in the empty corridor. He stood back. The door to the birthing-room opened and he braced himself for the news.

The midwife opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. A shrewd, practical woman, she wore the robes of a nun. He looked into her surprisingly blue eyes, trying to see any clue to the truth of Alice’s condition. This woman held his future in her hands. He had chosen her well. She was the best he could afford and had a reassuring confidence and knowledge of her trade.

‘How is my wife?’ He tried to hide the impatience he knew could be heard in his voice.

‘She will live, with God’s grace, my lord.’ The midwife moved back towards the door, concern on her kindly face.

‘The baby?’ His mind raced with the life and death decisions he knew she may have to ask him to make.

‘The baby will be here soon, my lord.’

Richard was still concerned. ‘Is there anything you can give her, so she will suffer less?’

The midwife shook her head. ‘Nature will take its course. The worst is over now.’

‘I want you to tell my wife something for me. Tell her I love her.’

The midwife smiled. ‘Of course, my lord.’

She closed the door to the mysterious birthing-room behind her. Richard sat down heavily on the chair at the end of the passageway, his head in his hands, to wait. His mind raced with mixed emotions. To his shame, he knew this had been the first time he’d told Alice he loved her for many years. He hoped his words would comfort her and promised himself he would tell her more often.

Although it had not been a love match Alice had always been a devoted wife to him. She had taught him much and helped to make him the man he was now. She seemed to understand his bluff northern ways, his passion for the hunt and even his clumsy lovemaking. He had grown to love her now. Again he found himself wondering if he would lose her. It would be hard bringing up the girls without a mother. If they lost the baby there would still be hope, another chance for a son.

The sharp, unmistakable cry of a newborn baby shook him from his sad reverie. He was wondering if he should go back in when the door opened wide, flooding the dimly lit corridor with light. The midwife carried a linen wrapped bundle and carefully placed it in his arms. Richard looked down and saw two bright eyes staring back at him. He loosened the tight swaddling and a tiny hand pulled free, with perfectly formed little fingers, already grasping for whatever was in reach.

Alice called to him from the birthing-room. ‘A boy!’ He could hear the happiness in her voice.

‘Richard.’ He called back to her. ‘We will call him Richard!’  He held the baby as if he was the most precious thing in the world. ‘Richard Neville.’