Tomorrow will be their last day on the road. Warwick’s sent word that their way lies open. Parliament is in session and waits upon Richard’s arrival. Be bold, Warwick says. Seize the day. Richard seems to take little joy in the news, no more than he has in the journey. Today, as every day, he’s listened to men’s complaints, smiled at their jests and told them to expect better times ahead. But he’s made no promises, and between the towns, in quiet open country, his face has been stern, sometimes sad, and there’s been little talk in him. She’s ridden beside him all the way, but tomorrow she’ll take to the carriage with its eight coursers in summer blue. She’ll arrive in London like a duchess. Better still, a queen.

There’s a chill in the air now darkness has fallen. He’s wrapped a cloak about himself, brought another for her where she sits in the tent’s doorway, watching the camp settle. He puts the rising moon at his back, looks west, the way they’ve come, towards the wild country of Wales and the sea beyond it.

‘Wishing you were still in Ireland?’ she asks him.

He smiles, rueful. ‘They were good days.’ He pulls up a chair and sits beside her. ‘Not just now, I mean. When we were there together.’

She moves to rest her shoulder against his. ‘When we danced in the hall at Trim and Ormond called you King of Ireland?’

‘Ah, but the stone said not.’ He’s remembering that last day of pleasure, when they rode to Tara in the heat of summer and summoned the pagan gods. ‘I laid my hand upon it and there was only silence.’

‘There is a better kingship waiting for you.’

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Perhaps.’ He empties his cup into the grass.

On the edge of camp, the sergeant calls the hour.

‘Let’s to bed.’

They draw quite a crowd, riding up to Westminster Hall with eight hundred men at their back, and the colours of York and England snapping above their heads. There’s ragged cheering, men nodding to their wives, nudging their neighbours and guessing what’s afoot. When Richard hands her from the carriage, Cecily spies Edward, waiting on the steps. He’s leaning down and pointing their way. He has the boys with him. His reaching arm rests on George’s shoulder, a restraining hand holds Dickon’s thin wrist. Margaret hovers just behind with Annette.

Richard doesn’t wait but walks straight to them, kisses Margaret’s head, kneels to the boys and pulls them close. When Dickon locks his arms about his neck, he laughs and jiggles him. ‘You haven’t forgotten me then?’

The boy pushes his head into the crook beneath his father’s chin and shakes it, vehemently. ‘Never,’ Cecily hears him whisper, as she comes up behind.