‘Are you ill, mistress?’ she asks. ‘You’ve gone white as my washing.’

‘Who commanded the royal army?’ I ask; though I know it was him. Who else would they send but Richard? Who has more experience, who is more reliable? Who is more loyal and honourable than my husband? Who would they choose if not my beloved?

‘Ah, now that I don’t know,’ she says cheerfully. ‘All I know is that he is dead now, for sure. Are you taken ill?’

‘No, no,’ I say. My lips are numb. All I can say is the one word. ‘No. No.’

We crowd together through the narrow streets. I cannot get away now; even if I could get the horse out of the crowd I don’t think I could ride. I am limp with fear, quite unable to take up the reins, even if the crowd would let me. And then, at last, we are at Bridgegate and the crowd thickens and pushes. My horse becomes anxious at being so crowded, her ears flicker and she shifts from one leg to another; but we are hemmed in so fast that she cannot move and I cannot dismount. I can see the Lord Mayor of the City as he leaps up on a milestone, balancing with a hand on the broad shoulder of one of the City’s guard, and shouts to the crowd, ‘I take it it is your will that Captain Mortimer and his men enter the City?’

‘Yea!’ comes the roar. ‘Open the gates!’

I can see that one of the aldermen is arguing, and the Lord Mayor gestures that he shall be roughly taken away. The guards throw open the gate and we look out through the gateway beyond the drawbridge. On the south side, there is a small army waiting, standards furled. As I watch, they see the gate flung open, they hear the encouraging bellow of the crowd, see the red of the mayor’s robe, and they unfurl their banners, fall into ranks and march briskly along the road. People are throwing flowers from the upper storeys of the buildings, waving flagee the reering: this is the procession of a hero. The drawbridge is dropped before them and the clang as it goes down is like the clash of cymbals for a conqueror. The captain at the head of the men turns and, using a great sword, slices through the ropes of the bridge, so that it cannot ever be raised against him. Everyone around me is shouting a welcome, the women are blowing kisses and screaming. The captain marches before his army, his helmet under his arm, his golden spurs sparkling at his boots, a beautiful cape of deep blue velvet rippling from his shoulders, his armour shining. Before him comes his squire, holding a great sword before him, as if he is leading a king, entering into his kingdom.

I cannot tell if it is Richard’s sword, I don’t know if this man is wearing my husband’s hard-won spurs. I close my eyes and feel the coldness of the sweat under my hat. Could he be dead without my knowing it? When I get to the palace will the queen herself comfort me, another widow at court, like Alice de la Pole?