I turn my horse from the stable gate of Westminster, since there is no safety there for either of us. I think I had better get to the Tower before nightfall. She steps out bravely enough but we are both weary, and on every street corner there is a brazier and someone roasting meat, and men drinking ale and swearing that the good times have come and that Mortimer will advise the king and there will be no more taxation and no more cheating of the poor and the bad advisors will be driven away. They call me to join them, and they curse me when I shake my head. In the end I have to throw a coin and wish them well, and for the last few streets I pull my hood over my face and sit low in the saddle and hope to sidle by, like a thief in my own city.

I get to the gate of the Tower at last. There are sentries on every wall and they shout down at me, as soon as they see me, ‘Halt! Who’s there? Stand where you are!’

‘The Duchess of Bedford!’ I call back, showing them my face. ‘Let me in.’

‘Your husband the baron has been searching for you all evening,’ the young guardsman says as he throws open the gate, comes out to take my bridle, and help me down from the horse. ‘Your men came in and said they had lost you. He was afraid you had been captured by the mob. He said he would see them swing for treason if so much of a hair of your head was hurt. He told them! I have never heard such language.’

‘My husband?’ I ask, suddenly dizzy with hope. ‘Did you say my husband was looking for me?’

‘Like a madman . . .’ he starts, then he turns to listen, as we both hear the clatter of hooves on the cobbles. He shouts, ‘Horses! Close the gate!’ and we rush inside as the gates creak behind us and then I hear Richard shout, ‘Rivers! Open up!’ and they fling open the double gates and his little band of men rides in like thunder, and he sees me in a moment and jumps down from his horse and catches me up in his arms and kisses me as if we were a squire and his lady once more, and could not bear to part.

‘Dear God, I have ridden all round London looking for you,’ he gasps. ‘I was so afraid they had taken you. Cutler at the house said you were going to Westminster, and the boy at Westminster knew nothing.’

I shake my head, tears running down my face, laughing at the sight of him. ‘I’m safe! I’m safe! I got caught up in the crowd and separated from our men. Richard, I thought you were dead. I thought you had been killed in an ambush in Kent.’

‘Not I. Poor Stafford was killed, and his brother, but not I. Are you safe? Do you feel well? How did you get here?’