My host, Roger Lord North, greets me with every sign of respect. Clearly, they are welcoming the sister of the heir to the English throne. His wife, Winifred, makes a muddle of her curtsey, bending overly low, trying to show the proper respect to a royal, trying to get down lower so that her head bows to me, but I laugh it off and she shows me to my bedroom. Two maids from the house have poured hot water for me to wash, and my own maid has a clean gown from my little bag of belongings.

I dine on my own in the guest room rather than at the high table in the hall. I feel shy after so long—nearly two years!—of confinement. And I suspect that there will be spies as well as well-wishers among the diners in the hall. I am not ready for the jostle and noise of a great hall. I have been so lonely for so long that I cannot get accustomed to many voices, all talking at once.

We wake, attend chapel, and take breakfast early the next morning, and at nine, by the clock over the stables we are on the road again. My horse is rested and, though my legs are bruised and stiff, I am filled with such a delight in freedom that I beam at the commander of the guard and when we come to a stretch of straight dry road I tell Sir William that we can canter.

It feels as if I am flying, I am going so fast. I bend forward and urge the horse on and the thundering of the hooves and the flying mud and the wind in my face make me want to sing with joy. I am free, I know I am free. I am free at last.

The little villages as we approach London are accustomed to travelers coming and going down Watling Street, and they look for the standard, and when they see the royal flag they recognize me and call out my name. The commander rides closer beside me.

“We were told not to draw attention to ourselves,” he says apologetically. “Would you be so good as to wear the hood of your cape over your head, my lady? There’s no point in inviting a crowd.”

I pull up my hood without a word of complaint, and I think that goodwill to the queen must be at a very low ebb, if a cousin as lowly as me can be a danger if seen on the road.

“Where is your sister? Where is Lady Katherine and her bonny boys?” someone shouts as we ride towards the entrance at the east of the city.

“Where are the little princes?” someone calls, and I see the commander of the guard grimace. “Where are the Seymour boys?”