Petite Anne stood holding the leading rein of Richard’s horse, and as soon as her father mounted the steps to the hall, she braved: “You will be missed, Richard. When will you be back?”

“I know not, little mouse,” he said kindly. “In truth, I do not know what my mission is with Edward. But when the king commands, I must go.”

“I understand. And I suppose you must take Traveller, too.” Anne stroked the dog’s head, and Richard was amused that she stood not much higher than the seated wolfhound. He still saw a little girl, although Anne, who would never eclipse Isabel’s beauty, was losing her baby face and becoming passably pretty. He bent and kissed her cheek. “I shall be back, never fear.”

Besides Traveller, the only luxury Richard took with him was safely hooded and enclosed in a cage carried behind his groom. He hoped he could show George how well he had trained his hawk Phoenix when they had time to hunt outside London; besting George at something was a priority.

Once again, on the long road south, Richard observed with compassion the lot of the common folk. Villages with mud or wooden hovels disgorged ragged barefoot children eager for a glimpse of the finely arrayed horsemen bearing the ragged-staff badge of Warwick. Richard and Rob depleted their small coins before they were halfway to London, watching sadly as grubby fingers groveled in the dirt to find the treasure.

Richard could not help but wonder whether Edward was governing his people any better than good and saintly Henry, who had been removed from the throne because he had failed. It was the very same reason Richard’s father had chosen to lay claim to the throne. “We did not depose a mad king to put a profligate on the throne,” Warwick had said in a recent conversation, and Richard could not shake that thought from his head: his profligate brother. How could Edward not want to help his unfortunate subjects, Richard questioned. If I were king, I would want all my subjects to have food, shelter and good laws. I would want them to know I cared for them.

As they rode through St. Albans, the scene of two bloody battles in what was now being dubbed the “cousins’ war,” a woman—a merchant’s wife, by the cut of her clothes—threw herself in front of Richard’s horse, causing the animal to shy.

“Gently, Strider,” Richard soothed his palfrey before calling out, “What does this mean, mistress? Are you hurt?”

“Nay, sir,” the woman said, but she did not move.

One of the escorts dismounted and roughly pulled the frightened goodwife to her feet. “Be off with you,” he hissed. “This is His Grace, the duke of Gloucester, now let us pass.”