It seemed to Richard that the earth might suddenly erupt and disgorge the uncomfortable, telltale mounds of buried bones and armor, the newly sprouting grass on top like whiskers on a young man’s chin. He shaded his eyes and imagined his golden warrior brother on the other hill across the little stream shouting orders to his army as the flying snow blinded them all. He fancied he could hear the whirring sounds of arrows shot from lovingly crafted longbows, the mainstay of the English foot soldier, and remembered now that the strong blizzard had cut short the Lancastrian arrows’ flight, allowing the Yorkists to collect and redirect them back, slaying the bowmen on Henry’s side of the hill with their own shafts. He thought he could hear the agonized cries of men dying, see the blood-red beck filled with bodies that their comrades used to ford the flooded stream and flee the field. Like other soldiers from time immemorial, something in his blood stirred, and he found the handle of his shortsword and gripped it instinctively. When would he see battle? Part of him longed for it, longed to show what he had learned in three years under Master Lacey, longed to right a wrong, fight on the side of God, Edward and England, and taste the thrill of victory. But part of him did not blame those poor yeomen on Towton Field who had turned and fled instead of standing only to be cut down by the enemy. Which way would he turn? Was he old enough to fight like a man, he wondered? How old must one be?

“Sweet Jesu,” he said out loud to the now silent, empty field. “I am fifteen today!”

“Are you, by God!” Rob’s voice startled him. “And you still have never felt the joy to be had between a woman’s legs. We must do something about that, my friend.”

Richard grinned, slapping Rob with his glove. “You, Sir Robert, are naught but a libertine!”

The bigger of the two, Rob laughingly wrestled his friend easily to the ground. “Bite your tongue, my lord,” he mocked, and balling up his wool liripipe, he covered Richard’s mouth with it. At once, Richard was transported back to the most frightening scene of his boyhood, and a surprised Rob was thrown several feet to his left with tremendous force. Richard now knelt astride him and, with his grim face two inches from Rob’s, he snapped, “Never do that again, do you understand. Never!” Puzzled, Rob nodded.

Standing, Richard suddenly winced in pain and fell to his knees. His squire quickly helped him up again, while Rob brushed himself off, looking askance at his friend.

“Too many days in the saddle,” Richard muttered by way of explanation. “Let us not waste time in this unhappy place.”