Richard thought back on those happy Christmas reunions of his youth at Baynard’s, Fotheringhay and Ludlow, where the temporal music, dancing, and mummery blended with the moving, sacred ceremonies of the holy season. Now watching Traveller lope beside his horse, he remembered December of 1460 when the dog had finally become his. It was probably the moment when he had loved his mother the most. Inevitably, that New Year brought back the painful feelings of emptiness and sorrow at the loss of his father and brother and of witnessing his mother’s terrible grief—grief that had perhaps allowed him his first glimpse of the special love between a man and a woman. He pondered whether he would ever know such love, and the thought predictably took him back to the lovely Kate Haute. Just thinking of her gave him pleasure. When would he ever see her again? He could not imagine it. But Rob had once said to him, “…until you are fully a man, you should practice on a wench beneath you.” All well and good, Richard thought now, but would Kate be willing. And where could they be private together?

Why not ask Sir John Howard if he could hunt at Tendring again? Had Kate not said something about her father-in-law being Howard’s retainer? Nay, you fool, that was her husband. God’s bones, the husband! He slumped down in his saddle and stared at the bleak landscape that was lacking a white mantle so far that winter. Why does there have to be a husband? The idea of consorting with another man’s wife had never crossed his mind. Indeed it was anathema to him, although he knew it happened. Control yourself, Richard thought. The whole notion is hopeless, and he reluctantly put Kate from his mind.

The young duke had left Warwick Castle on the banks of the River Avon earlier that afternoon, where the earl and countess were holding their own yuletide festivities, and was relieved to escape the earl’s anxious eyes. Coventry was a mere twelve miles away, but when Richard saw the massive red sandstone walls of the city, with its many towers and gatehouses, and the soaring spire of St. Michael’s on the far, flat horizon, he let out a heartfelt, “At last!” and the worry over Warwick fled his mind.

Spurring his horse into a canter, he rode through the Cheylesmore Gate and up to the modest but beautiful manor house of the same name, nestled just inside the city wall. Richard understood why Edward needed to be in Coventry, because it was the center of the kingdom, and in these days of unchecked lawlessness, a king might feel more able to put down insurrections from that vantage point. But arriving at the handsome, half-timbered Cheylesmore Manor, Richard could also understand why Edward liked being there. It was a charming place.