Richard had not been privy to the discussions Edward had held with Warwick in February at Coventry, to which the earl had been persuaded to attend by his brother, Archbishop Neville. Warwick had reluctantly reconciled with two of his adversaries, but he would not keep company with the Woodvilles. Edward also refused to take warning from the earl’s ire that he had forged alliances behind Warwick’s back with Burgundy and Brittany against France, leaving the earl to keep his own counsel and the wounds to fester. How the two men arrived at this day of unity was testament to Edward’s naive dealings with the powerful Warwick—of which the earl would fully take advantage in the not too distant future—and Warwick’s arrogant belief that he was the power behind the throne.

Was it Richard’s imagination or were the Londoners cheering Warwick as much as Meg? He thought he heard, “à Warwick” in the cacophony of voices, trumpets, and bells, and he observed how the earl smiled and bowed left and right, throwing coins into the crowd. Richard had often admired his mentor’s ease and generosity towards the Yorkshire yeomen. Warwick seemed to reserve his arrogance for the nobility below him and not for the commoners. Edward would do well to copy him, Richard thought, for once Warwick and Meg’s horse had passed a well-wishing group, the cheers became less enthusiastic for Edward following them.

Halfway down the Chepe, Margaret caught Richard’s eye and blew him a kiss; without a moment’s hesitation, Richard looked over at George. Surely it was for him, Richard thought, but George was busy bussing a plump woman’s blushing cheek, eliciting catcalls from the fishwife’s intimates. Richard pointed at himself, and Meg nodded and blew him another. She looks so confident, he thought. Happy almost. She was sitting tall and proud behind the earl, waving to the wish-wishers lining the windows, doorways and street. But Richard knew Meg was dreading going “to her fate” as she called her arranged marriage.

“’Tis my duty,” she had told him. “As a woman, I was born to be of use to my family. This is what I am useful for, like it or not.” Richard understood duty only too well and had acquiesced. If only Edward had considered duty before marrying Elizabeth, he thought. Although consumed with passion for Kate, Richard knew their love could not lead anywhere; his duty would not allow it.

A cry of “God bless our own Lady Margaret!” from a group of nuns jolted him back to the present, and he remembered learning how Meg spent hours of her time nursing the sick and giving alms to the poor in this overcrowded, plague-ridden city. He would miss Meg. He felt pride for his generous, intelligent sister, and wished instead it were George leaving to be married to young Mary of Burgundy—an alliance that had come to nothing.