Richard sighed. “You know me well by now, sweet Kate. You know that cannot be.”

“Aye. Your morality will not allow a mistress, will it? Sweet Jesu, sometimes I wish you were not so God-fearing!” She stroked his cheek and sighed. Then she giggled. “We shall just have to make the most of our times together, won’t we? And thank the Almighty for sending Edouard to wed Anne, which will delay our parting—at least until someone else acceptable comes along.”

Richard pulled her close. “Until then, my dearest rose.”

Every scrap of clothing Richard wore was thick with the dust kicked up by four thousand men marching at double quick time in pursuit of the enemy. This time it was the Yorkists’ original enemy, Margaret of Anjou and her commanders, Somerset, Lord Wenlock, the earl of Devon, and her son, Edouard.

“My crown is not safe unless we prevent the She-wolf joining forces with Tudor in Wales,” Edward had said to his own commanders upon hearing the news that Queen Margaret had landed in the west country and was gathering men to her banner in that Lancastrian part of the kingdom. He sent out commissions of array to fifteen counties, and by the time his army marched out of Windsor on the twenty-fourth day of April, he had amassed a considerable force. History would show that Edward acted decisively and with intelligence in his bid to thwart Margaret’s effort to reclaim the crown for her husband and son.

By this time, Edward’s troops would have followed their magnificent leader into the regions of Hades, and at the wicked pace up and down the Cotswold Hills, they had an inkling of what those hellfires must be like. Both armies raced against time—Margaret to cross the Severn somewhere and find safety in Wales, and Edward to stop her. Although on horseback, Richard often chose to dismount and march alongside his tired and thirsty men. Rob teased his friend: “Why must you show yourself no better than they? The common folk probably think you are as foolish as I do.”

On the evening of the third day of May, after a grueling thirty-six miles, the royal army camped a few miles south of where the Lancastrians had taken up a defensive position near Tewkesbury. The only way to cross the Severn was a ford that was tantalizingly close.

“Gloucester, you will command the van,” Edward told his brother, as they studied his battle strategy. He once again excluded George, who pretended nonchalance. “George you will ride with my center, and Lord Hastings has the right flank. Aye, we are tired, but the enemy is more so—my spies tell me they have marched relentlessly for a full day and a night. And thanks to my commanding the constable of Gloucester to refuse them entry, they have had no supplies since Bristol. We shall have the edge.” He drummed his fingers on the table, making the small pieces of wood representing his divisions jump up and down. “You know our aim: we must remove the threat to the crown permanently. We must kill or take Edouard of Lancaster or there will never be peace.” He leveled his gaze at each of them in turn until they nodded. “Now get some sleep,” he ordered.