Richard, weakened from his wound and bone-tired, was never so glad to see anyone in his whole life as he was to see Kate, who was anxiously leaning out over the second story balustrade in Baynard’s inner courtyard. He had smuggled her and his two children into the castle a day or two before the battle when his mother was at prayer. Their reunion had been sweet, and made all the sweeter for the presence of little Katherine and one-year-old John. He had not seen his son since the child’s birth, and his delight in the lad was heartwarming for Kate. He had not been able to stop dandling the child and marveling. John, unlike Katherine, who resembled her mother, had Richard’s own chin, gray eyes, and straight dark hair, although the boy had Farmer Bywood’s solid build.

“A Bywood and a Plantagenet,” Kate had remarked. “Good solid stock, I would say.”

Now collapsing onto the soft feather bed after Kate had lovingly removed his blood- and sweat-stained clothing, he wished she were truly his wife and helpmeet. Kate inspected the wound and sent her servant, Molly, to fetch her traveling supply of potions together with a needle and silk thread. He winced as she expertly sewed up the ugly gash. “You told me you hated sewing, my love,” he teased, “and that you are the worst seamstress, yet this looks to be skillfully done.”

“Fiddle-faddle!” Kate retorted, as she dipped her finger in a mustard-colored ointment. “Now hold still, this will hurt.”

Richard fell asleep almost before Kate had finished, but when he awoke much later and the castle still slept, he was overjoyed to find Kate snuggled against him. She felt him stirring and was immediately awake.

“How many men died at Barnet?” she whispered. “Was there anyone I knew…” She had been afraid to ask earlier in case she recognized names. “…Jack Howard? My father-in-law?”

“All in all more than one thousand fell,” Richard said, his heart heavy from all the carnage. “But Jack Howard lives to fight another day. I promise to enquire about Martin Haute for you.”

He rolled onto his back and stared into the darkness, Kate tucked in the crook of his arm. His mind could not help but return to Warwick. “Poor Anne,” he whispered. He felt Kate stiffen.

“Why spoil our time together, Richard,” she complained. Anne Neville’s name had come up before in their infrequent meetings, and Richard had admitted that for some time he had considered making Warwick’s daughter his wife. “Why must you always mention her name? You know how much it hurts me.”

At once contrite, Richard turned on his side and pulled Kate to him, careful to protect his arm. “I have always been honest with you, Kate. You know that my duty is to wed…”