Rob guffawed. “Ever the philosopher, Richard.” More seriously, he offered, “Shall I be a go-between for you? I could pay my respects to Anne and find out when George may be away from home.”

Richard and Rob had not counted on Isabel’s loyalty to her husband, and she would not send for Anne when Rob turned up on Thames Street. “My husband has gone to Bisham,” she said, referring to one of the inherited Warwick manors. “You must treat with him when he returns, Rob. Forgive me, but I know my duty.”

“Will you give Anne a letter at least? I wish to extend my condolences to her on the loss of her husband.” Rob’s innocent expression convinced Isabel, and she nodded.

“I will send for parchment and quill,” she said, “and then you must go.” She stood to the side as he put pen to paper, but when he stopped mid-greeting and stared at her, she shrugged and went to the door. “Thank you for your visit, Rob.”

As soon as she had left, Rob scribbled the requisite few lines of sympathy, but then folded Richard’s letter inside his own and put his seal on it. At least Anne would know that Richard cared. How this was to be resolved, he had no idea, but he was well acquainted with Richard’s stubbornness. Glib, shallow George was no match for Gloucester’s level head and determination.

Dearest Richard, Anne wrote in her tiny, neat script, if you are as determined to have me as I am determined to have you, then God will help us. We will all be together at yuletide, as the king has invited us to Westminster, so we can meet there. George will not dare refuse to let us talk with Edward watching, will he?

Richard agreed, but Christmas was a good month away, and he was tired of George’s bullying. He had stayed away from Coldharbour House for long enough, he thought, as he was ferried to Thames Wharf one chilly November day. Pushing off from Baynard’s wharf, he was reminded of the scene there many years ago when he and George had fled to Flanders and Meg stood with a distraught Traveller watching them go. Traveller! Dear old Traveller, I hope one day we will be reunited in some pleasant place, Richard thought sadly. He had nursed his faithful old hound who had succumbed to a sudden sickness in the bowels not three days since. Richard had stayed with him all night and had finally administered the deadly tincture that had put the suffering animal to sleep. “Who shall I confide in now, dear old friend,” he had whispered, cradling the dog’s big head in his arms one last time; the wolfhound had given comfort during those black moods for many months.