“You are not cursed, Richard.” Desperate, she tried again. “You are a loyal and dutiful servant of God—and England. God cannot…He will not forsake you.” She boldly ran on, “You have a son who adores you and looks to you as an example. He is right outside. Be strong for him. He will not forsake you, and neither will I. Someday Dickon, too, will know the truth, and be proud. You cannot go into battle from such a dark place in your heart. It only tempts Fate.” She wrung her hands. “Damn my rashness. I should not have added to your burdens by coming here. I should have waited until after your victory. Forgive me, my love! I beg of you, forgive me.”

With supreme effort Richard pulled himself together and turned to her, his torment plain. “Nay, ’tis you that should forgive me,” he said, carefully placing the crown on the table. He took her hands in his, unable to resist her pleading eyes. “Know this, Kate Haute, that you have always owned a piece of my heart.” He reached inside his undershirt and pulled out the écu. “You see, you are always with me, God help me. And every time I saw Katherine or John, you were with me.” He replaced the coin and patted his heart. “You and Katherine will ride with me on the morrow, and thus protected, I cannot lose.” He paused. Despite his words, he suddenly felt fear, and, cursing, he turned away to hide it. She should not have come, and yet he hated his weakness for needing her.

With his back to her, he gently but firmly said, “Now please go. I have more pressing matters to attend to.” He felt cruel, but she, too, had been cruel coming with such news on the eve of what would more than likely be the most important day of his life. “Go!”

Kate swallowed a sob and left without a word. He sank down on the bench, pulled out his daughter’s strand of hair and finally allowed tears of sorrow to darken its green velvet covering.