Riding either side of Richard were his two other battle commanders: Jack Howard, duke of Norfolk, and the latecomer Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, who would command the rearguard. Northumberland had not been present at the final meeting, having arrived too late; he too had received a silver badge but had chosen not wear it. Richard hoped the omission was not deliberate. Burying the doubt, he concentrated on acknowledging his subjects’ good will.

As he neared the end of the stone Bow Bridge, he suddenly spied Kate, her long chestnut hair flowing free of the customary widow’s wimple. Reining in his mount, he sidled up to her. “Shocking, bold lady!” he murmured, his fingers itching to touch the glossy tresses. “I did not think to see you.”

It was then that a single magpie alighted a few feet in front of them. Kate gasped. Was it an omen? Richard crossed himself as Kate muttered in superstitious country fashion: “Good morning Mr. Magpie, how’s your wife.” As their eyes met, Richard instinctively reached for the écu on its lanyard. He suddenly realized this might be the last time he saw her. He pulled out the talisman, untied it and bent down to give it to Kate. He heard Northumberland grumbling behind him, but Richard decided to let him wait. I waited long enough for him, he thought.

“Nay, nay, Richard,” Kate protested. “You will need it now more than ever.”

Richard smiled. “I have Katherine’s lock of hair, remember. You must give this to Dickon. It should go back to a Bywood, and he will have something to remember me by.” He bent down to her, dropped it into her outstretched hand and whispered. “Forgive me for yesterday. Farewell, my rose.”

Kate reached out her hand and caressed his cheek. “God keep you, Richard.”

As he eased his horse away, his mailed foot caught the bridge abutment, and he saw Kate recoil in fear. He was momentarily curious, but their brief interaction being over, he set his horse once more on the path to Henry Tudor and forgot the incident.

Finally alone in his pavilion and with several black hours of waiting ahead of him, Richard had whiled away one of them ruminating on the twists and turns his life had taken to this point. Holding King Henry’s gift in his hands, he tried to concentrate on the text and accompanying illuminations, but, as always, the memory of the dark night in the Tower returned. Why he had not divested himself of the prayer book long before now, he could not imagine, but perhaps it was God’s way of holding him hostage to his guilt for all these years. God’s bones, why can I never forget?