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bed. Both women, so alike with their thin frames and long, serious faces, put him in mind of a couple of nuns mourning over a tomb. They were dressed plainly in short-sleeved black kirtles, their heads covered by white linen coifs. Mary’s pet dog, an ancient wall-eyed spaniel named Lionel, pressed against her legs and gazed quizzically at the sick man in the bed.
    “Richard,” said Dame Anne, leaning forward to peer critically at him, “you are awake. Thank God.”
    “I never thought to see either of you again,” he whispered, reaching for his mother’s hand. “Where has Mauley got to? He was here a moment ago. I miss his music.”
    Dame Anne didn’t often smile, but now her narrow lips hitched up at the corners. “That was last week,” she said, taking his hand and gently stroking it. “You have been delirious since, or asleep. The doctor from Lichfield was here three days ago. Happily, both for you and our coffers, he may not have to visit again. Your wounds are healing, God be thanked.”
    Richard passed a hand over his brow. “I feel like death,” he murmured. “So much has been a blur since the battle.”
    He gazed at the arched windows above the hearth. One of them stood ajar to allow fresh air into the hall.
    “We broke and ran,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “ran like whipped dogs. I got to the stream, and then…”
    He frowned, trying to remember. His mother and sister tensed and exchanged anxious glances.
    “I didn’t get much further,” he said eventually. “I remember there were bodies everywhere, choking the water, and blood, and rain, and arrows falling, and men and horses screaming as they fought to get away. I thought I was dead for certain, and then...”
    He cautiously touched the clean linen bandage wrapped around the top of his skull. “A Yorkist must have clubbed me. I knew nothing more after that.”
    “You were stabbed,” said Mary, speaking for the first time. Her voice had a soft, soothing quality, unlike the harsh grating of her mother’s, “and bled for days. It is only by the grace of God you survived.”
    “God has doubly intervened,” added Dame Anne, “for He has put an end to these unhappy wars. Your fighting days are done, Richard. There will be no call to risk your life in battle again. York is vanquished. He, and Warwick, and all their fellow traitors, are scattered like the chaff they are.”
    Richard gaped at her. “Vanquished?” he exclaimed. “How?”
    “After the devil gained his victory at Blore Heath, the Lord put fresh heart and resolve into the King,” she replied. “The royal host chased York’s ragged band all the way to Ludford Bridge. There, instead of fighting, the craven Duke abandoned his men and ran away under cover of darkness. He fled to Ireland, taking one of his sons with him. Warwick, Salisbury and York’s other whelp have gone to Calais.”
    “Thus England is swept clean of traitors, and we can all start anew,” said Mary.
    Richard laid his head back against the mass of pillows. The news of York’s defeat had drained him. “After this, all seems possible,” he said. “What else? Has James sworn to follow his vows of temperance and chastity?”
    His sister laughed, and held up her left hand to display a bright silver ring. The ring was studded with an emerald and inscribed with the image of a leaping stag.
    “Let us not be greedy for miracles,” she said, “and here is no miracle, but the fulfilment of one man’s long-held wish. I am betrothed to Henry of Sedgley.”
    Richard looked intently at her, and then at the ring. The leaping stag was Henry’s sigil, one he had chosen for himself instead of adopting a bastardized version of his father’s ducal arms.
    “I have woken from a nightmare into a world of perfect happiness,” he said weakly. “Hal has been my friend since boyhood. I could not wish for a better match. But what of your old fiancé?”
    “Young Huntley is a forsworn traitor,” his mother replied