“Here,” the blacksmith says kindly, coming out of his little cottage to put a dirty mug in my hand. “What are you going to do, lady?” I shake my head. There is no pursuing force to misdirect; the York men are not coming through this way, just the broken remnants of our army. I fear that my husband is dead, but I don’t know where to look for him. I am weak with fear and with a sense of my own lack of heroism. “I don’t know,” I say. I feel utterly lost. The last time I was lost and alone was in the forest when I was a girl in France, and Richard came for me then. I cannot believe that Richard
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