The Pilgrimage of Katherine Haute (1471)

The May wind blows gently through the trees. I sit on the grass with my children, Cate and John, and watch the clouds pass by. Although my daughter is only two years of age, she is mighty clever: she hobbles around on the turf, picking up little flowers that poke up from the soil. John is only a few months old, and cannot do much other than sit in my lap.

It has been a warm day- unusually so for this time of year, although I shant complain: the weather is lovely and I shall spend it outside. I think on Richard: he is off in Tewksbury, fighting the army of Margaret of Anjou. His ring is still on my finger: the one he gave me before I fell pregnant with little Cate all those years ago. I turn it round and round on my finger, praying that he returns safely. Neither little Cate nor John have met their father yet; but when he does return, I shall introduce them officially. I savor the notion: how Richard will love his children, how they will love their father. My heart leaps with anticipation: let him come home to me already!

I see my aunt and father speaking on the other edge of the lawn, their faces solemn. My mind drops my daydream like a bowl of fruit, smashing onto the floor. I fear Richard has died. They begin to approach me cautiously, and I get up from my place on the turf, placing John onto his blanket. Little Catherine looks up to her grandfather and great aunt.

"What is it?" I plead, "Please, just tell me."

"It's about Richard." my father clears his throat anxiously.