Chapter One

Summer 1459

Runt.

When was the first time Richard became aware the unsavory word was being used to describe him? Possibly as early as age seven, and it was then he began to understand he would have to fight for his place in his illustrious family and indeed the world. Far too young, in truth.

It did not help to dispel the cruel moniker often given to a last-born that Richard, nicknamed Dickon to avoid confusion with his father, the duke of York, had a short, skeletal stature and had succumbed to frequent childhood illnesses. However, not long after Richard’s birth, when King Henry had happened by Fotheringhay, principal residence of the house of York, the king had raised the infant Richard high and proclaimed him, “A perfect prince!

“He shall be king some day,” the king had declared. Duchess Cecily’s smile had frozen on her beautiful face as attendants gasped their horror. Not that the statement was untrue, but no one present could possibly have guessed Richard’s destiny. He was the fourth son of a duke—of royal blood, it needs to be said—but he was no king’s heir. Certainly there was mounting conflict between Henry’s house of Lancaster and the house of York as to which had the better claim to the Plantagenet crown, but war between these cousins was far from anyone’s mind. No, poor befuddled Henry had simply and sadly mistaken this child for his own, as yet, unborn son—although the queen was indeed pregnant. The king had had lapses of sanity of late, it was true, but he appeared perfectly well, and thus the York courtiers could be excused for believing the king’s words, which they thought tantamount to treason. But how could a king speak treason against himself? Or, more intriguing, was the king’s gaffe an omen? Being superstitious, many of them crossed themselves.

But Cecily knew better; she recognized the blank stare with which Henry gazed on her son and knew the king’s fragile mind had drifted. She realized he had no inkling of his lapse, and she felt sorry for him. Despite their quarrels, she and Henry had always liked each other—Cecily’s feelings more of concern, to tell the truth—and now to silence the murmurings around the room, she swiftly came to the king’s rescue.

“Your Grace, this is my son Richard,” she had declared brightly. “Let me take him from you before he pulls off that pearl button. We cannot have him swallowing such a treasure! I see he already has good taste,” and she chuckled. “Your son will be born soon, I hear,” she had run on smoothly. “Such happy news!” Turning to her steward she asked that he escort the king to his chamber. “I can see you are weary, Your Grace. I pray you allow Sir Henry to make you comfortable.” And with her gracious and quick-witted intervention, the duchess dispelled what had been an embarrassing but prophetic slip of Henry’s tongue. Looking down at her child, gurgling in his cradle, she could not possibly have dreamed what Fortune had in store for him.

Dickon was told this story years later by his nurse, Anne of Caux, when he was old enough to understand it, and it became their little joke whenever Dickon broke a nursery rule. She would click her tongue and reprimand him: “Not such a perfect prince now, are you?”

However, Nurse Anne was his champion whenever he came running to her for sympathy during his first half dozen years of trying to learn his place. His brother George, three years older, and his playmates had used the delicate child for target practice during “who-can-kick-the-ball-and-hit-Dickon first” game they had invented, as Dickon scampered around the inner bailey avoiding the inflated pig’s bladder. George would leave Dickon far behind while the bigger boys streaked on longer legs through boggy fens around Fotheringhay to hunt for tadpoles and frogs on fine spring mornings. George callously dubbed the lad “babykins” when Dickon ran to hide from the taunting or cried when George wrestled him easily to the ground. How he hated that name.

Then one day, a day four-year-old Dickon would never forget, George lost his temper with his young brother over a missing toy knight. Nurse Anne was out of the room when George, his face white with rage, plucked a pillow from the bed and, holding Dickon down, pushed it over the terrified little boy’s face.

“Where is it, you thief? You stole my soldier. Give it to me or else!” he hissed.

“I can’t breathe!” Dickon’s muffled voice was desperate. “Please George, I can’t breathe.” He flailed his little arms and kicked at George while trying to take in air. Panic set in and he saw lights behind his eyes and heard his own heart thumping unnaturally. When he thought his lungs would burst through his chest, George came to his senses. He released the now-limp Dickon and threw the pillow back on the bed.

“Serves you right, you little monster,” he muttered and then threatened his sobbing brother further: “Stop blubbering. You say one word to anyone about this, and I’ll do worse to you.” Then as though nothing had happened, he went back to his miniature army. Dickon, crawled beneath the bed and curled up into a ball. Puzzled, Nurse Anne found him there later, fast asleep. George lied and feigned ignorance.

Thus, certainly, Dickon was no stranger to tears by the time he left the nursery, but he learned to hide them and his hurt in the sanctuary of his favorite place at the castle, the kennels. There, the dogs yelped a welcome and, some of them twice his size, slathered him in sloppy kisses. In the kennels, “runt” was reserved for the dogs, and Dickon was accorded the respect due a duke’s son from their handlers. It was no wonder he preferred their company to his brother’s bullying playmates.

He remembered at age five when, following a tussle in the nursery with George, Nurse Anne had soothed his wounded pride one day as she rubbed salve into an ugly blue-green bruise on his arm. “You must sometimes endure pain to grow strong, mon petit,” she told him then in her soft Norman tongue. “You have la peine of being the youngest. Often it is the hardest place in the family, tu comprends?”

He had understood only too well: he would never match up to his three brothers. There was extrovert Edward, then fifteen and by now a warrior of a prince standing more than six feet; gentler Edmund, Edward’s junior by only a year but equally strapping; and eight-year-old George, a head taller than his youngest sibling and already well aware of his good looks and charm. Even more aggravating to Dickon, because she was a girl, his sister Margaret had inherited the Neville height. Was it any wonder Dickon spent his time at Mass praying that he would grow big and tall, too? As the fourth boy with no particular charm or good looks, what chance did he have to be noticed by his powerful father and beautiful mother? He thought his mother loved him well enough, but with seven living children with whom to share her love, he felt sure his portion was the smallest—and yet he yearned to be her favorite. As for his noble father: aye, he would tousle Dickon’s mop of darkening hair and occasionally bring him a gift, but he rarely visited the nursery and, it seemed to Dickon, would heap praise on George for no good reason while believing his brother’s tattle-telling. Pleasing his father was all young Dickon craved.

Ned and Edmund had protected Dickon for those first few years, but now they were gone, and, as was the custom for noblemen’s sons, they were living with their own households in far away Ludlow on the Welsh borders, learning to be leaders of men. Dickon hardly remembered anything about them except for a large presence when they had visited the nursery. And he was certain they now did not give him a thought.

Why, there were those dark days when the little boy wished he had not been born at all!

Now, at thirteen, ten and seven, Margaret, George and Richard were the only siblings left at home. They played, squabbled and attended to their lessons, sheltered in the confines of massive Fotheringhay Castle and unaware of the dangerous times in the lawless land they lived in. Ruled by a weak king, his ruthless wife and ambitious advisors, England was but a shadow of the kingdom left by Henry the Fifth not forty years before. Even more humiliating, Harry’s feeble son had since lost all the Norman lands his hero father had given his life to reclaim. A hundred years of war with France had all but crippled England, leaving its people disgruntled and beggared. It was no wonder the woods were as crowded with outlaws as the birds perched in the branches above them.

Cocooned as he was at Fotheringhay, Dickon had always felt safe and loved when he was wrapped in his elegant mother’s arms at the end of the day as she recited their nightly prayers. Cecily taught him to talk to God, and soon the boy found himself taking comfort from Him in those trying times when George teased him. When he was old enough to be told stories from the Bible, the angels of Dickon’s imagination took on his mother’s face and cloud of golden hair. The duchess of York would not admit that this small boy tugged at her heart, not only for his resemblance to his father, but for his innocent piety. At least one of her children understood the magic of a heavenly Father. She was aware of his childish adoration of her, but it did not occur to her to demonstrate her love. These were Plantagenet children, and strong backbones, morals, and a sense of duty were needed to perpetuate the dynasty, not coddling and indulgence. Proud Cis did not dare allow herself to show favor, although her husband often teased her about her special attachment to Edmund. “Pish!” she would retort.

But even those precious times Dickon spent with her were few and far between. Cecily insisted on being with her husband as often as she could, leaving the youngest siblings in Nurse Anne’s capable, plump hands, which had caressed or disciplined all of the Yorks’ twelve offspring.

“God bless your father, your brothers and sisters, dear Nurse Anne, and all Christian souls,” Cecily of York whispered to the thin little boy on her lap on one of those rare nights.

“And God bless you, Maman,” Dickon replied softly as he buried his dark-blond head into her long neck and hoped jealous George could not hear. “God bless you most of all.” He often added a prayer that God would give him another brother or sister, so George could no longer call him runt.

A pity Cecily did not see the bully in the older boy. It was hard to look beyond the unruly fair curls, brilliant blue eyes, angelic smile and ready charm George reserved for those from whom he required attention. Cecily did not know the George who only felt strong and important when he was crowing his triumph after a wrestling match, or who would sulk unattractively when Nurse Anne chastised him for tormenting his smaller sibling. No one so far, except Dickon, had witnessed how swiftly rage could overtake him. It was a trait both he and Dickon inherited from their father, it was observed later in their lives.

Had Edward and Edmund been present to witness George’s unkind behavior, they might have influenced George to pick on someone his own size. Cecily’s older daughters Anne and Elizabeth were married and long gone. Only the last of her living daughters, Margaret, or Meg, who often bemoaned the fact that she towered above her older sisters, remained. “I have a neck like a giraffe,” she would complain. When George was born, Meg was fascinated by her baby brother, and a deep bond had formed between the two. When Dickon arrived, after Cecily had lost two other babes, Meg was out of the nursery, and George was old enough to feel an intense jealousy for the newcomer. And it had festered.

Who would have blamed Dickon for resenting his treatment at the hands of George—especially after the suffocating incident, but instead an observer would have been startled by the devotion of the young brother. Dickon trailed George closely like a wayward thread on the hem of a gown, and when George deigned to allow Dickon into a game or to practice at the butts with him, the small boy’s wheatish complexion would glow almost rosy with pleasure, and he momentarily forgot his hurt.

On an idyllic English summer day, when the bells in the new tower of Fotheringhay’s church rang across the meadow to remind those going about their daily business in the castle and the village that it was time to pray, Dickon’s small universe changed forever.

Two riders in the York livery of murrey and blue cantered over the drawbridge of the double moat and into the castle yard. A flurry of grooms and servants ran to assist them, and as Dickon watched from his lofty window perch in the keep, the messengers disappeared below him into the great hall.

“Messengers, Meggie,” he called across the solar to his sister, her nose in a book. “Two of them, and they are in a hurry.”

George scrambled up from a game of fox and geese he was playing with his page, and jerked his head towards Dickon. “Let us go and see what their business is.” Exultant to be included, Dickon hurried to keep up as George was already through the door. They ran down the steep spiral staircase with the sure-footedness of familiarity and stopped where they could peer through a squint into the hall. They watched as the messengers were greeted by Richard of York’s steward, left in charge of Fotheringhay while his master moved around the country ensuring the strength of his other great castles in this time of anarchy and unrest in England.

“Their graces, the duke and duchess, are two days from Ludlow,”

Roger Ree, the duke’s usher, announced. “They charge you to ready the household within the week to join them, and that the duke’s children be given a sufficient, armed guard. The queen is on the move south, and my lord of York fears Fotheringhay is vulnerable to attack.”

“That’s Queen Margaret,” George hissed in Dickon’s ear. “The She-wolf, Mother calls her. She rules the king and thus the country. She is Father’s enemy.”

The smaller boy shivered. He did not like the word enemy; it conjured the evil-eyed, black-clad, misshapen monsters of his nightmares. But at seven, he was beginning to understand that his father and King Henry were not on the same side, despite the king’s famous visit some years ago. The man did not sound like a monster to the boy. Hadn’t his mother used the words “gentle and amiable” when Dickon had asked if the “Perfect Prince” story were true? Dickon could not imagine why his beloved father and the king would be enemies. And so now he shrugged off his fear.

However, the conflict between his father and the king confused the child, not surprising given the complexity of the Plantagenet succession. As far back as he could remember and understand what he was told, his mother and father had instilled in all their children the sanctity of loyalty to one’s sovereign. “Except in the case of evil or incompetent governance should a man turn against his king,” Richard of York had insisted. “When you are older, boys, you will swear fealty to King Henry. ’Tis an oath you will never want to break. Loyalty, above all virtues, should be your watchword. Certes, loyalty to your family should never waver, and do not forget that Cousin Henry is both our kin and our king.”

So how can anyone in our family be an enemy, the boy wondered, but as none of his siblings had questioned their father’s lesson, the youngest had not dared speak up.

Now considering George’s whispered comment, young Dickon recalled a spring day at Fotheringhay when he had watched a contingent of mounted knights, their chainmail and sword hilts glinting, ride across the drawbridge and disappear into the fenlands. “They are going to join your father, Dickon,” Cecily had explained, her smile belying her anxiety, “because he has been betrayed by the queen, and she has forced him to march against his king. Henry is now our enemy, and ’tis a sad day for our house.” York had met the king’s army at St. Alban’s a few days later and, against his better judgment, he had fought and defeated Henry. Only those who knew Richard of York’s conflicted loyalty understood why he had not pressed on to London right then to assert his claim to the throne. It was an ill-judged decision and led the Yorkists to retreat to their stronghold in Ludlow.

The boy refocused his attention on the conversation in the great hall, and tugging on George’s sleeve, Dickon asked: “What is happening?”

“Ssh! I am trying to hear, you idiot,” George snapped, edging his brother aside. “It would seem we must go to Ludlow.”

Dickon brightened. “That’s where Ned and Edmund are, is it not?”

George nodded. “We have to go in haste, they are saying. Come, let us find Meg.”

The day before they set out for Ludlow, the three noble children were sent out into the fresh air by an impatient Nurse Anne as she readied their baggage for the journey. As they walked in the inner bailey, the duke’s master of the hunt approached.

John Hood bowed. “My lords, Lady Margaret, I have a surprise for you, if you will follow me to the kennels.” He grinned at Dickon and winked. “Aye, young master, Damosel had a fine litter while you were kept inside last week with your grippe.” He put out his hand for the boy to grasp. “Would you like to see the pups?”

Dickon didn’t hesitate. He took the huntsman’s hand, unaware as yet of the jealous nature of his handsome big brother. He had no idea that George had resented him from the first day their mother had brought the squirming bundle into the nursery and introduced him as their baby brother, Richard. George wanted no rival for his mother’s affection, and, what was more galling, the puling brat had been given their noble father’s name. As far as he could surmise, George, the only child born during the duke of York’s governorship of Ireland, had been given the inauspicious name of one of Cecily’s many brothers. Meg had once upbraided her favorite brother about his petty jealousy. “Dickon will never eclipse you in stature, charm or good looks, George, and you will surely exceed him in any honors bestowed by the crown because you are older, so do not waste your time in making him feel any smaller than he is, poor child.”

Dickon skipped along with John Hood to the kennel compound, a high wooden fence enclosing a sturdy two-level shed and an outside run. Dickon often spent time in the company of the young pages of the hunt, supervised by the huntsman and learning the dozens of dogs’ names, the breeds and their function, and the language of the hunt. It had all fascinated the small boy from the time he could walk, and thus it was no wonder that Hood would seek out Dickon to give him the good news about a litter from the prized wolfhound Damosel.

Among the hounds, lymers, lurchers, spaniels and terriers, Dickon felt more at ease than with George and the other nobles’ sons who lived within the castle walls. Often excluded from that group, Dickon turned to the children of the lower classes who peopled the great castle—potters, bowyers, smiths, chandlers, carpenters, armorers, joiners, washerwomen, and stablehands. He played their games of hot cockles, spit the cherrystone, and follow-my-leader. He enjoyed the exuberance of these boys and girls and ran in and out of their simple huts nestled along the castle wall, not realizing yet the deep divide between lord and vassal. The warmth inside those cold abodes came from the close-knit families and cheerful acceptance of their lot in life. Simple folk with strong values, they gave Dickon an early yet unrecognized lesson in the divide between rich and poor. There was time enough for him to learn how to be a great lord, Anne of Caux thought, and she was glad those yeomen, whom Dickon knew by name, had warmed to the little boy who didn’t put on airs. This youthful ability to mingle with commoners taught him to listen and to care for others, qualities that would accompany him throughout his life.

But the yeomen’s respectful affection for Dickon was nothing compared to that which he found at the kennels.

As the little group entered the compound, Dickon was greeted by sharp, affectionate yelps, slavering tongues and thumping tails. The boy laughed happily. “Down Driver, Maulkin, and Merry-boy!” he called to three lurchers, and much to his siblings’ amazement, the dogs obeyed.

Bending to go through the opening of the shelter, the huntsman straightened up inside and beckoned for the children to follow. There, lying prone on the straw, Damosel was giving suck to seven chubby, sightless bundles, hungrily kneading their mother’s teats. The children giggled delightedly, watching as one by one the satiated pups dropped off a pap and slipped to the ground. Soon all were tripping over each other, unable to do much more than squeal and snuffle in the straw.

The huntsman crouched down and stroked the bitch’s shaggy head, and as she raised weary eyes to him, she managed to wag her tail. Reaching into the squirming bunch of pups, he plucked one from their midst, watching as it tried to wriggle free and mewl in protest. “This is the pick of the litter, Master Dickon,” he said. “And he is a parting gift for all your hard work in the kennels. When you return, which shall be soon I am certain, he will be yours. What say you?”

George roughly pushed Dickon aside. “I should have the pick of the litter,” he declared. “I am older and entitled to the best dog.”

John Hood was taken aback, but bowed low. “To be sure, my lord, you have the right by birth, but, by your leave, your brother has earned it.”

George was about to chastise the man, when Dickon took the puppy and promptly offered it to George. “It is true, Master Hood, George should have the pick. I don’t mind; there are six more. I pray you, brother, take him.”

“Well played, Dickon,” Meg murmured from the shadows. “Crisis averted.”

Grinning at his brother, George took the wiggling pup and nuzzled its velvet nose. “My thanks, Dickon,” he said. “He’s a fine fellow. I think I shall call him Captain.”

Another pup had escaped from the pack and, even though it could not see, was bravely exploring a corner of the pen when the kennel master swooped it up and handed it to Dickon. “This one has pluck,” he observed, “he’ll suit you, young lord.” The boy might lack for strength, the man thought, but he does not lack for backbone.

Dickon held the dog aloft as it struggled and mewed to be put down. “What do you think, pup, shall you and I suit?” An indignant yip made the boy smile and release the animal onto the straw, where it promptly resumed its explorations. “Aye, I believe Master Hood is right, you are a brave one.” He admired the adventurous spirit of the pup as it wandered from its mother, and he turned to the huntsman, his blue-gray eyes shining his thanks. “I shall call him Traveller. May he come to Ludlow with me?”

Master Hood shook his head. “They are too young to leave their dam, my young lord.”

Dickon was indignant. “But I know how to feed a pup with milk on a cloth. You taught me how. And I can carry him inside my jacket so he stays warm.”

“And he’ll widdle on you all day long,” George pointed out. “Certes, we must leave them, Dickon, you milksop.”

“Do not call me that,” Dickon protested, balling his fists, “or…or…”

“Or what, babykins?” George taunted, discarding his puppy. “Try and reach my chin?”

Meg intervened, taking George’s arm and pulling him out of the kennel. “Leave him alone,” she hissed. “He gave you the prime pup. Don’t start a fight.”

As usual Meg mollified him, and George sighed. “I know, I know, I should be more patient, but he is just so annoying.”

John Hood patted Dickon’s head and assured him Traveller would still be there on his return. “Why don’t you keep watch here with Will tonight, if Mistress Anne will allow. Damosel will be happy to have you for company, and you can get to know your pup better.”

Still smarting from George’s slight, Dickon nodded politely, thinking for the thousandth time of one day getting even with his bully of a brother.

For the next two days as the attendants of the York children readied their young charges to travel, Dickon frequented the kennel to play with Traveller, who began to recognize its master’s young voice and scramble towards Richard, its hairy tail waving its pleasure. Dickon fondled the velvet ears, examined the leonine paws and rubbed his cheek against the irresistible softness of the coat, communing with his new friend. Here was a living creature that looked on him as a gentle giant, someone in control, and it gave the boy confidence.

He was determined to take the dog to Ludlow, and use the milk-soaked cloth drip along the way. He had already found a suitable corked vessel to fill with milk from the dairy and would hide it in his chest of clothes. He had not yet thought how he would extract the bottle once the luggage was piled high on a cart—nor that the milk would spoil.

As soon as the cock crowed on the appointed day of departure, Nurse Anne roused Dickon and helped him to dress. “I trust you will be a good boy and not cause any trouble on the road, mon petit,” she counseled him. “I am to sit up with the driver, but not to forget I have les yeux in the back side of my head.”

Dickon was wide-eyed in his innocence. Had Nurse Anne guessed his secret? “Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

The faithful old nursemaid chuckled, put her arms about the fidgeting Dickon and held him close. For nearly twenty years she had nurtured the duke and duchess’s many children. She had sat with the duchess while they listened to the feeble cries of two of the babes who did not live to see their second sunrise, and had taken little Brigid from her mother’s arms when Cecily refused to believe the infant was dead; she had cried when her first charge, Anne, had been sent away to be married so young; and she had been as proud as any mother at the blossoming of the heir, Edward, into a giant of a young man, yet had thought nothing of upbraiding him for his wandering eye. Whether she was getting soft in her dotage, she did not know, but she had never felt as protective of a child as she did this youngest of the Yorks.

An hour later, Dickon, holding his cloak tightly around him, climbed nimbly into the carriage behind his siblings and huddled on a seat in the corner. The vehicle was nothing more than a brightly painted cart with a wooden roof holding leather curtains that could be rolled up and down according to the weather, but it proudly flew the pennants of the house of York, the white roses mingling with the falcon and fetterlock.

The little cavalcade was already halfway through the outer bailey when an angry shout came from the carriage.

“Stop, I say! Stop!” It was George’s voice. What now? Anne thought crossly. Only a nursemaid can truly know her charges, and, sadly for her, this boy, with his shallow, self-centered nature, had lost his charm.

As she turned to see that a squabble between George and Dickon had turned into a fully fledged fight, she smacked the driver’s hand to make him stop. Meg was attempting to pull the boys apart while the armed escort reined in their mounts and stared openmouthed. The captain of the guard was clearly amused, but Roger Ree rode up to the carriage and demanded an end to the fracas.

George glared at his father’s emissary and pointed at Richard. “It is his fault, Master Ree,” he cried, imperiously. “Dickon has smuggled his dog aboard. Look! ’Tis not permitted. Master Hood said they were too young to leave.”

“Is this true, Lord Richard?” Ree lowered his brow at the shamefaced Dickon. Before the boy could reply, George delved under his brother’s cloak and held aloft the wriggling Traveller.

Humiliated, tears ran down Dickon’s cheeks. He could hardly believe it. George had betrayed him. Dickon was mortified as the escort laughed at the scene; oh, how he hated being mocked. And, at this moment he detested his brother.

The chuckling Ree turned his mount towards Fotheringhay’s open gate and deposited the dog into the groom’s hands for return to the kennel. Even Meg’s comforting arm offered no ease for this deeply hurt and confused little boy. He was struggling with a valuable lesson: if he could not trust his family, whom could he trust?

It was Richard’s first experience of betrayal—and at the hands of his own brother. Was it as early as this that the seed of the boy’s later hatred of George was sown?