Chapter Five

Autumn 1460

Londoners loved a procession. They had heard the duke of York was to enter the city that day and so were gathering to watch along the wide Shambles and under the wall of the Franciscan Friary. It was always wise for a leader to show his face in the capital and pay homage, even though Parliament and the king sat at Westminster a little more than a mile away. The citizens had welcomed the lords of Calais five months before, because they, too, were tired of the bad governance of the king and his council, and hoped perhaps the Yorkists would restore prosperity and peace to what had become a lawless land. The duke of York might yet be their savior, but still they were wary. Thus their cheers were less hearty than they might have been had their world not been turned upside down by these warring cousins.

Dickon had never seen the city of London before today, and it overwhelmed his senses. His ears were deafened by the hubbub on the streets: the pealing bells, the clatter of carts, and the barking cries from the hundreds of sellers of foodstuffs peddling their pies, produce and pigs. At the same time the smell of those pies, as well as composting refuse, horse manure and human effluence assailed his nostrils. His eyes took in the colorful clothes of the gentry, the red and black of the clergy, the green of the archers, and the brown of peasants, as well as the array of wares in merchants’ windows tempting buyers inside to buy silk, spices, gold and silver. Dickon had never seen so many people—except on that day in Ludlow when the small town had been overrun by hundreds of soldiers. His thoughts often returned there—almost a year to the day—but now he hoped for peace.

Dickon knew now why his father was returning to London, and it was not merely to be with his family. Seated on Edward’s huge courser and securely leaning on his brother’s strong torso, he was aware of hundreds of pairs of curious eyes watching the York party move up Chepeside, the soaring spire of St. Paul’s pointing the way to heaven. The mood of the bystanders was a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, the number of enthusiastic cheers tempered by a few rotten vegetables and clods of earth thrown towards the Yorkist cavalcade. Two scurvy youths began taunting one of the guards walking beside the riders: “Ho there, White Rose! Where’s your traitor lord?” The billman ignored them until one of them jostled him while the other ran past and seized Edward’s bridle. “We don’t want you here! This is Henry’s capital,” the man sneered at them and Dickon froze. Before Edward could react, the guard turned and caught the ruffian a blow to the head with the long handle of his bill and the lout loosed the rein and fell to the ground, moaning. Edward moved on as though nothing had happened and encouraged Dickon to wave and smile.

“Don’t they want Father to come?” the boy asked, anxiously looking back at the fallen man. “I thought it was the queen they hated.”

“Just as ours is, their loyalty is to the king,” Ned told him. “They like Henry because he is saintly and kind, and they don’t know Father. They don’t know they can trust him. People will always take sides in a conflict, Dickon. That is why we have wars.”

“York and Lancaster, the white rose and the red,” Dickon said to himself. He was too young to see the irony that both boasted thorns sharp enough to draw blood.

The cheering increased at the great conduit on the Chepe when Edward was joined by Warwick and his father, also gorgeously clothed on their fully caparisoned mounts. Londoners had truly taken Warwick to their hearts, Edward noted, and was glad of it. He prayed those same loud shouts would later greet his father; it seemed Englishmen could waver in their loyalties as easily as the petals of a plucked red or white rose could wither and die. Would Londoners cheer or jeer his father? They must wonder at his purpose on returning from exile.

Dickon, less aware of the uncertainty, settled down to bask in the excitement of the moment, as clarion trumpets, shawms and drums gave notice they were nearing the Newgate past Gothic St. Paul’s. Edward spurred his horse forward, anxious to be there at the western entry into London to greet his noble Father. “Hold on, Dickon! Judging from this din, our father must have already reached the bridge over the ditch before the Wall,”

Ned said, gripping his brother tightly and shouting to the crowd to let his party pass.

When Ned saw his father ride through the Newgate to join him, he gave a sharp gasp of dismay. “Bread of Christ, what does this mean?” he muttered, and Dickon turned his head to look up at him. Ned’s stony stare scared him. Warwick’s face was grave, too, and he raised an eyebrow at Ned.

“What does what mean?” Dickon asked, trying to see where his father was behind the lead rider carrying a huge broadsword pointed skyward.

“’Tis only a king who is permitted to carry an upright sword before him,” Ned snapped. “And the banners—he uses the royal arms of England. Ah, Father, you swore not to claim the crown. What are you doing?” He urged his horse forward and forced a smile of welcome. York saluted his son with a raised fist, and when the two horses met, grasped Edward’s outstretched hand. “Edward, my son! We meet again under happier circumstances.” His exuberance was infectious, and the crowd reacted favorably to this greeting between father and son.

Dickon had almost forgotten what his father looked like over the year of separation, but seeing him now in the magnificent white tunic shot with gold thread on which was blazoned the York fetterlock, a new beard fashionably forked, and a blue bonnet stuck with a jeweled pin on his head, the boy was filled with pride.

It was a moment before Richard noticed his youngest son, but when he did he laughed in surprise, reached over and pinched his cheek. “You have lost your fair curls, my son,” York said, ruffling the thick hair. “You are going to be dark like me. Good boy.” Pleased with the compliment, Dickon forgave the reference to his childish curls, and chose to respond with the dignity befitting an eight-year-old.

“God’s good greeting, Father,” he said, brightly. “Are you the king now?” and he pointed to the knight carrying the upright sword.

Richard of York’s eyebrows shot up, and Ned bent and whispered. “Keep your mouth shut, Dickon. Now is not the time.” Ned grinned at his father. “You know Dickon and his nonsensical questions.” And thankfully for a now mortified Dickon, his father laughed and turned his welcoming gaze on George and Meg. Easing his horse closer, he gave Meg a smacking kiss. “Go to the back and find your mother and brother,” he directed George after slapping him on the shoulder. “You may both ride in the carriage.” Only Dickon saw George’s mulish expression as he turned his horse around. He’s jealous of me for once, Dickon exulted.

York turned his attention to his brother-in-law, Salisbury, and nephew, Warwick. Warwick acknowledged York’s hearty “God’s greeting” with a stiff bow in the saddle, but his expression was somber. He drew his horse closer to the duke’s. “Why this show, my lord? England has a king. You are defeating our purpose here.” For a second, Warwick thought York would castigate him but instead the duke gave him a forced smile. “We will talk anon, my dear nephew,” he said quietly, then motioning to Edward to join him, he spurred his horse forward.

Dickon was jubilant. He was not to be sent back but allowed to ride at the front with his princely older brother next to his father. With the cheers of the Londoners accompanying them, he thought this moment splendid. This must be what it feels like to be a king, he thought, proudly, as the impressive quartet of York, Salisbury, Warwick and Edward of March rode to greet the mayor and aldermen before turning west again to attend Parliament at Westminster.

In his jubilation, Dickon failed to feel the stiffness in his oldest brother’s body, nor sense the chilly tension between the lords of Calais and their leader, the duke of York, nor hear the occasional jeer from the crowd. The earlier sun was now hidden behind darkening clouds, and the reason for this change in climate was the first of many quandaries that Dickon would soon need to decipher.

It was only later in the day, when Edward had relinquished Dickon to an escort who accompanied the younger York children back to Falstoff’s Place, they learned from their mother’s chief lady what had happened at Westminster to effect that change.

Richard of York, believing Parliament would welcome him as the savior of the realm and restorer of law and order, had dared to enter the hallowed chamber without invitation and deliberately place his hand upon the throne.

“He was wrong,” Gresilde Boyvile said, wringing her hands, “so wrong. The Lords and Commons were aghast. It seems they saw it as an intention by your father to take the crown not protect it.” She told them the archbishop of Canterbury had eventually stepped forward and asked if York sought an audience with the king.

“What did Father say?” Meg asked, fascinated.

Gresilde resorted to drama, mimicking the duke. “He shouted at them all, saying, ‘I know no man in England who ought not rather come to see me than I go to him.’ I don’t know how he dared.”

Meg gasped, George snickered, and Dickon said: “I don’t understand what that means?”

“It means Father lost his temper, and he is probably in trouble,” Meg told him, and Gresilde had bowed her head in sad acknowledgement.

The duke had then marched from the Star Chamber intent on seeing the king, virtually forcing himself into the royal apartments and sending the king to live in the queen’s chambers instead.

“Your mother defended the king bravely,” Gresilde told the children. “I know not what your father was thinking, but your mother was not about to treat that kindly, bewildered man uncivilly. Happily, the king went meekly to his new quarters on her arm—he obviously adores her, as he should,” she said, loyally.

Dickon was now thoroughly confused. Hadn’t their father told his children he had no designs on the crown? But he arrived in London with an upturned sword, went straight to the hallowed halls of Westminster and put his hand on the throne, as though he already owned it. The boy’s confusion was further exacerbated by Dame Boyvile’s next statement.

“We shall all be living in the royal apartments until your father’s castle of Baynard is restored to him,” she finished, feeling sorry for these oft-displaced children.

Dickon shook his head in exasperation. “By Christ’s nails, not another move!” he spluttered.

“Dickon!” all three onlookers exclaimed in shocked unison at the unaccustomed profanity.

Another extraordinary event in the Star Chamber took place a week later. This time Dickon was a privileged witness.

Richard of York’s rash act had had its effect after all. Several days and tense meetings later, he mollified Salisbury and Warwick, allowing the Yorkists to once again resurrect Richard’s right to the crown before the lords and lawyers. Within a week, York’s claim to the throne was finally legally recognized and a new succession drawn up: It was agreed by king, council and Parliament that Henry should wear the crown until his death when it would pass to Richard of York and his progeny.

Richard knelt and kissed Henry’s ring as the king sat on the very throne Richard had dared to touch not twenty days before. “I swear to Almighty God and all His saints that I will honor you, Henry, as my sovereign lord until the end of your days, and that I shall do nothing to hurt or diminish your reign or royal dignity, nor do anything or consent to anything that might lead to the endangerment or ending of your natural life. So help me God.”

It was the first time Dickon had seen King Henry since Ludlow. There at least, the king had looked like a soldier. Today, a thin, limp figure, with a passive face, and drab in his brown robes, he looked more like a mournful monk than a monarch. Young as he was, even Dickon could contrast the king with his magnificent subject Edward, earl of March, who now stepped forward and knelt. Ned looks like a real king, Dickon thought to himself, as his brother’s strong voice echoed in the chamber while giving his pledge. It was odd he had not thought the same of his father.

Henry ratified the agreement in a soft monotone—not like a king at all, disillusioned Dickon thought. To Dickon the king seemed as dejected as the boy often felt when rebuffed by George or ignored by his father. Although he could not appreciate the ignominious position Henry had been put in, and how it was to the king’s credit that his voice held no malice or bitterness as he disinherited his own son, Dickon felt sorry for him.

“I, Henry, by the grace of God, king of England and France and Lord of Ireland, do recognize the claim to the throne of Richard, duke of York and his heirs, which shall be theirs at the time of my death and not before.” He looked up from the written statement, his sad eyes sweeping the chamber and coming to rest on the small boy sitting in the gallery next to his mother, the king’s friend and sometimes champion. The boy and the king locked gazes for a second, and Dickon, moved by the king’s focus on him, placed his hand upon his heart. I am loyal to you, my sovereign lord, the instinctive gesture seemed to say. A glimmer of a smile lit the king’s face before he returned to his paper and continued to read:

“I charge all persons here to put it abroad that it shall be considered an act of high treason for any person to conspire against the said duke’s life. And now, my lords, you must swear to uphold this agreement and all its particulars with the duke, as he must now swear to defend you from those who would object to it. Do you swear?”

With one voice the lords cried: “Aye, we swear.” And Dickon, gripped by the stirring moment, could not help but join in with his own, “I swear!” much to his mother’s amusement.

Richard, duke of York, was now rightful heir to the throne of England.

How easily men’s loyalties wavered in those turbulent times, and Dickon was learning how an oath could be broken as well as made. He was now thoroughly unsettled. To whom was he to be loyal? The king or his father who, it was now said, should be king?

True, an oath had been sworn by the king, but it did not mean the fight for power was over, as the duke would soon discover.

Dickon saw Edmund mount the stairs to the roof of Baynard’s one chilly morning, and wrapping his coney-lined cloak about him, Dickon hurried up the spiral staircase to join him. He liked this big, handsome brother with the gentle demeanor. Having spent those many months in exile with their father in Ireland, Edmund would surely settle the question of loyalty that had been gnawing at the befuddled young boy.

Despite the intrusion, Edmund’s blue eyes twinkled as he gave Dickon a warm smile.

“Do you have time for me, Edmund?” Dickon asked and, after Edmund’s nod of encouragement, he admitted: “I am so muddled up. Please can you help me understand why King Henry would give up his crown to Father when Father has said over and over he doesn’t want to be king? And then one day Father is proclaiming himself king and the next minute he is back to swearing an oath to be loyal to Henry.”

“I confess ’tis bewildering, Dickon. In truth, I had to come up here to ponder the puzzle myself. Perhaps it is not about wanting to be king but about wanting what is right for England. Father’s Yorkist claim to the throne is better than Henry’s Lancastrian one, but until Henry’s many weaknesses endangered England, Father was content to serve at Henry’s right hand. Perhaps that is what all this is about: his loyalty and duty to England.”

“I hope you’re right.” Dickon nodded thoughtfully. “But he won’t just snatch the crown away will he? King Henry is a good man—Father said so.”

Edmund had to be honest with the boy. “I don’t think he will, Dickon, but it worries me that he might. Father has always been loyal to the king, as we know. We have to trust Father, do you see?” He hoped he had answered some of the boy’s questions, even if he had not answered many of his own.

“But how can Father be loyal to the king and claim to be king at the same time,” Dickon persisted. “It does not make sense. I want to be loyal to the king and to father, but how?”

The earnest upturned face made Edmund smile. He reached down, picked up the boy and sat him in a crenel of the castle wall. “Always thinking, are you not, little brother? Nothing wrong with that, but for now I think we must just wait and see. Above all we must trust Father, and you do trust him, don’t you?”

Dickon nodded vigorously. “Aye, I do.” He looked up into the wintry sky as though searching for an answer from the heavens. “It’s like trusting in God or believing in the Holy Spirit. To be honest, I am not sure about the Holy Spirit either, but Father Lessey has taught me to have faith in God and what I cannot understand. Father’s real, so in truth it’s easier to have faith in him, isn’t it?”

Edmund hugged his brother warmly. “By all means believe, Dickon; it will help ease your mind.”

Before vacating the royal apartments to return to Baynard’s Castle, the family was joined by Cecily’s brother one day after the noonday meal. Cecily and Richard were flanked by five of their seven children. As they all turned towards him, Salisbury thought he had stumbled into a painting. He was struck by the physical beauty of each one of them, and how impressive they were as a family. A royal family as it should be, he thought.

Cecily rose and held out her hands to him. “Welcome, dear brother. Come, take some wine with us. Dickon, give your uncle your seat.” She was relieved to see no signs of worry on his lined face for a change. The frayed nerves of October had given way to a more tranquil November, allowing her and Richard to rekindle the passion of their youth in the days after the historic succession announcement and the restoration of their estates. It showed on her face, and Salisbury thought he had never seen his striking sister more beautiful.

“God’s greeting, Uncle,” Dickon said, effecting a graceful bow. “I pray you, take my seat,” and he indicated the empty place on the bench. Dickon liked his Uncle Salisbury; certes, he was an old man to the child, but he had a kind face under his bushy beard, and he always had a sweetmeat or two to bring the children. In truth, the sixty-year-old earl was feeling his age and tiring of endless conflict. He was happy to relinquish power to his ambitious, capable son, Warwick.

“Is all well at the Erber?” Cecily asked, “or is this merely a social visit?”

“The latter, Cis.” He turned to York. “I was dining with John Wenlock and heard an intriguing story that I simply had to regale you with.”

“Please tell me that Margaret of Anjou drowned on her way to Scotland,” York said, wryly. “I fear we shall not rest until she has expired. Word came that she had left Harlech.”

“Nay, I know nothing more, except that Northumberland has been making mischief for us on the border, which is a little too close to the queen for comfort. If they join forces…”

“…’tis unlikely, brother. Now what is your tale?”

“It seems that as the Commons sat in the abbey’s refectory arguing about the legality of your claim, the chandelier that is shaped like a crown loosed its chain and fell with an almighty crash in the middle of the floor, those present leaping aside to avoid it.”

The God-fearing York family all crossed themselves in unison, and Dickon muttered: “…’s nails!” which earned him a frown from his mother.

“‘A portent for the house of Lancaster perhaps’ one man had whispered, and a good omen for us,” Salisbury concluded.

“Extraordinary!” York exclaimed.

“Poor Henry,” Cecily said, feeling genuinely sorry for the innocent king.

When the talk turned to politics and armies, Dickon got bored. “George, I am going exploring,” he whispered. “Will you come?”

George, for once paying attention to his elders, snapped, “Go and play by yourself.”

Cecily, sensing her youngest’s restlessness, gave an imperceptible nod toward the door and smiled at her son. There were times he was grateful to be small enough to slip easily from a room unnoticed.

He wandered down one of the long corridors that led away from the royal apartments, and the guards he encountered at strategic points grinned at him. “Having a look round, young ’un?” one said. “That way goes to the queen’s chapel. ’Tis a wonder to behold, I have heard.”

Arriving at a door that was more ornate than the others, the young York prince tried not to look lost. Two more burly guards with halberds stood to attention and bowed their heads.

“Can I go in?” Dickon asked timidly. “Your friend back there said it is ‘a wonder.’”

The two men glanced at each other, their York livery making them more disposed to granting the young lord’s request. “He be in there a long time,” one of them said. “Could be ’e be done ’is interminable praying and has gone back to ’is chamber by the side door.”

“Too true,” his comrade grumbled. “And we get stuck out ’ere for hours when ’e’s never even in there. ’Ere, take a peak and tell us if ’e be gone, there’s a good lad.” He gentled the latch open and pushed the heavy door ajar.

Dickon sidled in and saw instantly to whom the men were referring. “The king,” he squeaked, and was about to turn and flee when Henry turned round from his cushion by the altar rail and spied him. It was too late to run, and the guards had hurriedly closed the door for fear of a reprimand. Much to Dickon’s relief the king rose, smiling.

“Come here, young man. ’Tis Lord Richard, York’s son, is it not?” he asked, a warmth in his voice not heard on that day in the Star Chamber. Dickon managed a low bow, then went on his knees before his king.

Henry shook his head sadly. “I remember you from Ludlow. Such a terrible day, and you saw such horror that no child should have to see. I pitied you and your brother and sister, although your mother showed extreme courage.” Then he wagged his finger, “Ah! And now, I recall seeing you in the gallery at Westminster…” but his eyes clouded as he thought back to the Act of Accord, and his next comment was almost inaudible, “…on that dreadful day.”

Dickon peeked up at the king who was staring down at him absently. The warm brown eyes reassured Dickon and he felt it safe to speak. “Aye, I was there, Your Grace, and I, too, swore my allegiance. If it please you, I am Richard Plantagenet. But my friends call me Dickon.”

The lad’s naturalness disarmed Henry, whose long face broke into a weary smile. “Well then, Dickon, if you are my loyal subject, come and keep me company. My conversations with our Maker are rather one-sided, although they do give me comfort.” He sat in a pew and patted the seat next to him. “I hope you say your prayers each night.”

Dickon hopped up and sat companionably beside the king. “Oh, aye, Your Grace. Every night. Mother would be very cross if I didn’t.” But then, not receiving a reply, Dickon lapsed into silence.

Henry noticed a likeness between father and this son that he found oddly reassuring. The hulking Edward of March had none of his father’s fine features, but there were mannerisms that Henry recognized as York’s. Henry was a little afraid of Edward, even though the eighteen-year-old had shown him nothing but respect in their rare meetings, perhaps because the young earl seemed to possess all the kingly attributes he himself was lacking: charisma; a striking physique; Plantagenet soldierly skill; brash confidence; and the ability, even at so young an age, to draw men to him. In one of his breaks with reality, Henry had clearly seen a vision of Edward wearing the coronation robes and being acclaimed by cries of “God save the king.” He had never forgotten it.

“Do you think your brother will make a good king?” The question seemed to Dickon to come from nowhere, but to Henry it was perfectly logical, although he forgot he was speaking to a child.

“Ned?” Dickon queried, puzzled. “He is the best brother in the world—and the best soldier, after Father that is,” he said, remembering to be loyal. “I think you mean Father, Your Grace, because Ned won’t be king, will he? You have to die first and then Father will take your place. I know Father would be a good king,” he hesitated, “but do you?”

Henry was astonished. The boy was certainly no clotpole and he deserved an answer. “Aye, I believe York would make a good one,” he admitted reluctantly. If the truth be told, Henry wished he had never awakened from the bout with madness five years earlier that had left the government no choice but to ask Richard of York to be protector. Richard had accomplished the task well, Henry had later learned, but York never had a chance to prove his worth with Henry, for once Henry’s sanity had returned, the duke had been immediately ousted by the queen and her sycophant counselors. Henry had no personal quarrel with York, but he could not deny his wife’s fear or hatred of the man, and so the duke became their enemy.

As was this child, he thought sadly, observing the small innocent boy sitting with him. The saintly Henry could not help but cross himself as he thought, Dear God, what kind of world is it we live in where even a child is an enemy?

“Always be glad you are the fourth son, Dickon,” Henry suddenly said. “It means you need never be king.” Then his eyes moistened, and he said more gently, “’Tis a curse and a responsibility that is too heavy for one man. I am no God, although sometimes I must act as though I am.” He shuddered. He thought of all the deaths he had caused, whether in battle or on the scaffold, and was certain he was destined for hell.

“What I mean to say is I have much to answer for as king, and it troubles me every minute of every day. ’Tis why I am here on my knees so much, praying for forgiveness from God.”

Dickon heard the deep sorrow and remorse in Henry’s voice, and, young as he was, he was greatly moved. Then when he saw tears in the king’s eyes, his sympathetic heart wanted to comfort Henry but he dared not reach out to touch the long delicate fingers. They sat in silence for a few moments both contemplating the responsibilities of kingship.

Henry gave a long sigh. “Forsooth and forsooth,” he went on, using his favorite expression, “how I wish I had not been born a king.”

“Father always said that too—that he never wanted to be king. And neither do I,” Richard declared. “It just does not seem to bring happiness, in truth, only trouble.”

“You are quite philosophical for your age, are you not, Dickon?” Henry said, pulling himself together and brightening. “You must please your tutors greatly—or do you exasperate them?”

Dickon took this for a compliment, although he was not sure what philoso…whatever it was, meant. “I try, your grace,” he countered, at which Henry gave such an extraordinary guffaw it startled Dickon until he realized the king was laughing. Then he laughed too and felt brave enough to confide, “And I am not good at Latin.”

This caused Henry to turn serious again. “Read your scripture every day, and you will soon learn,” the king said. “God’s word in Latin is easier to understand than Caesar’s Gallic Wars—and a lot less violent. Aye, I had to study all of that, too.”

“But I want to learn to be a knight,” Dickon said eagerly. “Father says I have a good eye for hitting the target with my arrow. He says I might go to my lord of Warwick’s household to learn knightly skills. Doesn’t that sound wonderful, Your Grace? Although,” and he leaned in to whisper, “I am a little afraid of going into battle.”

“I am too,” Henry admitted, “but don’t tell anyone.” However, on sensing the boy’s enthusiasm for being a solider, he added: “Although learning to be a knight is a noble goal, it is one that comes with a heavy price. You seem like a good boy, and you certainly have a quick wit. The Church has need of clever men, and younger sons often become churchmen. Do you remember your Uncle Beaufort?” Henry stared over Dickon’s shoulder as though he could see the brilliant cardinal-politician who had guided his younger self for so many years. “How I miss him.” He sighed so deeply that Dickon was afraid the king might weep again.

“The Church, Your Grace?” Dickon tried not to show disappointment. “But I’d prefer to be a knight.”

“Some bishops do put on armor and go into battle, you know,” Henry said, smiling. “So perhaps you might become a bishop-knight one day.”

“Truly?” Dickon was thoughtful. He stared at the constant movement of the rosary between the king’s fingers against the plain brown garb and well worn book of hours on his lap, and he suddenly blurted: “Is that what you would have liked to have been instead of king, Your Grace? A bishop?”

Henry put his fingers to his lips. “Forsooth and forsooth, you have the measure of me, Dickon, but it shall be our secret.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” came the boy’s awed response.

“Before you go, Dickon, I must ask you something. Will you pray for me, even though we are supposed to be enemies?”

Dickon nodded vigorously. “I will pray for you gladly, Your Grace, but I hope we don’t really become enemies.”

Henry patted his hand. “I hope we don’t either.”

Dickon slipped off the pew to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. Quietly, the king followed, and the two heads bowed reverently as Dickon’s boyish soprano began reciting, “Pater noster, ….” and he was joined by the king’s deep bass, now resonant in the beloved prayer, “qui es in caelis…”

After intoning the amen, Dickon said shyly, “I prayed we could be friends. Do you think we could?” Seeing Henry nod, he added, “That could be our other secret. In truth, I have need of a friend, and now that we have shared two secrets….”

Henry put his finger to his lips. “They are ours to keep forever. May God bless you, Dickon of York.”

A vacant expression on his plain face, Henry watched the lad scurry away. How he wished the others in the boy’s family were as easy to like.

Not long after the Yorks removed to Baynard’s, a servant of the king’s came to Baynard’s Castle to deliver a gift to the young Lord Richard. As his family looked on, Dickon loosed the strings of the azure velvet pouch and reverently drew out a small but beautifully bound book, each page more elaborately illustrated than the next in dazzling gold, blue, red and green. Dickon looked up in amazement at his father and mother, who were watching curiously. “What is it?” York asked.

“A psalter, my lord,” Dickon said, equally puzzled. “The king has sent me a psalter.”

“If it please your lordship,” the messenger said quickly, “but his grace our sovereign lord, also asked me to give you this.” He handed Dickon a folded parchment.

Admiring the neat script, Dickon read aloud: “To my new friend Dickon. Please accept this gift to help you with your Latin. It was mine as a child.” It was signed Henry R, with his distinctive curling tails on the “h” and “y.”

Richard of York frowned. “What is this all about, young man? When did you see the king?”

Dickon grinned, hugging the book to him. “Recently, in the chapel, Father. And we became fast friends,” he said airily, leaving his parents to exchange puzzled looks. “Oh, but,” he caught himself, “it’s supposed to be our secret.”

A few days later, while racing Ambergris along the vast corridors of Westminster, Dickon turned a corner and collided with his father.

“Look where you are going!” Richard of York barked, thinking it was a servant, but on seeing his chastened son’s hangdog expression, he chuckled as a long-ago memory popped into his head. Crouching down to the boy’s level, he said: “Did I ever tell you about the first time your mother and I met?”

Dickon shook his head, his trepidation forgotten. In truth, he had always been more afraid of his mother than his father, her presence more frequent in the nursery, often to discipline one or another of the siblings. Even Margaret had not escaped the occasional slap for a transgression.

“Then let me tell you about it, but first, let us go somewhere warm. This palace is too drafty for a conversation, don’t you think?” And so, with Dickon’s small hand catching his, father and son went in search of the firelit sanctuary of York’s office.

“The day I arrived at Raby—your grandfather Ralph of Westmoreland’s home—your mother almost knocked me down with her reckless riding. That was quite an introduction. I was twelve and she your age, and—don’t tell anyone this,” putting his finger to his lips, “she was dressed like a boy.”

Dickon’s eyes were wide as he plopped onto a cushion. “B…but, isn’t that forbidden?”

“Ssh, Dickon, God might hear,” York whispered, albeit impressed by his son’s liturgical knowledge. He grinned. “Besides she no longer does that,” and he was heartened to see his usually serious son burst into merry laughter.

“Mother in braies? In truth, my lord, ’tis hard to imagine.” Dickon could hardly believe his good fortune in having privileged private time with his father. And he took advantage of it. As children are wont, he never tired of gleaning any tidbit of his father’s life. “Why did you go to live with mother’s family so young?”

And so Dickon learned again the story of his paternal grandfather’s treason and execution, and his grandmother’s untimely death that left their five-year-old son alone. Dickon heard what it had been like to be an orphan until Richard of York had felt welcomed into Ralph Neville’s family. “I was Ralph’s ward and was treated with utmost kindness, and it was not long before he arranged the marriage between me and your mother. And, as you know, we have lived happily ever after.” He grinned to himself knowing he was leaving out the many ups and downs of a marriage no matter how happy.

York was not prepared for the barrage of questions with which his son peppered him next. He was beginning to regret inviting the lad into his sanctuary, although he could not help feeling proud of Dickon’s agile young mind.

“Father, all of these things have been puzzling me. Why is the king a prisoner, when he can walk about Westminster when he wants? Why is the queen somewhere else and not with him? Can a woman lead an army? If the king is not governing, why don’t you take over? If your cause is just, why do people oppose you?” Dickon stopped to take a breath.

York held up his hand, laughing. “Sweet Virgin, do your questions ever stop? I can tell you that the king is not a prisoner; he is watched for his own protection. The queen is probably gathering an army somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, and we shall not worry about her until the time comes. And Queen Margaret has indeed led an army in her black armor, but she quickly retreats to the back as soon as any fighting starts. Ladies are not strong enough to wield a sword, my child, and they are better off looking after the home while their men are away fighting. That is a much more useful and necessary function for them.” Cecily would praise him for that, he told himself. “And I cannot take over governing until Henry dies. I swore an oath, although I think I would be a better king.”

“King Henry thinks so, too,” Dickon remarked, and then covered his mouth.

York raised an eyebrow. “Does he indeed? Well, I think he is right. As for why I am opposed, it is because there are those in power now who know they would lose it if I were to be king. They have led the king astray and I would dismiss them. There now, are you satisfied?”

“Aye, my lord Father,” Dickon said gratefully. He hugged his knees savoring the moment, but then noticing a large chart on the wall in front of him, he jumped up and pointed. “That is England and we are here,” he said touching London. “And that is Normandy across the Narrow Sea. Have you been there, Father? Did you fight the French?”

York joined him and nodded. “For as long as England has been England, the French have been our enemies. Normandy has been joined to England since the Conqueror’s time, but little by little the French have encroached on our territory until good king Harry the Fifth won it all back at Agincourt.” Dickon’s eyes shone at the mention of the great English victory, and he followed York’s trailing finger across the chart to Rouen. “Your sister Bess and Edward and Edmund were all born there,” he said. “I was Normandy’s governor once, but I was then sent away to govern Ireland, where George was born.” His mouth tightened into a thin line as he stared at the map. “Normandy should still belong to England. It was lost forever by this feeble Henry, his incompetent ministers, and his meddling queen.”

Dickon had been taught how a weak king was a bad king, and he paused before pushing for a question that had been niggling him. “Surely King Henry is not your enemy, Father? He is my friend, and I think he is a good man.”

York harrumphed. “Aye, too good. And easy for an ambitious woman to manipulate.”

“Is that Queen Margaret?”

“Aye, she has been called She-wolf for her callous disregard for life,” York said. “She is my bitterest enemy.”

Dickon was confused. “Is she my enemy, too? And the king? What has he done to me? I like him.”

York took Dickon by the shoulders. “By all that is holy, he is not my enemy. He is my king and as far as God knows, I have been loyal to him. But Margaret of Anjou turned the king against me, Dickon, and I can never forgive her.”

“Is she French?” he whispered, now concerned by his father’s seriousness. “Is that why she’s your enemy?”

York pointed to a small province on the map. “Her father was duke of Anjou. The Angevin kings of France came from there—as did our own Henry II—and so Margaret is of an old royal French family, but she is not my enemy because of that.” He was silent for a moment as he remembered the first time he set eyes on the fifteen-year-old put into his care for part of her journey to England to marry Henry. “By the Virgin, but she was beautiful,” he muttered. “Spoiled and beautiful. But she was thought to be an excellent match for Henry—a political pawn in the game of thrones,” he said bitterly and returned to his chair. “You will learn how important a wife can be, Dickon. Your mother was the best choice for me.”

Dickon pressed on, thinking he might not have another chance like this. Boldly, he asked: “Will you arrange my marriage when I am older? I know I must not marry beneath me.”

York chuckled. “Indeed it is high time your mother and I made provisions for all of you. Ned most certainly should marry soon—he needs to settle down. But the lady has to bring power and wealth with her. We must choose carefully for him.” He looked at the intent young face taking all this in and decided not to complicate things further by mentioning love. He rose to end the interview. “Don’t worry, lad, your turn will come, but I have more important matters to tend to at present. I will think on a suitable match for Edward in the New Year,” he said airily, as if nothing could possibly stop that from happening; after all 1461 was only a few weeks away.

“And now, young Dickon, if you have no more questions, I must attend yet another tedious meeting, much as I enjoyed our little talk. I hope you did, too?”

Dickon solemnly shook his father’s hand. “With all my heart,” he said.

In early December, York was tasked with riding north and bringing order there. In London, a calm had taken hold of the city after the surprising turn of events in the matter of the succession in October. It was a deceptive calm. The Yorkist council was well aware that Queen Margaret was gathering with her allies over the border in Scotland, and they knew the She-wolf would not allow her cub to lose the throne without a fight. But when word reached London that Henry Percy, duke of Northumberland, was raising an army and spreading false rumors about Richard of York, Parliament had had enough. A show of force was needed to keep order and more important, prevent the Percies from joining the queen. Richard was deemed the man for the task.

Once again, Edmund would go with his father, while Edward was being sent west to the Welsh marches where the king’s half-brother Jasper Tudor was brandishing his sword in support of the queen. Salisbury, too, would go with York, leaving Warwick to help govern in London. All knew the Londoners trusted Warwick—if they trusted anyone at all. In truth, Londoners were in an enviable position whether they knew it or not; they ruled themselves, and it was up to the king to treat with them or not. The Yorkists ruled the parliament but Lancastrian Henry was still the king for now. Holding many of the country’s purse strings, bankers and merchants played a waiting game.

Family farewells were beginning to be a normal part of Dickon’s life, but this one was far too soon after the reunion of September, he decided. It didn’t seem fair, but then he was learning that life wasn’t always fair.

Edmund lifted Richard off the ground to say goodbye and gave him a kiss, admonishing him to stop fighting with George and obey Meg. “When I come back, I shall expect you to hit the bullseye with two out of every three arrows. Do you promise to practice?”

“Put me down, Edmund,” Dickon said crossly. “I am not a baby, I’m eight years old. And by the time you return, I shall be hitting the bullseye every single time and besting George with a shortsword.”

“There is someone with fighting spirit,” Richard of York remarked as he led his horse forward to the mounting block. Dickon flushed with pleasure. “It will not be long before you and George will be riding with us.” He squatted down and tousled Dickon’s hair. “Look after your mother for me while I am gone. You, too, George,” he said, pulling his older boy into an awkward embrace. He loved all his children—especially Meggie, with whom he had already had a tearful goodbye. As well, the troops close by had already enjoyed seeing the passionate embrace of their lord and lady at the top of the staircase from the great hall half an hour earlier.

“Tell me, before I go, if you remember what is most important in this life, after loving a merciful God?” he asked his youngest sons.

“Our loyalty to England, the king and to our house of York,” they chorused, and Richard nodded, pleased.

“And what is most dishonorable?”

“Betrayal of family and friends,” Dickon piped up, eager for evidence of his father’s approval.

“Well said, Dickon.” Richard stood up.

“I knew that,” George hissed at his brother, annoyed at his own hesitation. “Come, I’ll beat you to the top,” and he made for the spiral gatehouse staircase with Dickon in hot pursuit, George’s new dog, Alaris, bounding between them and almost causing a catastrophe.

Standing on the flat roof, they watched the departure of the duke of York’s retinue now marshaled into an orderly line in Baynard’s courtyard. Cecily was already there with Meg by her side, her sable mantle wrapping her against a biting December wind. The boys ran from side to side, excited to see the knights, foot soldiers, horses, weapons carts, and even a cannon or two lined up to head north, or west with Edward. They would join the larger contingent of Yorkist forces camped outside the city walls.

“Who would you go with, if you had the chance: Father or Ned?” George asked his brother, at the same time making Alaris sit. “I’d go with Father. Ned’s good fun, but Father is an experienced commander. I’d feel safer with him.”

Dickon gazed down on his oldest brother’s golden-red head, ramrod-straight and mailed figure riding tall in his saddle, shouting cheerful greetings to his men, and he knew in a moment of wisdom beyond his years that he would follow Ned for ever. “I’d choose Ned,” he said solemnly. Then with an impish grin, he said, “If only to get away from you!” And he ran across to the other side of the parapet to avoid a jab to the ribs.

“Beast!” George laughed, running after him. They tussled in play briefly, the dog barking in excitement, before Cecily called a halt.

“By all that is holy, boys, can you not stop your rough-housing even for an hour and bid your father and brothers a dignified adieu?” As soon as the word left her lips, she choked, and turned it into “farewell.”

“Goodbye Father! Farewell Ned and Edmund!” the boys shouted, leaning dangerously over the low wall. Cecily smiled her thanks as Meg hauled them back with a sisterly admonition. Edward blew a kiss to Cecily before signaling his retainers to follow him out of the courtyard and through the gate into Thames Street.

Then it was Richard’s turn to depart, and Cecily took out her miniature version of the white rose banner and waved it in farewell as he preceded Salisbury and Edmund on their magnificent coursers through the archway beneath her. Richard lifted his sword to her and kissed its hilt, and Cecily stifled a sob. Saying goodbye to her husband had not eased one jot over the years.

“Farewell, Edmund,” Meg called, and the boyish, fair-haired earl of Rutland looked up and waved at his sister. Dickon noticed his brother looked sad when his eye fell on his beloved mother. Edmund’s hand over his heart seemed to have touching effect on Cecily, who placed her hand on her breast in answer. The gesture was all Edmund needed to know: Aye, son, you do have my blessing, and he smiled.

“Will Father have to fight?” Dickon asked as those siblings left behind clustered around their mother. “And Ned?”

“We must pray hard that the queen is sensible and does not provoke a fight, my son,” Cecily replied. “Your father hopes that just by showing her his army, she will give up and go back to Scotland. Then your father and Edmund can come home safely again, God willing.”

All four family members crossed themselves as they watched the last of the soldiers march from view.