Chapter Six

Winter 1460–61

It was yuletide, and even with his father and brothers away, Dickon was caught up in holiday preparations, including watching the huge yule log towed behind a horse across the snowy courtyard from the forests beyond London’s eastern gate. Cecily had promised herself that those left at Baynard’s would make as merry as they could during this festive season. She was as good as her word, and even Elizabeth, duchess of Suffolk, had traveled from Framlingham to join in the festivities.

A kind-hearted young woman, Lizzie’s presence greatly cheered Margaret, and the two sisters were often seen arm-in-arm and tête-à-tête about the castle. She had hardly recognized the boys as it had been several years since she had seen them, and Dickon had no memory of her at all. He enjoyed her extraordinary yet infectious neighing laugh—the female mirror of their father’s, and Lizzie’s sunny nature was such that she often laughed, creating an atmosphere of jollity in the duchess’s solar.

The relentless river wind whistled through the passageways of Baynard’s that December, and even in front of a crackling fire, the family used mantles and shawls for extra warmth. “God help them in the north,” Cecily said to Gresilde. “I have heard they are celebrating yuletide at Sandal Castle, a drafty place even in the summer, and blanketed in snow in the winter. My only consolation is that the queen and her foreign horde can be faring no better on the border. After the abominable summer and bad harvest, I wonder what our troops had to feast on for Christmas. The village of Wakefield cannot feed an army, God knows, and we do not have much even here in London.”

One late afternoon as the twilight caused eerie shadows from the fire to flicker around the walls of the solar and Elizabeth brayed at one of Meg’s whispered comments, George declared: “I miss Father.”

“We all do, George,” Cecily said, softly. “And we all miss Ned and Edmund, too.”

“I miss Piers Taggett,” Dickon said suddenly, and all heads turned in his direction. Dickon flushed. Why did I say that? he admonished himself. Would he be faced with retelling his grisly dream of the night before and be humiliated? It was the same recurring nightmare, always ending with the blood-soaked Piers falling into his arms. He had not owned up to having one since leaving Maxstoke in the spring and had learned to wake himself up somehow, lie in the dark—George snoring lightly beside him—and talk himself out of being afraid, with his father absent again.

A shadow flitted over Cecily’s face at the mention of Piers, and she put down her needlework. Her youngest son puzzled her; he was a secretive little soul, albeit so loyal and eager to please, and she was surprised Dickon would remember the falconer after all this time. Piers’s name reminded her of the greater loss of her beloved Constance that day in Ludlow, as if her daily prayer for the soul of her friend weren’t reminder enough. “Whatever made you think of Piers?”

Dickon thought quickly. “When you mentioned Father, I thought of him and his soldiers up there at Sandal and ready to fight and it reminded me of the queen’s soldiers at Ludlow and that reminded me of the king at the market cross and that reminded me of…”

“We follow you, babble-mouth,” George muttered under his breath, sensing his mother was close to tears. “No one wants to be reminded of Ludlow, so why don’t you go and play with your marbles?” Then he gave Cecily his disarming smile. “Mother, I pray you,” he coaxed, “can I interest you in a game of chess?”

“Gladly, dear child,” Cecily replied, Dickon forgotten.

“You had another bad dream, didn’t you?” Meg whispered to Dickon. “I had them when I was your age. They will go away one day, have no fear.” She was wrong; she could not imagine how soon her own would return.

She put her arm around him, and he snuggled into her. Although she favored George for reasons unknown, Margaret had never been unfriendly to Dickon. She admired his stoicism and his ability to forgive George, but he was still a baby. Now she attempted to cheer him. “Do you wonder what gift we shall receive on the morrow? ’Tis the feast of the Circumcision, you know,” she said. England had long abandoned the Roman tradition of celebrating the New Year on the first day of January and sensibly returned it to the vernal equinox, but the customary gift-giving of olden days had remained.

He knew he ought to wish for his father’s safe return, but he was a boy with a more material dream. “A new longbow,” he told his sister, adding proudly: “Master Blaybourne says I am too big now for my present one.” Cecily had always measured her children at Christmas, and this year Dickon had grown two inches and George only an inch, a fact that had greatly relieved Dickon. “And you, Meg?” He grinned. “What a silly question. I would venture to guess you want a book.”

“You read me like one, brother,” Meg agreed, smiling.

She was not disappointed, and neither was George with his exquisite pair of kid gloves.

“Look, Dickon,” George exclaimed, putting one on, “are they not handsome?”

But Dickon did not receive his wish. Perhaps she had misheard him, for instead of a bow Cecily gave him a large wooden bowl, “for putting your keepsakes in,” she told him, equably. “Look, it has your initials carved in the bottom.”

Dickon tried not to show disappointment as he cradled the bowl in his lap and stared at it. After all, he had been taught to be grateful for any gift no matter how small. “I thank you, Mam,” he said so quietly, Cecily did not hear.

“What did you say, Dickon?” Her tone sounded irritable, so Dickon tried again.

“Th…thank you, Mother. It is a very useful bowl.” He was chagrined to see George showing off his soft blue gloves to Meg and Lizzie and knew that his bowl paled by comparison. Well, what could he expect? After all, he was nobody’s favorite.

“I think you had better go to your room and find things to put into your bowl, my lad,” Cecily said sternly, “so I do not have to look at your disgruntled face. Run along now.”

Dickon did as he was told, but he was puzzled to hear laughter from behind the door he had just closed. He hurried to his chamber, grateful to escape, but when he pushed open the door, he gave a startled cry as a gray behemoth bounded off the tester bed, knocked him on his backside and dislodged the new bowl from his hands. The young wolfhound then proceeded to give Dickon’s face a thorough washing with its long, rough tongue. As he tried to sit up, Dickon knew this dog was not Ned’s Ambergris nor George’s Alaris, but all the same he tried the universal canine command, “Down, sir!” And immediately the dog quietened and lowered its lanky haunches to the floor in front of the astonished Dickon. “Traveller?” he said in disbelief, “Is it you?” Upon hearing its name, the dog’s head tilted to one side and the long tail thumped an assent.

“Tiens! At last you have come, Master Dickon,” Nurse Anne said, bustling in from an adjacent room. “I do not like the dogs on the bed, tu comprends?” she grumbled. “Her Grace tell me keep the monster here until you come. She say it was une surprise. Nom de Dieu, it was a surprise for me! And, too, I could not keep him from the bed.”

Dickon gave the servant half an ear but was otherwise engaged in hugging the noble head and neck of his beloved abandoned dog from Fotheringhay. With all the family upheaval, he had never dared to ask for Traveller. It did not seem important, but during those eighteen months he had often wished for his dog. He had given up hope altogether when Ned had found Alaris abandoned and had given him to George. When Dickon had asked George if he didn’t feel unfaithful to Captain, George had laughed. “It’s just a dog, Dickon. Do you truly believe they would remember us now?”

“Dogs are the most faithful of creatures,” Dickon had shot back, “and they never forget somebody’s scent. I am sure my Traveller would know me.”

“Pah!” George had been scornful and quickly transferred his allegiance to Alaris.

Traveller was now proving Dickon right, however, as the dog responded to Dickon’s touch and leaned into his master. “What a beauty you have become. Are you really mine?” Dickon asked, half expecting the dog to respond.

His mother answered instead. “Indeed he is, my son.” Her voice came from the threshold. “And the bowl is for his food. I am sorry I tricked you. Happy New Year, Dickon!”

She was rewarded by a sudden rush of love that flooded her as her youngest son’s slate-gray eyes spoke volumes of gratitude.

No bad dreams interrupted Dickon’s sleep for the next few nights, and his days were spent in the company of his new canine friend.

For once, George seemed genuinely happy for Dickon’s good fortune. “At least Dickon doesn’t follow me around all day now,” he confided to Meg as they strolled for exercise around Baynard’s impressive great hall, the early January sleet keeping them indoors. “Instead, he now knows what it feels to have someone dogging his heels. Oh,” he exclaimed, pleased with himself, “that was clever, don’t you think? I have to admit, Dickon is getting better at wrestling, though, and I think Father will be happy with his progress at the butts.”

They watched as Dickon tirelessly taught Traveller to fetch a ball, his determination evident in his jutting chin. “When he sets his mind to something, there is no backing down,” Meg observed. “I do wish he could learn to yield sometimes, or he will lose friendships when he is older.”

“Aye, and he should stop always reminding people of what is right. It tends to ruin any amusement.”

“You mean when he said you should return that poor stablehand’s only boots you stole when the boy was told to muck out a stall?” Meg retorted. “Dickon was right to be indignant on his behalf. ’Twas unkind of you, in truth.”

George chuckled. “I know, Meggie, but it was amusing just the same.”

Meg cocked her head. “Can you hear bells? It sounds like tolling and not the usual calling to mass. Has someone died?” She gave an involuntary shiver.

All of a sudden Traveller dropped the ball he had just retrieved and barked. Those in the hall stopped their chatter as the others had heard horses in the courtyard. A servant ran to open the heavy oak door to let in the messenger, who was wearing the badge of the ragged staff on his heavy cloak. It was no ordinary messenger, however, as Dickon instantly recognized their cousin, Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, and gave him reverence. Usually affable, he paid Dickon scant heed today—although anyone standing close to him would have noticed that his grim face softened when he saw the children’s expectant faces. “Where is the steward?” he barked. “Tell him I must speak with Her Grace immediately.”

“What is it, my lord?” Cecily herself hurried in from the outer staircase, where she had seen the earl arrive. She was not the only one to have noticed the sharpness in her nephew’s loud commands. Her children, huddled together sensing bad news, caught their breath seeing their stoic mother stumble as she went to greet Warwick, who reached out and caught her. “Is it the duke? Is it my husband? Has he been wounded?” she ran on. “We heard the bells….”

“Hush, my dear Aunt. Why don’t you sit,” Warwick said kindly, “I have much to tell you.”

By now inquisitive servants had entered the hall. What with the tolling bells, the unrest in the north, and the absence of their lord, the household was more than curious: they were on edge. Aye, all of Baynard’s wanted to know Warwick’s news.

Cecily was helped to a bench, and the earl dismissed the others with an autocratic stare and a jerk of the head towards the door. Meggie pulled her reluctant siblings to the private staircase Cecily had just descended.

“But I want to hear…” Dickon protested, resisting her. His instincts told him Warwick did not bring good news, and he felt frightened.

Meg’s instinct, however, told her to protect her two young brothers from any bad tidings that their mother alone should hear from Warwick. Shushing Dickon, she pushed him up the staircase in front of her.

A whole day went by, and the mood in the castle turned somber as the reason for the tolling bells and the duchess’s collapse filtered along the long passageways, into the kitchens, and through the stables and to the castle’s garrison. But although the whisperings had permeated the servants’ quarters, the news failed to crawl its cruel way up into the children’s apartments, where they resided separately from their parents. After the three children had left the hall and Meg had bullied the boys into their chambers, only Nurse Anne and Beatrice were left to see to their needs. Gresilde and Cecily’s other ladies tended to their mistress, and no one thought to inform the children of the tragedy at Wakefield.

“We shall stay here until Mother tells us otherwise,” Meg instructed her brothers sternly. “So refrain from squabbling, and let us wait for her peaceably.”

“What do you think is the matter?” Dickon asked. “Our cousin of Warwick did not look normal.”

Meg shrugged, although she, too, had a knot in her stomach.

“You should have let us stay to listen,” George complained, and Dickon heartily concurred.

“Sweet Jesu, don’t you think I wish I had, too?” Meg snapped back. “Do not blame me—you saw my lord Warwick’s glare. I was not about to gainsay it. I have never seen him look so forbidding.” Dickon had no response to that truth and continued marshaling his toy soldiers. George went to his sister and hugged her. “You are right; you had to obey him. I wish I knew where Mother was though.”

When Cecily eventually entered the cozy, fire-lit chamber in time for the late-morning meal, they were shocked by her appearance, which verified that disaster had struck the family. Gresilde helped her mistress into the high-backed arm chair and fussed with Cecily’s drab, gray overdress—a color reserved for dowagers and spinsters, not their fashionable mother. Cecily’s face was blotched, and her eyes—usually a blue that matched the gentian flower of her native Raby—were swollen and bloodshot. Her fingers were wringing a lace kerchief, a sign of nerves the children had never seen from their imperturbable mother before.

They guessed her news before she opened her mouth: either beloved father or Ned was dead. None of them moved until Cecily had composed herself.

“Come here, my dears,” she said, tears willed away as she faced her three youngest. “Why don’t you sit on the cushions. Closer, come closer.” She nodded an acknowledgement to Nurse Anne and Beatrice to sit, while she kept Gresilde standing by her, the older woman’s hand steadying her shoulder. Then she drew a deep breath and told them all of the Yorkist defeat at Wakefield, which would not have happened but for an inexplicable, rash maneuver on her husband’s part. Giving her audience the facts was easier; it was the personal details she would have loved to avoid.

“I know no other way to give you these terrible tidings, children, except plainly. Your beloved Father was killed in the battle, and Edmund…” she choked on his name, and Meg gave a little scream when she told them, “…Edmund was slain fleeing the scene.”

“Not Edmund,” Meg stammered, as tears overwhelmed her. “N…not sweet Edmund.”

Cecily nodded bleakly. What else could she say? Instead, she reached out her arms and caught Meg and George, who sought her comforting embrace. Meg sobbed and George whimpered, and over their heads, Cecily saw Dickon’s face, ashen white, staring in disbelief.

“Father is d…dead?” he whispered. He tried to go to his mother, but his legs gave way and he fell to his knees, finally releasing a wail that clawed at Cecily’s heart. George turned and took his brother’s thin, shaking body into his arms and rocked him like a baby, a simple gesture that finally undid Cecily, and, unashamed, she allowed her own tears to darken Meggie’s golden hair.

It was not until Cecily had fully recovered that she told her children the details of their father’s and brother’s ends. As any mother knows, the unknown is more fearful for children than the known, and Cecily was not foolish enough to think Meggie, George and Dickon would be spared the rumors, lies and fantastical imaginings that would be circulating about the events at Wakefield.

Meg showed quiet anger at her father’s demeaning death, and Cecily admired her daughter’s composure. How grown up she suddenly seemed, and it filled Cecily with sadness that Richard would not see his favorite daughter grow into womanhood. How Richard would have been proud of her, Cecily thought. Anyone but Cecily might have recognized her own indomitable spirit in Margaret, but Cecily was not so vainglorious as to acknowledge it.

The boys too listened with mingled horror and grief to the the story of the paper crown that was mockingly placed on Richard’s head before he was beheaded. Later, there came the impaling of the Yorkist leaders’ heads upon York’s Micklegate. As though those scenes were not enough to horrify the children, their reaction was mild compared to the terror and outrage they expressed upon hearing of their brother’s vile murder while fleeing the battle.

“Edmund hid beneath a bridge but the soldiers found him and dragged him out to face that devil’s spawn Lord Clifford.” Meg gave a little cry, and George plugged his ears, but Cecily thought it best not to spare her offspring; it was the only way to prepare them for what life was really like. “Edmund pleaded for his life, as did poor, dear Master Apsall. What could a tutor do to defend them both, I ask you?” Why had Richard allowed the old man on the battlefield at all, she wondered. “Such senseless slaughter of innocents!” she exclaimed.

Dickon had buried his head in a cushion by this time, his mother’s words conjuring the young billman who had expired in his arms at Ludlow from his hideous wounds. Dear, kind Edmund had died like that, Dickon realized, and so might he one day. He muttered a muffled, “Nay, say no more,” but Cecily was relentless and could not stop now. “’Twas the cowardly Clifford’s own hand that thrust the knife into your brother’s innocent heart, declaring, ‘This is for my father whom your father slew at St. Alban’s.’ And then he dispensed Master Apsall in like manner. What kind of man kills a defenseless boy and an old man?”

She did not accuse her husband outright in front of his children for allowing Edmund to fight. However, she would never stop blaming him for taking Edmund north. He was only seventeen, she kept repeating to herself. Her son’s brutal death would haunt her dreams all through her long life.

The growing list of violent deaths in his family circle caused Dickon to spend long hours by himself with only Traveller for company. He pondered mostly the vengeful murder of Edmund by Lord Clifford’s son. Neither had met the other before, Dickon knew, and yet John Clifford hated Edmund enough to kill him in cold blood to avenge his father’s death. For five years the younger Clifford had nursed this animus and sought revenge. Was Ned now bound to go and kill Lord Clifford, Dickon wondered. Was he, Dickon, expected to carry on the blood feud? He tried to imagine himself saying, “And this is for my brother!” but could not.

The bigger question that confounded the boy was why Englishmen were fighting Englishmen? His military studies had taught him about fighting foreign foes, like King Harry had at Agincourt, the Black Prince at Crecy, even Caesar against the Gauls. But then he recalled learning about the Barons’ wars in England two hundred years before, and about Stephen and Mathilda—he could not remember when. What was the term his tutor had used? Civil war—was that it?

Indeed it was, for if no one that autumn had publicly acknowledged a civil war was imminent, the battle of Wakefield confirmed it had begun.

The knowledge suddenly conveyed an awful truth to Dickon: his friend King Henry was now truly his enemy.

It was predictable that his father’s and brother’s deaths gave Dickon new nightmares, but he had become adept at waking himself before disturbing Nurse Anne or George. Trembling, he would lie in a cold sweat and will the grisly image of Edmund, his throat slashed and blood gushing, to dissolve with the help of prayers to the Holy Mother.

“Why do they put heads upon the city gates?” he had asked his father once. “It is a horrible sight, and suppose a boy like me sees his father’s head there. ’Tis barbaric,” he declared, pleased to be able to use a word he had learned the meaning of from one of Caesar’s descriptions of barbarians.

“’Tis the custom to display the heads of traitors, Dickon. It reminds others they should not betray their king or country,” Richard of York had explained. Then he added quietly, “I agree with you though. It is barbaric.”

And now it had happened to his father, his brother, and his uncle. It was almost too much for him to bear, and thus he forced his thoughts down more rational pathways—a trick he was to use many times in his life. He knew his kin were not traitors, and he wept to think of these beloved men so cruelly treated. He could not bring himself to hate King Henry, because in his heart he knew that gentle man would not have ordered such a monstrous thing. It must have been the She-wolf, Dickon determined; it must have been that woman in black armor who has fangs like the beast she is named for. Margaret of Anjou now became the object of his hatred.

Saving his tears for solitary walks upon the ramparts, only Traveller was witness to them as the unhappy boy wrestled with his grief and human conflicts far too complex for his comprehension, though he did his best to understand.

When it was his sister’s screams and not his own fear that awoke him one night, Dickon crept out of bed to investigate.

No one saw him slip into the room and hide behind the chair. Cecily, roused from a deep sleep by Beatrice, was sitting atop the downy bed and consoling her daughter. “Tell me about it, my dear,” Cecily soothed. “’Tis not so bad if you talk about it. And it will not come to pass if you do.”

“But it already has,” Meg said on another loud sob. “Please take these terrible dreams away.”

Dickon knew just what Meg meant. He wanted to leap on the bed and share in his mother’s consolation, but he stayed silent, recognizing that tonight it was Meggie’s turn.

“You know why your father and your brother died, Meg. They died to right a wrong done to our house, and your father knew full well the price we all might have to pay. ’Tis the price all those born of royal blood are in danger of paying. My dearest Edmund paid it, and you, too, must learn to sacrifice for your family—whether it be the house of York or that of whomever you wed…”

Sacrifice? The ominous word evoked for Dickon Abraham’s son Isaac tied down on an altar on a mountaintop in some far desert land, staring in abject terror at the knife his father held poised ready to plunge into the boy’s heart. As those biblical stories were supposed to do, it had put the fear of God into Dickon at too early and impressionable an age. He had never forgotten it.

So, he thought now, had Edmund been the sacrifice for his family? Their father had insisted his untried son must do his duty and fight, and Edmund had wanted to go—Dickon had heard him say it—but how much of his brave speech had been real and how much had been about not disappointing his father? The quick-witted boy now understood how often all of them had tried to please their father—even Edward. Who would they look to please now? He glanced up at his mother, always so self-assured, but she was his Mam, and he minded and adored her, but he instinctively knew he could never disappoint her. Whereas his lord father…he shuddered. His lord father was now having his eyes pecked out by crows and his face eaten away by maggots atop the Micklegate.

The gory image made him run all the way back to his bed before anyone could acknowledge his presence. He pulled the covers over his head and stopped his ears; but the ghastly, gory images of Piers, his father, and Edmund were blazoned in blood on his child’s mind. For Dickon, his dream—and now Meggie’s—only reinforced his own worst fears of dying violently, surrounded by menacing enemies, his entrails spilling out onto an already reddened battlefield.

The next day, despite the sleet outside, the sun came out briefly for the York family when a young messenger arrived with news of Ned and his army in the Welsh Marches. Dickon, George and Meg arrived in time to hear the herald say, “John Harper at Your Grace’s service,” as he went down on one knee before the duchess. “I have to report a great victory for Lord Edward seven days since!” he announced with relish, and a cheer rose from the assembled company. “At a place near Ludlow called Mortimer’s Cross.”

“I know the place,” Cecily said, gripping Margaret’s arm. She had been dreading news of Ned in combat, and thus her question was barely audible. “Does my son live?”

Dickon held his breath. Surely God could not be unkind enough to take Ned, too. he panicked. He closed his eyes and held his breath, sending a prayer to his favorite St. Anthony.

John Harper grinned. “Aye, he does, Your Grace.”

Dickon exhaled. His imagination was fired by the tale the herald told. John Harper had a flare for drama, and as his audience grew, so did his enthusiasm for relating the thrilling details of how his master had won his first battle. It was on the feast of Candlemas, the herald said, adding that some were loath to fight upon such a holy day. “But just before the battle began, a strange happening took place that convinced our troops that Lord Edward would be victorious.”

Dickon crept forward, seeing vividly the armored knights, weapons at the ready, the lines of soldiers, the ends of their long halberds planted on the ground, and Ned on his white courser riding up and down in front of them shouting encouragement. It must have been a wondrous sight, the boy thought, all nightmarish fears of dying banished for now in a view of his glorious brother in battle.

“’Twas close to ten of the clock,” John Harper was saying, “and we were chafing at the bit waiting for the enemy to approach, when we noticed three suns in the sky…”

“Three? Do not babble nonsense, man,” Cecily snapped. “How can there be three suns?”

“I know not how, Your Grace, but I saw them with my own eyes. A fearful hush came over our troops and then Lord Edward turned his horse to us and cried: ‘’Tis the symbol of the Trinity, good faithful men—God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost! It means God is on our side! ’Tis a sign.’ And we believed him then. He was so sure and so brave, and the light from the three suns shone bright on his gold-brown head, making him look like…like a young god,” he cried, his voice ringing around the hall. Dickon fell to his knees and crossed himself.

Seeing Dickon on his knees triggered the natural response from the pious duchess. “My son is right,” she called out, kneeling where she stood on the cold, flagged floor, “we should all give thanks.” Dickon beamed at thus being praised, and he shot his mother a grateful look as the rest of the household followed his lead and Cecily’s chaplain began the te deum.

When Cecily again stood, she addressed her steward. “Sir Henry, see to Master Harper’s needs, but first, let us celebrate. Bring wine for the whole company! Our victory is sweet.”

A cheer rose from the assembled retainers, whose very livelihoods were in jeopardy at this unstable time, and as the flagons of wine were passed, the shout of “A York! A York” rose in a hopeful crescendo, echoing off the hammered-beam rafters.

Dickon was thrilled to be allowed his first taste of wine, and he eagerly gulped down a mouthful as the company watched. He lifted his face in disgust. “Ugh. If victory is so sweet, my lady Mother, why does this taste so bitter?”

The Yorkist castle was gratefully relieved by the laughter that followed. Young Dickon, however, not grasping the humor, flushed with embarrassment. Cecily drew him to her and whispered: “They are not laughing at you, Dickon, I promise. Remember this, only the nicest people are teased.”