This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Babykins,” he muttered.

  “Mam! I don’t want to go! Don’t let them take me, please.” Dickon protested one blustery day in March after six months in Buckingham’s custody. “I want to stay with you.”

  The hand that caressed his head abruptly stopped. “You are a son of York, Richard,” Cecily said, upsetting him even more by using his proper name. “Behave like one!” Inside she was praying she wouldn’t lose her nerve, pull him close and cry herself. As though fate had not dealt the poor woman enough blows in the past six months, she was to lose her boys as well. Edward had entreated the Archbishop of Canterbury to take his brothers under the cleric’s wing at Lambeth and continue their education. All very charitable, but uncharitably Cecily railed silently at Ned. Couldn’t he have foreseen the pain it would inflict on her in this miserable captivity with her estranged sister.

  “I will go gladly.” George’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she turned to him, surprised. “If Ned believes this is the best for us, then we would be ungrateful not to accept.” He gave his mother an angelic smile. “Besides,” he added, “this place is tiresome, and Dickon and I would dearly like to see London.” Dickon opened his mouth to protest, but George’s scowl stayed him.

  “Nicely said, George.” Cecily nodded her approval; she could always count on George to be tractable. His benevolent parent somehow never saw the darker side of his nature, or how his smile would turn into a sulk as soon as his mother’s attention wavered from him, which it did now as she turned to Dickon. “Run and find Nurse Anne and have her ready your belongings. And use your kerchief not your sleeve to wipe your nose, Dickon. His Grace the Archbishop will think you have been brought up in the gutter.”

  Archbishop? Were they to be shut up with monks? His youthful imagination conjured a damp abbey or monastery, where the archbishop would surely keep them in cheerless cells, make them wear hair shirts and only let them out to pray and learn their lessons. Dickon had seen the meagre quarters of the Yorks’ chaplain and had spent nights staying in abbeys along the road to Ludlow. He knew how clerics lived, and he was determined to resist Ned’s edict one way or another.

  “How could Ned do this to us?” Dickon was incredulous as he and George made their way to their chamber. “I like it here. We have a tutor; we are doing our lessons. I thought you liked it too.”

  George shrugged. “I like it well enough.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Why did you tell Mother you will be glad to leave?”

  “Because that is what Mother wanted to hear, you boil-brain. ’Tis easier to be charming, Dickon. The sooner you learn that, the more you will get to do what you want. Besides, I do want to go to London.”

  Dickon stopped his brother. “To an old priest’s dreary abbey? Have you eaten toadstools that have caused madness? Well, you can go, but I am not going,” and he marched ahead. “I’ll run away,” he shouted. “That will show them!”

  “And anger our father?” George called after him. “He will be coming home soon, you know.”

  Dickon turned. “How do you know?”

  “You read the ballad. All of England is waiting for him to return—remember?

  ‘Send home, most gracious Lord Jesu most benign,

  Send home thy true blood unto his proper vein,

  Richard, duke of York…’” George recited.

  Dickon nodded, but, although he desperately wanted to do something daring like run away, he was reluctant to disappoint his father. Oddly, he had fewer qualms about disappointing his mother. The chance never came, alas, for the boys learned they were to leave on the morrow, and Cecily, wanting to spend every last hour with her sons, did not let them out of her sight.

  And so, once more Dickon found himself hoisted in front of a Stafford knight and bidding a forced farewell to a home he had come to know. Part of him thrilled to see London, but the child in him longed for familiar surroundings with the people he loved and, most of all, where he felt safe.

  The rain was unrelenting that summer and even now was running down the tiny leaded panes of the Lambeth Palace windows in depressing rivulets. Despite the weather, however, the sun had shone on the house of York when Edward of March, Richard of Warwick and Richard of Salisbury—dubbed the lords of Calais—had landed in June and marched with their army to a welcoming London.

  When will we ever leave this dreary place, Dickon wondered that day, oblivious of the priceless tapestries hanging on the burnished, walnut-paneled walls around him, the richly colored Turkey carpet covering the table, and the finely carved furniture. Dickon had been wrong about the penury. It seemed the archbishop lived in greater luxury than all but the wealthiest of nobles despite protestations by the country’s premier churchman to show charity to the poor. The archbishop was a kind man, and the boys had not been as confined as they had feared. It also appeased Dickon’s resentment of his oldest brother’s decision to send them there that Edward came to see them often and brought them sweetmeats and news from across the river in Westminster.

  “Ignavi coram morte quidem animam trahunt, audaces autumn illam no saltem advertunt,” droned the dry tutor, Timothy Birdsall, his rheumy eyes peering at his well-worn copy of Caesar’s De Bello Gallico. “My lord Richard, I pray you translate.”

  Dickon sighed. He abhorred Latin almost as much as he loved archery, and he chewed the end of his quill trying to find anything that gave him a clue about the sentence. He suddenly noticed George was kicking him under the table, and looked up. George mouthed across at him: “Cowards fear…”

  “My lord, you are not to help him,” Birdsall admonished. “Try again, Dickon,” and he repeated the sentence.

  “Cowards are fearful of death, but the brave never take notice of it,” a voice from the doorway broke in, and the two boys gave a shout of joy. “Ned!” they chorused, and ran to greet their grinning brother.

  The tutor tut-tutted and closed his text with a snap. He knew when he was beaten; no one of his stature would dare point out to one of the lords of Calais that the lesson was not finished.

  “Your translation is correct, my lord,” Birdsall simpered as he eased past the six-foot-three-inch earl of March and disappeared along the passage. “The boys would do well to heed it.”

  Edward laughed heartily. “My brave brothers have no need, Master Tutor. We Yorks do not even know what cowardice means. We are as brave as Julius Caesar, are we not boys?”

  “Aye, Ned!” George cried, gripping Ned’s outstretched hand. Dickon hung back, his eyes full of admiration for his magnificent brother, who appeared to have a small cut above his eye. Ever since Master Birdsall had begun using the conqueror’s Gallic wars’ exploits as his text, Dickon had conjured an image of the great Caesar, and he looked exactly like Ned—but in a toga.

  This was not the first time Edward had come to visit since his arrival from Calais, and the citizens of London spoke warmly of the solicitous young earl. Family matters to him, they thought, just as it does to us common folk. Indeed, Edward had assured his mother he would keep an eye on the boys, and he was true to his promise. However, the unrest in England had prompted the archbishop to confine his charges to Lambeth and had only once taken them by boat to show them Westminster Hall and the great abbey, directly across the river from his palace. They still had not set foot in the city of London, two miles down the Thames on its northern bank. Dickon wished there were not such a sharp bend in the river that prevented even a glimpse of St. Paul’s far-off spire when they went fishing along the south bank.

  “I wonder how brave Caesar was when he faced death at the hands of his friends?” George mused. “It must have been worse to die at their hands than at his enemies.”

  Ned laughed. “What a morbid thought, brother. But aye, the final thrust from Brutus must have come as a shock. You will learn that no good can come from being a tyrant.” He leaned in close. “But let us not contemplate such a degrading death today, because I have good news for you.” The boys listened eagerly. “Your un
cle, cousin, and I recently won an important victory outside Northampton. Did you hear of it?”

  The boys shook their heads. “No one tells us anything,” George complained. “’Tis as though we are on the other side of the world, not just the other side of the Thames. My lord archbishop still tethers us close, more’s the pity.”

  “Is the battle where you hurt your eye, Ned?” astute Dickon asked. “What happened?”

  And for the next half an hour—which was exactly the time it had taken for the Yorkists to win—Ned regaled the boys with those battle details he thought suitable for such young ears, including a nick from a shortsword when he had inadvisedly pushed up his visor to see more clearly. “A lesson learned, boys. For ’tis better to have limited vision through a visor than end up with no vision at all.”

  Dickon had listened transfixed, as he could not imagine facing those hideous soldiers of his dreams. He had to ask: “Were you frightened, Ned?”

  “Certes, I was, little one,” came the answer, “but once you have been trained to fight, as I have, you know what to do to stay alive.”

  “When will Father come?” Dickon ventured. “And what is the news from Mother?”

  Ned sat back on his chair and patted his knee. Dickon slid onto it although he feared George would taunt him as soon as Ned left. George was easy to read, even for one as young as Dickon.

  “We—your uncle Salisbury, our cousin Warwick and I—are laying the path for Father’s return. Did I remember to tell you that at the end of the battle, we captured the king in his tent and brought him back here to London?” He grinned. “Aye, I do not lie. The king is in our custody—he is our hostage now. We have sent word to our lord Father, and we hope this means he will leave Ireland soon.”

  “We met the king, didn’t we, George. In his pavilion at Ludlow. I hope you have been kind to him, for he was kind to us,” Dickon told Edward.

  “Pah!” George was unimpressed. “How can you say he was kind? He sent us to that dull Maxstoke, didn’t he?”

  “Mother said that was the queen, not the king,” Dickon retorted. He was impatient to find out more. “Where is the king? Is he in prison, Ned? I hope you haven’t put him in chains.”

  Edward laughed. “Certes, he is not in chains. He is being well watched in the royal apartments in Westminster. He can live the way he is accustomed to, but he cannot leave, ’tis all. As our hostage, he may prove a useful bargaining tool.”

  Dickon shook his head. “Bargaining tool? What’s that?”

  George enlightened him, eager to shine in front of Ned. “If the queen would attack London, our uncle Salisbury could threaten to kill the king unless she retreats.” He laughed. “Not even Margaret of Anjou would dare put the king in jeopardy. Am I right, Ned?”

  Ned chuckled. “You are in so many words, George.”

  “Kill the king?” Dickon was horrified. “In cold blood? Would you really do that? But he is such a nice man,” and then remembered, “and he is the Lord’s anointed.”

  “George has painted the blackest picture, never fear. ’Twill not come to that,” Ned assured the earnest young boy. “Besides, I have better news. Mother and Meg are released and coming to London. You will see them at the end of the month, I promise,” Edward said, reminding himself to carry out his mother’s wishes to procure a house for them all. “We shall be together again.”

  Dickon could not suppress a whoop of joy, while George muttered under his breath: “Praise be to God. No more Latin.”

  Dickon had lost count of how many beds he had slept in since leaving Fotheringhay almost a year before. But he didn’t care; Mother and Meggie were coming that very day to the handsome Falstoff mansion that Ned had rented south of the Thames in Southwark. Dickon and George had been graced with their big brother’s presence every day since they moved into the comfortable, spacious house, with their own servants to attend them.

  What was more astonishing to the boy, who often wondered if anyone ever noticed him, was that Edward did not treat Dickon with any less consideration than he did George. In those days before the arrival of his mother and sister, Dickon affirmed a lifelong devotion to his oldest brother. No one could speak a bad word of Ned without Dickon coming fiercely to his defense. Certainly he did not understand the innuendo whispered about the handsome, virile young earl of March that he could not keep his pestle in control when any passing-fair girl crossed his path. Dickon wasn’t sure why Edward needed a pestle, and, as he had never seen Ned with one, he was certain the whisperers were wrong about him owning one, and he would tell them so in all earnestness. There was no one to explain to a nearly eight-year-old why this brotherly defense caused such amusement. George, at eleven, was not about to reveal his own ignorance and instead laughed at Dickon along with the rest.

  “Do you have a pestle, Ned?” Dickon asked one day, and Edward had looked puzzled.

  “What an odd question. Why would I need one? ’Tis a handheld tool with a rounded end used to pound herbs and spices in a smooth-sided bowl…”

  Indignant, Dickon frowned. “I know what it is, Ned. I have just never seen you use one. Why do people say you cannot keep yours under control?”

  Ned stared at the serious but pleasant young face, its slate-gray eyes too dark to read, and then he grinned, and then he laughed, a throaty, genuine sound quite unlike their father’s extraordinary neigh. Ned and Dickon had been alone that day angling on the riverbank, with George a hundred yards away casting his line with a lad he had met from Southwark village.

  “My dear Dickon,” Edward said, wiping his eyes. “This is the best laugh I have had for a month. Nay, do not look so chagrined. You were right to ask, and as I am acting as your father for the foreseeable future, perhaps I should explain the joys—and tribulations—of being a man.”

  And so with the gleaming, whitewashed walls of the Tower standing sentinel across the river, a universally awkward conversation took place that left Dickon more than adequately educated but frightened enough to decide he would just as soon avoid the opposite sex altogether. Ned had a twinge of guilt that perhaps the boy was a little young for the facts of life—a notion his Father verified in no uncertain terms when the topic came up a few months later—but at the time, Ned’s confidence had led him to believe the instruction had been for the best.

  Dickon had had his nose pressed against the upstairs solar window of Falstoff Place most of the morning waiting, while George pretended nonchalance and played chess with one of the gentleman attendants. But the pawns went flying as soon as Dickon squealed, “They are come, George. Mother and Meggie are here!” and he was right behind his brother, running down the staircase through the great hall and out onto the front steps of the cobbled courtyard.

  Edward was already there watching as a groom opened the door to the cumbersome carriage. A huge wolfhound, glad to be set free from such a confined space, bounded out, pulling Meg on his leash behind him.

  “Down, Ambergris!” Edward called crossing the courtyard in three long strides to take hold of his ecstatic hound. “And who is this beautiful young woman you have brought with you?” Meg raised an eyebrow and said archly, “You cannot flatter me as easily as you do other women, Ned. Come, give me a kiss.” She did not protest, however, when her brother picked her up as though she were still a child and bussed her cheek.

  “Pray help me out of here!” Cecily called to her son, her tall, still-lithe frame filling the doorway of the carriage, “I swear every bone in my body is broken.” Edward let Margaret go and lifted his mother like so much goose down, setting her gently on the ground. Cecily gazed up at her oldest son, his gold-red hair curling nonchalantly to his shoulders and his handsome features all smiles. Sweet Mother of God, I sent him away a boy at Ludlow and he has returned a man, she thought. Ruefully, she acknowledged that the first battle would always do that to a youth. Edward had tasted blood at Northampton and had acquitted himself well.

  “God’s greeting to you, Mother,” Ned said, kissing her hand, �
�we are all delighted to see you and to welcome you to your new home away from home.”

  “Do not remind me. I should be at Baynard’s,” she grumbled. Among the confiscations of York property after Richard’s attainder, the loss of her favorite Baynard’s Castle by the river was one of the bitterest for Cecily. Looking at the new house, she was not displeased, but before she could compliment Ned on his choice, she was almost knocked over by her two younger sons.

  “My dearest boys,” Cecily cried, bending down and embracing them both, “how we have missed you. Look how you have grown!”

  “We missed you, too,” George told her, “but Ned has come to see us every day, has he not, Dickon?”

  Dickon nodded happily. How glad he was his family was together again. “And he takes us fishing, and,” he told Cecily in whispered confidence, “he took us to a bear-baiting. I didn’t much care for it.”

  “I should think not!” Cecily was appalled. “Edward, you and I need to have a conversation.” When Edward looked sheepish, Dickon flushed scarlet. Had he betrayed Ned? He gave his big brother a sidelong glance, but Ned was already smiling at his mother and offering her his arm.

  “Come, Mother, let me show you your new home.” Cecily took his arm gladly, and when she reached out her hand to Dickon the boy’s joy was complete. He had been singled out by his mother for once, and he reveled in the gesture. He stole a glance at George to see if George might realize how it felt to be left out for a change, but Dickon’s small victory was lost on George, who was wrapped in his much-missed sister’s warm embrace.

  Disappointed but not daunted, Dickon held tight to his Mother’s hand and tucked the precious moment into his heart.