This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  The atmosphere at Falstoff’s Place in those first two weeks of September was as charged as in an audience awaiting the first lines of a play, and the boys and their sister were left to their own devices as messengers and other visitors from London, Westminster and farther afield came and went in rapid succession. Ned had set up the York headquarters at the house, and even my lord of Warwick had crossed the bridge to confer with him. Dickon was a little afraid of his cousin, but the earl was always quick to tousle the boy’s hair and ask if his archery was improving.

  “Am I still to go to Cousin Richard’s household for military training?” Dickon dared to ask his mother once. “Father talked about it. And even the earl himself talked about it at Ludlow to me and to Captain Troll…”

  He shut his mouth quickly before naming the faithless commander. He still could not understand how the man could have betrayed his father or his impressive cousin of Warwick. He, Dickon, would be proud to fight for this superior knight—after his father and Ned, to be sure.

  Dickon’s knightly training was low on Cecily’s list of priorities, and she brushed the question off with a “wait until your Father comes home” response. But she was curious about the boy’s enthusiasm. “Are you sure you are ready to be a soldier, Dickon. What about your nightmares?”

  “Oh, those,” Dickon scoffed. “I don’t have those anymore. I’m nearly eight now! I just want to learn from the best knight, and our cousin of Warwick is the best, isn’t he?”

  Since the arrival of the lords of Calais in England only three months before and the capture of the king at Northampton, Richard, earl of Warwick, was gaining a reputation far greater than his father’s—and dare one say, even that of his uncle of York’s. The Neville descendants of Ralph of Westmorland and Joan Beaufort, which included Dickon’s mother, had been endowed with taller than average stature, intelligence and ambition. However, of them all, only the thirty-two-year-old Warwick had that same combination coupled with an uncanny understanding of politics, an imperious presence in the field, and a contrasting generosity towards his inferiors that enabled him to become one of English history’s most revered figures. He had already eclipsed his important uncle and father in the hearts and minds of the people.

  “If you have to learn from someone, then my nephew would certainly be my choice.” Cecily smiled at her youngest. “But you know, Ned is fast catching up to him.” It was clear to her that eighteen-year-old Edward had earned Warwick’s respect during the past months in Calais and now in England, and the two men had become fast friends.

  Quiet and observant, Dickon, too, had noticed the friendship grow between the cousins in those early days of September 1460 and wished he had a friend he could trust. It had to be said that he had not stayed in one place long enough to make a real friend, and it must have seemed to Dickon that as soon as he counted on someone—like Piers Taggett or Constance—they were taken from him. There was always Nurse Anne, but she was more like an old aunt than a friend. It could have been George—and indeed they had their good times, but after the Traveller incident, Dickon had decided that his brother was simply untrustworthy.

  Nevertheless, the two boys had only each other for playmates during those autumnal days in Southwark, and, on yet another rainy day, they were competing with hoop-rolling in the great hall when a man arrived wearing the York murrey and blue and demanded to be taken to her grace, the duchess. Ambergris bounded after him as the steward admonished the boys to stop their sport and marched the messenger up the staircase.

  “Stay, Ambergris!” Meg commanded, and astonishingly the huge hound skidded to a halt on the rushes and sat down obediently in front of her. The three siblings gathered around the dog at the bottom of the stairs wondering at the urgency of this particular messenger’s mission. When they heard their mother’s cry of excitement, they guessed at once.

  “Father has come!” Meg exclaimed. “It must be.” And she lifted her voluminous skirts and started up the stairs. Dickon and George grasped each other’s shoulders and were jumping up and down making Ambergris bark when Cecily appeared at the head of the staircase.

  The lines of worry and the pain of the past year’s separation had fled her now radiant face as she looked down on her children. Dickon had always known his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, but now she seemed to glow. “Your father is at Chester, my dears, praise be to God,” Cecily called to them. “Aye, ’tis worthy of jumping for joy.” She laughed like a girl, her cheeks flushing. Dickon was too young to recognize love, but her radiance moved him.

  After seeing his mother safely onto the road west to meet her husband, Ned sat his siblings down one evening and prepared them for their father’s homecoming. He explained what had led up to the retreat at Ludlow, and why it was now time for their father to assert his position with the king once and for all. It took a patient Ned to draw up a chart of the Plantagenet family tree and show how, in fact, York’s claim to the throne of England was stronger than the Lancastrian Henry’s.

  “So Father should be king?” Meg had asked after studying the makeshift chart. “But Henry is God’s anointed, and as Father swore fealty to him, he cannot wear the crown. Is that not so, Ned?”

  “Aye, Meg, and we Yorks do not break our vows. As he has said, he has no ambition to wear the crown.” More’s the pity, Edward secretly thought. “Indeed, all these years, Father has attempted and failed to remove the bad counselors governing England because our saintly king is too weak to deny them. Each time he has tried to take his place as Henry’s chief counselor, the others have poisoned the king against him with the help of Queen Margaret, who has more aggression in her little finger than her husband in his entire body. ’Tis she who rules Henry and thus the council, and she fears Father’s claim to the throne.”

  “Why does Father not simply tell Parliament that he is the rightful king?” George demanded. “Then we would be heirs to the crown—not that lily-livered Edouard of Lancaster.”

  The boy was always thinking of himself, Edward had noticed during his visits; it was one of George’s least charming traits. It was Dickon who was growing into the more reliable younger brother.

  “As I said only a few minutes ago, George, Father will not break his oath to the king,” Ned insisted, attempting to curb George’s ambitions. “Besides which, we all wish to prove to the English people that despite our attainders, we are still loyal subjects of the crown. We are not traitors. We have been wronged yet wish to do right. If we were the villains Queen Margaret would have everyone believe we are, why then, after our victory at Northampton, did we not simply kill the king and take the throne? Instead, Henry is still our liege lord, and now, from a position of strength, Father can return to give the king obeisance and persuade him to be rid of the likes of Exeter and Somerset for the good of England.”

  Dickon had been trying hard to follow all of this. Yearning for Ned’s approval and not wanting to be thought ignorant, he braved: “Why will the king believe Father this time?”

  “A clever question, little man. If you remember, we hold the king hostage. If Father was so ambitious for the crown, why is the king not dead?”

  Dickon nodded slowly. “So, it is his loyalty that makes our father the greater man.”

  Ned’s approving hand had come down hard on Dickon’s back, almost knocking the boy off his stool. “You have the measure of it, Dickon. Ambition is a fine thing, but it cannot override duty. We, as princes of the royal blood, have a duty to England first, the king, then family, and our own ambition last. ’Twas what Father taught Edmund and me, but as he is not here to teach you, I will. ’Tis what we must all abide by.”

  These words would nag Dickon during his brother’s lifetime of disavowing them, especially when it came to Edward’s personal desires.

  After more than a week, Meg was almost more impatient to have Cecily return than her beloved father as she found playing mother to her brothers had almost, she told her attendant Beatrice, driven her to uncork a flagon
or two. Nurse Anne was getting too old to run after two boys, one of whom, she believed, should have been sent away for his knightly training long before now. And as far as she was concerned, the lads had suffered from the lack of discipline the customary military training would have provided.

  “Boys at this age have no other objective than to hit each other; climb trees; throw stones at the poor crows; roll around on the grass, soiling their nice clothes; filch food from under the cook’s nose; and utter war whoops just as one is carrying something fragile,” Nurse Anne grumbled to Beatrice. “I dropped a water pitcher last week when one of them jumped out at me as I was leaving the pantry.”

  The two servants were thus relieved to see the earl of March arrive on his chestnut palfrey that tenth day of October and order his brothers to deck themselves out in their finery. No one had noticed that it was almost a year to the day since Richard of York had fled from Ludlow.

  “We are going to join our father’s procession into London,” he told the boys. “I am sorry, Meg, but…”

  “But what, pray?” Meg countered, irritated. “You will not ride from here without me.”

  Edward chuckled. “I pity your poor husband, sister. However, I have not made provision for a horse for you, so I am afraid…”

  “I shall ride pillion behind George,” Meg interrupted, “and you can take Dickon up with you. He’s small enough to sit in front, and there’s an end to it,” and she ran off to change into something more festive, leaving Ned with his mouth agape.

  It would be a glorious homecoming, Ned told them en route to the Newgate, as Parliament was sitting at Westminster, the king was virtually a prisoner in the royal apartments above, and their father would at last receive the honor and respect due him.

  The sun had finally returned for the York siblings as they rode over London Bridge and through the city to be on hand when their father and his retinue of five hundred men entered the gates, and to Dickon seated in front of his magnificent brother, all seemed right with their world.

  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.

  Rich
ard 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.