This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “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 somewher
e 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 B
aynard’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.