This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “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.

  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 Dicko
n’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.