This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  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 b
rother 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.”

  Chapter Seven

  February 1461

  Dickon’s prescient words were remembered two weeks later when the Yorkist army tasted the bitterness of defeat at the second battle of St. Alban’s. Once again Dickon’s life was plunged into uncertainty. He learned then how quickly the wheel of fortune turns. Not only had the all-powerful earl of Warwick lost the battle, but he had lost the king as well.

  “Why did he take the king with him?” Dickon wanted to know. He was not going to betray Henry’s confidence and tell Meg and George how the king hated fighting, but he was curious to know what role the king had played in Warwick’s army.

  “Henry is still the king, and I expect Cousin Richard thought showing him to the armies might stop the queen fighting,” George said.

  “Perhaps he wanted to prove that we Yorks are still loyal to our king,” Meg offered.

  “How could this have happened?” was the distraught Cecily’s question when she heard of the defeat. Would Queen Margaret’s army now sweep through London’s streets burning, raping and pillaging as the earl of Warwick had described the Lancastrians’ destructive march south through the English countryside. The She-wolf had never liked London, and the dislike was mutual. Never let it be said those same Londoners did not care for their king—they did; it was his wife and her counselors they despised. They had hoped the duke of York would bring about welcome change in the governing of the kingdom and bring stability to the city and its commerce—but now he was gone and they feared for their security.

  In vain, Londoners had put their faith in the valiant and powerful warrior Richard Neville, earl of Warwick. So what had gone so wrong? With his superior defensive position inside the town, experienced commanders, new-fangled, sophisticated weaponry, and an army of ten thousand men, the formidable Warwick should have won a decisive victory. But in the melée of retreating Yorkists, Henry had been found laughing and singing under a tree. Perhaps his cheerful mood had reflected a thought of being reconciled with his warrior queen and their son, Edouard, prince of Wales. Or, people whispered, was it another bout of madness?

  Mired in her own grief, Cecily of York had failed to notice that the loss of his father had affected her young nephew far more than he had admitted, and something of the Warwick fire had gone out of him. It seemed Richard Neville was better at planning grandiose schemes than carrying them out, and St. Alban’s was the first example.

  “Do you know who was the first to be knighted by Margaret’s son after the battle?” Cecily was blazing now as she scanned a hasty letter sent to her by Lord Montagu, Warwick’s brother, who had been captured during the battle. “That craven traitor, Andrew Trollope! If I ever get my hands on that man I’ll string him up by his boll…”

  “Mother!” Meg warned under her breath, dismayed by Cecily’s outburst in front of servants. George and Dickon giggled. “I pray you, tell us where the queen is now? What should we do? Should we fortify the castle?”

  Meg’s brave reprimand took Cecily’s anger off the boil, and she gave her daughter a rueful yet grateful look. “The queen must be near, and you are quite right, daughter, we should prepare ourselves for the She-wolf’s entry into London. She will not waste time with courteous greetings.” If the truth be told, Cecily was frightened and angry at herself for having no contingency plan in anticipation of this reversal of fortune.

  She thought quickly now. Should the family take flight and leave the household to fend for themselves? Nay, that would be an act of cowardice she could not countenance, and besides she would get no mercy from the queen. What would Richard do? she thought. Images of Ludlow and her perilous march to the market cross flitted through her mind, but she forced herself back to the present. This time she would not leave the safety of the castle but fight for what was hers by right.

  “Sir Henry, I pray you assemble the household in the courtyard within the hour, and I will address them.” The man bowed and left the room. What she would say, she was not sure but her mother had always told her, “Servants do better when they have orders. They are more comfortable doing something.” She would talk to the captain in charge of the small contingent of men-at-arms left behind to guard the duchess and her family. She nodded to herself. He could organize the small household in fortifying the castle; and she should send the kitchen boys out into the city to stock up on food in case of a siege.

  What was she forgetting? Her eye fell on George and Dickon, watching her anxiously, and her heart stopped. Sweet Jesu, the boys! They were the most precious commodity in the castle, and they must not fall into Margaret of Anjou’s hands. George was now second in line behind Edward to inherit the crown when Henry died, as had been laid out in the Act of Accord. Why had she not thought of this before? They were in extreme danger. (A more forgiving observer would have explained that her existence these past few weeks had been consumed by grief, to which Cecily would have roundly responded, “Pish!”)

  The wheels of her mind were turning as frantically as those that were lowering the portcullis at this moment. Where to send the boys? Anywhere north and west of London would be fraught with Lancastrian danger. Fotheringhay was too far—and they would risk running into the queen’s soldiers—Elizabeth in Suffolk was a possibility, but Lizzie was expecting a child at any moment. Her other daughter, Anne, lived in Devon, but her husband was the hated duke of Exeter, one of Queen Margaret’s adherents; nay, the boys would certainly not be secure there.

  Sweet Mother of God, help me, she prayed fervently, looking out on the river, the small craft plying back and forth between the banks or down towards London Bridge and the larger ships in the Pool beyond readying for voyages to…and suddenly her prayer was answered. Why not send them abroad? English Calais, perhaps? But without Warwick there, could she trust that the garrison commander was loyal? She thought how lost she was without her husband, but Cecily had always undervalued her own intelligence for many of
Richard’s decisions had actually been made by her. She needed faith in that intelligence now…

  “Burgundy,” she exclaimed, startling those near her, “Duke Philip. Of course!”

  “Did you say something, Mother?” Meg asked nervously from across the room. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Cecily turned and smiled triumphantly. “Aye, there is, Meg. The boys must go away. Boys, come here!” she called. “Come here immediately.”

  Dickon stood perfectly still as he and George were given stern instructions to “pack some clothes, gather your cloaks, your boots and bonnets and choose one of your treasures to take with you. Margaret, go and help them.”

  “What for? Where to?” Dickon asked before George could open his mouth to ask the same. “What about Meggie?”

  His mother held up her hand to stop Dickon’s usual spate of questions. “Enough! I have no time to explain now. Just go!” Frightened into action, the three children ran from the room.

  Arriving in their apartments, however, Dickon, now thoroughly alarmed, began to grumble. “You aren’t packing, Meggie. Does that mean you are not coming with us? I don’t want to go without you,” and he clung to her arm. “Tell us. Where are we going?”

  Meg shook off his hand. “You heard the same as I did, you simpleton.” She was as perturbed as he was, but she would not show fear. “Mother knows what is best for us.”

  When Cecily finally swept through the door, a fur-lined cloak swirling around her trim, tall figure, she found her brood from oldest to youngest puzzled, sulky, and wary.