Richard of York suddenly lifted his head from the small group gathered in close conference around a table and pounded the top of it with his fist, making Dickon jump. “So we are agreed. Our cause is lost if we fight with such diminished numbers, and if we surrender we will surely be executed to a man and our names attainted.” He looked around slowly before deciding. “I say we should allow our troops to slip away as best they may—or join the king, like Trollope, and seek a pardon. Tell me we are agreed.”
“Aye.” The response was reluctant—more obedient than committed.
Dickon was aghast. Flight? Hadn’t he been told that was for cowards? Surely his father meant something else, or else York would be called traitor and coward. He had his answer soon enough when an indignant Edward shouted: “Flee, Father? Every knight disdains such cowardice. ’Twas not how I was trained to behave.”
All eyes swiveled to York.
“How dare you!” he roared at his son. “Retreat now offers us our only chance of reorganizing. We go now or our cause is lost.” Dickon watched in awe as Ned tried to stare his father down in the silence that followed, glad he was not in Ned’s shoes. The defiance lasted a few seconds before Ned respectfully bowed his head. Lucky for Edward, York’s anger never lasted long—it could be fearsome but mercifully short, as all his sons knew. In a more moderate tone, the duke now addressed his brother-in-law. “My lord of Salisbury, you will return with Warwick to Calais and take Edward with you. Rutland will come with me. If we are split, perhaps we will confuse the queen. I fear most of us will be attainted anyway, but let us bide our time until the moment is ripe to return.”
Dickon’s heart sank. Edmund was to flee, too. Where would he and his siblings go? In his desolation he jumped up and cried: “What about us? What about George and Meggie and me?”
No one had noticed the boy slip in with Constance and thus all heads turned to look at him now. Cecily and Constance both grasped an arm and tried to pull him back down between them. At any other time he would have realized the rashness of his act, but he was desperate, and so he wrenched his arms free and stood his ground. “George and I can fight too, my lord. I am skilled with the bow, and George has his own shortsword…” his voice faltered when he saw Ned’s warning frown.
Richard of York, however, was filled with pride. He went to Dickon, led him by the shoulders and presented him to the commanders, who were clearly taken with the boy’s audacity. Had it been any other time, they would probably have been amused, but as all of their lives hung in the balance, they simply stared, and Salisbury shook his head at York’s parental indulgence.
“Can we be serious, Your Grace,” he said. “We do not have much time.”
“He is my son, my lord, and has a right to know.” York held fast to Dickon and thrilled his son by whispering, “Well done, lad.”
Emboldened by his little brother’s courage, Edmund now spoke up. “I crave your pardon, Your Grace, but Dickon is right. What plans have you made for my mother, and my brothers and sister? Will they go with us to Ireland?”
Dickon nodded vigorously. That is what he wanted with all his heart. Take me with you, Father, he wanted to shout.
“My thanks to you, Edmund, but I do not need reminding of my duty to my wife.” York now turned to Cecily. “On the advice of your brother and some of my other counselors, my lady, I shall ask that you remain in the safety of the castle and put yourself at the mercy of the king.”
Edmund’s face turned white with anger. “Upon the mercy of the queen, you mean, Father!” he shouted, as all eyes turned back to him. “That woman hates us; I would not put it past her to murder mother and Meggie, George and Dickon in cold blood! I shall not go with you. I shall stay and defend them with my life.”
At that, Edward jumped to his feet. “And I shall stay with Edmund, my lord.”
Dickon ran to Cecily. “I, too, shall defend you from the queen…” he declared, faltering as the words “murder in cold blood” suddenly conjured visions of a woman in a crown, blood dripping from her hands, thrusting a dagger into his heart. He flung himself into his mother’s arms.
“Take him back to bed,” Cecily instructed her physician. The child should not be listening to this disturbing talk, and besides she needed to voice her defense of Richard’s plan. Constance wrested Dickon gently from his mother and escorted him back upstairs. Dickon did not complain and allowed his dear Constance to tuck him into bed, where George stirred briefly but turned over and slept again. Dickon wished with all his might that he could too, but his sleep was fitful.
It was still dark and two hours before dawn, giving the Yorkist troops plenty of time to gather their belongings and steal away into the night. Below in the hall, the company made reverences to Cecily as they quietly exited, until none but her family was left.
Constance reappeared on the scene just in time to see Cecily take both her soldier sons in her outstretched arms and give them a mother’s blessing. As her boys closed the heavy door behind them, Cecily felt her confidante’s strong, capable arms encircle her and she let herself cry on Constance’s shoulder.
“What should I do without you,” Cecily wept.
Constance patted the trembling hands. “You shall never know, Your Grace, for I shall always be here with you.”
Upstairs, Dickon pulled the covers over his head to block the muffled sound of horses on the cobbled courtyard, their hooves bound with rags, as they carried away his father, two brothers and their army in flight.
Chapter Four
1459–1460
Years later when Dickon thought back on those few hours at Ludlow on the thirteenth day of October, his memories had blurred into a nightmare of dead bodies; yards of bloody entrails through which terrified horses slithered; screaming women slammed against walls as men thrust up brutally between their legs; houses on fire; pandemonium in the streets; and menacing soldiers brandishing pikes, clubs and daggers in the faces of the little group of women led by his dogged mother, who walked proudly with her young sons through the castle grounds to the market square, seeking the mercy of the king. How terrifying that, other than a few trusty servants, the duchess’s little party had no men left to defend them. Every second Dickon had expected to be separated forcibly from her, beaten, or stabbed, and he clung to her hand with every ounce of strength he had.
It was an angry army that awoke to find it had been hoodwinked that morning. Queen Margaret was livid her arch enemy had escaped and so allowed her troops to tear apart the barricade, swarm across the trench and over the bridge into Ludlow, where they ransacked the town. The screams, alarm bells and clashing steel penetrated the fitful sleep of the inmates in the castle, and soon pandemonium broke out behind the thick walls as those servants who remained and their noble charges hurried to dress and ready themselves for surrender.
“We shall not fight,” Cecily cried from the top step of the great hall, her weeping over. Proud Cis had emerged from her chamber earlier with a purpose. “I pray you put your trust in Our Sovereign King Henry. I am commanding that any man who is able to walk leave by the postern gate immediately. My ladies, my children and I shall walk out to meet the king and save the castle,” the duchess declared as though it were a routine, everyday task. When Duchess Cecily set her mind on something, it was pointless to object—although many in the room had fearful misgivings.
Constance had no qualms about leaving her mistress in charge as she slipped away to the infirmary to tend to the wounded, while the men of the household staff paid their respects to the duchess and began to leave through the postern gate. Only faithful Piers Taggett, his eyes never wavering from his mistress and savior, stayed by her side. Even had the duke not ordered him to stay with Cecily, Piers would have remained.
“I hope my plan works,” she said to her ladies.
“No one would dare to touch you, Your Grace,” Beatrice spoke up from behind, her hand entwined in Meg’s. “You look magnificent.”
“The more regal I look, the more
respect I shall get,” she said, more hopefully than she felt as she adjusted her spire-high hennin with its azure blue veil. Cecily was a head taller than many of her companions, and she intended to exploit her height and wardrobe to inspire awe in her daring enterprise.
Cecily had told Nurse Anne to clothe her charges in somber clothes as their mother hoped the troops they must surely face would only focus on her and not her young, vulnerable sons.
“Father’s gone now, hasn’t he? And Ned and Edmund?” Dickon asked as they waited for the duchess in their chamber. Nurse Anne nodded.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” George demanded, but stopped as Cecily entered. Even Dickon was lost for words when she appeared in the doorway, resplendent in her purple mantle over dark blue gown, her magnificent sapphire necklace sparkling at her throat.
Quietly she told the dumbfounded George of the flight. Kneeling between the boys, she took a hand in each of hers and smiled encouragingly. “Are you ready to embark on an adventure?”
George was dubious. “An ad…adventure, Mam? What kind of adventure?”
“We shall go to the king and prevail upon his mercy. He will not harm us, I am sure of it.”
“’Tis the best plan, George,” Dickon assured his incredulous brother. “I heard it all last night when I couldn’t sleep…”
“And you didn’t wake me?” George cried, pummeling Dickon. “How dare you?”
“Enough!” Cecily pulled the boys apart. “This is not the time to fight. I know this is a shock, George, but you must listen to me carefully. If I have my two strong boys with me, I think I can be as brave as any warrior as we go to find the king. Do you think you can be brave with me?” she asked.
Dickon’s heart was thumping. What was his mother thinking? Surely not to walk through the town to the king’s pavilion pitched high on Whitcliff Hill? How could he tell her that all the shouting and screaming he could hear from the chamber window and the smoke rising over the castle walls frightened him. He was ashamed of his fear until he looked across at George and saw the terror on his brother’s face as well. He forced his legs to stop trembling and nodded at his mother. “I can try,” he whispered.
George drew himself up and in a steady voice said, “Me, too.”
“Then let us join the others in the great hall. Come, boys.”
Once there, Cecily marshaled her women, Meg among them, and straightened a headdress here, tweaked a cloak there. Looking around, she suddenly demanded: “Where is Doctor LeMaitre? Dear God, do not tell me she has already gone to tend the wounded?”
Beatrice nodded. “She left early, Your Grace.”
Cecily called to Piers. “Master Taggett, be so kind as to go and find Doctor LeMaitre. Quickly!” Piers nodded and went in search of the physician. Satisfied, Cecily took her boys’ hands and with deliberation began her journey to face she knew not what.
If ever there were a time to attribute great courage to Cecily of York, it was now.
It was less than half a mile to the market square, but when Dickon chose to remember their slow march that day, it was dreamlike. Much of it became buried under more vivid memories, like recognizing Constance’s screams from behind the castle keep and his mother’s cry of anguish when the doctor was heard no more.
“God rest her soul,” Cecily had whispered, the words informing Dickon their dear friend must be dead. He whimpered. True, he had witnessed death first-hand with the young billman, but he had not known the lad. He knew and loved Constance and had understood then he would never see her again. She would never sit by his bedside cooling his fevered head with a sweet-smelling cloth; never tell him tales of her time at the university in Salerno or of her childhood in Paris; nor help him catch butterflies; nor show him how to recognize poisonous herbs; nor make a poultice for the boils that often plagued him. He had swallowed a sob. Dickon grieved for her until his childhood memories faded over the years.
Dickon would also never forget how filthy soldiers fingered his hair, stuck out their tongues in his face, reached out and pulled at Cecily’s gown making disgusting sucking sounds. “Whore! Bitch!” they called, but proud Cecily walked on, eyes fixed on the castle gate, ignoring the taunts and insults.
Somewhere along the perilous path out of the castle grounds, Dickon had sensed a mysterious shield around his mother, George, and him. The soldiers had suddenly looked almost afraid and stepped away. He peeked up at his mother and, seeing a strange glow on her face, knew she had felt it, too. Was an angel guarding them? Nay, it must have been his imagination he would later tell himself, but at the time it lessened his fear.
Cecily had finally reached the sanctuary of the Market Cross and stood firm, surrounded by bloodthirsty enemy soldiers, before King Henry himself arrived on his huge warhorse, parting his troops and confronting Cecily. Dickon remembered holding his breath. Had his father been right? Would the king show mercy? Or were they all going to die? It had been a huge gamble based on York’s trust in King Henry’s honor and the chivalric code they all lived by.
Meeting King Henry for the first time was another vivid memory Dickon carried from that day. Hoping no one would notice him, Dickon had dared to look up into the face of his sovereign. Doesn’t every child imagine his king to look like a warrior or a god? This king looked like a plain man with a kind face. Why, didn’t everyone know that kings should lead their armies, brandishing a weapon, and boasting of victory—someone like King Arthur or even his father? But Dickon had thought this reedy, delicate man looked as though he would have preferred to be anywhere else, even at home in bed. Dickon felt profoundly disappointed. He had heard his father and uncle describe the man as weak, lily-livered, and easily led, but not until that moment had Dickon believed it.
But then the king’s eye had fallen on Dickon’s tear-stained face and his mouth had hardened, and at once Dickon feared for his life. It was in that moment Henry suddenly seemed to awaken to his kingship and, holding himself erect on his horse, he addressed his men: “Turn around!” he thundered. “Disband and return to camp!” It had felt like a miracle to the small boy watching in terror.
Cecily was on her knees, which had finally given way after her brave stand. Henry moved his horse closer, and Dickon stepped forward to protect his mother and glared up at Henry. Henry’s mouth softened into a kind smile, and it was then Dickon knew they were no longer in danger.
“I shall not harm you or your children, Duchess Cecily, you have my word.” The king had stretched out his hand to the courageous woman. “Rise and let us take you all to the safety of my pavilion.” He called to Cecily’s brother-in-law, “Buckingham, take charge of Her Grace and her children. We shall confer at the camp.”
King Henry wheeled his courser around and, with his escort, left the square. They were soon followed by Buckingham’s party, and the little procession, believing their ordeal was over, made its way down the hill, past burning houses, dead and distraught townsfolk, and gawping, drunken soldiers.
But one last tragedy was to play out for the York family that morning.
An anguished cry from the city gate halted the escort’s progress over the Teme to the royal pavilion. Recognizing the voice, Dickon swiveled around from his seat in front of a knight and watched in horror as Piers Taggett, his friend and champion, staggered down the hill to reach them, a crimson river streaming from a bloodied stump where his arm should have been. Dickon had stared for a second, gruesomely fascinated, but then without warning had leaned over the knight’s leg and vomited onto the bridge. Ashamed, he lifted his face again only to see his mother catch the faithful falconer before he fell, his back shot full of arrows and giving him the grotesque appearance of a human hedgehog. Cecily had cradled Piers in her arms, tears running unchecked down her cheeks and onto his dear, now-ashen face, while Dickon’s escort urged on his horse to spare the boy more misery.
Even though there had been no battle in the full sense of the word, it had been Dickon’s first taste of war, and he would never forget what
he experienced at Ludlow. Apart from the horrors perpetrated by the unruly royal troops, Piers and Constance had been taken from him in the space of an hour; he had not known when he would see his father and brothers again; and, looming in the frightened mind of a young boy was the question: where would he be on the morrow? He would forget the small details, like how he had asked the hardened soldier holding him, “May we go home to Fotheringhay now?” and the knight’s response of, “You’ll go somewhere, young ’un, but His Grace the King will decide where,” or that he had wet the bed that night.
King Henry had decided that Dickon’s Aunt Anne of Buckingham’s residence of Maxstoke would be the place where the attainted duke of York’s family should reside. It would be a long time before Dickon saw Fotheringhay or knew peace again.
That first night in the Buckinghams’ country residence, Dickon’s nightmares began. The horror of Ludlow was revisited in scene upon terrifying scene of leering faces, bloody entrails, screaming horses, hands that mauled his mother, and the vivid image of Piers Taggett lurching towards him waving his gory, shredded stub of an arm and crying out to the boy to save him. Then the ashen face of the devoted servant dissolved into the jeering face of Andrew Trollope who came towards him, shouting, “I have come to get you, Dickon of York… You traitor!” Dickon screamed so loudly, he woke himself up. George leaped from the bed and cried out for help. At once the room was filled with people Dickon loved; Nurse Anne was first to comfort him, but in a second, she gave up her place to Cecily, who gathered the boy in her arms, stroked his damp hair and shushed him. Meg sat on his other side and took his hand. That role used to be Constance’s, and Dickon was once more reminded he would never see her sweet face again and renewed his sobbing.
With all this attention, who could blame George for being resentful. George didn’t have dreams, he had proudly told Meg one day. “They are for girls,” he had declared. Now, George watched sullenly in the shadows as Dickon was fawned over.
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