Now considering George’s whispered comment, young Dickon recalled a spring day at Fotheringhay when he had watched a contingent of mounted knights, their chainmail and sword hilts glinting, ride across the drawbridge and disappear into the fenlands. “They are going to join your father, Dickon,” Cecily had explained, her smile belying her anxiety, “because he has been betrayed by the queen, and she has forced him to march against his king. Henry is now our enemy, and ’tis a sad day for our house.” York had met the king’s army at St. Alban’s a few days later and, against his better judgment, he had fought and defeated Henry. Only those who knew Richard of York’s conflicted loyalty understood why he had not pressed on to London right then to assert his claim to the throne. It was an ill-judged decision and led the Yorkists to retreat to their stronghold in Ludlow.

The boy refocused his attention on the conversation in the great hall, and tugging on George’s sleeve, Dickon asked: “What is happening?”

“Ssh! I am trying to hear, you idiot,” George snapped, edging his brother aside. “It would seem we must go to Ludlow.”

Dickon brightened. “That’s where Ned and Edmund are, is it not?”

George nodded. “We have to go in haste, they are saying. Come, let us find Meg.”

The day before they set out for Ludlow, the three noble children were sent out into the fresh air by an impatient Nurse Anne as she readied their baggage for the journey. As they walked in the inner bailey, the duke’s master of the hunt approached.

John Hood bowed. “My lords, Lady Margaret, I have a surprise for you, if you will follow me to the kennels.” He grinned at Dickon and winked. “Aye, young master, Damosel had a fine litter while you were kept inside last week with your grippe.” He put out his hand for the boy to grasp. “Would you like to see the pups?”