“Your Grace,” Roger Ree cried, exiting the keep where he had been watching for York. An over-exuberant Ambergris, waiting for his master, flung his huge body at Ned. “The king has sent his answer to your last petition, and ’tis not good news. The messenger awaits in the great hall.”

All York’s good humor following the invigorating gallop down to Ludford Bridge vanished in a scowl. Impatiently, he shouted to Ned, “Keep that dog of yours under control,” as he walked over the drawbridge followed by Salisbury, Warwick and the others. “Let us hear the king’s response.”

Dickon hurried to catch up with George and Edmund. “What does this mean?” He was almost afraid to ask. “Will Father have to go to war?”

“How should I know?” George snapped, hiding his own anxiety.

But Edmund seeing the fear in his little brother’s eyes, reassured him, “The king is a merciful man, Dickon, and he knows Father is his loyal subject. Perhaps it will not come to war.”

It became obvious to Dickon, however, that his father doubted the king’s mercy now. For the next two days, the castle and town were abuzz with the news that the royal army was approaching. From the top of the keep Dickon and George watched the completion of the extensive barricade York had ordered built on the opposite side of the river. Darkness was falling when they turned to descend the stairs, and they could see the hundreds of men lighting their camp fires and munching on their meagre rations.

Dickon shivered in the cool evening air, and George, guessing his brother was afraid and not merely cold, put his arm around him. “I hope there is a fire in the hall,” he said, cheerfully, “we’ll be warm there.” Unused to the kind gesture and certain he would be called “babykins” if he accepted the offered corner of George’s cloak, Dickon hesitated. It was enough to irritate George, who snapped, “Suit yourself,” and walked off.

George’s mercurial temper was roused again the very next day when he argued with Meg over a chess move she had made. Dickon, with Ambergris at his feet, looked up from his whittling of what he hoped would be a fair facsimile of Traveller, and was glad it was Meggie for once who was the victim of George’s outburst. “You cheated!” George accused her, leaping to his feet. “I was looking out of the window, and you moved your bishop before you moved that pawn.” Dickon cast his eyes back to his carving and waited: he knew one did not accuse Margaret of York of cheating.

“Take back that slander this instant,” Meg demanded, standing up to emphasize her height. “You are a poor loser, George Plantagenet, and you always have been. I do not have to cheat to beat you, you stupid boy. I could do it blindfolded!”