“’Tis his right to ask, George. It is in God’s hands now, Richard. But I must save England,” he said and drew the boy to him. “It would be Englishman against Englishman,” he told them both, “and nobody wants that. So I suspect the king will relent. Pray for me and your brothers. Pray very hard, and perhaps the king will see reason and go away.”

But Dickon could not let it rest. “If you do fight the king and win, Father, who will be king then? Will it be you?”

Was this the right time to wend his way through the Yorkist claim to the throne, Richard wondered. Nay, he would wait to explain the vagaries of the Plantagenet family tree that had led King Henry VI to sit on the throne. Some day, he would have to explain how, when the fourth Henry, called Bolingbroke, deposed his cousin Richard II at the end of the previous century, he had skipped over one of his uncles, Lionel, second son of Edward III, whose sole progeny, and thus insignificant, was a daughter. But Richard of York was descended from that daughter as well as from Edward III’s fourth son, Edmund of York. No one had questioned—or challenged—the Lancastrian line to the throne until now, and it was only because of this Henry’s inability to govern that York was asserting his claim. All this passed through York’s mind as quickly as he chose instead to say: “Edouard, prince of Wales is heir to the throne as you well know, Dickon, should the king die….” he paused, “…let us leave it at that for now. God give you both a good night. We can talk more on the morrow.”

“But…but, do you want to be king, Father?” The question was innocently asked but that night it exasperated York.

“Have I not told you a thousand times nay, I do not desire to wear the crown. Now, enough of your questions, my lad. Say your prayers and go to sleep. The men are waiting.”

He kissed both boys and left the room to return to the great hall. He had sent many of the troops to camp at the foot of the hill across the river from the king’s huge force. He had also ordered several volleys from cannons on the walls to be fired during the day to warn the royal army to come no closer. Now as twilight closed out the day, it was time to prepare for battle.

Dickon dutifully said his prayers and climbed into the soft tester bed. His father may have answered his questions of kingship, but there had been another hanging on the boy’s lips that he had not dared voice: “What happens if you die, Father?”

How could he sleep, worried so about such a calamity?