The rain was unrelenting that summer and even now was running down the tiny leaded panes of the Lambeth Palace windows in depressing rivulets. Despite the weather, however, the sun had shone on the house of York when Edward of March, Richard of Warwick and Richard of Salisbury—dubbed the lords of Calais—had landed in June and marched with their army to a welcoming London.

When will we ever leave this dreary place, Dickon wondered that day, oblivious of the priceless tapestries hanging on the burnished, walnut-paneled walls around him, the richly colored Turkey carpet covering the table, and the finely carved furniture. Dickon had been wrong about the penury. It seemed the archbishop lived in greater luxury than all but the wealthiest of nobles despite protestations by the country’s premier churchman to show charity to the poor. The archbishop was a kind man, and the boys had not been as confined as they had feared. It also appeased Dickon’s resentment of his oldest brother’s decision to send them there that Edward came to see them often and brought them sweetmeats and news from across the river in Westminster.

“Ignavi coram morte quidem animam trahunt, audaces autumn illam no saltem advertunt,” droned the dry tutor, Timothy Birdsall, his rheumy eyes peering at his well-worn copy of Caesar’s De Bello Gallico. “My lord Richard, I pray you translate.”

Dickon sighed. He abhorred Latin almost as much as he loved archery, and he chewed the end of his quill trying to find anything that gave him a clue about the sentence. He suddenly noticed George was kicking him under the table, and looked up. George mouthed across at him: “Cowards fear…”

“My lord, you are not to help him,” Birdsall admonished. “Try again, Dickon,” and he repeated the sentence.

“Cowards are fearful of death, but the brave never take notice of it,” a voice from the doorway broke in, and the two boys gave a shout of joy. “Ned!” they chorused, and ran to greet their grinning brother.

The tutor tut-tutted and closed his text with a snap. He knew when he was beaten; no one of his stature would dare point out to one of the lords of Calais that the lesson was not finished.

“Your translation is correct, my lord,” Birdsall simpered as he eased past the six-foot-three-inch earl of March and disappeared along the passage. “The boys would do well to heed it.”

Edward laughed heartily. “My brave brothers have no need, Master Tutor. We Yorks do not even know what cowardice means. We are as brave as Julius Caesar, are we not boys?”