“He shall be king some day,” the king had declared. Duchess Cecily’s smile had frozen on her beautiful face as attendants gasped their horror. Not that the statement was untrue, but no one present could possibly have guessed Richard’s destiny. He was the fourth son of a duke—of royal blood, it needs to be said—but he was no king’s heir. Certainly there was mounting conflict between Henry’s house of Lancaster and the house of York as to which had the better claim to the Plantagenet crown, but war between these cousins was far from anyone’s mind. No, poor befuddled Henry had simply and sadly mistaken this child for his own, as yet, unborn son—although the queen was indeed pregnant. The king had had lapses of sanity of late, it was true, but he appeared perfectly well, and thus the York courtiers could be excused for believing the king’s words, which they thought tantamount to treason. But how could a king speak treason against himself? Or, more intriguing, was the king’s gaffe an omen? Being superstitious, many of them crossed themselves.

But Cecily knew better; she recognized the blank stare with which Henry gazed on her son and knew the king’s fragile mind had drifted. She realized he had no inkling of his lapse, and she felt sorry for him. Despite their quarrels, she and Henry had always liked each other—Cecily’s feelings more of concern, to tell the truth—and now to silence the murmurings around the room, she swiftly came to the king’s rescue.

“Your Grace, this is my son Richard,” she had declared brightly. “Let me take him from you before he pulls off that pearl button. We cannot have him swallowing such a treasure! I see he already has good taste,” and she chuckled. “Your son will be born soon, I hear,” she had run on smoothly. “Such happy news!” Turning to her steward she asked that he escort the king to his chamber. “I can see you are weary, Your Grace. I pray you allow Sir Henry to make you comfortable.” And with her gracious and quick-witted intervention, the duchess dispelled what had been an embarrassing but prophetic slip of Henry’s tongue. Looking down at her child, gurgling in his cradle, she could not possibly have dreamed what Fortune had in store for him.

Dickon was told this story years later by his nurse, Anne of Caux, when he was old enough to understand it, and it became their little joke whenever Dickon broke a nursery rule. She would click her tongue and reprimand him: “Not such a perfect prince now, are you?”