“Oh, those,” Dickon scoffed. “I don’t have those anymore. I’m nearly eight now! I just want to learn from the best knight, and our cousin of Warwick is the best, isn’t he?”

Since the arrival of the lords of Calais in England only three months before and the capture of the king at Northampton, Richard, earl of Warwick, was gaining a reputation far greater than his father’s—and dare one say, even that of his uncle of York’s. The Neville descendants of Ralph of Westmorland and Joan Beaufort, which included Dickon’s mother, had been endowed with taller than average stature, intelligence and ambition. However, of them all, only the thirty-two-year-old Warwick had that same combination coupled with an uncanny understanding of politics, an imperious presence in the field, and a contrasting generosity towards his inferiors that enabled him to become one of English history’s most revered figures. He had already eclipsed his important uncle and father in the hearts and minds of the people.

“If you have to learn from someone, then my nephew would certainly be my choice.” Cecily smiled at her youngest. “But you know, Ned is fast catching up to him.” It was clear to her that eighteen-year-old Edward had earned Warwick’s respect during the past months in Calais and now in England, and the two men had become fast friends.

Quiet and observant, Dickon, too, had noticed the friendship grow between the cousins in those early days of September 1460 and wished he had a friend he could trust. It had to be said that he had not stayed in one place long enough to make a real friend, and it must have seemed to Dickon that as soon as he counted on someone—like Piers Taggett or Constance—they were taken from him. There was always Nurse Anne, but she was more like an old aunt than a friend. It could have been George—and indeed they had their good times, but after the Traveller incident, Dickon had decided that his brother was simply untrustworthy.

Nevertheless, the two boys had only each other for playmates during those autumnal days in Southwark, and, on yet another rainy day, they were competing with hoop-rolling in the great hall when a man arrived wearing the York murrey and blue and demanded to be taken to her grace, the duchess. Ambergris bounded after him as the steward admonished the boys to stop their sport and marched the messenger up the staircase.

“Stay, Ambergris!” Meg commanded, and astonishingly the huge hound skidded to a halt on the rushes and sat down obediently in front of her. The three siblings gathered around the dog at the bottom of the stairs wondering at the urgency of this particular messenger’s mission. When they heard their mother’s cry of excitement, they guessed at once.