Dickon had never seen the city of London before today, and it overwhelmed his senses. His ears were deafened by the hubbub on the streets: the pealing bells, the clatter of carts, and the barking cries from the hundreds of sellers of foodstuffs peddling their pies, produce and pigs. At the same time the smell of those pies, as well as composting refuse, horse manure and human effluence assailed his nostrils. His eyes took in the colorful clothes of the gentry, the red and black of the clergy, the green of the archers, and the brown of peasants, as well as the array of wares in merchants’ windows tempting buyers inside to buy silk, spices, gold and silver. Dickon had never seen so many people—except on that day in Ludlow when the small town had been overrun by hundreds of soldiers. His thoughts often returned there—almost a year to the day—but now he hoped for peace.

Dickon knew now why his father was returning to London, and it was not merely to be with his family. Seated on Edward’s huge courser and securely leaning on his brother’s strong torso, he was aware of hundreds of pairs of curious eyes watching the York party move up Chepeside, the soaring spire of St. Paul’s pointing the way to heaven. The mood of the bystanders was a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, the number of enthusiastic cheers tempered by a few rotten vegetables and clods of earth thrown towards the Yorkist cavalcade. Two scurvy youths began taunting one of the guards walking beside the riders: “Ho there, White Rose! Where’s your traitor lord?” The billman ignored them until one of them jostled him while the other ran past and seized Edward’s bridle. “We don’t want you here! This is Henry’s capital,” the man sneered at them and Dickon froze. Before Edward could react, the guard turned and caught the ruffian a blow to the head with the long handle of his bill and the lout loosed the rein and fell to the ground, moaning. Edward moved on as though nothing had happened and encouraged Dickon to wave and smile.

“Don’t they want Father to come?” the boy asked, anxiously looking back at the fallen man. “I thought it was the queen they hated.”

“Just as ours is, their loyalty is to the king,” Ned told him. “They like Henry because he is saintly and kind, and they don’t know Father. They don’t know they can trust him. People will always take sides in a conflict, Dickon. That is why we have wars.”

“York and Lancaster, the white rose and the red,” Dickon said to himself. He was too young to see the irony that both boasted thorns sharp enough to draw blood.