The cheering increased at the great conduit on the Chepe when Edward was joined by Warwick and his father, also gorgeously clothed on their fully caparisoned mounts. Londoners had truly taken Warwick to their hearts, Edward noted, and was glad of it. He prayed those same loud shouts would later greet his father; it seemed Englishmen could waver in their loyalties as easily as the petals of a plucked red or white rose could wither and die. Would Londoners cheer or jeer his father? They must wonder at his purpose on returning from exile.

Dickon, less aware of the uncertainty, settled down to bask in the excitement of the moment, as clarion trumpets, shawms and drums gave notice they were nearing the Newgate past Gothic St. Paul’s. Edward spurred his horse forward, anxious to be there at the western entry into London to greet his noble Father. “Hold on, Dickon! Judging from this din, our father must have already reached the bridge over the ditch before the Wall,”

Ned said, gripping his brother tightly and shouting to the crowd to let his party pass.

When Ned saw his father ride through the Newgate to join him, he gave a sharp gasp of dismay. “Bread of Christ, what does this mean?” he muttered, and Dickon turned his head to look up at him. Ned’s stony stare scared him. Warwick’s face was grave, too, and he raised an eyebrow at Ned.

“What does what mean?” Dickon asked, trying to see where his father was behind the lead rider carrying a huge broadsword pointed skyward.

“’Tis only a king who is permitted to carry an upright sword before him,” Ned snapped. “And the banners—he uses the royal arms of England. Ah, Father, you swore not to claim the crown. What are you doing?” He urged his horse forward and forced a smile of welcome. York saluted his son with a raised fist, and when the two horses met, grasped Edward’s outstretched hand. “Edward, my son! We meet again under happier circumstances.” His exuberance was infectious, and the crowd reacted favorably to this greeting between father and son.

Dickon had almost forgotten what his father looked like over the year of separation, but seeing him now in the magnificent white tunic shot with gold thread on which was blazoned the York fetterlock, a new beard fashionably forked, and a blue bonnet stuck with a jeweled pin on his head, the boy was filled with pride.

It was a moment before Richard noticed his youngest son, but when he did he laughed in surprise, reached over and pinched his cheek. “You have lost your fair curls, my son,” York said, ruffling the thick hair. “You are going to be dark like me. Good boy.” Pleased with the compliment, Dickon forgave the reference to his childish curls, and chose to respond with the dignity befitting an eight-year-old.