“Ssh, Dickon, God might hear,” York whispered, albeit impressed by his son’s liturgical knowledge. He grinned. “Besides she no longer does that,” and he was heartened to see his usually serious son burst into merry laughter.

“Mother in braies? In truth, my lord, ’tis hard to imagine.” Dickon could hardly believe his good fortune in having privileged private time with his father. And he took advantage of it. As children are wont, he never tired of gleaning any tidbit of his father’s life. “Why did you go to live with mother’s family so young?”

And so Dickon learned again the story of his paternal grandfather’s treason and execution, and his grandmother’s untimely death that left their five-year-old son alone. Dickon heard what it had been like to be an orphan until Richard of York had felt welcomed into Ralph Neville’s family. “I was Ralph’s ward and was treated with utmost kindness, and it was not long before he arranged the marriage between me and your mother. And, as you know, we have lived happily ever after.” He grinned to himself knowing he was leaving out the many ups and downs of a marriage no matter how happy.

York was not prepared for the barrage of questions with which his son peppered him next. He was beginning to regret inviting the lad into his sanctuary, although he could not help feeling proud of Dickon’s agile young mind.

“Father, all of these things have been puzzling me. Why is the king a prisoner, when he can walk about Westminster when he wants? Why is the queen somewhere else and not with him? Can a woman lead an army? If the king is not governing, why don’t you take over? If your cause is just, why do people oppose you?” Dickon stopped to take a breath.

York held up his hand, laughing. “Sweet Virgin, do your questions ever stop? I can tell you that the king is not a prisoner; he is watched for his own protection. The queen is probably gathering an army somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, and we shall not worry about her until the time comes. And Queen Margaret has indeed led an army in her black armor, but she quickly retreats to the back as soon as any fighting starts. Ladies are not strong enough to wield a sword, my child, and they are better off looking after the home while their men are away fighting. That is a much more useful and necessary function for them.” Cecily would praise him for that, he told himself. “And I cannot take over governing until Henry dies. I swore an oath, although I think I would be a better king.”

“King Henry thinks so, too,” Dickon remarked, and then covered his mouth.

York raised an eyebrow. “Does he indeed? Well, I think he is right. As for why I am opposed, it is because there are those in power now who know they would lose it if I were to be king. They have led the king astray and I would dismiss them. There now, are you satisfied?”