“Aye, my lord Father,” Dickon said gratefully. He hugged his knees savoring the moment, but then noticing a large chart on the wall in front of him, he jumped up and pointed. “That is England and we are here,” he said touching London. “And that is Normandy across the Narrow Sea. Have you been there, Father? Did you fight the French?”

York joined him and nodded. “For as long as England has been England, the French have been our enemies. Normandy has been joined to England since the Conqueror’s time, but little by little the French have encroached on our territory until good king Harry the Fifth won it all back at Agincourt.” Dickon’s eyes shone at the mention of the great English victory, and he followed York’s trailing finger across the chart to Rouen. “Your sister Bess and Edward and Edmund were all born there,” he said. “I was Normandy’s governor once, but I was then sent away to govern Ireland, where George was born.” His mouth tightened into a thin line as he stared at the map. “Normandy should still belong to England. It was lost forever by this feeble Henry, his incompetent ministers, and his meddling queen.”

Dickon had been taught how a weak king was a bad king, and he paused before pushing for a question that had been niggling him. “Surely King Henry is not your enemy, Father? He is my friend, and I think he is a good man.”

York harrumphed. “Aye, too good. And easy for an ambitious woman to manipulate.”

“Is that Queen Margaret?”

“Aye, she has been called She-wolf for her callous disregard for life,” York said. “She is my bitterest enemy.”

Dickon was confused. “Is she my enemy, too? And the king? What has he done to me? I like him.”

York took Dickon by the shoulders. “By all that is holy, he is not my enemy. He is my king and as far as God knows, I have been loyal to him. But Margaret of Anjou turned the king against me, Dickon, and I can never forgive her.”

“Is she French?” he whispered, now concerned by his father’s seriousness. “Is that why she’s your enemy?”

York pointed to a small province on the map. “Her father was duke of Anjou. The Angevin kings of France came from there—as did our own Henry II—and so Margaret is of an old royal French family, but she is not my enemy because of that.” He was silent for a moment as he remembered the first time he set eyes on the fifteen-year-old put into his care for part of her journey to England to marry Henry. “By the Virgin, but she was beautiful,” he muttered. “Spoiled and beautiful. But she was thought to be an excellent match for Henry—a political pawn in the game of thrones,” he said bitterly and returned to his chair. “You will learn how important a wife can be, Dickon. Your mother was the best choice for me.”