In early December, York was tasked with riding north and bringing order there. In London, a calm had taken hold of the city after the surprising turn of events in the matter of the succession in October. It was a deceptive calm. The Yorkist council was well aware that Queen Margaret was gathering with her allies over the border in Scotland, and they knew the She-wolf would not allow her cub to lose the throne without a fight. But when word reached London that Henry Percy, duke of Northumberland, was raising an army and spreading false rumors about Richard of York, Parliament had had enough. A show of force was needed to keep order and more important, prevent the Percies from joining the queen. Richard was deemed the man for the task.

Once again, Edmund would go with his father, while Edward was being sent west to the Welsh marches where the king’s half-brother Jasper Tudor was brandishing his sword in support of the queen. Salisbury, too, would go with York, leaving Warwick to help govern in London. All knew the Londoners trusted Warwick—if they trusted anyone at all. In truth, Londoners were in an enviable position whether they knew it or not; they ruled themselves, and it was up to the king to treat with them or not. The Yorkists ruled the parliament but Lancastrian Henry was still the king for now. Holding many of the country’s purse strings, bankers and merchants played a waiting game.

Family farewells were beginning to be a normal part of Dickon’s life, but this one was far too soon after the reunion of September, he decided. It didn’t seem fair, but then he was learning that life wasn’t always fair.

Edmund lifted Richard off the ground to say goodbye and gave him a kiss, admonishing him to stop fighting with George and obey Meg. “When I come back, I shall expect you to hit the bullseye with two out of every three arrows. Do you promise to practice?”

“Put me down, Edmund,” Dickon said crossly. “I am not a baby, I’m eight years old. And by the time you return, I shall be hitting the bullseye every single time and besting George with a shortsword.”

“There is someone with fighting spirit,” Richard of York remarked as he led his horse forward to the mounting block. Dickon flushed with pleasure. “It will not be long before you and George will be riding with us.” He squatted down and tousled Dickon’s hair. “Look after your mother for me while I am gone. You, too, George,” he said, pulling his older boy into an awkward embrace. He loved all his children—especially Meggie, with whom he had already had a tearful goodbye. As well, the troops close by had already enjoyed seeing the passionate embrace of their lord and lady at the top of the staircase from the great hall half an hour earlier.