The relentless river wind whistled through the passageways of Baynard’s that December, and even in front of a crackling fire, the family used mantles and shawls for extra warmth. “God help them in the north,” Cecily said to Gresilde. “I have heard they are celebrating yuletide at Sandal Castle, a drafty place even in the summer, and blanketed in snow in the winter. My only consolation is that the queen and her foreign horde can be faring no better on the border. After the abominable summer and bad harvest, I wonder what our troops had to feast on for Christmas. The village of Wakefield cannot feed an army, God knows, and we do not have much even here in London.”

One late afternoon as the twilight caused eerie shadows from the fire to flicker around the walls of the solar and Elizabeth brayed at one of Meg’s whispered comments, George declared: “I miss Father.”

“We all do, George,” Cecily said, softly. “And we all miss Ned and Edmund, too.”

“I miss Piers Taggett,” Dickon said suddenly, and all heads turned in his direction. Dickon flushed. Why did I say that? he admonished himself. Would he be faced with retelling his grisly dream of the night before and be humiliated? It was the same recurring nightmare, always ending with the blood-soaked Piers falling into his arms. He had not owned up to having one since leaving Maxstoke in the spring and had learned to wake himself up somehow, lie in the dark—George snoring lightly beside him—and talk himself out of being afraid, with his father absent again.

A shadow flitted over Cecily’s face at the mention of Piers, and she put down her needlework. Her youngest son puzzled her; he was a secretive little soul, albeit so loyal and eager to please, and she was surprised Dickon would remember the falconer after all this time. Piers’s name reminded her of the greater loss of her beloved Constance that day in Ludlow, as if her daily prayer for the soul of her friend weren’t reminder enough. “Whatever made you think of Piers?”

Dickon thought quickly. “When you mentioned Father, I thought of him and his soldiers up there at Sandal and ready to fight and it reminded me of the queen’s soldiers at Ludlow and that reminded me of the king at the market cross and that reminded me of…”

“We follow you, babble-mouth,” George muttered under his breath, sensing his mother was close to tears. “No one wants to be reminded of Ludlow, so why don’t you go and play with your marbles?” Then he gave Cecily his disarming smile. “Mother, I pray you,” he coaxed, “can I interest you in a game of chess?”

“Gladly, dear child,” Cecily replied, Dickon forgotten.