Now, at thirteen, ten and seven, Margaret, George and Richard were the only siblings left at home. They played, squabbled and attended to their lessons, sheltered in the confines of massive Fotheringhay Castle and unaware of the dangerous times in the lawless land they lived in. Ruled by a weak king, his ruthless wife and ambitious advisors, England was but a shadow of the kingdom left by Henry the Fifth not forty years before. Even more humiliating, Harry’s feeble son had since lost all the Norman lands his hero father had given his life to reclaim. A hundred years of war with France had all but crippled England, leaving its people disgruntled and beggared. It was no wonder the woods were as crowded with outlaws as the birds perched in the branches above them.

Cocooned as he was at Fotheringhay, Dickon had always felt safe and loved when he was wrapped in his elegant mother’s arms at the end of the day as she recited their nightly prayers. Cecily taught him to talk to God, and soon the boy found himself taking comfort from Him in those trying times when George teased him. When he was old enough to be told stories from the Bible, the angels of Dickon’s imagination took on his mother’s face and cloud of golden hair. The duchess of York would not admit that this small boy tugged at her heart, not only for his resemblance to his father, but for his innocent piety. At least one of her children understood the magic of a heavenly Father. She was aware of his childish adoration of her, but it did not occur to her to demonstrate her love. These were Plantagenet children, and strong backbones, morals, and a sense of duty were needed to perpetuate the dynasty, not coddling and indulgence. Proud Cis did not dare allow herself to show favor, although her husband often teased her about her special attachment to Edmund. “Pish!” she would retort.

But even those precious times Dickon spent with her were few and far between. Cecily insisted on being with her husband as often as she could, leaving the youngest siblings in Nurse Anne’s capable, plump hands, which had caressed or disciplined all of the Yorks’ twelve offspring.

“God bless your father, your brothers and sisters, dear Nurse Anne, and all Christian souls,” Cecily of York whispered to the thin little boy on her lap on one of those rare nights.

“And God bless you, Maman,” Dickon replied softly as he buried his dark-blond head into her long neck and hoped jealous George could not hear. “God bless you most of all.” He often added a prayer that God would give him another brother or sister, so George could no longer call him runt.