So, he thought now, had Edmund been the sacrifice for his family? Their father had insisted his untried son must do his duty and fight, and Edmund had wanted to go—Dickon had heard him say it—but how much of his brave speech had been real and how much had been about not disappointing his father? The quick-witted boy now understood how often all of them had tried to please their father—even Edward. Who would they look to please now? He glanced up at his mother, always so self-assured, but she was his Mam, and he minded and adored her, but he instinctively knew he could never disappoint her. Whereas his lord father…he shuddered. His lord father was now having his eyes pecked out by crows and his face eaten away by maggots atop the Micklegate.

The gory image made him run all the way back to his bed before anyone could acknowledge his presence. He pulled the covers over his head and stopped his ears; but the ghastly, gory images of Piers, his father, and Edmund were blazoned in blood on his child’s mind. For Dickon, his dream—and now Meggie’s—only reinforced his own worst fears of dying violently, surrounded by menacing enemies, his entrails spilling out onto an already reddened battlefield.

The next day, despite the sleet outside, the sun came out briefly for the York family when a young messenger arrived with news of Ned and his army in the Welsh Marches. Dickon, George and Meg arrived in time to hear the herald say, “John Harper at Your Grace’s service,” as he went down on one knee before the duchess. “I have to report a great victory for Lord Edward seven days since!” he announced with relish, and a cheer rose from the assembled company. “At a place near Ludlow called Mortimer’s Cross.”

“I know the place,” Cecily said, gripping Margaret’s arm. She had been dreading news of Ned in combat, and thus her question was barely audible. “Does my son live?”

Dickon held his breath. Surely God could not be unkind enough to take Ned, too. he panicked. He closed his eyes and held his breath, sending a prayer to his favorite St. Anthony.

John Harper grinned. “Aye, he does, Your Grace.”

Dickon exhaled. His imagination was fired by the tale the herald told. John Harper had a flare for drama, and as his audience grew, so did his enthusiasm for relating the thrilling details of how his master had won his first battle. It was on the feast of Candlemas, the herald said, adding that some were loath to fight upon such a holy day. “But just before the battle began, a strange happening took place that convinced our troops that Lord Edward would be victorious.”