Dickon’s prescient words were remembered two weeks later when the Yorkist army tasted the bitterness of defeat at the second battle of St. Alban’s. Once again Dickon’s life was plunged into uncertainty. He learned then how quickly the wheel of fortune turns. Not only had the all-powerful earl of Warwick lost the battle, but he had lost the king as well.

“Why did he take the king with him?” Dickon wanted to know. He was not going to betray Henry’s confidence and tell Meg and George how the king hated fighting, but he was curious to know what role the king had played in Warwick’s army.

“Henry is still the king, and I expect Cousin Richard thought showing him to the armies might stop the queen fighting,” George said.

“Perhaps he wanted to prove that we Yorks are still loyal to our king,” Meg offered.

“How could this have happened?” was the distraught Cecily’s question when she heard of the defeat. Would Queen Margaret’s army now sweep through London’s streets burning, raping and pillaging as the earl of Warwick had described the Lancastrians’ destructive march south through the English countryside. The She-wolf had never liked London, and the dislike was mutual. Never let it be said those same Londoners did not care for their king—they did; it was his wife and her counselors they despised. They had hoped the duke of York would bring about welcome change in the governing of the kingdom and bring stability to the city and its commerce—but now he was gone and they feared for their security.

In vain, Londoners had put their faith in the valiant and powerful warrior Richard Neville, earl of Warwick. So what had gone so wrong? With his superior defensive position inside the town, experienced commanders, new-fangled, sophisticated weaponry, and an army of ten thousand men, the formidable Warwick should have won a decisive victory. But in the melée of retreating Yorkists, Henry had been found laughing and singing under a tree. Perhaps his cheerful mood had reflected a thought of being reconciled with his warrior queen and their son, Edouard, prince of Wales. Or, people whispered, was it another bout of madness?

Mired in her own grief, Cecily of York had failed to notice that the loss of his father had affected her young nephew far more than he had admitted, and something of the Warwick fire had gone out of him. It seemed Richard Neville was better at planning grandiose schemes than carrying them out, and St. Alban’s was the first example.