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The baron does not look at me once. He slashes Rain’s throat, discarding the animal on the floor and returning to his seat. He takes in a deep breath, wipes his hands on his linen, and commences to eat his mutton.
I crawl toward my slain dog. Steaming blood oozes from his silvery throat. I do not know what to do. I start trying to push it back inside him. I press my hand to his throat.
I regard the baron, whose back is to me, hoping to project as much hatred into my eyes as is possible, but it does not matter. He does not see me. He is eating his supper, complaining of King Edward IV, who has wronged him so.
I am glad, I think to myself, that he was denied his grand title. Indeed, I hope every misery possible is heaped upon the man until he draws his dying breath.
“Tom!”
My grandmother’s voice is stern.
I turn toward her, blinking back tears. Rain’s blood is slick against my hand.
“Take that thing out of here and bury it,” she orders.
As I gather my pet in my arms, I hear her tell the baron, “Really, my lord, you should have commenced with that unpleasantness elsewhere. It has positively ruined my appetite.”
I take Rain outside, laying him in the snow; I have no idea where to bury him. I will not think of it now. I cannot. Icy tears slide down my cheeks as I remove my shirt and wind it about his throat, then, shivering, rest my head on his side, raising my eyes to the heavens, seeking out the clouds.
One of them looks like a dagger.
Three years later my grandfather announces the death of little Anne Mowbray, King Edward IV’s eight-year-old daughter-in-law and heiress to the dukedom of Norfolk.
“I have lost all to a child-prince. Richard has won the day,” he laments.
We are in the “war room,” a large chamber devoted to maps and a store for the family’s finest suits of armour. The baron is standing over the large mahogany table, tracing the unattainable Mowbray lands with his index finger.
My father shrugs. He is not as afraid of the baron as the rest of the family is. They are a bit alike, though my father, Sir Thomas, is more subtle in his approach, favouring locking someone away in a chamber without food for a few days as opposed to wasting his energy on the administration of beatings.
I am certain to keep my face void of expression during their exchange. After the countless lashings I have endured, I know anything—a blink, a dreamy smile, a twitch—can set Grandfather off. I stay still. Calm. I have practised in the glass, this look of impassivity. Many an hour has been devoted to learning the art of self-control. I will not speak against him; I will not cry out.
Perhaps this frustrates him the most. The others cry when he beats them and indeed they should not, as they are not beaten half as much as I. I do not cry. It is what he waits for, I think; he longs for my tears, for me to beg him to stop.
But I will never beg him for a thing, not ever.
And so in this vein we shall continue, until one of us outlives the other.
Sir Thomas turns to me with a slight smile. “But we shall remain the king’s loyal servants, shall we not?” he asks in light tones. “Edward is a mortal man, God bless him. His reign cannot last forever.” How easily he speaks treason! “Meanwhile, we shall serve him and elevate ourselves the old-fashioned way.”
I wonder what the old-fashioned way is but do not dare ask. I am wondering why Sir Thomas has summoned me to this little conference to begin with.
“Here, my boy,” says Sir Thomas, extending his arm to me. “A gift for you.” With a dramatic gesture, he pulls a large bolt of velvet aside to reveal in the corner a suit of armour. “Happy Christmas, lad.”
My very first suit of armour!
“I am big enough now?” I ask, smiling in spite of myself.
Sir Thomas nods.
“I wouldn’t say that,” pipes in the baron, “but we cannot wait forever. You are already a year behind the other boys; most receive their armour at seven. He’s a little mite, Thomas.”
“Size is irrelevant,” says Sir Thomas in firm tones. It is the first time I have ever heard him address the baron such. To me he says, “It is about intelligence, Little Tom.” He taps my temple with his fingertip. “Battles are won up here before they are ever won on the field. Learn the art of strategy and you will make an incomparable knight. Now. Have a look.”
I inch forward, ignoring the baron’s insult regarding my diminutive stature as I reach out to touch my new armour.
How grand it is! I run a hand along the shining breastplate, imagining myself a strong, tall man of twenty or so, lance poised at my hip as I forge ahead on my charger—a black charger—ready to oust my opponent. It will be easy. I will be the greatest warrior in the land; everyone will admire me. Even girls; they will throw their tokens at me and I will flash them my winning smile. I will not mind their attentions because supposedly men that age actually like the gentle sex.
“What do you think of it, lad?” asks my father. He is smiling down at me. I raise my eyes to him, another great warrior, and smile.
“It is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” I breathe in awe.
“Be worthy of it,” says the baron, his gravelly voice hard.
I turn to face him, meeting his gaze, hoping my hatred reflects in my uncompromising black eyes. “Let there be no doubt that I shall.”
I have usurped the hayloft as my own personal hideaway. It is far more peaceful than the manor, and up here I have created my own little world. No one knows about it, not even Neddy or Edmund. It is my place. I carve and paint toy soldiers and set up elaborate battlefields where the general—I, of course—always wins the day. Sometimes I draw pictures, maps mostly, planning out my battles. My toy soldiers take to slaying dragons, conquering kingdoms, and even rescuing silly girls.
It is a wonderful place, a place no one can take away from me.
Or so I thought until the day the baron took the dairy maid in a bed of straw and manure. I peek over the ledge when I hear the familiar voice. I want to look away but cannot. He is telling her to hush, covering her mouth as he proceeds to do something I didn’t know was possible. Yet I had seen animals do it, so I suppose people must, too. I just didn’t know it happened like this.
The girl is in a frenzy, wriggling against the baron, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, my good lord, stop!” she cries. “Please, let me go!”
In response the baron slaps her.
It is then that the girl’s wide blue eyes find me.
I cannot move. I cannot shrink back. I would make noise and he would know and do … I cannot think of what he would do.
The girl holds my gaze as the baron commences with his strange act. Her eyes are alight with horror and sadness and defeated submission. I long to reach out to her. I find myself wishing in vain that my toy soldiers would come to life and rescue her, slaying the baron in the process.
But such wishes are for children and I cannot think myself a child after today.
When the baron finishes, he pushes her aside. “Go now. Off with you.”
The girl gathers her torn skirts about her and struggles to her feet, rushing out without a backward glance.
The baron collects himself. He stares straight ahead of him.
“We Howards take what we want,” he says without looking toward my hiding spot. “To get anywhere in life, you have to take what you want.”
He quits the stables.
I lie in the straw and vomit.
He knew … he knew I was there, watching.
And he did it anyway.
I never go to the hayloft again. The soldiers I give to my little brothers, encouraging them to play with them as I cannot. I cannot play again. Instead I will learn how to become a real knight, a chivalrous knight. No lady will have need to fear me.
When not forced into study, something that while it comes easily to me is not my passion, I devote myself to learning the sword, riding, archery, anything physical. Anything that will enable me to become the greatest soldier in the land. Anything that will inspire the bards to sing my praises. I shall be the unforgettable Thomas Howard. The hero Thomas Howard.
I, and not the baron, shall make the Howard name great.
I still do not grow very much, to my eternal dismay, as my brothers have already surpassed me and they are much younger. But I will not be daunted. We shall see who will prove their mettle when on the battlefield.
Sir Thomas and the baron are too busy to notice my development; they are occupied with missions of their own and are not much seen at Ashwelthorpe. It is just as well. With them gone I can sing and laugh and play with my brothers with no one to tell me otherwise.
We pass a happy spring and in May, Mother is delivered of a baby girl. When I am permitted to see her I bound into her chambers, eager to meet my new sister.
Mother lies abed, her brown hair cascading about her shoulders, and as the sunlight filters through the window, it catches threads of auburn and gold. I have a strange urge to reach out and touch it but refrain as I approach the cradle. The baby is a tiny black-haired cherub. She sleeps with her little fists curled by her face.
“Oh, my lady,” I breathe. “She’s beautiful.”
Mother stares at me a moment, her expression vacant, before averting her head.
“What do you call her?” I ask.
“It has yet to be decided.”
I think this is quite odd. “But she is three days old. What are you waiting for?” I ask.
“Oh, Tom.” She rolls onto her side, her back to me. “You know so little about this life….” She draws in a shuddering breath. “This cursed life.”
I am moved to pity for this thin, defeated woman whose beautiful baby lies so near her. She seems so unhappy in her role. I furrow my brow in confusion as my eyes shift from mother to daughter. I thought this was what all women yearned for, that it was something as natural for them as longing for a sword is for men.
I approach the bed, daring to touch her shoulder. “Mother,” I say in soft tones, “shouldn’t you name her? She shall be christened soon and it wouldn’t do for her not to have a name.”
Mother throws an arm over her eyes. “Yes, yes, I shall name her. Do not worry. It’s just …” She sits up, hugging her knees. Tears light her brown eyes. “It’s just, Little Tom, to name a child is to give it meaning. To attach yourself to it. And He waits for you to become attached.”
“Who?”
“God.” Mother casts wild eyes about the room, as though God might leap out of the wardrobe any moment and smite her. I am caught up in her panic and find myself doing the same thing. Years later I would have laughed at my young self and assured him that of all the things holy and unholy to lie in wait for him, God would never be one of them.
Mother returns her gaze to me. “You see, He takes them then, Tom. The moment you open your heart, He takes them. Three of them are gone now; you are too young to remember. But I remember. They are in the cemetery. Their headstones have names.”
I am unsettled by her. She does not appear altogether well and I wonder if it would be prudent to fetch the midwife. I turn to the cradle once more. “This one seems strong and splendid to me, my lady,” I tell her. “I expect she shall be with us a good long while.”
At this the baby awakes and begins to fuss. I scoop her up in my arms, holding her to my chest. She is so warm and soft I do not want to let her go. I smile down at her crimson face as she howls her displeasure.
“Listen to that set of lungs!” I cry. “She shall be a force to be reckoned with, my lady, you shall see.”
Mother has covered her ears. “Fetch the wet nurse, Tom. See that she is fed.”
I take the baby to the buxom maid, who I must say seems quite perfect for her profession, and she is happy to relieve me of my little burden.
“Has the missus decided on a name yet, milord?” she asks me in her grating country accent.
I shake my head, heart sinking.
The nurse sits in one of the chairs, baring her breast without a thought. “I suppose it’s in God’s hands.”
God. I shiver. Wasn’t I just looking for Him a moment ago?
The baby is eventually named by Sir Thomas, who settles on Alyss. I admit to feeling a special tenderness for her. As she grows, cooing and laughing and forming short sentences, I teach her to say my name. “Say Tom,” I tell her over and over.
“Tom,” she repeats, her round blue eyes filled with the unbridled adoration only a baby or a dog is capable of projecting. “My Tom,” she says again.
“Yes,” I say, picking her up and twirling her about. “I shall always be your Tom. I shall be your brave knight and protect you from all harm.”
But I cannot protect her from God. He takes her from me in 1483 when she is but two. A fever, a terrible scorching fire of the humours, consumes the body of my little Alyss and she perishes.
Everyone moves on. Mother is with child once more. The baron curses my tears—babies are lost all the time, he tells me, and are replaced easily enough. Sir Thomas does not address the issue at all. So I have found a dual purpose for my helmet. Not only does it serve to protect me from blows to the head in practise, but I can also put it on and cry to my heart’s content. When wearing my helmet, no one sees my tears. No one knows I cry.
The night my little lady is interred, I keep vigil by her headstone, her headstone that bears her name.
I wear my armour. I wear my helmet.
Two Bonny Lads
My Alyss is not to journey to the Lord alone. She is accompanied by our king, Edward IV. The baron carries his banner during the funeral procession and keeps vigil over his body that night, shedding tears and mourning with such conviction, one would have thought he had never spoken ill of him and that they were bosom friends.
This leaves the crown to twelve-year-old Edward V. His uncle Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, is to serve as regent until the lad reaches his majority.
However, it is not a smooth transition and on the way to the coronation, Gloucester descends upon the party and arrests Anthony Woodeville, Earl Rivers, along with several others for their supposed conspiracy to assassinate the young king. For their protection, King Edward V and his brother Prince Richard are taken to the Tower of London to be supervised by my grandfather, Constable of the Tower.
On 25 June, Gloucester names himself King of England—he is to be styled as Richard III now and installs himself at Westminster. My grandfather stood at his right as acting Earl Marshal. The baron’s heirs will be named earls marshal by heredity, which means someday I will hold the title. Then came the honour my grandfather had yearned for for as long as memory served. He is named Duke of Norfolk at last. My father is created Earl of Surrey. We are given many of the Mowbray lands along with properties that once belonged to Earl Rivers, who has met with the executioner’s axe.
I wonder at this and decide to question the newly created duke about it on one of his brief visits home (I admit with delight that since the accession of Richard III, my grandfather’s calls are few and far between).
“How can you be styled the Duke of Norfolk when Prince Richard already holds the title?” I ask, referring to one of the princes in the Tower.
Grandfather seizes my shoulders, shaking me till my teeth chatter. “Never mention that name to me again, do you hear me? Never!”
True to my nature, I cannot let it go. “But if they are in the Tower for their protection, they will be let out soon, won’t they?” I ask in subdued tones. “When the danger passes? Why has he been stripped of his title?”
Grandfather averts his head a moment. He works his jaw several times before returning his deep black eyes to me. He draws in a breath. His voice is surprisingly calm. “You must not think of them anymore, Tom. They are … they are to be forgotten.”
“Why?”
He pauses. “There is a new regime now.”
I feel a rising sense of panic. Something terrible has occurred, something dark and evil that I should not pry into. But I want to know. I have to know.
“What happened to them, Grandfather?” I whisper in horror. “What happened to the princes in the Tower?”
Grandfather releases my shoulders. He regards his hands a moment, turning them palm up. They are trembling. “In life, Tom, there is a time when it is expedient to do things …” He shudders. His voice is a gruff whisper. “Terrible things … in order to survive. Survival, Tom; that is what it is all about. The Howards are to be allied to the Crown, no matter whose head it rests upon. We are climbing out of the ashes and will be great. But we cannot hesitate. We carry out our orders without question. We demonstrate our loyalty. We crawl on our bellies and sing their praises; we cavort with demons—whatever it takes. We will rise up to be the greatest family in the land. Play it right and not only will we be able to claim a royal past, but we may see one of our own sit on the throne in the future. Do you see?”
