Rivals in the Tudor Court

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?”