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,