“And dog will have his day.”
—William Shakespeare
Hamlet, V, i
Wolf Hall, Northumberland, England
October 1487
“She’s a long-limbed lass,” observed Sir Giles Cavendish, Earl of Thornbury. “Looks like a spring colt”
The girl’s guardian, Sir Edward Brampton, forced his smile, though the earl’s assessment of his darling Alicia made him fearful for her future. Aloud, he replied, “Aye, and one fine day she will grow into a beauty. You have already noticed that she has inherited her father’s height. She also possesses the family’s legendary good looks.”
Indeed, Alicia was the spitting image of her royal sire, although she did not enjoy the protection of a legitimate birth. A cold shiver raced down Sir Edward’s spine at the mere thought of what would happen to his ward if Henry Tudor’s agents learned of her existence. Her first cousin, the poor half-witted Earl of Warwick, already languished in the Tower at the new king’s pleasure.
The earl shifted his gaze away from the golden-haired child who amused herself with a game of cat’s cradle at the far end of the hall. “Does the lass know of her parents?” he queried.
Sir Edward shook his head. “Nay, she thinks her family were yeomen farmers who died of the plague when she was a baby.” He gave a rueful smile. “She believes that my lady and I are the goldsmith of York and his wife. I thought it safest to keep the truth from her until she is of age—or married.” He allowed the last word to hang in the air between them.
Sir Giles sipped from his pewter tankard of ale. “Why have you chosen my family?” he asked. “Would it not be better for the girl to marry within her own class and be lost amid the bustle of York?”
Sir Edward furrowed his brow. “That is precisely the reason why I have come to you, my lord. She was born higher than any merchant of York. Though her father lifted skirts from France to the Scottish borders, he was also our late King Edward, God rest his soul.” He made a hasty sign of the cross.
Sir Giles followed suit. “Amen to that.” He stared at Sir Edward, while he drummed his fingers on the wide-planked tabletop. “You have told me an interesting tale, Lord Brampton. I especially like the part when King Richard called you to his tent before the battle of Bosworth, and gave his brother’s waif into your care.” He leaned forward in his chair. “But what proof do you have?”
Sir Edward drew in his breath. The next few minutes would decide Alicia’s fate. “Did you know King Edward well?” he asked, as he fumbled with the buckle of the worn leather pouch on his lap.
“Aye, as well as I knew my own wife of blessed memory.” The old earl chuckled. “My lady often swore that I preferred Edward’s company to her own. Bestrew me, but at times I did, for the woman tended to nag.” He sighed, then took another swallow of ale. “Now that she has gone to her heavenly reward, I miss her. But to your point, my lord.”
Sir Edward drew a blue velvet bag from the pouch. “Perchance you recognize this?” He cradled a jeweled brooch in his palm.
Sir Giles’s eyes widened when he beheld the splendid oval ruby nestled in a golden setting. A large teardrop pearl dangled from it. “Aye, ‘tis a gladsome sight to see it again. ‘Twas His Grace’s favorite bauble to deck his cap. He is wearing it in a portrait that I have hidden away.”
“A fitting dowry for his last child.” Sensing his goal within reach, Sir Edward lowered his voice. “King Richard gave me a bag of gold sovereigns to accompany the brooch. He did not wish Alicia to come to her husband as a pauper.”
The earl glared at him. “The jewel is enough, though the coin would make my tax burden lighter. May the Tudor and his minions rot in hell! They will squeeze the country dry with their damnable taxes. I can barely make ends meet. My tenants are already destitute.”
“I warrant you, ‘tis equally as hard on honest goldsmiths, my lord.” Sir Edward held up the brooch. The light from the hearth fire brought the ruby to life. “’Tis a match then? Your son for my fair Alicia, daughter of Edward IV?”
Sir Giles stroked his chin. “I have three boys.”
“Alicia needs only one of them for a husband.” Sir Edward glanced at the young girl on the bench. The pale rays of the sun shining through the high-arched window caught the red-gold of her hair, turning it into a blazing halo about her heart-shaped face. An angel, he thought with a surge of pride. Just like all the Plantagenets. Sweet Jesu, protect her from the Tudor upstart.
The earl cleared his throat. “My eldest, John, is near twenty. He has been married once already, but she died. When he takes his next wife, she must be descended from…legitimate parentage, as John will be the Earl of Thornbury after me.”
“Just so.” Sir Edward drank deeply of the ale in his tankard lest he be tempted to challenge the earl’s thinly veiled insult.
“William, my second son, is betrothed to one of Bedford’s quiverful of daughters. That boy is a wild one. Only sixteen, and already he’s gotten two of the village maids with child.”
By the tone of the earl’s voice, Sir Edward suspected the young rogue’s father was secretly proud of his son’s proven virility. He cleared his throat. “Alicia needs a strong arm and a loyal heart to protect her.” She should be loved and cherished, his heart cried out in silence, as I have loved and cherished her since she was in leading strings.
Thornbury sighed, and drained his tankard. “Then there is Thomas.” He chewed on his lower lip. “Just fourteen, but as big as the other two. Rides well. Best sword arm of the lot.”
“He sounds promising.” What was the problem? Sir Edward wondered. Was the boy poxed? With growing misgivings, he waited for the earl to continue.
Sir Giles refilled their tankards from the clay jug on the table between them. “The lad is…honest and true as the day is long. Methinks he does not know how to lie. He speaks his mind plain—that is, when he decides to speak at all.”
Sir Edward blinked. “Your pardon, my lord?”
The earl sank back against the cushions of his chair. “Methinks the boy was coddled by his mother too much. From childhood Thomas shunned the company of his brothers and my fosterlings. He grew even more reclusive after my wife died in childbirth. Now he spends most of the day out of doors, either at practice in the tilt yard, or hunting in the forest.”
Sir Edward found himself holding his breath. Alicia needed the protection of a strong family loyal to the Yorkist cause. If his future plans proved successful, the child would be the half sister of the rightful king. Young Richard of York lay hidden away in the countryside of Flanders, waiting until he was old enough to claim his birthright. Sir Edward measured his next words carefully.
“Your Thomas sounds like the very match for my ward.”
Sir Giles massaged the bridge of his nose. “My Thomas may have the strength of an ox, but he has the brain of one as well. He hardly talks, and when he does, ‘tis usually to one of his damnable dogs. In plain truth, my third son is a lackwit.”
“Oh.” Sir Edward felt like a fool’s inflated bladder after some unfortunate person had sat upon it.
God in heaven, how could he possibly betroth Alicia to a half-wit? What other choice did he have? By the stain of her birth, she would be an outcast at the court of Burgundy, where the Yorkist sympathizers resided. Should he send her over the border to Scotland, or into a nunnery? She would whither away in