Rivals in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ was a vulgar display!” cries my grandfather, Baron John Howard, slamming his fist on the dining table, regarding my father, Sir Thomas, with hard black eyes. “Children, Thomas! Five-year-old brats—my God, it’s like handing a dukedom to that one there!” He waves an impatient hand at me. I wish I could crawl under the table to sit with my dog, but the last time I did that the baron pulled me up by the arm so hard that it ached for days. “That daft king would rather see two children wed than honour me with what is due,” he goes on. “I am the rightful Duke of Norfolk! Mowbray was my cousin, after all! It is fitting that I should have been named heir instead of his snivelling, drooling girl-child!”

      Sir Thomas purses his lips, annoyed, though whether it is with my grandfather or the situation, I cannot discern. He shifts on the bench, his thick hands toying with a piece of bread. “It was most unfair, my lord,” he says. “We can thank God, however, that the king had the grace to knight me at the wedding ceremony.”

      “Oh, yes, thank God for that,” spits the baron, but I have the distinct feeling he is not thankful at all.

      I look under the table at my favourite dog, a grey mongrel named Rain, offering him a reassuring smile.

      “What are you thinking over there?” barks the baron.

      It takes a moment to realise he is addressing me. I right myself. “Nothing, my lord,” I tell him.

      “Don’t lie to me, boy,” the baron hisses. His face is crimson; a thick vein pulsates in his neck. “You find this amusing, do you? Something to laugh at?”

      I shake my head, my cheeks burning. A lump swells in my throat. I reach down to lay a hand on my dog’s head, reassuring myself with the soft fur. Soon I can get away from this tirade and run outside with Rain, loyal Rain. I shall lay my head upon his warm side and find shapes in the clouds with my brother Neddy.

      “Do enlighten us with your anecdotes, child,” says the baron, leaning back, gripping the edge of the table with slim-fingered hands.

      I don’t even know what an anecdote is. I begin to tremble. “I was—I was—”

      “‘You were’? ‘You were’?” The baron’s voice has risen an octave in mockery.

      My lip quivers.

      The old man’s hand springs across the table to grip my collar, pulling me halfway across platters of food. My breeches are ruined. Rain is barking somewhere in the background. My knee is digging into something, the corner of a tray perhaps, but I am too terrified to look down. I can only stare into the dark face of the baron in horror.

      His breath reeks of spirits. I cough.

      “Do not mock me, boy,” he seethes.

      “I wasn’t mocking you!” I cry, my mind scrambling to recall my exact offence.

      “Thomas, best rein in your brat,” cries my grandfather as he brings me across his knee before the hall of family and servants and liveried guards. His hand, when he brings it across my bared bottom, hurts indeed, but the eyes of the hall bearing witness to my shame is a pain far greater. “You will be taught to respect your betters, lad!”

      At this moment my dog launches himself at the baron, tearing into his ankle with a strangled growl.

      Grandfather unleashes a howl, pushing me from his knee to the floor. I reach out in terror, trying to pull Rain off the old man, but the baron has reached him first. In one swift move he grabs the creature by the scruff of the neck, pulling him up onto his hind legs while retrieving his dagger.

      “No!” I scream, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ