I suppose I understand her grief, though what can I do? I can’t very well stay home to pamper a child when the king calls for me! This may be the first of many chances to serve him or it may be the last—in any event I will not forfeit the opportunity.
I leave my princess with a kiss and the promise of my return. She says nothing. Her blue eyes stare past me, through to that world I am never quite able to enter.
I ride away. I will not look back. I will forget the tears sparkling off the cheeks where roses once bloomed.
A man remembers his first kill. Mine is made at the Battle of Blackheath on 17 June when I run my sword through the body of a bulging-eyed Cornishman. It is a very strange sensation, holding the knowledge that someone’s very existence is in my hands. But I snuff it out without hesitation; indeed, to hesitate would certainly lead to my own demise. No, this is no time to lose control and yield oneself to philosophy. I am a soldier and that is that.
The sound of sword splitting through chain mail, sliding through soft flesh is like no other in the fact that it is eerily gentle, like that of permeating wet sand with a stick. I look into his eyes, big blue bulging eyes, watching them widen in surprise. He tries to grip my hilt in a vain effort to deflect the inevitable but in his shock miscalculates and grips the blade itself, slicing his palms through to the backs of his hands. Blood begins spewing from his mouth then, a mouth that had previous ownership of the ability to scream but is now gurgling and gulping the steaming red liquid of life instead. I ease him to the ground, placing a foot on his chest in order to extricate the sword from his failing body. It is difficult, far more so than running him through.
His face drains of colour; the life ebbs out of him like the receding tide and as it does, it is as though what I have taken from him is now surging through me. I am tingling, pulsating. My heart pounds in my ears. I begin to feel the creepings of philosophy, the urge to ponder my situation: Have I done right? Am I normal?
Did I enjoy it?
What makes combat odd is the closeness. I wonder what it would be like to kill a man from far away; many kings have that ability. They sit on a hill and watch the battles commence below yet, by giving the orders, have as much a part in the killing as the knights. It must be easier for a king on a hill. They are not quite so close; they do not have to look into those eyes, those bulging blue eyes. They do not smell the steel and the blood. Nor, I imagine with that strange surge of life flowing through me, do they ever appreciate the full taste of glory on the battlefield.
I gaze at the bloodied blade a long moment. This is blood I spilt. I killed. I killed for my king and my country.
I am a soldier.
Of course I only have a moment to review this fact as I am accosted by more rebels. They are easier to take than my first man. I do not think as hard. I have not the time for such an indulgence; there is only kill or be killed.
And I will kill.
I return to my princess victorious, and my biggest reward for my efforts is holding my son. He is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. And I should know: I have seen dozens of babies and most of them are horrific, red-faced howling things.
He does not howl or fuss much; he is robust, with my wife’s almond-shaped green eyes and a tuft of rose-gold hair that I cannot stop petting.
“What do we call this little lad?” I ask my princess as I sit beside her on her bed.
She offers her gentle smile.
“I call him Thomas, my lord,” she tells me in her soft voice. “If that pleases you?”
I reach out to stroke her cheek. “Of course it does. There can never be too many Thomas Howards about.” I laugh.
The baby begins to mew a bit and I hand him to her. “Would you like me to fetch the wet nurse?”
“I nurse him myself,” she tells me. “I like nursing him.”
I screw up my face in confusion. “It isn’t done, my lady. It is not good for you. A country wench suited for that type of life would be far better. But you are a dear for trying. I shall send for a proper nurse.” I rise, patting her head. “And that way we can commence with the happy task of giving Thomas here a brother or sister.”
The princess cradles the baby to her heart. I note the plea in her eyes. I cannot help but yield to her desires. She is so fair…. I nod, her helpless servant. She unfastens her nightdress and allows him to suckle, a smile of gratitude lighting her face.
I turn to quit the chambers but, as I do, am reminded of another birth, that of my sister Alyss so many years ago. How my mother would not take to her, how she thrust the little lamb into the hands of the wet nurse as soon as she was able to prevent any chance of becoming too attached before death claimed her.
I turn toward the princess. I want to say something; I want to warn her.
But I don’t know how. Nor do I understand the nature of the warning.
And they are so lovely, sitting there like that. Almost holy.
I will not part them.
The king and queen have sent gifts for the baby, a lovely baptismal gown and fine garments sewn by the queen’s own hands. They have been blessed with a flock of their own children these past years, including two bonny princes, Arthur and Henry. I wonder how often my Thomas will interact with the boys. It would be wonderful if they grew up together to become best friends. I am still in a state of awe that my Thomas is first cousins with the Crown Prince!
That summer, Neddy and I are sent north with our father, who is now lord lieutenant of the army defending the homeland against Scottish invasion. With him we will do our best to keep the barbarians where they belong. They have been making a show of support for Perkin Warbeck, a Yorkist pretender, which has given Henry VII plenty of reason to be annoyed.
I tell myself it is just in a day’s honoured service, burning villages, setting the thatched roofs of these little humble huts aflame while tuning out the screams of the families perishing inside. But this is a different kind of warfare, far different from hand-to-hand combat against men born and bred to kill.
I have to do it, though. It is for the country, for the king who is rescuing me from obscurity.
This is how life is, my reasoning continues. People live and people die. Everyone’s time comes. One day it will be mine and if it is by the sword, I will not blame my slayer for doing his duty.
I tell myself this at night when the dreams come, when I hear the screams, the pleas, the vain cries to God for mercy. I tell myself this as I imagine the situation reversed and it is Stoke up in flames, my wife and baby inside, surrounded by merciless barbarians.
No, I cannot think of that. I must never think of that.
We prove successful and by September, King James IV of Scotland makes a truce with Henry VII. For our role, Neddy and I are knighted by our father at Ayton Castle.
I am now Sir Thomas Howard.
By Epiphany my princess announces in her subtle way that she is again with child, by setting an egg on my desk. It takes me a moment to realise this is not one of her odd gifts to the faery folk but her wordless communication to me about her condition.
I laugh, enchanted by my lady’s newest antics.
She carries this precious cargo in the same manner she did Thomas, all in front. Never is a sight more beautiful to me than my princess with child. I cannot believe my good fortune, to be blessed with a fertile bride and a flourishing career. I am not about to dwell on what I do not have; that is a fool’s hobby. I focus on what is to come, what is to be achieved and gained. It is this thinking that earned me my knighthood and, hopefully, further advancements, advancements that will benefit my growing family.
I must say I think it was easier fighting off the Cornishmen than standing outside the princess’s birthing chamber the day she labours with our second child. As I missed Thomas’s birth, this