“He has a good grip,” he told the baby’s mother. “He will make a fine swordsman one day.”
Still smiling, Alicia shook her head at her husband. “Let the child get all his milk teeth before you start teaching him how to lose them.”
He considered her request. “How long will that take?”
“About six years—at least.”
He grinned. “Plenty of time for swords. In the meantime, he can start riding a pony at four. Chase a rabbit.” He dropped a kiss on the top of his son’s head. “You will like chasing rabbits, my boy. Easy to catch.” He grew more serious. “You did not mind that I was not here when he was born?” he asked Alicia. He felt a little guilty about racing off with horns and hounds the minute she had announced that she was in labor.
She took his free hand in hers, and gave it a squeeze. “Nay, my love. You would have done me no good at all if you had been cooped up downstairs while I did a lot of screaming. You would have driven the midwife and all the maids to distraction. In fact, Stokes sent me a message of thanks for getting you out from underfoot. I believe he called you a roaring bull.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Did he now?” He chuckled. “‘Tis a fine stag I got you, Alicia. Will make you a good stew to give you strength. And when this one is old enough to understand, I will show him those antlers, and tell him how I brought that buck down with only one arrow on the day he was born.”
Alicia patted his hand. “I am sure you will begin to tell our son even before he is old enough to understand. Thank you, my love, for the beautiful stag. I look forward to tasting the fruits of your labors.”
“Aye, well…” Thomas tried to think of something very complimentary to say, but nothing came to mind, except how proud he was of her. “In a fortnight, or so, when you have recovered enough, we will ride into York.”
A glow lit up Alicia’s eyes. “Whyfore, now?”
Thomas kissed her hand. “I will order you a necklace of gold chain links and blue sapphires to honor your eyes, and those of our first-born son.”
She laughed with pleasure. “Thomas, you will drown me in gold necklaces.”
He nibbled at her fingers. “Aye, ‘tis my life’s goal. I love you so much, Alicia.”
She stroked his cheek. “And I love you, Thomas.”
The baby stirred in his arms, and began to whimper. Alicia reached for her son. “Methinks he is a true Cavendish. He is hungry again.”
Thomas watched as she suckled his son. He wanted to throw open the casement windows, and bellow his joy across the countryside, but he knew his wife would tell him to hush up. Later tonight, when everyone else was asleep, he, Andrew and Stokes would have a little celebration of their own with the cask of good malmsey wine that Thomas had laid by especially for this happy occasion.
“Do you have any choices for the babe’s name?” he asked her.
Alicia smiled down at her son. “I had thought of naming him Edward, after my father and my guardian.”
Thomas nodded. “‘Tis a noble name.”
She furrowed her brows. “But, methinks this child may look too much like his grandsire for safety’s sake. Have you noticed his large feet? They are Plantagenet through and through.”
Her expression took on a faraway look. “And the same is true for the name of Richard.” Her lips trembled.
Thomas squeezed her hand. “I have paid for a hundred masses to be said for the soul of your dear brother. He is not forgotten in this household.”
And cursed be Henry Tudor’s craven heart for executing the boy!
Alicia looked up at her husband, her eyes glazed with tears. “I am ever grateful to you, Thomas.”
He knelt by her bedside. “Nay, ‘tis I who thanks God every day for sending you into my life, my princess.”
Her smile returned. “So, then, we are agreed. We will not burden this child with the name of a king. But he must be named before his christening. Is there any family name that you particularly like?”
Thomas recalled the harsh years of his childhood under the stern discipline of his father, Giles, and the taunts and blows of his brothers, John and William. “None come to mind,” he replied.
“Was there a friend of your childhood? Someone very special whom you would wish to honor?” she persisted.
Immediately the perfect name leapt onto Thomas’s tongue. A slow smile spread across his face. “Brandon,” he said.
Alicia nodded. “‘Tis a fine name. A good strong one, too. I like it well. You will be Brandon Cavendish, my little one.” She kissed the babe who, sated with his mother’s milk, had fallen asleep. “Was Brandon a good friend of yours, Thomas?”
His smile grew broader. “As true a friend as any man could have.”
Later, after Alicia had fallen asleep again, Thomas left the chamber, and sought out Georgie, Vixen and Taverstock by the fire in the empty hall. He hunkered down among them with a sigh.
“’Tis a red-letter day for Wolf Hall, eh, my friends? The tenth Earl of Thornbury sleeps in his cradle above us.”
He massaged old Georgie’s ears. The years had been kind to the greathearted mastiff. Thomas bent low, and whispered into his ancient friend’s ear.
“You will be proud to hear that we will call my son Brandon after the truest friend a lonely boy could ever have. But please, upon your word as an honorable gentleman, never tell my lady wife that Brandon was your noble sire. Methinks she might not like the idea of naming our son after a dog.”
* * * * *
Author Note
Even after five hundred years, Perkin Warbeck remains one of the more enigmatic figures to play upon the stage of English history. Historians still debate exactly who was this handsome young man who appeared in 1491, at age eighteen or thereabouts, claiming to be Richard of York, the second son of King Edward IV. The world presumed that Richard and his older brother, Edward V—known as the Little Princes in the Tower—perished sometime during the reign of Edward IV’s younger brother Richard III.
Legend has it that the elder of the princes, Edward V, died in the Tower of a fever, but the younger one had been spirited out of the country, and sent to Flanders—by Sir Edward and Lady Katherine Brampton. Brampton was a godson of Edward IV, and a strong Yorkist sympathizer. Perkin Warbeck bore a striking physical resemblance to Edward IV, and was well-versed in life at the English court.
Many historians believe that Warbeck was one of Edward’s many illegitimate children. Others suggest that he was a complete impostor, schooled by the Yorkists at the Court of Margaret of Burgundy to assume the role of Richard, and depose Henry VII. A few believe that Warbeck was indeed the real Richard, who had returned to claim his rightful inheritance.
After giving Henry VII eight uneasy years of insurrection and warfare, Warbeck was captured and sent to the Tower in 1497. Henry then began his systematic reprisals against all members of the royal Plantagenet family. Warbeck, along with Edward, Earl of Warwick, a true claimant to the throne, were executed in November 1499. Both men were in their midtwenties.
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eISBN 978-14592-6140-2
THREE DOG KNIGHT
Copyright © 1998 by Mary W. Schaller
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