As the little group entered the compound, Dickon was greeted by sharp, affectionate yelps, slavering tongues and thumping tails. The boy laughed happily. “Down Driver, Maulkin, and Merry-boy!” he called to three lurchers, and much to his siblings’ amazement, the dogs obeyed.

Bending to go through the opening of the shelter, the huntsman straightened up inside and beckoned for the children to follow. There, lying prone on the straw, Damosel was giving suck to seven chubby, sightless bundles, hungrily kneading their mother’s teats. The children giggled delightedly, watching as one by one the satiated pups dropped off a pap and slipped to the ground. Soon all were tripping over each other, unable to do much more than squeal and snuffle in the straw.

The huntsman crouched down and stroked the bitch’s shaggy head, and as she raised weary eyes to him, she managed to wag her tail. Reaching into the squirming bunch of pups, he plucked one from their midst, watching as it tried to wriggle free and mewl in protest. “This is the pick of the litter, Master Dickon,” he said. “And he is a parting gift for all your hard work in the kennels. When you return, which shall be soon I am certain, he will be yours. What say you?”

George roughly pushed Dickon aside. “I should have the pick of the litter,” he declared. “I am older and entitled to the best dog.”

John Hood was taken aback, but bowed low. “To be sure, my lord, you have the right by birth, but, by your leave, your brother has earned it.”

George was about to chastise the man, when Dickon took the puppy and promptly offered it to George. “It is true, Master Hood, George should have the pick. I don’t mind; there are six more. I pray you, brother, take him.”

“Well played, Dickon,” Meg murmured from the shadows. “Crisis averted.”

Grinning at his brother, George took the wiggling pup and nuzzled its velvet nose. “My thanks, Dickon,” he said. “He’s a fine fellow. I think I shall call him Captain.”

Another pup had escaped from the pack and, even though it could not see, was bravely exploring a corner of the pen when the kennel master swooped it up and handed it to Dickon. “This one has pluck,” he observed, “he’ll suit you, young lord.” The boy might lack for strength, the man thought, but he does not lack for backbone.