However, Nurse Anne was his champion whenever he came running to her for sympathy during his first half dozen years of trying to learn his place. His brother George, three years older, and his playmates had used the delicate child for target practice during “who-can-kick-the-ball-and-hit-Dickon first” game they had invented, as Dickon scampered around the inner bailey avoiding the inflated pig’s bladder. George would leave Dickon far behind while the bigger boys streaked on longer legs through boggy fens around Fotheringhay to hunt for tadpoles and frogs on fine spring mornings. George callously dubbed the lad “babykins” when Dickon ran to hide from the taunting or cried when George wrestled him easily to the ground. How he hated that name.

Then one day, a day four-year-old Dickon would never forget, George lost his temper with his young brother over a missing toy knight. Nurse Anne was out of the room when George, his face white with rage, plucked a pillow from the bed and, holding Dickon down, pushed it over the terrified little boy’s face.

“Where is it, you thief? You stole my soldier. Give it to me or else!” he hissed.

“I can’t breathe!” Dickon’s muffled voice was desperate. “Please George, I can’t breathe.” He flailed his little arms and kicked at George while trying to take in air. Panic set in and he saw lights behind his eyes and heard his own heart thumping unnaturally. When he thought his lungs would burst through his chest, George came to his senses. He released the now-limp Dickon and threw the pillow back on the bed.

“Serves you right, you little monster,” he muttered and then threatened his sobbing brother further: “Stop blubbering. You say one word to anyone about this, and I’ll do worse to you.” Then as though nothing had happened, he went back to his miniature army. Dickon, crawled beneath the bed and curled up into a ball. Puzzled, Nurse Anne found him there later, fast asleep. George lied and feigned ignorance.

Thus, certainly, Dickon was no stranger to tears by the time he left the nursery, but he learned to hide them and his hurt in the sanctuary of his favorite place at the castle, the kennels. There, the dogs yelped a welcome and, some of them twice his size, slathered him in sloppy kisses. In the kennels, “runt” was reserved for the dogs, and Dickon was accorded the respect due a duke’s son from their handlers. It was no wonder he preferred their company to his brother’s bullying playmates.