Read Online The Prince in Waiting by John Christopher - Free Book Online Page B

must be good will or at least its semblance. I do not know how far I succeeded in my wooing of them. Not much, I fancy. My heart was never in it.
    The one whom I did take to my heart and who became my second friend, strangely enough, was Edmund. My father had been magnanimous in his dealings with Stephen’s family. There had been some who had argued that his sons should be killed and many who had favored exiling them from the city. They had stood with their father in defying the Spirits and removing them meant removing a future danger. But my father would have none of this. They had done their duty as sons in supporting their father and provided they made due allegiance to the new Prince no harm should come to them: Charles was permitted to keep his Captaincy.
    But their position was a poor one. Poor as far as money was concerned—their father’s goods were forfeit and they and their mother went to live in a small house, a hovel almost, in Salt Street—and poor in reputation. No one now had a good word to say for the dead Prince and his sons incurred the same scorn. The boys who crowded round me spurned Edmund, whom a few weeks earlier they had courted.
    One day I was with a group of boys at the Buttercross when Edmund joined us. There had already been attempts to make an Ishmael of him by showing that he was unwelcome, but he had stubbornly refused to accept it. The boys started this again and one of them said something about a smell of death and traitors. Others laughed. I saw Edmund go white. He said:
    â€œMy father was no traitor, but killed by one. A traitor from a gutter in Dog Alley . . . and now you lick his boots!”
    It was true that my father had been born in that street, one of the meanest in the city. The eyes of the others watched me greedily to see what I would do. I did not want to fight him here, in front of them. I made a jest instead.
    â€œDog Alley—that runs into Salt Street, doesn’t it?”
    They laughed in support of me. Edmund said:
    â€œYes. Times change. Scum comes to the top.”
    He spat at my boots as he said that. I had no choice but to hit him. They formed a ring around us, and we fought.
    His family had been noble as long as could be remembered in the city—since the Disaster, it was said—and he had a look of breeding, being tall with a long face, thin lips, arrogant blue eyes. But he was strong, too, and he fought with the anger pent up since his father’s death. He threw me and leaped on me. I rolled clear and got to my feet. We grappled and he threw me again. He knelt on me trying to spread-eagle my arms. Panting, sobbing almost, he whispered: “Scum . . . scum!”
    I realized I could be beaten, disgraced before this mob, and the demon inside me rose in a fury to match his. I tore free and as he came for me got a wrist and brought him across my body to land heavily on the cobbles. The blow winded him but he was up as soon as I was. He came at me. I straight-armed him, punching to the body. He winced and tried to hide it.
    After that I kept him at a distance. Although he was the taller my arms were longer. My demon served me well as he always did. There are some who fight wildly in the rage of battle, their minds hot and confused, but mine goes cold and thoughts come quicker and more sharply. I concentrated on body blows, on that vulnerable part between and just below the ribs. These sapped his strength. He went on fighting and once succeeded in throwing me a third time but he could not press it home. I was up before he was and punched him as he rose. From that point it was only a question of how long he would last. It seemed an age to me and I was giving the punishment, not receiving it. I had switched my attack to his face which was smeared with blood. At last he dropped and could not even attempt to rise.
    Our audience was cheering me and mocking him. I went to the horse trough below the Buttercross, soaked my