to see if he’s joking, but he seems to be in earnest. I look back to the fight again and say, “I’m good. Broadsword, backsword, sword and buckler. I’m going to start with two blades soon. I do longbow shooting, too. Hit the mark pretty much every time. I’m better than all my friends.”
On my other side, Meg clears her throat pointedly.
The envoy says, “You must be very accomplished, my lord.”
“And I’ve just started with the quarterstaff.”
“So young? That’s impressive.”
The Spaniard turns to speak to his neighbour on the other side.
“Hal, stop showing off,” Meg says in a low tone.
I whisper into the side of the jewelled hood, about where I imagine her ear must be: “I’m not. I just think it would help if they knew there was someone in this family who knows how to handle a weapon. Don’t you?”
But before she can reply, the Spaniard leans across to me again. “With your leave, my lord, my colleague here will ask your father’s permission for you to fight a bout for us.”
“What, now? I’d be delighted.”
I hear a groan from Meg; I ignore it, watching instead as a servant relays the request to my father. He reacts with surprise. I can see him shrugging, spreading his hands, indicating that there is no need. But beside him Ambassador De Puebla is delighted with the proposal and presses his fingers on my father’s sleeve, and I see my father give in with good grace. Of course. Of course you must see my beloved younger son too. What a marvellous idea .
A herald approaches and bends to me gracefully. “At the request of our honoured guests, His Grace the King invites you to fight a bout, my lord. Is there harness for you?”
“Compton will find it.” I’m on my feet so fast I’ve almost collided with the herald, and now I set off, picking my way through the crowd, brushing past velvet skirts and slashed sleeves, trying not to tread on silk slippers or furred hems or trip over exquisitely expensive scabbards. I can feel my cheeks burning – I’m eager, excited, terrified.
And I’m thinking: this is my chance. Father is a soldier; if I can impress him with my fighting, he will notice me. Really notice me. I will count for something.
I climb down the steps of the spectators’ stand. My stomach is tight, my heart seems to be beating twice as hard as usual. There’s a pavilion at one end of the hall for arming and disarming, and I make my way towards it, keeping close to the wall, feeling sure everyone must be staring. Inside the pavilion it’s dark, lit by candles. Shadows stretch and loom over the fantastic creatures of the cloth wall, which ripple softly when someone walks by.
Soon Compton arrives with my armour. My breastplate glows green and gold in the flame-light. He helps me into it and tugs tight the soft leather straps. “You’re shaking.”
I snort. “Cold. There’s a draught, can’t you feel it?”
He hands me my helmet and gloves, and I bat aside the cloth to get back out into the hall.
II
♦ ♦ ♦ II ♦ ♦ ♦
It has to be a joke. I’m standing in front of the viewing gallery, having just been helped into my helmet, and when I push the visor up I see Brandon walking towards me, for all the world as if it’s him I’m supposed to fight.
I’m tall for my age and broad-framed, but still – surely this is ridiculous? I glance up to the canopied platform. My mother is looking anxious. My father is looking away.
“Can this be right?” I ask the herald who’s to act as referee. “Are you certain it isn’t supposed to be someone else?” I turn my head, scanning the hall. There are several smaller boys fighting nearby. I catch sight of Arthur, taking off his helmet. He looks amused.
“His Grace the King’s orders, sir,” murmurs the herald, dipping his head.
I swallow. Brandon’s even bigger than I thought, now I’m close up to him.
Compton’s team of pageboys has been efficient in fetching my equipment; he hands me
On my other side, Meg clears her throat pointedly.
The envoy says, “You must be very accomplished, my lord.”
“And I’ve just started with the quarterstaff.”
“So young? That’s impressive.”
The Spaniard turns to speak to his neighbour on the other side.
“Hal, stop showing off,” Meg says in a low tone.
I whisper into the side of the jewelled hood, about where I imagine her ear must be: “I’m not. I just think it would help if they knew there was someone in this family who knows how to handle a weapon. Don’t you?”
But before she can reply, the Spaniard leans across to me again. “With your leave, my lord, my colleague here will ask your father’s permission for you to fight a bout for us.”
“What, now? I’d be delighted.”
I hear a groan from Meg; I ignore it, watching instead as a servant relays the request to my father. He reacts with surprise. I can see him shrugging, spreading his hands, indicating that there is no need. But beside him Ambassador De Puebla is delighted with the proposal and presses his fingers on my father’s sleeve, and I see my father give in with good grace. Of course. Of course you must see my beloved younger son too. What a marvellous idea .
A herald approaches and bends to me gracefully. “At the request of our honoured guests, His Grace the King invites you to fight a bout, my lord. Is there harness for you?”
“Compton will find it.” I’m on my feet so fast I’ve almost collided with the herald, and now I set off, picking my way through the crowd, brushing past velvet skirts and slashed sleeves, trying not to tread on silk slippers or furred hems or trip over exquisitely expensive scabbards. I can feel my cheeks burning – I’m eager, excited, terrified.
And I’m thinking: this is my chance. Father is a soldier; if I can impress him with my fighting, he will notice me. Really notice me. I will count for something.
I climb down the steps of the spectators’ stand. My stomach is tight, my heart seems to be beating twice as hard as usual. There’s a pavilion at one end of the hall for arming and disarming, and I make my way towards it, keeping close to the wall, feeling sure everyone must be staring. Inside the pavilion it’s dark, lit by candles. Shadows stretch and loom over the fantastic creatures of the cloth wall, which ripple softly when someone walks by.
Soon Compton arrives with my armour. My breastplate glows green and gold in the flame-light. He helps me into it and tugs tight the soft leather straps. “You’re shaking.”
I snort. “Cold. There’s a draught, can’t you feel it?”
He hands me my helmet and gloves, and I bat aside the cloth to get back out into the hall.
II
♦ ♦ ♦ II ♦ ♦ ♦
It has to be a joke. I’m standing in front of the viewing gallery, having just been helped into my helmet, and when I push the visor up I see Brandon walking towards me, for all the world as if it’s him I’m supposed to fight.
I’m tall for my age and broad-framed, but still – surely this is ridiculous? I glance up to the canopied platform. My mother is looking anxious. My father is looking away.
“Can this be right?” I ask the herald who’s to act as referee. “Are you certain it isn’t supposed to be someone else?” I turn my head, scanning the hall. There are several smaller boys fighting nearby. I catch sight of Arthur, taking off his helmet. He looks amused.
“His Grace the King’s orders, sir,” murmurs the herald, dipping his head.
I swallow. Brandon’s even bigger than I thought, now I’m close up to him.
Compton’s team of pageboys has been efficient in fetching my equipment; he hands me
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