Free VIII by H.M. Castor Page B

right hand into a fist. And punches me hard in the stomach.
    It knocks the wind out of me; leaves me gasping, stooped forward as far as the strong hands on my arms allow. I cough and can’t do anything about a drip of saliva that stretches down to the floor.
    “What was that for?” I croak. “What’ve I done?”
    No answer – just another blow. This time the knuckles make contact with my left ear and temple. There’s a ringing in my head.
    Arthur says, “It’s not about fighting skills, you see. It’s about power. And power is, amongst other things, having someone to hold you still while I hit you.”
    By the time I can look up, Arthur has taken possession of his gloves again and is examining them, removing minuscule traces of fluff, dust, dirt. “Or having someone to hit you for me.” He nods to someone unseen to my right, who slams a knee, hard as a cudgel, into my kidneys.
    Nothing on my face, of course. Nothing where a bruise might be visible.
    Hanging limply, wondering if I’m about to vomit, I’m aware of a small pleasure: he is five years older than me, and he daren’t take me on alone.
    I manage to say, “You’ll pay for this. I’ll tell Father.”
    “Oh, Father already knows.” The voice has come from behind me, from the doorway.
    I can’t turn, but I don’t need to. Automatically I start trembling, like my dog Angwen when she’s wet. Arthur’s eyes glitter, triumphant.
    I hear uneven footsteps approaching and then my father swings into view, leaning on the slender stick he sometimes uses in private. He’s agile with the extra limb, like a spider.
    He says to me, “Your brother thought you needed to be taught a lesson – and I agreed with him.”
    I grit my teeth, fighting the shakes, and glare at Arthur. “What lesson?”
    My father’s stick whips up under my chin, lifting it uncomfortably high. “You have no control. No discipline. You have been indulged for too long.”
    He points the stick at Arthur. “You may go.”
    The stick swoops back to jab me in the chest. “Not you.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  III   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    Arthur’s men release me and follow their master out, shutting the door behind them. My father and I are alone. Despite my best efforts, I am still trembling. I feel sick at the thought of more blows.
    He begins a little tour of the room, poking with his stick at the bed-hangings, a footstool, twitching aside the curtain covering a mirror. I flinch every time he swipes the stick through the air. He catches me cringing and I can see his disgust. I could so easily cry; my throat is tight, my eyes prickling. I mustn’t. It will only make him worse. More angry, more disgusted – he will beat me across the room and back. It’s happened before. And I know that a beating hurts ten times more than sword practice with the strongest opponent – though it’s a mystery to me why.
    My father stops, facing me again, both hands on his stick. His hair is greying, and he’s thin under his plush velvet gown. If someone saw him on the battlefield, they might think they could take him out, no problem: That little collection of twigs? I’ll snap him over my knee . They wouldn’t realise each twig is as strong as steel.
    He smiles now, but not pleasantly. “That was some display,” he says, jerking his head. “Out there.”
    “Tha—” I squeak. I clear my throat. I mustn’t sound like a mouse. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Quite a swordsman already, aren’t you? A crack shot too. Better than Arthur, would you say?”
    I hesitate – decide. “Yes, sir.”
    “And so charming. The Spaniards warmed to you, didn’t they?” He nods. “Yes. But you know that. You know what you are about.”
    “I am honoured to have merited their approval,” I say.
    My father’s eyes widen in extravagant surprise. “Did you think they admired you? They were laughing! Not with you – at you. Your childish swagger! It was quite funny, even I had to admit that. They said to me: