Free Owen by Tony Riches Page B

as the young king trots his horse down the tiltyard. ‘God help him, the poor bugger.’
    Another of those watching is concerned. ‘He’s not yet seven years old, is he?’
    The small horse gathers speed and we watch as the lance begins to overbalance the young king in the saddle. I am no jouster, but know it is considered poor technique for riders to steady their feet in stirrups, which are kept long.
    ‘He’ll be lucky to reach the end of the tiltyard, never mind hit the bloody target!’ It is the stable lad again.
    We watch as Sir Richard shouts for Harry to hold the lance high. It is too awkward for him and he forgets to keep control of his horse, which starts to veer off course. We can see what is going to happen, yet no one moves to stop it. I cannot resist shouting as well.
    ‘Sit straight, Your Grace!’
    The young king glances up, recognising my voice and managing to recover his seat in the nick of time. I am rewarded with a frown from Sir Richard and wonder if the earl wants Harry to take a fall, to teach him a lesson.
    ‘Lean back into your saddle, Your Grace!’ Sir Richard shouts to the young king, as he approaches the quatrain.
    Harry leans back, the end of his lance wavering in the air as he rides. Then there is a cheer from the small crowd as his lance glances the edge of the black shield, fortunately not with enough force to swing the heavy sack of wet sand around.
    Harry is still in the saddle as he brings his horse to a halt in front of the stables. For the first time I have an insight into a father’s pride in his son. The late king would have been pleased to see his son do so well on his first attempt. I also realise Sir Richard knows exactly what he is doing. Although the horse is small, he has chosen well.
    As I make my way back towards the castle I find myself wishing I have a son of my own. I am twenty-eight now, old enough to have had several sons if I had not been so indecisive. I resolve to discuss the future with Juliette that evening. Glancing up at the autumnal sky I wonder how much longer we will remain at Windsor before the queen’s household moves to Wallingford.

    Juliette lies on the comfortable pallet bed in my room and watches as I work at my desk in the last of the evening light. Nathaniel has been given the challenge of listing everything the queen will need when her household leaves Windsor Castle. His list fills many pages of yellow parchment.
    ‘Are you going to be long?’
    I turn and sit back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. ‘This will keep. I can finish it in the morning.’
    Juliette watches as I pull my shirt over my head and pour cold water from the jug into my bowl and splash some over my face. I smooth back my hair and sit on the end of the bed and pull off my heavy boots, then finish undressing and climb under the woollen blankets where she is waiting.
    She still wears her thin cotton shift and is propped up on the pillow with the look I know means she wants to talk. For once I am ready to. Seeing how quickly Harry is growing has made me think about how the years are passing.
    Juliette takes my hand in hers. ‘I find it strange, not seeing the queen so often.’
    I understand, as Juliette came to England with Catherine and has spent almost every waking hour with her since she became her personal handmaiden. ‘Everyone is finding it difficult, even the queen. Sir Richard doesn’t even like Harry spending time with her.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s as if he thinks she will somehow undo all his good work.’
    Juliette looks thoughtful. ‘The two households are growing apart. Sir Richard seems to be encouraging it.’ There is a hint of bitterness in her voice when she mentions the earl, ever since his clerk had not read out her name on the list of the queen’s household.
    ‘I have to keep things together as well as I can.’ I take her in my arms and hold her close to me. ‘Everyone wants to know when the queen is going to leave.’
    ‘It’s all they