Free VIII by H. M. Castor Page A

neck and ruffles my hair. As if he’s fond of me.
    My father leads the party, limping slightly as always. He has a permanent stiffness in his left leg – scar tissue from an old wound: his battlefield credentials are on display at every step. As they reach us De Puebla is saying, “… but remarkably skilful for his age. He is a talented child. Congratulations, Your Grace.”
    My father smiles. “You are generous in your praise, Ambassador. I am proud of the boy. He has a fine spirit. He works hard.” A bony hand reaches out and grips my shoulder.
    “Added to which,” De Puebla turns to me, “you have allthe natural talents God could bestow, my lord prince. You are built like a warrior already. Nearly as tall as your brother when there are, what, five years between you? Impressive. Very impressive.” He bows to Arthur. “And, my lord, a most excellent display of your skills, too. We will be happy to make a report back to the King and Queen of Spain, full of the highest possible praise.”
    Arthur and I bow, and express our humble thanks.
    My father turns to his guests, opening his arms to herd them away. “Come, gentlemen, it is time to take some refreshments in more comfortable surroundings.”
    I watch them go.
    I am proud of the boy.
    I look around me, blinking. I glance up to the angel on the roof again – but there are rows of them, one on each hammer beam, and I can’t remember which one it was I thought I recognised. The viewing platform is emptying. Arthur has melted away. A hand gently takes my elbow. It’s Compton. He guides me out of the hall and into the warren of passageways leading to the royal apartments. I can’t stop talking.
    “Did my father see the strike before the last – with Brandon? Not the last one, I had open season on that, it doesn’t count – but the one before, I truly found a gap, such a small one, I was so fast!” I stop walking abruptly, and slap my gloves against Compton’s chest. “Tell me he saw that one.”
    “He saw it.”
    “Really?”
    Compton shrugs. “I don’t know. I expect so, sir. I was watching you, not the King.”
    We walk again. “Brandon’s good. He landed some amazing blows. I really should’ve seen that one at the side coming. And the way he twisted my arm, Christ – I want to practise that. I’ll get him to show me sometime. Do you think he’d practise withme if I asked? Regularly, I mean? I suppose he’d have to come down to Eltham and maybe that’d be a problem.”
    We’ve reached my bedchamber now. Entering, I sling my gloves on a table and see that I have a visitor. “Oh.” I stop, staring at him. “Hello.”
    It’s Arthur: I don’t remember that he has ever voluntarily sought my company before.
    He is standing, accompanied by several of his gentlemen servants, beside the window. He says slowly, “I wanted to congratulate you on your excellent performance back there.” He pauses, looks at my servants. “Compton. Boys. You may leave us.”
    The pages who have entered the room behind me bow and scarper. Compton hesitates; looks at me. I nod to him to go.
    Then I give a shrug and bend down to scratch my calf. “I just practise a lot. You can’t be best at everything. Don’t let it get to you.”
    As I straighten, I see Arthur signal to his men. Two of them move to stand either side of me; they take my arms.
    “What’s this?”
    He doesn’t answer me. Struggling, I quickly discover, only makes the men tighten their grip. Arthur says, “No, no. This isn’t the time for showing off.”
    He’s pulling at the fingers of his gloves, one by one, unhurried. He slips the gloves off, places them one on top of the other and hands them to a servant. Then he curls the long white fingers of his 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