VIII

determinedly I turn away, towards the light, and sit in the large chair provided. Edward takes the sword a servant passes to him – an elegant blade, the perfect length and weight for his size.
    Not far from me a wooden stake five feet high has been set firmly into the ground. It is thick and has been gouged with a pattern: lines and crude features make it look like a man – a docile opponent with whom to practise single combat.
    In a moment I’m on my feet again.
    “Step in and out quickly! Quicker than that! Vary the attack! Come on: head, sides of the body! Go for the thighs!”
    I watch, growl, swipe the air with my arm. Then I hurry to Edward, haltingly; I have jettisoned my stick.
    “Look. With a sword like this, a thrust is safer than a chop.” I grasp his hand, the one holding the sword, and guide it, demonstrating. “It inflicts more damage, and puts you in less danger. See – your body’s less exposed. But once you’ve dealt the blow you must move out of range quickly .”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Show me again.”
    I hobble back and sit down.
    Kathryn says, “He is nervous in front of you.”
    “So he should be.” I shrug. “And you think he wouldn’t be nervous in battle?”
    Edward’s second attempt with the sword is a little better. After that, still panting, he puts on his helmet and demonstrates, with his Master of Defence, the moves he has learned with the two-handed sword and the quarterstaff.
    Kathryn applauds him readily, and smiles as fondly as if the boy were her own son. She leans towards me. “He’s skilful for his age, don’t you think?”
    “I want to see him ride at the ring.”
    “Have pity on him, sir. He is young; he has done enough.”
    “The horses are already here.” I clap my hands to get the servants’ attention. “Anyway, this is nothing. The lances I’ve had made for him are very light.”
    There is a flurry of activity among the servants. The target is set up: a wooden frame, placed beside the long wooden barrier running down the centre of the tiltyard. From a high cross-beam of the frame a small ring is hung. The lance must be aimed at the ring’s centre; if this is done accurately, the thread the ring hangs on will break, and the rider will carry the ring away on his lance.
    A white palfrey is brought and Edward mounts smartly. He is given a lance.
    “He sits well in the saddle, at least,” I say.
    “He is trying very hard to be perfect,” Kathryn says quietly.
    Edward takes his horse to the far end of the yard, steadies his aim and gallops in. He misses the ring, and his efforts at the last minute to swing the lance towards it make him lose control. The lance dips wildly. He loses his balance in the saddle and slides. He tries to hang on, dropping the lance and clutching at the saddle. The horse, feeling a painful drag on the reins, jumps and kicks. Edward hits the ground as the horse speeds on; he rolls over in the dust.
    In an instant, I’m on my feet. His attendants are running in.
    I yell, “Again! Do it again! Get up!” My voice echoes across the yard. I am hurrying, limping fast. “ Get-up-get-upget-up !”
    He is huddled – to the extent his armour allows – against the barrier, his back to me. His head is angled forward; beneath the rim of his helmet, his fair hair curls over his metal collar. As I reach him, I see he is making small shuddering movements – as if he is whimpering.
    I am seized by something like panic. “ Get up, you pathetic little insect! ” My hands are on the barrier now; I am bending over him, bellowing. “ Get up! Get up! Get up! Get up! ”
    He scrambles out from under me and stands. Wrenching off his helmet, he stares at me, shocked, breathing hard – as I am. He looks sick.
    Grooms and gentlemen, approaching from all directions, have stopped short of us in a ragged semicircle. I glance around; they look appalled. Kathryn emerges through their ranks – she has hurried to us from the pavilion.
    With an arm raised as if she would put it round Edward, she makes a move towards him, then stops herself. She clasps her hands together; she says gently, “Are you hurt?”
    Edward can only shake his head and bow to her – it seems he cannot trust himself to speak.
    I pass a hand over my face; it is slick with sweat. I say, “You have done enough, sir.” I reach forward and see my son conquer his instinct to flinch. My clammy hand slides off his shoulder. “You need more strength.”
    “Yes, Father.”
    The