VIII

away, there’s a Spaniard – one of the more junior members of the embassy. I lean forward to see past him, pretending to watch the fighters at the other end of the hall, but really I’m looking along the row of spectators to catch my father’s reaction. Arthur is his favourite; usually Arthur can do no wrong. But surely he’s noticed that Arthur’s a complete donkey when it comes to fighting with a broadsword?
    Sitting at the centre of the platform, next to the Spanish ambassador De Puebla, my father has his public face on: it is warm, it smiles, it laughs. But the eyes – I think the eyes always give him away. They are small and sharp, very bright. Not warm at all. Watchful. I can see he is observing everything – everything on the hall floor, everything up here on the platform – and even as he laughs he is not missing a thing.
    He must be ashamed, I think. Secretly, he must wish Arthur could give better proof that we are a family of strong warriors, fit to dominate our people and crush all challenges to our power.
    I sit back again and find my Spanish neighbour looking at me. I smile politely. It occurs to me that I probably ought to be making conversation.
    “Do you have a handgun?”
    The Spaniard looks mildly startled. “No, my lord. Only this.” He pats the hilt of the sword at his hip.
    “I mean at home.”
    The envoy shakes his head.
    “I’d like to fire one. Some day.”
    I turn to watch the fighting again. There are oohs and aahs and ripples of polite applause; down in the hall, thuds and scuffles and violent exhalations. The fighters step in, step out again to dodge; lock together; pause as a mortal strike (placed but not, of course, driven home) is acknowledged; disengage.
    “I think you would like to be down there with your brother, hm?” says the envoy.
    “He should have used true gardant just then.”
    “I’m sorry. My English isn’t good enough to understand this word.”
    “True gardant. It’s a defence position. Like this.” I raise my right arm in front of my face, hand angled down to show the direction the sword’s blade follows. “Then if your opponent tries an overhead blow you only have to straighten your arm to block it. He doesn’t anticipate that move very well. In a battle someone could come in and split his head straight down the middle.”
    “Yes, I see.”
    “That’s the trouble with practice like this. Brandon’s not going to do that…”
    “Not split his head down the middle, no.”
    “… So he can carry on making the same mistake, not learning – oh, nice hit.”
    I can sense that the Spaniard is studying me now, rather than the fighting. He says, “I should like to see you fight, my lord.”
    I glance at him 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