VIII

collided with the herald, and now I set off, picking my way through the crowd, brushing past velvet skirts and slashed sleeves, trying not to tread on silk slippers or furred hems or trip over exquisitely expensive scabbards. I can feel my cheeks burning – I’m eager, excited, terrified.
    And I’m thinking: this is my chance. Father is a soldier; if I can impress him with my fighting, he will notice me. Really notice me. I will count for something.
    I climb down the steps of the spectators’ stand. My stomach is tight, my heart seems to be beating twice as hard as usual. There’s a pavilion at one end of the hall for arming and disarming, and I make my way towards it, keeping close to the wall, feeling sure everyone must be staring. Inside the pavilion it’s dark, lit by candles. Shadows stretch and loom over the fantastic creatures of the cloth wall, which ripple softly when someone walks by.
    Soon Compton arrives with my armour. My breastplate glows green and gold in the flame-light. He helps me into it and tugs tight the soft leather straps. “You’re shaking.”
    I snort. “Cold. There’s a draught, can’t you feel it?”
    He hands me my helmet and gloves, and I bat aside the cloth to get back out into the hall.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  II   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    It has to be a joke. I’m standing in front of the viewing gallery, having just been helped into my helmet, and when I push the visor up I see Brandon walking towards me, for all the world as if it’s him I’m supposed to fight.
    I’m tall for my age and broad-framed, but still – surely this is ridiculous? I glance up to the canopied platform. My mother is looking anxious. My father is looking away.
    “Can this be right?” I ask the herald who’s to act as referee. “Are you certain it isn’t supposed to be someone else?” I turn my head, scanning the hall. There are several smaller boys fighting nearby. I catch sight of Arthur, taking off his helmet. He looks amused.
    “His Grace the King’s orders, sir,” murmurs the herald, dipping his head.
    I swallow. Brandon’s even bigger than I thought, now I’m close up to him.
    Compton’s team of pageboys has been efficient in fetching my equipment; he hands me my broadsword and I weigh it carefully, feeling for the right grip. Its point and edge are blunted, but still it’s a serious weapon – long, tapered and beautifully balanced. The air whistles and sings if you slice it fast.
    Down the centre of the hall runs a wooden barrier, like a fence, which prevents collisions in a joust. The herald positions Brandon and me on the near side of it, closest to the viewing platform.
    Brandon’s visor is raised – I can see a section of face. It grins. “Be gentle with me, sir,” he says.
    “Not a chance.” I slap my visor down.
    Then the herald lifts his baton and says loudly, “On guard, gentlemen! Seven strokes each, by order of His Grace the King.”
    And so we start. We skirt around each other, keeping a good distance.
    It’s all about who moves first. In attacking you seize the initiative but leave yourself vulnerable. If you wait for your opponent to move, you need lightning-quick reactions, to avoid or block the blow and counter-attack, preferably all in the same movement.
    Brandon has adopted the inside guard stance now, his sword-arm held across his body, the blade pointing upwards at an angle. I mirror him. We’re both shifting, one foot in front, one behind, knees softly bent, as light on our feet as we can be in our half-armour, ready to move, fast and hard.
    He attacks first. The blow swings in towards my head; I move my sword to block it and the blades clank together. I don’t feel much force in Brandon’s arm, and he makes no attempt to slip my block and land another blow; instead he disengages and moves back, on guard again.
    And I realise: he’s going gently with me – just playing at it, putting a little boy through his paces. The thought makes me feel sick.
    I go for him now, and yell as I do it, loud enough to be heard up on the platform. Everyone laughs when I miss. Brandon’s reach is longer than mine; he only has to lift his sword-arm and my strike, making contact with nothing but air, swings me off balance and sends me stumbling side-first against the barrier.
    But I’m angry. Back on guard for an instant only, I attack again, aiming high – at Brandon’s neck. As he wards off the blow, I slip my blade down to cut his thigh, but he blocks me