VIII

again, and in the same move lands a thrust to my body, jabbing hard against my breastplate.
    Before the herald’s even declared the hit, we’ve sprung apart again. I’m breathing hard.
    Damn. A point lost. But at least the laughter’s died. And I see Brandon shake himself and take up his stance again with purpose, as if he’s suddenly taking this seriously.
    Fighting bareheaded, your opponent’s eyes are what you watch, not his hands or his blade. You get an instinct for the moment of decision; you sense the move a split-second before it starts. I love it – that feeling of being locked in together… daring each other… and then exploding into action. You don’t feel the bruises until later.
    But with helmets, and no view of your opponent’s face, it’s much harder. Occasionally I glimpse dark eyes glistening behind the grille of Brandon’s visor, but I can’t read them at all.
    And now he’s coming at me in earnest, aiming for my head; there’s a clash of metal as I block and shift to the side. We disengage and then I’m in again, my arm across my face, sword high, as if I’ll strike his right ear. But it’s a trick: as Brandon blocks, I turn my wrist, swinging the blade back over my head, and land a blow to the other side of his helmet.
    He staggers; the spectators cheer and clap. But by the time the herald has declared the point, Brandon’s recovered and we’re grappling again. After two bungled engagements he grabs the wrist of my sword-arm and yanks it back, twisting outwards, off-balancing me. The next instant his blade comes down heavily from above.
    My head feels as if it’s ringing inside my helmet like the clapper in a bell. I’m dizzy; against the blackness of my visor, thin strips of the scene before me fuzz and swoop sickeningly. I stagger back so far I could be accused of running away.
    Bang . I collide with something behind me: it’s the contraption they use for jousting practice – a wooden horse mounted on a wheeled trolley, which has been parked at one end of the barriers. Playing for time, I hitch myself up to sit on it, sending it trundling a short way backwards under the impetus of my landing. The crowd laughs.
    My view of the hall stops swooping, but I’m enjoying the moment, so I don’t get down. I jump my feet under me, stand up on the horse’s back and leap from there onto the barrier. Sticking my arms out like a tightrope walker, I run along it until I’m past Brandon, then wobble and drop down some way behind him. I find myself not far from Arthur, who is leaning against the barrier further along, helmet under his arm, blotting his face with a gold-fringed cloth.
    In an instant I’ve snagged the cloth with the tip of my sword and whisked it from his fingers. With a sharp flick, I send it flying through the air. It seems to hang suspended for a moment like an airborne pancake, and then lands – more by luck than judgement – on Brandon’s helmet, covering his visor.
    The crowd whoops and cheers. Brandon, for whom the world has suddenly gone surprisingly dark, turns about in confusion. Meanwhile I bound over and thwack the hardest blow I can to his shoulder-guard, bursting one of its buckles and causing its owner to kneel heavily in the sand.
    I can hear muffled swearing from inside Brandon’s helmet. The noise from the platform is marvellous. I glance up, looking for my father, but before I can spot him the herald distracts me: maintaining a professionally straight face, he signals that the fight is over.
    Brandon is now sitting in the sand with his legs out in front of him. He wrenches off his helmet; his brown hair is flattened and sweaty. He casts a squinting glance up at me and grins. “My God, you’re good, sir,” he says, rubbing his hair. “Remind me not to fight you when you’re older, won’t you?”
    By the time I’ve disarmed and emerged from the pavilion again, I’m starting to feel my bruises. I find the hall’s been cleared of the foot-combat boys, and an archery target’s been moved into place at one end of the barriers, ready for the next display. Servants are laying out bows and arrows on a long table covered with a cloth, embroidered with my father’s crest in gold and red and blue.
    Arthur is selecting his bow – drawing one, putting it down, trying another. He’s changed his armour for an outfit of expensive black velvet; above it his face looks pale. Brandon’s hovering near him, clearly expecting to shoot too, but as I make