I blink at him.
“Armour – I was talking about the armour. I said I’d have the blood-red – look, that suit there. Given the choice.”
“I’d take the gold,” says Guildford.
“Black,” I say. “Definitely the black.”
At the end of the tournament I go looking for Brandon. Compton directs me to a chamber near the Lesser Hall. Walking in, I find it filled with several of the more junior jousters, some being dressed or washed, others sprawled out, resting, examining injuries, or flicking cloths at their pageboys to get them to hurry with their tasks.
As awareness of my presence ripples through the room, there’s a scramble to get up and bow. But I signal that it’s Brandon I want to speak to – there’s no need for everyone to stand to attention. He comes over, and I say, “Teach me to joust.”
He grins. “You’re rather young for it, Hal.”
“Did I ask for your opinion ?” I’m not the king’s son for nothing: I know how to use a commanding tone.
A look of surprise flits across Brandon’s face. The next moment he’s a picture of perfect respect. “No, sir.” He bows to me formally. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
Anonymous knight – winner of tournaments – mysterious warrior, face hidden behind my black visor. This way I can be the nobody my father wants and the hero of my dreams. For the next few months it’s my secret plan for survival.
VII
♦ ♦ ♦ VII ♦ ♦ ♦
“Get him!”
The water arcs through the air and descends in a splatter, with glorious accuracy, on the head of Harry Guildford.
Francis Bryan plunges the nozzle of the bellows into the bucket again, pumping the handles furiously.
Guildford is sitting, blindfolded, on the wooden horse mounted on a wheeled trolley that we’ve been using for jousting training. Compton and Brandon, who have hold of the ropes attached to the front of the trolley, have been pulling him as fast as they can round the hall, while Bryan and I try to drench him with water missiles.
Bryan has taken the bellows from the fireplace. I am making do with cups and jugs from the kitchens.
Guildford’s got a lance in his right hand with which he is trying to take his revenge – a huge great long thing, one of the training lances with replaceable end-sections. It is – as I know from experience now – heavy, and hard to balance even when you can see what you’re doing. Since he can’t, the lanceis making extravagantly wild sweeps and several times almost topples him off his mount all by itself.
Now Brandon, who’s dropped his rope, empties a full bucket of water over Guildford’s head from behind, and dodges out of the way as Guildford sends the lance swooping about in reply. Guildford’s gulping and roaring, purple in the face, with his wet shirt stuck to his back like a milk-skin. The rest of us are shrieking with laughter.
The next moment Guildford thwacks Bryan an almighty blow on his bottom.
“He can see! He can see!” yells Bryan.
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?”
The voice is a roar. We stop and turn as one, all except Guildford, who – startled into a final loss of balance – slides sedately off the horse, and lands in a heap on the floor.
The chamberlain of the household here at Eltham Palace, a white-haired man with a long furred gown and a fine sense of his own importance, is standing in the doorway at the far end of the hall, eyes wide and cheeks puffing as he surveys the room.
“Look at the floor! Mother of God, look at the hangings ! What on earth has possessed you, gentlemen?”
We are wet, panting, hiccupping. I double up to get my breath back, my hands on my knees. Looking between my legs I can see Bryan, behind me, calculating the trajectory needed to aim the bellows at the chamberlain.
“Get up, boy!”
Brandon has seen fit to join Guildford on the floor; he is flat on his back, presenting the soles of his very wet shoes to the old man.
“Do I have to point out that you are not
“Armour – I was talking about the armour. I said I’d have the blood-red – look, that suit there. Given the choice.”
“I’d take the gold,” says Guildford.
“Black,” I say. “Definitely the black.”
At the end of the tournament I go looking for Brandon. Compton directs me to a chamber near the Lesser Hall. Walking in, I find it filled with several of the more junior jousters, some being dressed or washed, others sprawled out, resting, examining injuries, or flicking cloths at their pageboys to get them to hurry with their tasks.
As awareness of my presence ripples through the room, there’s a scramble to get up and bow. But I signal that it’s Brandon I want to speak to – there’s no need for everyone to stand to attention. He comes over, and I say, “Teach me to joust.”
He grins. “You’re rather young for it, Hal.”
“Did I ask for your opinion ?” I’m not the king’s son for nothing: I know how to use a commanding tone.
A look of surprise flits across Brandon’s face. The next moment he’s a picture of perfect respect. “No, sir.” He bows to me formally. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
Anonymous knight – winner of tournaments – mysterious warrior, face hidden behind my black visor. This way I can be the nobody my father wants and the hero of my dreams. For the next few months it’s my secret plan for survival.
VII
♦ ♦ ♦ VII ♦ ♦ ♦
“Get him!”
The water arcs through the air and descends in a splatter, with glorious accuracy, on the head of Harry Guildford.
Francis Bryan plunges the nozzle of the bellows into the bucket again, pumping the handles furiously.
Guildford is sitting, blindfolded, on the wooden horse mounted on a wheeled trolley that we’ve been using for jousting training. Compton and Brandon, who have hold of the ropes attached to the front of the trolley, have been pulling him as fast as they can round the hall, while Bryan and I try to drench him with water missiles.
Bryan has taken the bellows from the fireplace. I am making do with cups and jugs from the kitchens.
Guildford’s got a lance in his right hand with which he is trying to take his revenge – a huge great long thing, one of the training lances with replaceable end-sections. It is – as I know from experience now – heavy, and hard to balance even when you can see what you’re doing. Since he can’t, the lanceis making extravagantly wild sweeps and several times almost topples him off his mount all by itself.
Now Brandon, who’s dropped his rope, empties a full bucket of water over Guildford’s head from behind, and dodges out of the way as Guildford sends the lance swooping about in reply. Guildford’s gulping and roaring, purple in the face, with his wet shirt stuck to his back like a milk-skin. The rest of us are shrieking with laughter.
The next moment Guildford thwacks Bryan an almighty blow on his bottom.
“He can see! He can see!” yells Bryan.
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?”
The voice is a roar. We stop and turn as one, all except Guildford, who – startled into a final loss of balance – slides sedately off the horse, and lands in a heap on the floor.
The chamberlain of the household here at Eltham Palace, a white-haired man with a long furred gown and a fine sense of his own importance, is standing in the doorway at the far end of the hall, eyes wide and cheeks puffing as he surveys the room.
“Look at the floor! Mother of God, look at the hangings ! What on earth has possessed you, gentlemen?”
We are wet, panting, hiccupping. I double up to get my breath back, my hands on my knees. Looking between my legs I can see Bryan, behind me, calculating the trajectory needed to aim the bellows at the chamberlain.
“Get up, boy!”
Brandon has seen fit to join Guildford on the floor; he is flat on his back, presenting the soles of his very wet shoes to the old man.
“Do I have to point out that you are not
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