VIII (6 page)

“Tell the boy to move, Elizabeth. He’s blocking
the view.”

My mother’s fingers press my shoulder. She’s behind me but she must be leaning forward; her voice is right in my ear. “Hal. Sweetheart. Your father wants you to move along.”

I get up. On the sand-strewn floor of the vast hall in front of us, youths clad in various quantities of half-armour and leather padding are grunting and sweating, slicing and chopping at each other with blunt-edged swords.

“Go and sit over there. Next to Meg.”

I edge along, holding the sword that’s slung on my belt upright, so it doesn’t poke anyone, and excusing myself as people are forced to stand up to let me pass.

“Relegated to sitting with the girls,” says my elder sister Meg when I arrive. She speaks sideways out of her mouth; her jewel-encrusted hood is heavy, and I’m not worth the effort of a direct look. “What have you done?” She is sitting poised, straight-backed, speckled with rubies and pearls the
size of bilberries. Beyond her my little sister Mary, who is five, is sitting similarly ramrod straight, confined by a
tight-laced
bodice and the beady-eyed supervision of her nurse.

“Done?” I whisper back. “Only worn a hat with a feather when sitting in front of the Spanish ambassador.” I settle into my seat. “I wish Father would tell me himself. To get out of the way.”

Meg gives a tight smile. “He hasn’t said one word to me since I arrived.”

We are in Westminster Hall. It makes me think of a cathedral: it’s a huge cavern of cool, echoing stone. The windows – arched, churchy ones – are set high in the walls. When I look up, there’s an entire world of sunbeams and dust motes up there, swirling about. Beyond that – way, way up – the roof is an amazing construction: wooden, ribbed like the hull of an upside-down ship, and decorated with carved angels.

Above us, then: the angels. Below, on the hall floor: the fighters, working like devils. One of them is my elder brother Arthur. We, meanwhile, are suspended in between, sitting on a raised and canopied platform along with half the Court and a party of Spanish envoys.

The envoys have come to London to negotiate a treaty between England and Spain. To seal the deal my father wants a marriage: the groom will be my brother Arthur, his bride a Spanish princess. It’s a prize my father has been trying to secure for years, I know: the Spanish royal dynasty is ancient and powerful. By comparison we Tudors are puny newcomers; we need to convince the King and Queen of Spain that their precious princess will be in safe hands. Arthur’s fighting display is intended to prove, physically at least, that we are built to last.

Which would be fine if he were any good with a sword.

“Block!
Block!
” I mutter now, my eyes on the fighting. My shoulder twitches, wanting to join in.

It’s Charles Brandon that Arthur’s grappling with, a youth my father shows much favour to, since Brandon’s father was his standard-bearer, and died in the battle that made my father king.

Brandon is seventeen and big and beefy; it’s like watching a tree in combat. Arthur, two years younger, is slight. If he trained hard enough he would be all sinew and gristle, like Father. As it is, he prefers to spend time bent over his desk, his soft white hands pressing open the pages of books. And it shows.

“A gap! Urgh, why didn’t he attack?”

“Shh! Try to sit still,” hisses Meg.

She’s on my left; to my right, a little further 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 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.

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 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 my way towards the viewing platform a herald waylays me to say that the Spanish would like Arthur to compete against me.

I nod my agreement, my face calm, hiding my excitement. As I change direction, walking with Compton towards the table, I hiss, “I’m impressing the Spanish! I’m actually
helping
. Is he looking? Is Father looking at me? Is he smiling?”

“I can’t see, sir,” says Compton. “Shall I send for one of your own bows?”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

Right now I feel I could draw any of those bows lying on the table, even the heaviest.

The mark to shoot from is placed on the hall floor directly in front of my father’s position on the platform. Arthur takes up his stance first, nocks his arrow, draws, holds, then shoots. The arrow flies smoothly, and embeds itself at the edge of the bull’s eye.

I’m fizzing with energy as I walk up to the mark. The bow I’ve selected seems to have almost exactly the same drawing weight as my own, but I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ll be able to relax enough to shoot fair.

As I take up my stance, I try to breathe deeply. I try to forget where I am, block out the hall, the distractions around me, the colours, the faces, the shuffles and coughs and muted conversations.

I uncurl my fingers. My arrow, straight and deadly, thuds into the bull’s eye, just off-centre.

We each shoot twice more, Arthur and I. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone approaching. It’s a herald, the man who refereed my bout with Brandon. “Would you like to try to hit this, my lord?” he says to me. He is holding out a glove – a leather gauntlet, its cuff embroidered with gold. “It is a challenge, if you will accept it, from Ambassador De Puebla.”

My eyes flick to the viewing platform. I see the ambassador, his neatly trimmed black beard turned towards my father as he speaks. My father’s head is inclined a little, his gaze dropped – listening, concentrating. Neither of them is watching me. But talking about me? Perhaps.

I look at the glove, still offered on the herald’s palm. An expensive item. Does the Spanish ambassador really want it ruined – or does he think I don’t stand a chance of hitting it? I’ve played this game many times with Compton – usually with an old cap or two, out in the woods by Eltham. It’s easier
than shooting birds – but then I can do that, too.

I say, “I accept.”

The herald pads away in his soft-soled shoes, carrying the glove carefully, as if it’s a basin of water that might spill. I step up to the mark, nock an arrow and, as the herald stops and turns, I half-draw it in readiness.

Up on the platform, conversations pause – heads turn. The herald shows me the glove, then throws it high into the air.

A glove flies differently from a cap, of course. The weight’s distributed differently – the heavy cuff with its trimming makes it spin differently in the air.

It’s the work of a moment – a half-moment. The full draw, the movement of the bow as you train it on the object’s line of flight, the release.

Yet in that half-moment, my concentration falters. My eyes slip from the spinning glove to a face beyond it – a face I have the weird feeling of recognising. The hair is straw-coloured and the eyes so deep-set as to be in shadow. Behind the face, wings are spread wide.

It’s a carved angel, gazing down at me from one of the hammer beams of the roof. It holds a shield: the fleurs-de-lys of France quartered with the lions of England. I see it all in an instant – the hair, the wings, the shield – but even as the arrow is loosed I know that that instant was crucial; I can’t have shot true.

The glove lands in the sand, but I’ve already turned away. It occurs to me, as I go back to my place at the side of the shooting area, cursing myself silently, that the applause is particularly generous considering I’ve missed. Compton grins at me when I reach him, so broadly that it gives me a flicker of uncertainty; I look back. The herald has retrieved the glove and is holding it up high, turning round so that all can see. My arrow has pierced the leather through the palm.
I stare at it in disbelief.

Then I glance again at the roof, looking for the face. It has no golden hair, no colour at all – it’s just plain carved wood. I don’t recognise it now. Who did I think it was before? I don’t remember. I shake my head, as if I’ve come in from a rain-shower, just as Arthur starts forward, and signals that he would like to try this game too. A glove is hurriedly found for him, donated by another Spaniard; the herald throws for a second time.

On the viewing platform, a hundred faces tip upwards as Arthur’s arrow flies towards the mighty oak ribs of the roof. Arrow and glove pass elegantly, like the jets of a fountain. They land in the dust, ten feet apart.

There is a short silence.

Then the spectators break into applause. I see that Ambassador De Puebla has risen to his feet as he claps – the rest of his party is following suit. After a moment they turn and begin to move away from their seats – they’re coming down.

As they approach across the sandy floor, Arthur’s suddenly at my side. He hooks an arm round my neck and ruffles my hair. As if he’s fond of me.

My father leads the party, limping slightly as always. He has a permanent stiffness in his left leg – scar tissue from an old wound: his battlefield credentials are on display at every step. As they reach us De Puebla is saying, “… but remarkably skilful for his age. He is a talented child. Congratulations, Your Grace.”

My father smiles. “You are generous in your praise, Ambassador. I am proud of the boy. He has a fine spirit. He works hard.” A bony hand reaches out and grips my shoulder.

“Added to which,” De Puebla turns to me, “you have all
the natural talents God could bestow, my lord prince. You are built like a warrior already. Nearly as tall as your brother when there are, what, five years between you? Impressive. Very impressive.” He bows to Arthur. “And, my lord, a most excellent display of your skills, too. We will be happy to make a report back to the King and Queen of Spain, full of the highest possible praise.”

Arthur and I bow, and express our humble thanks.

My father turns to his guests, opening his arms to herd them away. “Come, gentlemen, it is time to take some refreshments in more comfortable surroundings.”

I watch them go.

I am proud of the boy.

I look around me, blinking. I glance up to the angel on the roof again – but there are rows of them, one on each hammer beam, and I can’t remember which one it was I thought I recognised. The viewing platform is emptying. Arthur has melted away. A hand gently takes my elbow. It’s Compton. He guides me out of the hall and into the warren of passageways leading to the royal apartments. I can’t stop talking.