The Prince in Waiting

  The Prince’s father, Egbert, had been a great fighter; it was under him that my own father had been ennobled in a savage battle against the men of Basingstoke. Our new Prince was very different. Each year he found some reason for not taking our army into the field. From the beginning there had been doubts of his valor and the doubts had grown as summer succeeded summer with fresh excuses. He was a big man with a black curling beard but had a strangely empty look, like a vessel that had missed being filled.

  There was a tale which had never been forgotten of a wrestling contest when he was a young man. It was that form of wrestling in which the object is not to throw one’s opponent to the ground but to lift him off his feet and hold him in the air. Stephen, though even then big for his age, had chosen the smallest of the group to contend against, presumably because he doubted his chances with the others. And after a great struggle this one, though inches shorter and narrow of chest, had lifted him not once but twice, the second time carrying him helpless round the ring.

  So his excuses now—an illness of his Lady, the weather being unpropitious or the crops needing special attention, once a warning from the Spirits in a dream (he said) of disaster to the city if the troops went forth—were suspect. Last year he was supposed to have injured his back, so that he could not ride or even walk without pain, and he had kept to his bed for two months. But it had been remarked that he walked well enough when the Autumn Feast came round, and rode to the Hunt afterward.

  And all this time the reputation which his father had gained, for himself and for the city, was dissipating. It did not happen at once: our warriors had made themselves feared and respected as far afield as Guildford and Newbury and Ringwood, and our neighbors were glad enough at first to be free of their attentions. But lately it was known that they had begun to mock him and us. Last year the men of Alton had ridden into our lands while Stephen lay on his bed, with blocks of wood tied to his feet to straighten out the kink he was supposed to have in his spine, and carried away more than four score head of cattle. It was important that this year we should go after them and teach them a lesson, but no one really believed that our Prince would move. Year after year he had built the city’s walls higher and deepened the ditch beyond them.

  Aunt Mary said: “There is no sense in fighting for the sake of fighting. They wound and kill each other and are no better for it.”

  Peter shook his head. “That is the way a woman thinks.”

  He smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. She impatiently shook herself free; she would not admit how much she welcomed the signs of his affection.

  “It is not a question of men or women,” she said. “I am not against fighting—or killing—if it is for something worthwhile. But not for empty glories, paid for with real deaths.”

  Peter smiled past her at me. What she said meant nothing to him, nor would it have to any warrior. A man fought for the sake of fighting, for his own honor and the honor of his city. Accepting the complicity he offered me, proud of being spoken to as someone who would one day be a warrior and understood the way a warrior thought, I said:

  “I wonder how our Prince will get out of it this year. Maybe he will have them take him into Sincross!”

  Sincross was the big house in which the old men lived whose wits had failed through age. It was a feeble enough joke at best but as I saw Peter frown I remembered something. Younger people also were taken there when the Spirits had crazed their brains. This had been the case with Aunt Mary’s brother many years ago, even before Peter’s birth, and he had died in madness when not much more than twenty. And I remembered too that I had heard talk once, among servants who did not realize I was listening, that it had been thought the same might happen to Aunt Mary herself at the time my father divorced her, so strange she had been and so deeply sunk in melancholy.

  I was struck into confusion by my thoughtlessness and could not look at Aunt Mary. But she seemed anyway to pay no heed to my remark. She was concerned with Peter, with making sure that he put on his scarf and wound it tight around his body under his leather coat before going out into the cold. As a child, she reminded him, scolding gently, he had had a weakness in his chest and he must take care.

  I left with him and watched him unhitch his horse. Peter’s frown had gone. He offered to ride me up the hill on his saddlebow but I refused. I might not have been chosen for the Contest but I felt I was too old for that. Until I had a horse of my own, I would walk.

  • • •

  Before I could go skating I had to go home and get my skates and so I made my way up the High Street rather than along the river bank. It was a little less cold, or perhaps seemed so because my stomach was full. In a few places, missed by the polymuf street cleaners, snow lay in frozen, dirt-specked ridges. The last fall had been a week ago. The sky was hazy with a watery sun peering through. Winter’s grip seemed as firm as ever. Carts creaked past me, one of them piled high with fodder. I had heard my father say that supplies were very low and grain too in short supply. There would be more cattle slaughtered unless the cold spell broke soon, and probably some horses.

  My name was called from behind. I knew the voice and involuntarily shivered. I turned and saw Ezzard striding toward me, his black cloak wrapped tightly round his tall lean frame. I waited for him to come up, telling myself I was no longer a child to be frightened by the Seer. His Spirits did not venture out of the Seance Hall, and anyway I had done nothing to offend them.

  But he was a man who in himself inspired awe. Taller even than my father, he had a craggy face with a beaked nose and black bushy eyebrows. His eyes were set deep and close together and were cold and blue. His skin was very white, as though he spent all his time in darkness and not just the hours when he was communing with the Spirits. In the summer when the light was stronger he wore spectacles that were darkly tinted; even without these there seemed a strange blankness, an emptiness, in his look.

  He said: “Where are you bound, boy?”

  I did not care for being addressed as “boy,” and even though it was the Seer I answered a little stiffly. But his eyes, staring into mine, made me drop my gaze.

  He said: “You respect the Spirits?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “There are some, of your age, who do not—who mock foolishly.”

  I said: “I have seen the Spirits and heard them.”

  He nodded. “Remember that. Remember another thing: that the Spirits take care of those who show them proper reverence. The fools who mock at last are mocked. And they are fools all along.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  He raised his hand in the blessing, though as Ezzard gave it it was almost menacing.

  “Away to your skating, then. Make the most of it. It will be your last of the winter.”

  I did not need to seek a meaning to that riddle. The Spirits foretold the weather to him. The thaw was coming and by tomorrow the ice would be too weak to bear. I was flattered that he should have told me this, as though I were one of the Prince’s messengers. I nodded and turned to go. As I did his hand grasped my shoulder.

  “Perhaps your last indeed.”

  I shivered again. One skated until one became a man, and one was not a man until fifteen. There were times when the Spirits prophesied a death.

  But he was smiling, his face improbably drawn into a grin.

  “Go your way, Luke. The Spirits go with you.”

  • • •

  I found Martin and we took our skates to the river. In the morning he had been busy with duties; his mother was a widow and too poor to afford even a single polymuf servant. We skated for a couple of hours and by the end of that time one could tell the change that was taking place: the wind had swung from north to west and there was mildness in it. I told him of Ezzard’s words as we walked back. He said:

  “He is right often enough. But how?”

  “Through the Spirits. How else?”

  “But how?”

  Martin was not even as tall as I, and slim with i
t. He had a girl’s skin, delicate, almost transparent, and his brown eyes were big like a girl’s. We had become friends when I rescued him from other boys who were tormenting him. The biggest of them was someone I very much disliked, and it was more through this than through a desire to help Martin that I had taken him on and given him a beating. It was only later that I grew to like Martin. His mind was curious, odd in its way of thinking, restless and speculative. Sometimes absurdly so. I said:

  “The Spirits know the future as they know the past. And they tell Ezzard because he is the Seer. There is nothing difficult about it.”

  He did not answer, and we did not pursue the matter because there was a horseman riding toward us, along Burnt Lane. I recognized horse and rider. My father called:

  “Greetings, son! I was told you were down at the river and I came out to meet you.”

  His lips laughed between the fair beard and curling yellow moustache. He would not have done this for a trivial reason. My heart leaped, but I said as evenly as I could:

  “What news, sir?”

  “Young Grant is ill. A fever. He will not fight on Thursday. You have his place in the Contest.”

  I stared at him. He leaned down and swept me onto his saddlebow, and I did not resent it. We rode homeward, Martin running beside us.

  And I thought of what Ezzard had said. A Young Captain was called a man, though not fifteen. I would not skate next winter with the boys, but serve the Prince as apprentice warrior. There had been two prophecies after all.

  TWO

  THE YOUNG CAPTAINS

  WE HAD A DAY TO prepare for the Contest and it rained almost continually. It was a cold drizzle to start with, soaking and depressing, and after a couple of hours of slithering and sliding and falling on the practice field Edmund called his team together and rode them off. Henry and Gregory followed suit. To have continued after the Prince’s son had stopped would have been to risk being mocked at for too great keenness, and I think in any case they were glad enough to head for home.

  I brought my own team off the field but set a slow pace along the road to the city, and by the time we reached the fork at the Elder Pond the others, galloping toward a change of clothes, hot drinks and warm fires, were out of sight. At the pond I called them to take the left fork, away from the city. They halted in confusion. I reined in and rode slowly back.

  Laurie, who was the best man I had, said:

  “Why left?”

  I waited, letting them look at me, for some moments before replying. I said:

  “Listen. I am your Captain. We are the weakest team in the Contest. Do you know the odds they are offering in the alehouses against our winning? Fifty to one, and I have heard that some have offered a hundred without finding takers.”

  They stared at me, drenched and miserable, the flanks of their horses steaming. An unprepossessing lot even without being bedraggled and spotted with mud.

  The number of each team in the Contest was fixed at four, apart from the Junior Captain. It would have been fairer if selection had been by lot but the test was as much as anything for leadership and a leader chooses his men. Or is chosen by them. Of those who, being of the age and yet not of noble family, could take part, most naturally would have preferred to follow the Prince’s son. Not for the honor only, of course: he was favored to win and the winning team, to match their Captain’s jeweled sword, drew gold coins as a reward. The teams coming second and third obtained silver and bronze, while that which was first eliminated got nothing but the mob’s derision for its pains.

  Because of this I had been left with, for the most part, those already rejected by the other leaders. Martin, of course, had volunteered at once. He was not a good horseman and was a poorer swordsman but at least I knew he would fight hard for me. And there was some consolation, too, as far as the rest were concerned, in thinking that they were willing to take part with so little prospect of victory or reward. Even if lacking in skill they were eager for the fight.

  I said: “They believe we are certain to lose. But nothing is certain, neither victory nor defeat. Skill counts for much, but so does preparation and hard work. The others have gone home. Soon they will be stabling their horses and taking things easy. We may be weaker in some respects but we can be stronger in endurance. We are not going back to the city but to a quiet place where we can train undisturbed and unobserved. You are wet and tired. So am I. We cannot get wetter and if we get more tired we shall sleep the better tonight and be more refreshed for tomorrow. Laurie!”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  That was good. He was supposed to give me the title but I had thought I might have to demand it. I said, still harshly:

  “You asked: ‘Why left?’ From now on, in training first and then in the fight, none puts such a question to me. Is that clear?” My eyes went from one to the other, forcing them to nod assent. “I give commands. You obey. If this is done well enough, I shall wear the jeweled sword tomorrow, and you will have gold.” I turned my horse from them and from the road to the city. “Follow.”

  What I had been telling them was, I was sure, nonsense, at any rate insofar as any hopes of our winning the Contest were concerned. What I really wanted was to avoid coming last. As I have said, the team first eliminated always drew jeers from the crowd and I could not bear the thought of it. If we could survive into the second round, I would be happy enough. I had two reasons for pitching things high to my men. One was to shatter the pessimism they must feel over our chances; the second to give them heart for the grueling task ahead, because I meant to keep them at it till both we and our horses were ready to drop from exhaustion. I would risk them going tired into the fight. I was determined we should go in more ready for the tricks our opponents might play, more skilled in evading or countering them.

  My father had the lordship of a farm a few miles from the eastern gate. I had the farmer get his polymufs to drive cattle from a field and we went at it there. In the Contest, as in all fighting on horseback, understanding and control of one’s horse comes first. The horses we had were drawn from the army stables and their ways needed learning. To get mounts for their troop the Young Captains drew lots and chose in turn. The others had gone, as was usual, for the bigger horses. I had let them do so; the ground would be heavy after rain. From one of the grooms, a dwarf I knew well, I sought advice as to which of the smaller beasts were best for stamina, speed, sure-footedness, and I picked them. I had already found that he had given me good guidance. The horses were sound; now it was up to me and my men to learn to handle them. I split the men in two pairs, myself taking first one side then the other, and we rode at each other in mock battle.

  The aim of each team must be to unsaddle the opposing Captains, because once the Captain is dismounted that team retires. There are scores, hundreds, of different tactics which can be employed, but nearly all revolve around a situation in which the Captain has two defending outriders and two attacking ones. This, I had decided, must be abandoned for a start. I could not afford to hide behind defenders, even if the defense were reliable. My only hope lay in deliberately taking chances.

  In close fighting there were countless forms of assault and parry. The wooden swords were our offensive weapons, and we carried small leather shields as a means of defense, but by getting in close enough one could buffet or drag a man from his horse, or pluck, swooping, at his stirrup and upend him. I had studied tricks of Captains in previous years, and there were one or two of my own that I added. I rehearsed my men (and myself) in these over and over again. Beyond that we practiced riding in various patterns and directions in response to signals of command. It was a slow business and more often than not ended in confusion and disorder.

  After another couple of hours, I ordered a break. The farmer had prepared food and drink for us and they were more than ready for it, but first I saw to it that the ponies were fed and watered and rubbed down and blanketed. We ate heartily and I let the men rest a while afterward. Then I called them back to work. They
groaned but made no protest. The rain was still soaking down, as steadily though perhaps less chilly. We slogged on as the afternoon drew slowly toward dusk. The sky’s gray was tinged with black when at last I gave the order to break off. We rode back slowly, dog-tired, to the city.

  I swore them to secrecy before we parted; if anyone asked, we had spent the day in the farmhouse, penned in by the rain, gambling with dice. Of the dwarf groom, Murri, I asked the same confidence. Seeing to the ponies with me, he said:

  “You could have lamed them, Master.”

  “But did not.” I gave him money. “A good bran mash tonight, with strong ale in it, and tomorrow the best oats you can find. They will be all right for the afternoon?”

  “They will be all right.” He looked up at me, grinning. “I will cheer for you, Master Luke.”

  “Will you back me?”

  “No.” He wagged his broad head. “We dwarfs are men of heart, as is well known, but we do not let our hearts rule our minds. And we are no believers in miracles.”

  I nodded. I think I was too tired to smile.

  • • •

  It was my intention to slip quietly into my home and get the servants to fill me a bath. But as I crossed the courtyard my father called from his window and I had to go to him. He said:

  “Where have you been, Luke? The others were back by mid-morning.”