I realized I could be beaten, disgraced before this mob, and the demon inside me rose in a fury to match his. I tore free and as he came for me got a wrist and brought him across my body to land heavily on the cobbles. The blow winded him but he was up as soon as I was. He came at me. I straight-armed him, punching to the body. He winced and tried to hide it.
After that I kept him at a distance. Although he was the taller my arms were longer. My demon served me well as he always did. There are some who fight wildly in the rage of battle, their minds hot and confused, but mine goes cold and thoughts come quicker and more sharply. I concentrated on body blows, on that vulnerable part between and just below the ribs. These sapped his strength. He went on fighting and once succeeded in throwing me a third time but he could not press it home. I was up before he was and punched him as he rose. From that point it was only a question of how long he would last. It seemed an age to me and I was giving the punishment, not receiving it. I had switched my attack to his face which was smeared with blood. At last he dropped and could not even attempt to rise.
Our audience was cheering me and mocking him. I went to the horse trough below the Buttercross, soaked my handkerchief, and returned to bathe his face. It was swelling already and would look terrible in a few hours.
I said: “It was a good fight. The Spirits were on my side.”
He stared at me, making no answer. I crumpled the handkerchief in my pocket and put an arm out to him.
“You are filthy, and so am I. Let’s leave this lot.” I gave my head a small contemptuous jerk in the direction of the watching circle. “Come back with me, and we’ll get ourselves cleaned up.”
“Back” meant the palace, which had been his home. He still did not speak and I thought he would refuse. But at last he nodded slightly. I helped him up and we went off together. The onlookers parted to give us way and watched us go in puzzled silence.
• • •
After that Edmund and I were friends. One day the three of us—he and Martin and I—were strolling down the High Street past the Seance Hall when the Seer came out. He stopped and spoke, addressing himself to me.
“You keep strange company, Luke.”
I said: “It is the company I choose, sire, and which chooses me.”
The remark must have been aimed at Edmund—he had seen Martin and me together often enough—and I did not like it. It was said that the Seer had been among those who were for killing the sons of Stephen, and I supposed he was angry that Edmund had escaped and angrier that I should befriend him. But he went on:
“It is good to see quarrels mended before they become feuds.” He turned to Edmund. “Your brother is with the Army?”
“Yes, sire.”
There was something in his voice which was not quite contempt but a long way from the deference which was reckoned to be the Seer’s due. He had not been to a Seance, I knew, since his father’s death. He believed in the Spirits, I think, and acknowledged their power, but hated them. His long face was without expression but I saw scorn in the blue eyes under the high forehead.
Ezzard, disregarding this, if indeed he saw it, said:
“He fought well in the battle.”
“What battle?” I asked.
“The battle at Bighton, where Alton was defeated.”
I stared at him. “We have only just come from the Citadel. There is no news yet. The pigeons have brought none.”
Ezzard smiled his thin cold smile. “The Spirits do not have to wait on the wings of pigeons.”
“This is from the Spirits?”
“Would I tell you else?”
“And a victory?” Martin asked. “At Bighton?”
“The pigeons are already flying,” Ezzard said. “They will be in their cotes before sunset.”
It must be true. I asked:
“And my father . . .?”
“The Prince is safe.”
I was too excited to speak further. But Martin said:
“How do they bring the news?” Ezzard looked at him. “The Spirits? If not on wings, how?”
Ezzard said: “A wise man, or boy, does not ask questions concerning the Spirits. They tell him what he needs to know. That is enough.”
It was a rebuke, but Martin persisted. “But you know things about the Spirits, sir, since you serve them and talk with them. Is that not true?”
“I know what I am told, boy.”
“But more than the rest of us do? How they bring their messages without wings, perhaps?” Ezzard’s eye was on him. “I am not asking how, sir—just if you do know.”
“I know many things,” Ezzard said, “and I keep my knowledge to myself, imparting it only to those who have dedicated their lives to serve the Spirits. Would you do that, Martin? Would you be an Acolyte?”
It was a good reply, and one that must stop his questioning. Even if I had not heard him blaspheming the idea would have been ridiculous. One would have to be crazed to be an Acolyte—shaving one’s head, fasting, droning prayers to the Spirits all day and half the night. I expected him to be abashed.
But to my astonishment he said: “I might, sir.”
Ezzard stared at him keenly, nodded, and went his way. Edmund and I poked fun at Martin when he had gone. He joined with us. It had been a joke, he said, at the Seer’s expense; and the old fool had believed him! I accepted what he said but I was still not sure. I had watched his eyes as well as the Seer’s. If the earnestness had been deception it had been marvelously done.
• • •
Two days later I stood on the walls by the North Gate and heard the wild cheers of the crowd as our army returned victorious. A big man led them on a big chesnut horse: my father, Prince of Winchester.
FIVE
FIRE IN WINTER
THE VICTORY OVER ALTON WAS overwhelming. Five captains were taken for ransom, including the prince’s nephew—his probable heir since he had only one son whose poor health prevented his being a warrior. A sixth Captain had been killed and they left more than three score men dead or badly injured on the field. We for our part had one Captain crippled and scarcely more than twenty men dead or seriously wounded.
We had a triumphant Autumn Fair. They had ceded the village of Bighton to us, and altogether over a hundred thousand acres of land. Feasting went on for more than a week and the special ale my father had ordered the ale-makers to brew was exhausted in half that time, in toasts to his health and the city’s victory. (There was no shortage of milder ale and they strengthened it with raw spirits; men lay drunk in the streets not just at night but at broad noon.) The Hardings and the Blaines were quiet, raising their glasses with the rest but doubtless thinking their own thoughts. These were mixed, I fancy. I have no doubt they rejoiced in our triumph, for which they themselves had fought also, but it could not have pleased them to see so much honor paid to their stopgap Prince. We guessed that behind locked doors they were talking hard, with grim faces.
When the Fair was over and the prisoners exchanged for Alton gold, the Court rode out to hunt. I was one of the party, for the first time. I asked that Martin and Edmund might come also but my father would not agree: to belong to the royal hunting party was a great privilege which must not be awarded lightly. Martin was a commoner and it would be a scandal if Edmund, son of a man condemned by the Spirits, were included. Martin, I knew, was not sorry about this; he was neither fighter nor hunter by nature though he had helped me in the Contest. I had seen him turn pale when we watched a pig’s throat being slit at the slaughterhouse. But for Edmund, though he said nothing, it was salt rubbed into unhealed wounds. This would have been his first year for the hunt also.
One of the things that had made the summer memorable had been the weather. It was not just that it seemed better to me (one sees brighter skies in times of happiness): others, even the old ones, agreed that it was many years since we had been so fortunate. For more than a month, in July and August, no fires were lit in the palace except those in the kitchens. Very often the sun shone clearly, sometimes through the whole day with cloud obscuring it for no more than an hour or two. The harvest was good: all the granaries were filled and corn piled in bins in the mills.