THE LAST PRINCE OF LYONESSE
by
Frances Evlin
PROLOGUE
20 March, 1066
When the storm worsened, Shemdin hauled the wooden chest topside and asked one of the ship’s crew to lash him to it. He had worked many years to gain his master’s trust and would not fail to deliver the chest to England’s new king. Heart racing, limbs atremble, Shemdin watched the frantic crew struggle to wrest the merchant ship from the grasp of the screaming gale. With his right cheek pressed against the chest’s polished lid, he closed his eyes and begged Allah to help him protect the treasure it held.
The heavens spat lightning and the storm’s great hands clapped. Incited by the thunderous applause, the sea heaved into an enormous swell that crashed down upon the ship. Its single sail had already been snatched by the wind. Now its splintered mast, ensnarled by lines and shrouds, twisted and fell.
Part of it struck Shemdin’s back as the ship heeled. Frothing waves tumbled him, the chest and the scrabbling crewmen across the deck. The dark sea clutched at him and dragged him under.
***
He roused at the sound of shouted words and opened his eyes. Too numb with cold to have any feeling in his limbs, Shemdin thought he must still be bound to the chest, for he lay atop it, half out of the water, on a pebbly beach. Two men—one old and bent, the other tall and young—slogged toward him, their hatless headsbent against a gusty wind. English, surely, for they looked as had been described to Shemdin—white-skinned, with short-cropped dark hair. Knee-length, sleeved garments hugged their lean bodies, wrappings covered their calves, and high-topped boots protected their ankles and feet.
The younger man carried a club.
Shemdin knew that the merchantman’s bold course had followed a different route from the ones most ships sailed. Further, he had been warned that if the ship wrecked, the people living along the English coast were allowed to salvage what cargo they could. But he had paid too little heed to the whispered rumors as to why ships’ crews and passengers rarely survived. Now, groggy though he was, he knew his life was in danger.
Again and again, a hundred times—a thousand times—he had practiced speaking the words he must say when he met the English. He tried to remember those words and panic seized him when he could not. Another blast of wind-driven sea mist struck him; he shuddered and groaned.
The Englishmen reached him. “Blessed Mother,” the older man said. “This one be still alive.”
Squinting at Shemdin, the club holder grunted. “A Turk, by the look o’ ’im.”
Shemdin opened his mouth, willing the rehearsed speech to come. His ribs hurt so that he could hardly draw breath, and only watery spittle passed between his bruised lips.
“Ah, well…” the man hefted the gnarled piece of wood.
Fear thrummed along Shemdin’s spine, set his nerves tingling, brought the prepared words to his tongue. “I bring…” he began, and the Englishman hesitated, “…a gift for your king.”
“For Herryld?” The older man’s grizzled brows lifted.
“Yes. For King Harold.” Shemdin’s hoarse words came with great difficulty. “A gift…from the Grand Sultan…of the Seljuk Empire.”
The men exchanged glances. “If he bears somethin’ for Herryld,” the older one said, “honor-bound we be t’ deliver it.”
The younger man once more lifted the club. “’Tis not as if the Turk needs t’ go along.”
Terror muted the pain in Shemdin’s body. “I must deliver…a message…with it.” Seeing the doubt in the two men’s eyes, he added, “The treasure…is worth nothing… without the message.”
For a long moment, the men considered. Then the older one took hold of his companion’s arm, dissuading him from using the bludgeon. “The treasure be for our good king,” he said. “We take this man t’ the castle.”
Chapter One
01 November, 1099
Early morning sun gilded the boulder-strewn promontory. With narrowed eyes, Tamsin watched the old man who had appeared of a sudden, without sound or word. He was not a manor resident, nor did she know of a guest who resembled him. White hair curled to his shoulders and a wooly beard covered his upper chest. Over garments of brown wool common to the men of Lyonesse, he wore a long, red velvet cloak that spoke of England. Reason enough to be wary of him, even though he carried no weapon. Tamsin’s fingers curled as if they closed around the staff she had left in Mam’s hut.
She resented the whitebeard’s presence in her place of solitude. Thus, although she rose from the boulder upon which she had been seated, she did not retreat as he approached. When he stopped an arm’s length away, she queried him with firm voice. “What brings you to Breyer Manor lands, who wears a Norman cloak over Saxon kirtle and breeches?”
“A Norman cloak?” The man’s voice, deep-timbred and strong, belied his appearance of age. He smiled. “Nay, Tamsin, I wore this cloak long before the Conqueror set foot on English soil.”
Tamsin made an impatient gesture downslope toward the manor buildings. “I shall reprove whoever told you my name and where I might be.”
“I need no one to tell me your name, or where to find you. I know, and have always known, since the day you were born.”
“That is impossible, since we have never met.” The whitebeard was obviously addled. But, although he appeared to be harmless, Tamsin saw no reason to be cordial to him. “Who are you, sir?”
“At this time, in this place, I am called Carmarthen. In days to come, I shall be remembered by another name.” As he spoke, he fingered a silver medallion, etched with the figure of a merlin with outspread wings.
Tamsin looked askance at him. “You speak of days to come. So, then, you wish to pass yourself off as a prophet?”
“Some have called me that.”
“And I suppose, last eve being Samhein, you slipped through the barriers and came here from the Other World.”
He smiled. “I come to you by the grace of God.”
“It is well that you do,” Tamsin said tartly. “I am a Christian.”
She felt a growing sense of familiarity with the old man and wondered if, after all, she might have met him when she was a child. In his eyes, she read entreaty and anxiety, and the mixed emotions piqued her interest. “So…if you have always known my whereabouts, Prophet Carmarthen, why do you seek me now?”
Fanning his red robe over the boulder where Tamsin had sat, he sank down and looked up at her. She flipped her dark braid over her shoulder and waited for him to answer.
Instead, he asked, “What know you of reincarnation?”
Nonplussed at the question, she gave a mechanical response. “That the Church declared it anathema more than five hundred years ago.”
“And you? Have you also declared it to be such?"
Folding her arms, Tamsin gazed down upon the manor house. She had lived at Breyer Manor all her life and attended the manor chapel, presided over by Friar Edmond. She thought she understood his teachings and her own convictions. But she saw no reason to answer the prophet with nay or yea.
“Reincarnation is a belief of the pagans,” she said.
“Ah, Tamsin, you evade my question.” Carmarthen was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What know you of King Arthur?”
With a shrug, Tamsin returned her attention to the old man. “What everyone knows. He was a great warrior king who lived in the sixth century. It was he who kept peace for fifty years among the folk of the West Country after the Romans left.” Memories of stories about the fabled king rushed forth. “Young he was, when he took the crown. And fair handsome. Even unto his death at the battle of Camlann. A nobler, braver man has not lived in England since his time.”
Carmarthen stroked his mustache. “Hmmm. And what think you of Alfred?”
Irked by yet another seemingly unrelated question, Tamsin spoke sharply. “King Alfred, do you mean?” At the prophet’s nod, she said, “I have not yet read his biography. But he has been called an able leader. It is said that he prevented the Danes from taking England in the ninth century.”
“Aye. And Alfred’s abiding interest in literacy and learning brought about the gathering of facts for the Chronicles. Which interest, in turn, eventually made it possible for men such as Friar Edmond to teach anyone who truly wants to learn.”
The words implied the whitebeard knew the monk tutored her. Tamsin fluttered her hands. “Where is all this talk leading? What has Alfred to dowith Arthur?”
“They were one and the same.”
“Alfred descended from Arthur? Well, I suppose that is possible. I have heard that said of our own King Maccus. Arthur did rest on Lyonesse between battles.”
“I do not speak of descendents. I speak of reincarnation.”
“Pagan!” Tamsin took a step backward. “I will listen to no more of this!”
Carmarthen’s dark eyes flashed, but if he took offense at her words, that was the only sign. In fact, his voice held a note of pleading when he next spoke. “Tamsin, please, sit down and listen to me.”
“No! I am tired of this conversation. I am not a simple-minded, uneducated peasant woman. Friar Edmond has taught me many things, and one of them is to pay no heed to the coaxing lies of men!”
“It was not Friar Edmond who taught you that.”
Tamsin caught a quick breath. “What else do you know about me?”
“That the scar on the base of your throat is more than a birthmark. You acquired it when you lived another life. In the camp of Arthur, the Pendragon.”
“What fol!” Tamsin turned away from him, her long skirt swirling. “Pendragon! I do not believe you!” She circled the boulder to get to the path.
Carmarthen made no move to stop her. “Seek out Friar Edmond tonight,” he called after her. “I will speak to you about this again on the morrow.”
“You will not!” she vowed to herself. She ran down the hill. Where the dirt path broadened to a stone-paved walk and approached a gateway, she paused, breathless. With a trembling finger, she touched the fine white line on her throat, just above her breastbone. Of course it was a natural birthmark! How foolish of that strange old man to suggest otherwise. She looked over her shoulder. The November sun lighted no figure on the rocky promontory.
***
“Tamsin, dear, where have you been?” Aelger asked as her daughter entered their hut.
“To the cliff top, to meditate.” Tamsin crossed the room and knelt to bank the fire, to save fuel for the evening.
“To ‘meditate’. Ah, what fine, big words Friar Edmond puts into your head. Soon you will be wanting to replace the tutor at the manor house, thinking you could better teach Lord Gnolph’s children.”
Aelger had risen early, to finish hemming a shift for one of the Lord’s five girls. Only in the case of a child’s undergarment did Lady Gnolph allow her seamstress to work in the comfort of her hut, rather than the drafty sewing room at the manor.
“Mam, about my birthmark,” Tamsin said. “Is it one I have always had?”
Her mother glanced up. “What an odd question. Of course you have always had it.” Her bronze needle flashing, she bent over her sewing again. “Some say such a mark means that its bearer will have uncommon good luck.”
“I know. Do you wish you had been born with one?”
Aelger’s lips tightened. Then she said, “I believe I have had much good luck. I work for a woman who treats me well. I live in a comfortable hut. Have as much food and drink as I need. Fuel to feed my fire.” She looked up at Tamsin. “A daughter who is gifted with a keen mind. But who I fear will leave me because of it.”
How can I leave? Where would I go? Tamsin knew she must learn to accept her tedious existence. But Oh! How she hated the prospect of the endless years stretching ahead of her, as mockingly lonely as those of her mother.
Tamsin sighed. “I think I am destined to stay here at Breyer, working in the gardens. My fingers seem best suited to pulling weeds and setting out plants.” She rose and brushed at her skirt.
“Edeva stopped by on her way to the brewery,” Aelger said.
Tamsin recognized that too-casual tone. Her mother must have some reason to mention a visit from Tamsin’s aunt, who lived only three huts away.
“She said Sibert has finally given up mourning his wife, rest her soul,” Aelger went on, “and is willing to take another.”
A flare of anger warmed Tamsin, and she struggled to keep her response civil. “Is that so?” Sibert was at least fifteen years her senior. Pleasant enough, and reputed to be kind to the brewery maids he supervised, but certainly of no interest to Tamsin. “I suspect he will have no trouble finding one. There must be half a dozen unwed women among Breyer’s residents.”
“He asked Edeva to pass along to you his wishes for your good health.”
“How kind of him.” Tamsin turned toward the door.
With an exasperated sigh, Aelger paused in her sewing. “Tamsin, you are well past the age when a girl should marry. It is time you put away fancies. If you are not closeted in the chapel library, studying with Friar Edmond, you are in the home pasture with him, flailing about with a staff.” She took several quick stitches in the garment and paused again. “I wish he had never come here. I do not know why he left England.”
Tamsin knew, but would not speak it, nor let the conversation be diverted from its original subject. Her words fell clipped and hard. “You know why I choose not to marry. And so does Edeva. I want to hear no more from either of you about this.”
Aelger stiffened. “Ye speak t’ me wi’ disrespect.”
Only when Aelger was distressed did she forget Tamsin’s gentle coaching and revert to the rustic dialect. Unable to maintain her anger, Tamsin said, “I mean none.”
The sun had risen high enough that its light glowed through the hut’s scraped-hide window covering. Tamsin bade her mother goodbye and stepped out into the sunshine. Today, work would be pleasant. Perhaps it would ease her troubled mind, for she could not free it from the prophet’s words. Speak to Friar Edmond? Well, she just might do so and confirm that reincarnation was nonsense.
***
Selwich clenched his folded hands tighter, the only outward sign of his irritation with King Maccus. The advisor sat on a bench opposite the king, regarding him across a wide, document-laden table. He drew a slow, deep breath before resuming his argument.
“You pay me to advise you, Maccus, and I say it is time we expanded our trade. To do that, we need a better harbor than the rock-bound pool here at Porth Listri. You own the hoh at Ennoer. It is an ideal location for a new castle, and the bay could accommodate today’s larger trading ships—”
“Selwich,” the king interrupted, holding up one hand, “I know the geography of Lyonesse.” He rose, crossed the room, and, hands clasped loosely behind his back, stood looking out the arched openings that led to the wall walk.
The advisor glared at the king’s back. Yes, you know the geography of Lyonesse, but do you know what is best for your country? I remember a time when you did not care.
A day’s walk beyond the wooded hills and green fields that rimmed Porth Listri’s shallow harbor lay Porth Ennoer. Could Maccus envision the hoh, and the scattering of farm huts below that flat-topped hill? Nearly level land, already cleared of furze and fern, sloped to a half-moon harbor. Nearby, a sweet-water spring flowed strong enough to supply a city and a castle. And a manor.
Moments passed before Maccus turned away from the window. “No. Increased trade would draw attention to Lyonesse. I cannot risk that. You consider William the Second not to be a threat. I do. He has been busy putting down Risings, but when those are controlled, he will look elsewhere for lands to conquer. He is not called William Ruthless for nothing.” The king returned to his writing table. “We will continue to honor the Cornish Agreement.” He gave his advisor a wry smile. “Even though it may be one of the strangest in history.”
Selwich got to his feet. You may call it strange, asking people of another country to deliberately disparage yours. I call it foolish and unnecessary. But he did not speak his thoughts. It was Maccus whose head bore the scar from his encounter with a would-be assassin during the Wreckers’ Rising of 1087. If the king wanted to put his life in peril again, let him do it.
Trusting that his expression revealed disappointment and not anger, Selwich said, “The Plover has come into port. I will check on her cargo.”
He stepped into the corridor and, resisting the urge to slam shut the heavy oaken slabs, quietly closed the double doors to the king’s apartment. He would have enjoyed feeling the wood vibrate beneath his fingertips, hearing the echoes boom through the castle’s interior. But no one needed to know how deep ran the resentment of the prime advisor for the king.
The obdurate, complacent, short-sighted king! Maccus was nothing like his father. King Herryld had been bold and daring. He would have realized the time had come to disavow the Cornish Agreement. He would have supported—nay, championed!—Selwich’s suggestion about increasing trade.
With measured step, Selwich walked down the passageway to his own apartment. Once inside its private confines, he loosed a savage kick at a footstool. It sailed across the room, slammed against his writing table and fell with a clatter on an area of the stone floor unprotected by Turkish rugs. Selwich frowned, strode to the table and bent to examine it. Though salvage, it was nonetheless a handsome piece of furniture, made of dark, exotic wood, and he regretted the mark he had put on its near leg.
He righted the stool, straightened and looked around. Whether or not Maccus agreed, the castle needed replacing. The yearly limewash of interior walls no longer hid the porous condition of the mortar between the stones. Daily, the servants swept up bits of grit. Surely, the king had noticed, even though his apartment walls were hung with more tapestries than any other in the castle.
Selwich crossed the room and stepped onto the wall walk. Like the king’s apartment and the library, Selwich’s sitting room overlooked the city and stone quay. The Plover lay there, her crew offloading salt from Lyme Regis. But it had not picked up its cargo in that town. No, the salt had been shipped to Eglosberra and thence transferred to the Lyonesse trader. All because King Maccus would not do business with ports other than those in Cornwall.
The advisor slapped one hand against a merlon. Could the man not understand that times had changed since 1066? The English King Harold dead, William the First dead, and his son William Rufus in power for twelve years. If he had intended to claim Lyonesse for England, he would have done so by now.
As much as Selwich had admired King Herryld of Lyonesse for his foresight thirty-three years ago, the necessity for the agreement made with the Cornish that spring no longer existed. Their lords did not need to decry Lyonesse, nor did the Lyonessians need to protect Cornish salvage in return. Grimacing, Selwich re-entered his apartment.
He glanced at the tapestry-covered wall between his sitting room and his bedchamber. One stone, next the floor, had been easy enough to chip loose from those adjoining it. After that, it had been only a matter of removing some of the rubble fill between the walls to create a space for his little treasure. Jewel-studded brooches and bracelets, and gold coins. Later tonight, he would need to access that rude safe.
For now, he chose an eight-ounce lead weight from his wall cabinet, then picked up parchment and charcoal stick to record notes about village businesses.
Not that he needed to make notes. Even though into his sixth decade, his mind was as alert as men much younger. But the ability to read, write and speak well set him above all but a few of the cityfolk, and he wanted to maintain that image.
As he entered the corridor, he caught a glimpse of movement. Two boys were about to enter the library study room beyond the king’s apartment. At this distance, Selwich could not distinguish Prince Aneurin from his companion Dermot. Both were sturdy lads with golden hair.
God, how Selwich envied their fair coloring. Except for them and Maccus, all the inhabitants of the islands of the kingdom of Lyonesse had hair and eyes in shades of brown. So how could anyone help but notice—indeed, almost revere—those with golden hair and blue eyes? Some Saxon lords conjectured that Maccus must be a descendent of King Arthur, implying that Lyonesse should belong to Cornwall. Nonsense, of course. The royal family’s coloring derived from a long history of brides who had been brought from Eire.
As for Dermot, no one knew. The sole survivor of a shipwreck, he was thought to be about the same age as Aneurin, who had turned twelve three days ago. In the ten years Dermot had dwelt at the castle, he had learned to mimic the prince’s bearing.
But the look-alike could not mimic inherited royal presence. Selwich lifted one hand in a brief salute. One of the boys nodded; the other turned away. The common folk of Lyonesse never noticed such trivial differences between the two boys when they appeared in public. Selwch did. Pleased with himself, he continued toward the staircase to the kitchens.
***
On his way to the quay, Selwich followed High Street, lined with the businesses that served Porth Listri. He passed the the weaver, the dyemaker, the brewery. He mentally ticked off other businesses and shops. Public house, blacksmith, boat builders, fish processors, and so on. He felt no concern about the difficulties their owners would face in relocating. They would do it because they had to. The castle was the hub of the city, its reason for existence.
He passed The Crowing Hen; beyond the inn stood his destination, the metalsmith’s shop. Its owner leaned against the doorframe, talking to another man. A representative from one of the manors, Selwich presumed, for he carried a larger basket of copper pots than most villagers could afford. “Prime Advisor Selwich.” Sarcasm edged the merchant’s voice as he uttered the title. “What brings ye here today? Did ye not check my weights but yesterday?”
“It has been two weeks, Drogo.” Selwich spoke with equal scorn and hostility. “And when the Gannet comes into port tomorrow, she will be carrying jeweler’s gold. Surely you will not mind that I verify your weights? I cannot imagine that you have reason to refuse me.”
Muttering obscenities, Drogo turned to the interior of his shop. Selwich followed without acknowledging the nod the manor servant gave him before walking away.
The shop was empty of customers, and Drogo trusted no helpers, so the two men were alone. The metalsmith picked up the weight Selwich indicated and tossed it onto one side of the scales. The advisor steadied the bouncing instrument and placed his duplicate weight on the other side.
As he did so, he addressed Drogo in low tones. “Did that farmer in Porth Ennoer agree to sell?”
“Nay. He wants t’ see the coins afore he makes a deal.”
Selwich frowned. The farmer’s fields were the only ones left within arrow flight of the hoh. “Is he questioning why you will let him continue to farm?”
Drogo shook his head. “Like the rest, he thinks I on’y want a percentage o’ his crops. He just be more ox-headed ’an the other four.”
Leaning low over the scale as if to make sure of its accuracy, Selwich muttered, “I will have the stunpoll’s coins within the week.” He straightened and returned the test weight to the pocket of his kirtle.
For the benefit of any passersby who might glance through the open doorway, Drogo folded his arms across his chest and glowered at Selwich. “Ye satisfied?”
Without reply, Selwich left the shop. Drogo, the poor fool, was too dense to know that Selwich’s animosity was not feigned. Once King Maccus had moved the castle to Porth Ennoer, the metalsmith would meet with an unfortunate accident.
***
Selwich hated the pier. Hated its stink and having to step over fish guts and fish heads. Hated being buffeted by darting, shouting boys who thwarted the screeching gulls’ endless attempts to steal fish, and hated having to shout to make himself heard. Yet he must talk with the ships’ captains, fishermen and dockworkers. Maccus expected a daily report, and it gave Selwich the opportunity to carry out his own plans.
He collected the sealed bill-of-lading from the salt-ship’s captain, as well as a handful of letters addressed to the king, and talked with him at length. The advisor inquired not only about the amount of cargo the ship had brought, but also about the condition of the waters between Lyonesse and The Peel, twenty-eight miles distant. Selwich worked his way down the quay, making notes, conversing with this man and that about their catch, whether it be fish or seals. At length he approached the fisherman he sought.
“What luck this morn, Yosgeat? How far astray to find the last of the pilchards?” The thick-set man fished where others did not go, for they feared the sea monster that lurked in the seas off Lyonesse. Yet, they twitted him about his daring. Selwich pretended to do so now. Grinning, he leaned forward and asked, “All the way to Plymstoch?”
“Aye, near t’ it,” came the grudging answer.Selwich nodded. An unspoken message passed between them: ancient ruins, midnight.
***
Aneurin did not flinch when the tutor’s pointing stick cracked against the tabletop. The prince had been staring out the arched windows that gave onto the castle wall walk, pretending he was one of the boys on the quay, running free, chasing gulls.
But, in spite of his daydreaming, he had known that sooner or later Master Leofnoth would react as he had, and Aneurin had been prepared for the sudden, sharp noise. Not like Dermot, who betrayed his lack of composure by sucking in a quick breath.
The prince turned his head slowly toward his tutor, who stood on the other side of the library table. Behind him, two walls of shelving held bound folios. Along a third side sat comfortable padded benches, which he and Dermot were not allowed to use while studying because, “A soft seat makes for a soft mind”.
Master Leofnoth drew himself up, as if increasing his height might lessen his girth. He tapped the pointer on the page lying in front of Aneurin. “Now that I once more have your attention, Prince, I shall repeat my question. What is your perception as to why King Harold lost the battle of Hastings?”
In a petulant mood, Aneurin bent his head over the page and asked, “Why should I concern myself with such speculation? It happened thirty-three years ago and did not affect Lyonesse.”
“As its prince, it behooves you to—” The tutor broke off and huffed an exasperated breath. “Just answer, please.”
Pushing the folio away, Anuerin clasped his hands in front of him. “King Harold lost the battle because some of his men broke rank and followed William’s soldiers when they pretended to flee. Thus cut off, they were massacred.”
“If Harold had managed to hold a firm line, would the Normans have been repulsed?”
“No. Harold might have won the battle, but the war was lost when William the Bastard brought mounted soldiers ashore.”
“His correct title, Prince Aneurin, was William the First.”
Aneurin shrugged. “In history. In fact, he was William the Bastard, just as his son is William Ruthless.”
Dermot smiled.
“And,” Aneruin continued, “when Harold saw William’s men fighting from the backs of their horses, he should have ordered his men to do the same, instead of letting them dismount and defend themselves from the ground.” He paused, then added, “Of course, Harold should not have let William get a foothold on English soil in the first place.”
“Ah. And how would you have prevented that?”
“I would have spread the word that his ships held treasure and let the sea robbers have a go at them. I would have ordered the villagers at Pevensey to scatter the beach with nails, spades, axes…anything that would have crippled a horse. I would have had the villagers tether their ploughs of oxen in a line across the landing site. William’s soldiers would have been contained long enough for my men to kill all of them.”
“Commendable.” The single word and the slight arching of thick gray brows was the most praise Aneurin could expect from the tutor. Leofnoth picked up the prince’s study page, smoothed it—for he claimed that the touch of fingers benefited the parchment—and replaced it carefully between its covers. “Go now. Master Baldric awaits you with sharp swords instead of dull words.”
The boys ran down the corridor. At its end, had they taken the passageway to their left, they would have come out upon the part of the wall walk that roofed the entry to the main gate. But they turned right to the spiral staircase which ended in the cobbled courtyard. Wings of the castle bordered it on three sides and the stable completed its enclosure on the fourth. Arcades ran along all wings except the stable.
Muffled shouts and the neighs of horses echoed from the practice yard outside the eastern wall. Although Aneurin’s father was not with his guards this day, several times a week he practiced alongside them to maintain his fighting skills.
In the center of the courtyard stood a well, encircled by a waist-high stone wall. The castle’s main well occupied a corner of the kitchens. The one in the courtyard supplied water for horses in the stable and for animals in the slaughter pens. Thus, the stableboys had a fair distance to carry the leathern buckets. Two of them were hoisting one as Aneurin and Dermot entered the arcade.
Master Baldric stepped out of the kitchen doorway, strode toward the well and shouted at the stableboys. “You know better than to draw water at this hour!” He waved his students’ practice swords. “Clear out!”
Equal in age to Selwich, he was a fearsome figure, tall and muscular. A scar crossed his forehead from right hairline to left brow, giving that eyelid a slight droop.
The stableboys ran. As surely as if she still lived, Aneurin heard his mother’s words: “It is imperative, my darling, that as few people as possible be able to recognize you as the real prince.” He slanted a glance at Dermot, who had not the good sense to mask his expression of longing for the company of boys their age.
In spite of his hampered vision, and the fact that prince and companion wore nearly identical kirtles and breeches, Baldric was one of the few who could tell Aneurin from Dermot at a distance. He beckoned them forward. When they were near enough, he tossed them their swords. Dermot fumbled his catch, but Aneurin caught his blade with natural ease. The practice swords, with unhoned edges and blunted points, left long, thin bruises and painful indentations. Dermot suffered most of these, a fair exchange for besting the prince in academics.
The master addressed them with his own sword and for a time fought both boys. Gradually, he singled out Dermot, and Aneurin fell back and stood down. Dermot was doing well; at least he had not yet lost his weapon. Baldric maneuvered him until his back was to the well, then advanced upon him steadily. Dermot caught a boot heel on the stone wall and faltered. The next instant, the master had sent the boy’s sword spinning across the cobbles. Panting, Dermot lowered his head in resignation.
Baldric turned to meet Aneurin. The prince countered his every blow, but realized the master was working him toward one wall of the castle. He pretended not to be aware of it. As Baldric advanced, Aneurin guessed that his instructor would expect him to move right, favoring his sword arm. Instead, he leapt left and danced away into the courtyard. Nodding his approval, Baldric sheathed his weapon and motioned for Dermot and Aneurin to join him.
“Be aware of your opponent’s face, as well as his body movement,” the master said. “There are few men who can keep the light of satisfaction out of their eyes when they think they have you cornered. That is the time for you to evade and strike. As you grow older and practice more, you will be able to sense what is behind you.” He focused his lop-sided gaze on Aneurin. “Did you?”
“Yes.” The prince would not admit it was because he had observed how Baldric had tricked Dermot.
“Good. Now, get your bows.”
Dermot was sullen as they walked to the arcade where Baldric had set out their bows and arrow cases. “Will I never get through a practice without losing my sword?” He darted a glance at the windows overlooking the courtyard. “How many pairs of eyes watch us each day? How can I ‘sense’ anything, knowing my every move is being compared to yours?”
“Cheer up, Dermot. For all the watchers know, it is I who do poorly. In fact, I think I shall deliberately shoot wide today and give them more to wonder about.”
“You will not, though. Shoot wide, I mean. You can do naught but your best.”
Aneurin shrugged, but Dermot was right. When the prince set arrow to string, it became a test against himself to put the point as closely as possible to the straw mat’s heart. But today, Dermot did almost as well, so mayhap the watchers—if indeed there were any—were as confounded as the prince had wished them to be.
***
That evening, after they had supped in the king’s apartment, Dermot went to his own quarters, and Aneurin stayed to converse with his father. At fifty years of age, the king’s golden hair was tinged with gray, and his blue eyes were not as bright as they usedto be, but Aneurin saw himself as a younger Maccus.
Dermot always left immediately after dining with them. Sometimes, Aneurin felt sad to see him go, but mostly the prince felt satisfied that no one else shared this time with the king. Tonight, instead of setting out a board game, Maccus went to his bed and settled back against his pillows, gesturing for Aneurin to join him. The prince sat cross-legged on the foot of the big bed and waited for his father to speak.
“I heard that you surprised Leofnoth with your assessment of the battle of Hastings and truly astounded him with your alternate strategy.”
“Yes. He said it was ‘commendable’. And he was surprised at my answer because he thought he had caught me daydreaming.”
Maccus tilted his head. “And were you?”
Pursing his lips, Aneurin considered what to tell his father. Finally, he said, “Yes. I was thinking about how the boys on the quay are free to run and chase gulls and not worry about lessons.”
“But the boys on the quay will not be king one day.” Maccus’ voice sounded so melancholy that Aneurin felt a prickle of fear. Was it only because tonight he grieved anew over the death of Aneurin’s mother, or did the king’s anguish run deeper?
Head down, plucking at a feather escaping from the coverlet, Aneurin sneaked a look at his father. In the dim light from the fireplace and the candletree on the mantle, the king’s face appeared drawn and tired; his eyes were half closed.
But he must have observed his son’s attempt at a sly assessment. “Come now. Do not look at me like that. I will not leave you anytime soon.” Maccus adjusted his pillows to sit more upright. “Now then, tell me about this wonderful bit of deceit you would have used to defeat William the First.”
Aneurin grinned. “William the Bastard.”
“Just so.” Maccus returned the grin. “Now, tell me.”
